← catalogue

The Hallam Succession

by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #6806 · 430,028 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Hallam Succession
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Hallam Succession

Author: Amelia E. Barr


        
Release date: November 1, 2004 [eBook #6806]
                Most recently updated: September 9, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6806

Credits: Etext produced by Andrea Ball, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
        and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, produced
        from images generously made available by the Canadian
        Institute for Historical Microreproductions.
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HALLAM SUCCESSION ***




Produced by Andrea Ball, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, produced
from images generously made available by the Canadian
Institute for Historical Microreproductions.










THE HALLAM SUCCESSION

BY

AMELIA E. BARR

AUTHOR OF "JAN VEDDER'S WIFE," "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON,"
"FRIEND OLIVIA," ETC., ETC.




CONTENTS.


AMERICANS IN YORKSHIRE.
MARTHA CRAVEN'S TROUBLE.
RICHARD AND ELIZABETH.
WESLEY AND METHODISM.
ANTONY'S PLANS.
GOD CLEARS BEN CRAVEN.
CHRISTMAS.
RENEWAL OF THE COVENANT.
SEPARATION.
AT HOME AGAIN.
JOHN MILLARD.
THE PASSIONATE SHOT.
TEXAS AND LIBERTY.
RICHARD AT HALLAM.
MAY. A. D. 1836.
ANTONY AND HIS BRIDE.
THE SQUIRE'S DEATH.
ANTONY'S SIN.
ELIZABETH'S RESOLVE.
EVELYN.
ELIZABETH'S TRIAL.
LOVE COMFORTED.
ANTONY'S FATE.
SANTA FE EXPEDITION.
ELIZABETH IN TEXAS.
THE SUNSET OF LIFE.




TO

MY DEAR FRIEND,

SAM. EARNSHAW WILSON, ESQ.,

THIS TALE

IS, WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM,

INSCRIBED.




THE HALLAM SUCCESSION.




CHAPTER I.


  "The changing guests, each in a different mood,
     Sit at the road-side table and arise:
     And every life among them in likewise
  Is a soul's board set daily with new food.

  "May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell
     In separate living souls for joy or pain?
     Nay, all its corners may be painted plain
  Where Heaven shows pictures of some life well-spent."

Yorkshire is the epitome of England. Whatever is excellent in the
whole land is found there. The men are sturdy, shrewd, and stalwart;
hard-headed and hard-fisted, and have notably done their work in every
era of English history. They are also a handsome race, the finest
specimens extant of the pure Anglo-Saxon, and they still preserve the
imposing stature and the bright blonde characteristics of the race.

Yorkshire abounds in what is the typical English home--fine old halls
and granges, set in wooded parks, and surrounded by sweet, shady
gardens. One of the fairest of these homes is Hallam-Croft. There may
be larger halls in the West Riding, but none that combines so finely
all the charms of antiquity, with every modern grace and comfort. Its
walls are of gray stone, covered with ivy, or crusted with golden
lichens; its front, long and low, is picturesquely diversified with
oriel windows, gable ends, and shadowy angles. Behind is a steep,
craggy range of woody hills; in front, a terraced garden of great
extent; full of old-fashioned bowers, and labyrinth-like walks, and
sloping down to a noble park, whose oaks and beeches are of wonderful
beauty, and whose turf is soft as velvet and greener than any artist
ever dreamed of.

Fifty years ago the owner of this lovely spot was Squire Henry Hallam.
He was about sixty years of age, stout and fair and dressed in fine
drab broad-cloth, with a white vest, and a white cambric kerchief tied
loosely round his neck. His hat, drab also, was low-crowned and
broad-brimmed, and, as a general rule, he kept it on. In the holy
precincts of a church, or if the national anthem was played, he indeed
always bared his head; but, in the first case, it was his expression
of a religious sentiment, in the second he saluted his country, and,
in a measure, himself.

One evening in the early spring he was sitting upon a low sofa in the
room that was specially his own, mending some fishing tackle. A couple
of setter puppies were worrying each other on the sofa beside him,
and a splendid fox-hound leaned her muzzle on one of his broad knees,
and looked up into her master's face with sad reproachful eyes. She
was evidently jealous, and watching anxiously for some look or word
of favor. She had not long to wait. The puppies became troublesome;
he chided them, and put the bit of leather they were quarreling about
in his pocket. Then he patted the hound, and said: "There's a deal
o' difference between them and thee, Fanny, and it's a' in thy favor,
lass;" and Fanny understood the compliment, for she whimpered happily,
and thrust her handsome head up against her master's breast.

At that moment his daughter, Elizabeth, entered the room. She had an
open letter in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleased
upon her face. "Father," she said, "there is a letter from America;
Richard and Phyllis are coming; and I am afraid I shall not know how
to make them happy."

"Don't thee meet troubles half 'way; they arn't worth th' compliment.
What is ta feared for, dearie?"

"Their life is so different from ours--and, father, I do believe they
are Methodists."

The squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout "fly" he
was making, before he answered. "Surely to goodness, they'll nivver
be that! Sibbald Hallam, my uncle, was a varry thick Churchman when
he went to th' Carolinas--but he married a foreigner; she had plenty
o' brass, and acres o' land, but I never heard tell owt o' her religion.
They had four lads and lasses, but only one o' them lived to wed, and
that was my cousin, Matilda Hallam--t' mother o' these two youngsters
that are speaking o' coming here."

"Who did she marry, father?"

"Nay, I knowt o' th' man she married. He was a Colonel Fontaine. I
was thinking a deal more o' my own wedding than o' hers at that time.
It's like enough he were a Methodist. T' Carolinas hed rebelled against
English government, and it's nobbut reasonable to suppose t' English
Church would be as little to their liking. But they're Hallams,
whativer else they be, Elizabeth, and t' best I hev is for them."

He had risen as he spoke; the puppies were barking and gamboling at
his feet, and Fanny watching his face with dignified eagerness. They
knew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. "Be still
wi' you, Rattle and Tory!--Yes, yes, Fanny!--and Elizabeth, open up
t' varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. Where's
Antony?"

"Somewhere in the house."

"Hedn't ta better ask him what to do? He knows ivery thing."

There was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but Elizabeth was too much
occupied to notice it; and as the squire and his dogs took the road
to the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, and
went thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her brother. There was
no deeper motive in her thought than what was apparent; her cares were
simply those of hospitality. But when a life has been bounded by
household hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, and
since her mother's death, two years previously, there had been no
company at Hallam. This was to be Elizabeth's first effort of active
hospitality.

She found Antony in the library reading "The Gentleman's Magazine,"
or, perhaps, using it for a sedative; for he was either half asleep,
or lost in thought. He moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke.
One saw at a glance that he had inherited his father's fine physique
and presence, but not his father's calm, clear nature. His eyes were
restless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. Neither was
his voice quite pleasant. There are human instruments, which always
seem to have a false note, and Antony's had this peculiarity.

"Antony, I have a letter from Richard and Phyllis Fontaine. They are
going to visit us this summer."

"I am delighted. Life is dreadfully dull here, with nothing to do."

"Come to the parlor, and I will give you a cup of tea, and read you
cousin Phyllis's letter."

The squire had never thought of asking Elizabeth why she supposed her
cousins to be Methodists. Antony seized at once upon the point in the
letter which regarded it.

"They are sailing with Bishop Elliott, and will remain until September,
in order to allow the Bishop to attend Conference; what does that mean,
Elizabeth?"

"I suppose it means they are Methodists."

The young man was silent a moment, and then he replied, emphatically,
"I am very glad of it."

"How can you say so, Antony? And there is the rector, and the
Elthams--"

"I was thinking of the Hallams. After a thousand years of stagnation
one ought to welcome a ripple of life. A Methodist isn't asleep. I
have often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as I passed it.
I wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once!"

"Antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. Some people might imagine
you meant what you said. You know very well that the thousand years
of 'stagnation,' as you call it, of the Hallams, is a most respectable
thing."

"Very respectable indeed! That is all women think about--born
conservatives every one of them--'dyed in the wool,' as a Bradford
man would say."

"Why do you quote what Bradford men say? I cannot imagine what makes
you go among a crowd of weavers, when you might be at Eltham Castle
with gentlemen."

"I will tell you why. At Eltham we yawn and stagnate together. The
weavers prick and pinch me in a thousand places. They make me dream
of living."

"Drink your tea, Antony and don't be foolish."

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Upon the whole, he rather liked
the look of astonishment in his sister's gray eyes, and the air of
puzzled disapproval in her manner. He regarded ignorance on a great
many matters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood.

"It is very good tea, Elizabeth, and I like this American news. I shall
not go to the Tyrol now. Two new specimens of humanity to study are
better than glaciers."

"Antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins--'two
new specimens of humanity'--they are Hallams at the root."

"I meant no disrespect; but I am naturally a little excited at the
idea of American Hallams--Americans in Hallam-Croft! I only hope the
shades of Hengist and Horsa wont haunt the old rooms out of simple
curiosity. When are they to be here?"

"They will be in Liverpool about the end of May. You have two weeks
to prepare yourself, Antony."

Antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousin
Phyllis Fontaine might be he had no idea. People could not in those
days buy their pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so that
Antony's imagination, in this direction, had the field entirely to
itself. His fancy painted her in many charming forms, and yet he was
never able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits than
those with which he was familiar--the brilliant blonde beauty and
resplendent health of his countrywomen.

Therefore, when the real Phyllis Fontaine met his vision she was a
revelation to him. It was in the afternoon of the last day of May,
and Hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for the
occasion. The sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden so
sweet and balmy. Heart's-ease were every-where, honeysuckles filled
the air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and the
chaffinches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chattering. The
squire, with his son and daughter, was waiting at the great open door
of the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped he
cried out, cheerily, "Welcome to Hallam!" Then there was a few minutes
of pleasant confusion, and in them Phyllis had made a distinct picture
on every mind.

"She's a dainty little woman," said the squire to himself, as he sat
calmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; "not
much like a Hallam, but t' eye as isn't charmed wi' her 'ell hev no
white in it, that's a' about it."

Antony was much interested, and soon sought his sister.

"If that is Cousin Phyllis, she is beautiful. Don't you think so,
Elizabeth?"

"Yes; how perfectly she was dressed."

"That is a woman's criticism. Did you see her soft, dark eyes, her
small bow-shaped mouth--a beauty one rarely finds in English women--her
exquisite complexion, her little feet?"

"That is a man's criticism. How could you see all that in a moment
or two of such confusion?"

"Easily; how was she dressed?"

"In a plain dress of gray cloth. The fit was perfect, the linen collar
and cuffs spotless, the gray bonnet, with its drooping, gray feather
bewitching. She wore gray gloves and a traveling cloak of the same
color, which hung like a princess's mantle."

"How could you see all that in a moment or two of such confusion?"

"Do not be too clever, Antony. You forget I went with her to her
rooms."

"Did you notice Richard?"

"A little; he resembles his sister. Their foreign look as they stood
beside you and father was very remarkable. Neither of them are like
Hallams."

"I am so glad of it; a new element coming into life is like a fresh
wind 'blowing through breathless woods.'"

But Elizabeth sighed. This dissatisfaction with the old, and craving
for the new, was one of the points upon which Antony and his father
were unable to understand each other. Nothing permanent pleased Antony,
and no one could ever predicate of him what course he would pursue,
or what side he would take. As a general rule, however, he preferred
the opposition in all things. Now, the squire's principles and opinions
were as clear to his own mind as his own existence was. He believed
firmly in his Bible, in the English Constitution, and in himself. He
admitted no faults in the first two; his own shortcomings toward Heaven
he willingly acknowledged; but he regarded his attitude toward his
fellow-man as without fault. All his motives and actions proceeded
from well-understood truths, and they moved in consistent and admirable
grooves.

Antony had fallen upon different times, and been brought under more
uncertain influences. Oxford, "the most loyal," had been in a religious
ferment during his stay there. The spirit of Pusey and Newman was
shaking the Church of England like a great wind; and though Antony
had been but little touched by the spiritual aspect of the movement,
the temporal accusations of corruption and desertion of duty were good
lances to tilt against the Church with. It gave him a curiously mixed
pleasure to provoke the squire to do battle for her; partly from
contradiction, partly that he might show off his array of second-hand
learning and logic; and partly, also, for the delight of asserting
his own opinions and his own individuality.

Any other dispute the squire would have settled by a positive
assertion, or a positive denial; but even the most dogmatic of men
are a little conscientious about religious scruples. He had, therefore,
allowed his son to discuss "the Church" with him, but in some subtle
way the older man divined that his ideas were conviction; while
Antony's were only drifting thoughts. Therefore, the moral strength
of the argument was with him, and he had a kind of contempt for a
Hallam who could be moved by every Will-o'-the-wisp of religious or
Political opinions.

But Elizabeth was greatly impressed by her brother's accomplishments,
and she loved him, and believed in him with all her heart. The Hallams
hitherto had no reputation for mental ability. In times of need England
had found them good soldiers and ready givers; but poets and scholars
they had never been. Antony affected the latter character. He spoke
several languages, he read science and German philosophy, and he talked
such radical politics to the old gardener, that the man privately
declared himself "fair cap't wi' t' young squire."

Yet after all, his dominant passion was a love of power, and of money
as the means by which to grasp power. Below all his speculations and
affectations this was the underlying thought. True, he was heir of
Hallam, and as the heir had an allowance quite equal to his position.
But he constantly reflected that his father might live many years,
and that in the probable order of things he must wait until he was
a middle-aged man for his inheritance; and for a young man who felt
himself quite competent to turn the axle of the universe, it seemed
a contemptible lot to grind in his own little mill at Hallam. He had
not as yet voiced these thoughts, but they lay in his heart, and
communicated unknown to himself an atmosphere of unrest and
unreliability to all his words and actions.

It was soon evident that there would be little sympathy between Richard
and Antony. Richard Fontaine was calm, dignified, reticent; never
tempted to give his confidence to any one; and averse to receive the
confidences of others; therefore, though he listened with polite
attention to Antony's aspirations and aims, they made very little
impression upon him. Both he and Phyllis glided without effort into
the life which must have been so new to them; and in less than a week,
Hallam had settled happily down to its fresh conditions. But nothing
had been just as Antony expected. Phyllis was very lovely, but not
lovely specially for him, which was disappointing; and he could not
help soon seeing that, though Richard was attentive, he was also
unresponsive.

There is one charming thing about English hospitality, it leaves its
guests perfect freedom. In a very few days Phyllis found this out;
and she wandered, unnoticed and undisturbed, through the long
galleries, and examined, with particular interest, the upper rooms,
into which from generation to generation unwelcomed pictures and
unfashionable furniture had been placed. There was one room in the
eastern turret that attracted her specially. It contained an old
spinet, and above it the picture of a young girl; a face of
melancholy, tender beauty, with that far-off look, which the French
call _predestinee_, in the solemn eyes.

It is folly to say that furniture has no expression; the small couch,
the faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twisted
attenuated legs, had an unspeakable air of sadness. One day she
cautiously touched the notes of the instrument. How weak and thin and
hollow they were! And yet they blended perfectly with something in
her own heart. She played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemed
as if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the conditions for
their reproduction. When she went back to her own room the influence
of the one she had left followed her like a shadow.

"How can I bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and she
flung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pink
chintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. There was a tap
at the door, and Elizabeth entered.

"I have brought you a cup of tea, Phyllis. Shall I drink mine beside
you?"

"I shall enjoy both your company and the tea. I think I have been in
an unhappy room and caught some of its spirit--the room with the old
spinet in it."

"Aunt Lucy's room. Yes, she was very unhappy. She loved, and the man
was utterly unworthy of her love! She died slowly in that room--a
wasted life."

"Ah, no, Elizabeth! No life is waste in the great Worker's hands. If
human love wounds and wrongs us, are we not circled by angels as the
stars by heaven? Our soul relatives sorrow in our sorrow; and out
of the apparent loss bring golden gain. I think she would know this
before she died."

"She died as the good die, blessing and hoping."

Elizabeth looked steadily at Phyllis. She thought she had never seen
any face so lovely. From her eyes, still dewy with tears, the holy
soul looked upward; and her lips kept the expression of the prayer
that was in her heart. She did not wonder at the words that had fallen
from them. After a moment's silence, she said:

"My mother loved Aunt Lucy very dearly. Her death made a deal of
difference in mother's life."

"Death is always a great sorrow to those who love us; but for
ourselves, it is only to bow our heads at going out, and to enter
straightway another golden chamber of the King's, lovelier than the
one we leave."

Elizabeth scarce knew how to answer. She had never been used to discuss
sacred subjects with girls her own age; in fact, she had a vague idea
that such subjects were not to be discussed out of church, or, at
least, without a clergyman to direct the conversation. And Phyllis's
childish figure, glowing face, and sublime confidence affected her
with a sense of something strange and remote. Yet the conversation
interested her greatly. People are very foolish who restrain spiritual
confidences; no topic is so universally and permanently interesting
as religious experience. Elizabeth felt its charm at once. She loved
God, but loved him, as it were, afar off; she almost feared to speak
to him. She had never dared to speak of him.

"Do you really think, Phyllis, that angels care about our earthly
loves?"

"Yes, I do. Love is the rock upon which our lives are generally built
or wrecked. Elizabeth, if I did not believe that the love of God
embraced every worthy earthly love, I should be very miserable."

"Because?"

"Because, dear, I love, and am beloved again."

"But how shall we know if the love be worthy?"

"Once in class-meeting I asked this question. That was when I first
became aware that I loved John Millard. I am not likely to forget the
answer my leader gave me."

"What was it?"

"Sister Phyllis," he said, "ask yourself what will your love be to
you a thousand ages hence. Ask yourself if it will pass the rolling
together of the heavens like a scroll, and the melting of the elements
with fervent heat. Ask if it will pass the judgment-day, when the
secret thoughts of all hearts will be revealed. Dare to love only one
whom you can love forever."

"I have never thought of loving throughout all eternity the one whom
I love in time."

"Ah! but it is our privilege to cherish the immortal in the man we
love. Where I go I wish my beloved to go also. The thought of our love
severed on the threshold of paradise makes me weep. I cannot understand
an affection which must look forward to an irrevocable separation.
Nay, I ask more than this; I desire that my love, even there assuming
his own proper place, should be still in advance of me--my guide, my
support, my master every-where."

"If you love John Millard in this way, he and you must be very happy."

"We are, and yet what earthly light has not its shadow?"

"What is the shadow, Phyllis?"

"Richard dislikes him so bitterly; and Richard is very, very near and
dear to me. I dare say you think he is very cool and calm and quiet.
It is the restraint which he puts upon himself; really Richard has
a constant fight with a temper, which, if it should take possession
of him, would be uncontrollable. He knows that."

"You spoke as if you are a Wesleyan, yet you went to Church last
Sunday, Phyllis."

"Why not? Methodists are not bigots; and just as England is my
mother-country, Episcopacy is my mother-Church. If Episcopacy should
ever die, Elizabeth, Methodism is next of kin, and would be heir to
all her churches."

"And Wesleyans and Methodists are the same?"

"Yes; but I like the old name best. It came from the pen of the
golden-mouthed Chrysostom, so you see it has quite an apostolic halo
about it."

"I never heard that, Phyllis."

"It is hardly likely you would. It was used at first as a word of
reproach; but how many such words have been adopted and made glorious
emblems of victory. It was thus in ancient Antioch the first followers
of Christ were called 'Christians.'"

"But how came Chrysostom to find a name for John Wesley's followers?"

"Richard told me it was used first in a pamphlet against Whitefield.
I do not remember the author, but he quoted from the pages of
Chrysostom these words, 'To be a Methodist is to be beguiled.' Of
course, Chrysostom's 'Methodist' is not our Methodist. The writer knew
he was unjust and meant it for a term of reproach, but the word took
the popular fancy, and, as such words do, clung to the people at whom
it was thrown. They might have thrown it back again; they did better;
they accepted it, and have covered it with glory."

"Why, Phyllis, what a little enthusiast you are!" and Elizabeth looked
again with admiration at the small figure reclining in the deep chair
beside her.

Its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite paleness
of Phyllis's complexion--that clear, warm paleness of the South--and
contrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. Her
dark, soft eyes glowed, her small hands had involuntarily clasped
themselves upon her breast. "What a little enthusiast you are!" Then
she stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for Elizabeth
was not emotional. Her feelings were as a still lake, whose depths
were only known to those who sounded them.

The conversation was not continued. Fine souls have an instinctive
knowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day the
limit of spiritual confidence had been reached. But it was Phyllis's
quicker nature which provided the natural return to the material life.

"I know I am enthusiastic, about many things, Elizabeth. The world
is so full of what is good and beautiful! Look at those roses! Could
flowers be more sweet and perfect? I always dream of happy things
among roses."

"But you must not dream now, dear. It is very near dinner-time. We
have had a very pleasant hour. I shall think of all you have said."

But the thing she thought most persistently of was Richard Fontaine's
temper. Was it possible that the equable charm and serenity of his
mood was only an assumed one? As she went to the dining-room she saw
him standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. In the same
moment he raised his head and stood watching her approach. It seemed
to him as if he had never seen her before. She advanced slowly toward
him through the level rays of the westering sun, which projected
themselves in a golden haze all around her. Those were not the days of
flutings and bows and rufflings innumerable. Elizabeth's dress was a
long, perfectly plain one, of white India mull. A narrow black belt
confined it at the waist, a collar of rich lace and a brooch of gold at the
throat. Her fair hair was dressed in a large loose bow on the crown,
and lay in soft light curls upon her brow. Her feet were sandaled,
her large white hands unjeweled and ungloved, and with one she lifted
slightly her flowing dress. Resplendent with youth, beauty, and
sunshine, she affected Richard as no woman had ever done before. She
was the typical Saxon woman, the woman who had ruled the hearts and
homes of his ancestors for centuries, and she now stirred his to its
sweetest depths. He did not go to meet her. He would not lose a step
of her progress. He felt that at last Jove was coming to visit him.
It was a joy almost solemn in its intensity and expectation. He held
out his hand, and Elizabeth took it. In that moment they saw each
other's hearts as clearly as two drops of rain meeting in air might
look into each other if they had life.

Yet they spoke only of the most trivial things--the dogs, and the
weather, and Richard's ride to Leeds, and the stumbling of Antony's
horse. "We left the Squire in the village," said Richard. "A woman
who was apparently in very great trouble called him."

"A woman who lives in a cottage covered with clematis?"

"I think so."

"It must have been Martha Craven. I wonder what is the matter!" and
they walked together to the open door. The squire had just alighted
from his horse, and was talking earnestly to his favorite servant.
He seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep either
Sorrow of joy to himself. "Elizabeth! my word, but I'm bothered!
Here's Jonathan Clough murdered, and Ben Craven under lock and key
for it!"

"Why, father! Ben would never do a thing like that!"

"Not he! I'd be as like to do it mysen. Thou must go thy ways and see
Martha as soon as iver t' dinner is eat. I s'all stand by Martha and
Ben to t' varry last. Ben Craven murder any-body! Hee! I crack't out
laughing when I heard tell o' such nonsense."

In fact, the squire had been touched in a very tender spot. Martha
Craven's mother had been his nurse, and Martha herself, for many years,
his wife's maid and confidential servant. He felt the imputation as
a personal slander. The Cravens had been faithful servants of the
Hallams for generations, and Clough was comparatively a new-comer.
Right or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand by an
old friend, but he had not a doubt of Ben's innocence.

"What have you done about it?" asked Antony.

"I've been to see Israel Potter, and I've bound him to stand up for
Ben. What Israel doesn't know 'bout law, and what Israel can't do with
t' law, isn't worth t' knowing or t' doing. Then I went for t' Wesleyan
minister to talk a bit wi' Martha, poor body? She seemed to want
something o' t' kind; and I'm bound to say I found him a varry
gentlemanly, sensible fellow. He didn't think owt wrong o' Ben, no
more than I did."

"People would wonder to see you at the Wesleyan's door."

"May be they'll be more cap't yet, son Antony. I'll ask neither cat
nor Christian what door to knock at. I wish I may nivver stand at a
worse door than Mr. North's, that's a'. What say you to that, then?"

"I say you are quite right, father."

"I'm nivver far wrong, my lad; nobody is that lets a kind heart lead
them, and it would be against nature if I didn't stand up for any
Craven that's i' trouble."

Phyllis, who was sitting beside him, laid her hand upon his a moment,
and he lifted his eyes and met hers. There was such a light and look
of sympathy and admiration in them, that she had no need to say a word.
He felt that he had done the right thing, and was pleased with himself
for doing it. In a good man there is still a deal of the divinity from
which he has fallen, and in his times of trial his heart throbs upward.

Dinner was insensibly hurried, and when Elizabeth rose Phyllis followed
her. "I must go with you dear; if Martha is a Methodist she is my
sister, and she has a right to my sympathy and my purse, if it is
necessary to her."

"I shall be glad. It is only a pleasant walk through the park, and
Antony and Richard can meet us at the park gates. I think you will
like Martha."

Few words were spoken by the two girls as they went in the amber
twilight across the green, green turf of the park. Martha saw them
coming and was at her door when they stepped inside the fragrant patch
which she called her garden. She was a woman very pleasant to look
at, tall and straight, with a strong ruddy face--and blue eyes, a
little dim with weeping. Her cotton dress of indigo blue, covered with
golden-colored moons, was pinned well up at the back, displaying her
home-knit stockings and low shoes fastened with brass latchets. She
had on her head a cap of white linen, stiffly starched, and a checkered
kerchief was pinned over her ample bosom.

Even in her deep sorrow and anxiety her broad sweet mouth could not
forget its trick of smiling. "Come this ways in, Joy," she said to
Elizabeth, at the same moment dropping a courtesy to Phyllis, an
old-fashioned token of respect, which had no particle of servility
in it.

"This is my cousin, Miss Fontaine, from America, Martha."

"Well, I'm sure I'm right suited at meeting her. Mother used to talk
above a bit about Sibbald Hallam as crossed t' seas. She looked for
him to come back again. But he nivver came."

"I am his granddaughter. I am very sorry, Sister Martha, to hear of
your trouble."

"Why-a! Is ta a Methodist, dearie?"

Phyllis nodded brightly and took her hand.

"Well I nivver! But I'm fain and glad! And as for trouble, I'll not
fear it. Why should I, wi' t' love o' God and t' love o' man to help
me?"

"When did it happen, Martha?"

"Last night, Miss Hallam. My Ben and Jonathan Clough wern't as good
friends as might be. There's a lass at t' bottom o' t' trouble; there's
allays that. She's a good lass enough, but good 'uns mak' as much
trouble as t' bad 'uns sometimes, I think. It's Jonathan's daughter,
Mary. She's ta'en Ben's fancy, and she's ta'en Bill Laycock's fancy,
too. T' lass likes my Ben, and Clough he liked Laycock; for Laycock
is t' blacksmith now, and owns t' forge, and t' house behind it. My
Ben is nobbut Clough's overlooker."

"It is a pity he stopped at Clough's mill, if there was ill-feeling
between them."

"T' lad's none to blame for that. Clough is makkin' some new kind o'
figured goods, and t' men are all hired by t' twelvemonth, and bound
over to keep a quiet tongue i' their mouths about t' new looms as does
t' work. Two days ago Clough found out that Tim Bingley hed told t'
secret to Booth; and Clough wer' neither to hold nor bind. He put
Bingley out o' t' mill, and wouldn't pay him t' balance o' t' year,
and somehow he took t' notion that Ben was in t' affair. Ben's none
so mean as that, I'm sure."

"But Bingley is a very bad man. My father sent him to the tread-mill
last year for a brutal assault. He is quite capable of murder. Has
no one looked for him?"

"Bingley says he saw my Ben shoot Clough, and Clough says it was Ben."

"Then Clough is still alive?"

"Ay, but he'll die ere morning. T' magistrates hev been wi' him, and
he swears positive that Ben Craven shot him."

"Where was Ben last night?"

"He came from t' mill at six o'clock, and hed a cup o' tea wi' me.
He said he'd go to t' chapel wi' me at eight o'clock; and after I hed
washed up t' dishes, I went to sit wi' Sarah Fisher, who's bad off
wi' t' fever; and when I came back Ben was standing at t' door, and
folks wer' running here, and running there, and all t' village was
fair beside itseln. We wer' just reading a bit in t' Bible, when
constables knocked at t' door and said they wanted Ben. My heart sank
into my shoes, Miss Hallam, and I said, 'That's a varry unlikely thing,
lads; you're just talking for talking's sake.' And Jerry Oddy said,
'Nay, we bean't, dame; Jonathan Clough is dying, and he says Ben
Craven shot him.' Then I said, 'He'll die wi' t' lie on his lips if
he says that, thou tell him so.' And Jerry Oddy said, 'Not I, dame,
keep a still tongue i' thy mouth, it'll mebbe be better for thee.'"

"Martha! How could you bear it?"

"I didn't think what I wer' bearing at t' time, Miss Hallam; I wer'
just angry enough for any thing; and I wer' kind o' angry wi' Ben
takkin' it so quiet like. 'Speak up for thysen, lad,' I said; 'hesn't
ta got a tongue i' thy head to-neet?'"

"Poor Ben! What did he say?"

"He said, 'Thou be still, mother, and talk to none but God. I'm as
innocent o' this sin as thou art;' and I said, 'I believe thee, my
lad, and God go wi' thee, Ben.' There's one thing troubles me, Miss
Hallam, and it bothered t' squire, too. Ben was in his Sunday
clothes--that wasn't odd, for he was going to t' chapel wi' me--but
Jerry noticed it, and he asked Ben where his overlooker's brat and cap
was, and Ben said they wer' i' t' room; but they wern't there, Miss
Hallam, and they hevn't found 'em either."

"That is strange."

"Ay, its varry queer, and t' constables seemed to think so. Jerry
nivver liked Ben, and he said to me, 'Well, dame, it's a great pity
that last o' t' Cravens should swing himsen to death on t' gallows.'
But I told him, 'Don't thee be so sure that Ben's t' last o' t'
Cravens: Thou's makkin' thy count without Providence, Jerry;' and I'm
none feared," she added, with a burst of confidence; "I'll trust in
God yet! I can't see him, but I can feel him."

"And you can hold fast to his hand, Sister Martha; and the darker it
gets, you can cling the closer, until the daylight breaks and the
shadows flee away."

"That I can, and that I will! Look there, my dearies!" and she pointed
to a little blue and white tea-pot on the high mantle-shelf, above
the hearth on which they were sitting. "Last night, when they'd taken
Ben away, and I couldn't finish t' psalm and I couldn't do much more
praying than a little bairn thet's flayed and troubled in t' dark
night, I lifted my eyes to thet tea-pot, and I knew t' words thet was
on it, and they wer' like an order and a promise a' in one; and I said,
'There! thet's enough, Lord!' and I went to my bed and slept, for I
knew there 'ud be a deal to do to-day, and nothing weakens me like
missing my sleep."

"And did you sleep, Martha?"

"Ay, I slept. It wasn't hard wi' t' promise I'd got."

Then Phyllis took a chair and stood upon it, and carefully lifted down
the tea-pot. It was of coarse blue and white pottery, and had been
made in Staffordshire, when the art was emerging from its rudeness,
and when the people were half barbarous and wholly irreligious--one
of half a dozen that are now worth more than if made of the rarest
china, the Blue Wesley Tea-pot; rude little objects, yet formed by
loving, reverential hands, to commemorate the apostolic labors of John
Wesley in that almost savage district. His likeness was on one side,
and on the other the words, so often in his mouth, "_In God we
trust._" Phyllis looked at it reverently; even in that poor
portraiture recognizing the leader of men, the dignity, the
intelligence, and the serenity of a great soul. She put it slowly back,
touching it with a kind of tender respect; and then the two girls went
home. In the green aisles of the park the nightingales were singing,
and the sweet strength of the stars and the magic of the moon touched
each heart with a thoughtful melancholy. Richard and Antony joined
them, and they talked softly of the tragedy, with eloquent pauses of
silence between.

On the lowest terrace they found the squire--Fanny walking with quiet
dignity beside him. He joined Elizabeth and Richard, and discussed
with them the plans he had been forming for the unraveling of the
mystery. He had thought of every thing, even to the amount of money
necessary.

"Have they no relations?" asked Richard, a little curiously. It seemed
to him that the squire's kindness was a trifle officious. However lowly
families might be, he believed that in trouble a noble independence
would make them draw together, just as birds that scatter wide in the
sunshine nestle up to each other in storm and cold. So he asked, "Have
they no relatives?"

"She has two brothers Ilkley way," said the squire, with a dubious
smile. "I nivver reckoned much on them."

"Don't you think she ought to send for them?"

"Nay, I don't. You're young, Richard, lad, and you'll know more some
day; but I'll tell you beforehand, if you iver hev a favor to ask,
ask it of any body but a relation--you may go to fifty, and not find
one at hes owt o' sort about 'em."

They talked for half an hour longer in a desultory fashion, as those
talk who are full of thoughts they do not share; and when they parted
Richard asked Elizabeth for a rose she had gathered as they walked
home together. He asked it distinctly, the beaming glance of his dark
eyes giving to the request a meaning she could not, and did not,
mistake. Yet she laid it in his hand, and as their eyes met, he knew
that as "there is a budding morrow in the midnight," so also there was
a budding love in the rose-gift.




CHAPTER II.


    "I am with thee, and no man shall set on thee to hurt thee."
  Acts xviii, 10.

    "There I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from
  above the mercy-seat." Exod. xxv, 22.

No man liveth unto himself. In that green, flowery Eden, with the soft
winds blowing in at the open doors and windows, and the white sunshine
glorifying every thing, there was the whisper of sorrow as well as
the whisper of love. The homely life of the village, with its absorbing
tragedy, touched all hearts; for men and women belie their nature when
they do not weep with those that weep.

At the close of the London season the Elthams returned to their country
home, and there was much visiting and good-will. One evening they were
sitting in Eltham drawing-room after dinner. The squire had been
discussing the Clough tragedy with great warmth; for Lord Eltham had
not unnaturally judged Ben Craven upon the apparent evidence, and was
inclined to think his position, whether he was innocent or guilty,
one of great danger. Hallam would not see things in any such light.
He had lived only in the morally healthy atmosphere of the woods and
fields, and the sinful tragedies of life had not been actual to him.
True, he had read of them in his weekly paper, but it was a different
thing when they came to his own door, and called for his active
sympathy.

"Right is right, Eltham," he said, with the emphasis of one closed
hand striking the other; "and it 'ud be a varry queer thing if right
should turn out to be wrong. It'll do nowt o' t' sort, not it."

"But, Hallam, it seems to me that you hev made up your mind that
Craven is right--right or wrong--and lawyer Swale told me t' evidence
was all against him."

"Swale!" replied the squire, snapping his fingers disdainfully. "Why-a!
Swale nivver told t' truth i' all his life, if he nobbut hed t' time
to make up a lie. As for Bingley, I wish I hed sent him over t' seas
when I hed t' chance to do it--he's none fit to breathe t' air in a
decent country."

"But Swale says that Bill Laycock has acknowledged that he also
saw Craven in his working clothes running over t' moor just about t'
time Clough was shot, and Bill and Craven were at one time all but
brothers."

"Ay, ay; but there's a lass between 'em now--what do you make o'
that?"

"As far as I can think it out, it's against Craven."

"Then think twice about it, Eltham, and be sure to change thy mind
t' second time; for I tell thee, Craven is as innocent as thee or me;
and though t' devil and t' lawyers hev all t' evidence on their side,
I'll lay thee twenty sovereigns that right'll win. What dost ta say,
Phyllis, dearie?"

And Phyllis, who had been watching his large, kindly face with the
greatest admiration, smiled confidently back to him, and answered,
"I think as you do Uncle Hallam,

  "'For right is right, since God is God;
    And right the day must win;
  To doubt would be disloyalty,
    To falter would be sin.'"

Hallam looked proudly at her, and then at his opponent, who, with
glistening eyes, bowed, and answered: "My dear young lady, that settles
the question, here. I wish with a' my heart it did so in ivery court
in t' kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o' this world, I'm
feared."

"What by that? I don't want to know. As far as I can judge, t'
knowledge of t' world is only an acquaintance wi' all sorts o' evil
and unjust things. But come thy ways, Eltham, and let's hev a bit of
a walk through t' park. I hear t' cuckoos telling their names to ivery
tree, and ivery bird in them, and there's few sounds I like better,
if it bean't a nightingale singing."

It was getting late, and the squire's proposition was generally
indorsed. The whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and the
carriage and Antony's saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there.
It was a delightful evening, full of an indescribable tranquillity--a
tranquillity not at all disturbed by the _craik_ of the rail in
the clover, or the plaintive minor of the cuckoo in the thick groves.
Eltham and the squire talked earnestly of the coming election.
Phyllis, leaning on Antony's arm, was full of thought, and Richard
and Elizabeth fell gradually a little behind them. In that soft light
her white garments and her fair loveliness had a peculiar charm. She
reminded Richard of some Greek goddess full of grace and large
serenity. He had resolved not to tell her how dear she was to him until
he had better prepared the way for such a declaration; but when the
time comes the full heart must speak, though it be only to call the
beloved one's name. And this was at first all Richard could say:

"Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth!"

She recognized the voice. It was as if her soul had been waiting for
it. From the sweetest depths of her consciousness she whispered
"Richard," and with the word made over her full heart to him. They
stood one wonderful moment looking at each other, then he drew her
to his breast and kissed her. The sweetest strongest words of love
were never written. They are not translatable in earthly language.
Richard was dumb with happiness, and Elizabeth understood the silence.
As they rode home and sauntered up the terraces, Antony said, "What
a dull evening we have had;" but Phyllis was of the initiated, and
knew better. She looked at Elizabeth and smiled brightly, while Richard
clasped tighter the dear hand he was holding.

About an hour later Phyllis went to Elizabeth's room. It was a large
chamber open to the east and south, with polished oaken floors, and
hung with white dimity. She sat at one of the open southern windows,
and the wind, which gently moved the snowy curtains, brought in with
it the scent of bleaching clover. There was no light but that shadow
of twilight which, in English summers, lingers until it is lost in
the dawning. But it was quite sufficient. She turned her face to meet
Phyllis, and Phyllis kissed her, and said,

"I know, Elizabeth; and I am so glad."

"Richard told you?"

"No, indeed! Richard is too much astonished at his own happiness to
speak of it to-night. But when one loves, one understands naturally.
It has made me very happy. Why, Elizabeth, you are weeping!"

"I am strangely sorrowful, Phyllis. A shadow which I cannot account
for chills me. You know that I am neither imaginative nor sentimental;
but I am weeping to-night for grief which I apprehend, but which does
not exist."

"Why do that? The ills that never come are just the ills that give
us the sorest and most useless sorrow. They are not provided for--no
grace is promised for them."

"That may be, Phyllis, but these intangible griefs are very real ones
while they haunt us."

"I once knew a Methodist preacher who, whenever he felt himself haunted
by prospective cares and griefs, took a piece of paper and reduced
them, to writing, and so 'faced the squadron of his doubts.' He told
me that they usually vanished as he mustered them. Elizabeth, there
are more than sixty admonitions against fear or unnecessary anxiety
in the Bible, and these are so various, and so positive, that a
Christian has not actually a legitimate subject for worry left. Come,
let us face your trouble. Is it because in marrying Richard you will
have to give up this beautiful home?"

"That possibility faces me every day, Phyllis. When Antony marries,
he will, of course, bring his wife here, and she will be mistress.
I might, for father's sake, take a lower place, but it would be hard.
Father did not marry until his three sisters were settled, but Antony
lives in another generation. I can hardly hope he will be so
thoughtful."

"Do you fear that uncle will object to your marriage with Richard?"

"No; he is very fond of Richard, and very proud of him. Yesterday he
made me notice now strongly Richard resembled Colonel Alfred Hallam,
who was the cavalier hero of our family. And the likeness is
wonderful."

"Has money any thing to do with it?"

"Nothing."

"Parting with Richard?"

"I think so--the feeling is one of a fear of long or final separation--a
shadow like an abyss which neither my love nor my hope can cross.
I find that I cannot follow out any dream or plan which includes
Richard; my soul stumbles in all such efforts as if it was blind. Now
is there any promise for an uncertain condition like this?"

"Yes, dear, there is a promise with a blessing added to it. 'I will
bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths
that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and
crooked things straight.'" Isa. xlii, 16.

"Dear Phyllis, what a little comforter you are! I will be happy.
Indeed, I have reason, for I never dreamed of a lover like Richard--and
he says it was the merest accident that brought you to Europe this
summer."

"Did Richard say 'accident?' Do you know, Elizabeth, I think what men
call 'accident' is really God's own part--his special arrangement or
interposition. We were going to Saratoga, and then one night Bishop
Elliott called, and said he was going to Europe, and as he spoke we
received a letter saying the rooms which we had always occupied were
not to be had, and the Bishop said, 'Go with me to Europe,' and so,
in five minutes we had decided to do so. Richard will dislike to return
to America without you; have you thought of the many changes you must
face? and some deprivations also, Elizabeth. We are not rich. Our
home, beautiful in its way, is very different from Hallam Hall; our
life altogether is unlike yours."

"I fear nothing of all that, Phyllis. But my marriage until Antony
marries is out of the question. I could not leave father until he has
another daughter. That is a thing not to be contemplated."

"Ah, Elizabeth, in my selfishness I had forgotten that! I was only
thinking that when Richard had you, he could better spare me, and that
John and I might have a hope also. But, of course, Uncle Hallam comes
first."

"Yes; as long as my father needs me, my first duty is to him."

"Even if it be to the end of his life?"

"That is an event I never dare to call to mind. My soul shrinks back
from the thought. A good parent is immortal to a good child, I think."

She said it very calmly, but no one would have thought of disputing
her position. The still assured face partially uplifted, and the large
white hands firmly clasped upon her knee, were a kind of silent amen
to it.

Then Phyllis said "Good-night" and went away; but dim as the light
was, she took with her a certain sense of warmth and color. The long
pink dressing-gown she had worn and the pink rose in her hair had made
a kind of glow in the corner of the wide window where she had sat.
"How beautiful she is!" The words sprang spontaneously to Elizabeth's
lips; and she added to them in her thoughts, "Few girls are so lovely,
so graceful, and so clever, and yet she is as pure and unspoiled by
the world as if God had just made her."

The formal ratification of the engagement was very quietly done. The
squire had a conversation with Richard, and after it went for a long
walk in the park. When he next met his daughter he looked at her
steadily with eyes full of tears, and she went to him, and put her
arms around his neck, and whispered some assurance to him, which he
repaid with a hearty "God bless thee, Elizabeth!"

Antony was the least pleased. He had long had a friendship with George
Eltham, Lord Eltham's younger son; and among many projects which the
young men had discussed, one related to the marriage of Elizabeth.
She had, indeed, no knowledge of their intentions, which were on a
mercenary basis, but this did not prevent Antony from feeling that
Richard had in some degree frustrated his plans. But he allowed
Himself no evidences of this feeling; he gave Richard his
congratulations, and in a merry way "supposed that the kindest thing
he could now do for all parties was to choose a wife also."

But very soon he ordered his horse and rode thoughtfully over to
Eltham. The Hon. George was in his apartments reading "Blackwood,"
though there was a riding party gathering on the lawn.

"Are you not going with them?" asked Antony, indicating the laughing
group outside with a motion of his hand.

"Not I. I hope to do something more with my life than be my elder
brother's lieutenant. Last night I spoke to Lord Eltham concerning
our intentions. He thinks well of them, Antony, and promises all the
help he can give us."

"I am sorry to tell you, George, that Elizabeth is to marry cousin
Fontaine. The engagement is formally made and sanctioned."

"I am very sorry. It is a great disappointment to me."

"You were too dilatory. I advised you to speak to Elizabeth some months
ago."

"I tried to do so, but it was impossible to say pretty things to her.
I felt abashed if I tried to compliment her, and she always appeared
so unconscious of a fellow, that it was depressing."

"Well, it is too late now."

"How do you know that? When Mr. Fontaine has gone--"

"It will not make a particle of difference, George; let me tell you
that. Elizabeth will be true to him, if she never sees him again. I
know her, you do not."

"What is to be done, then?"

"I was thinking of Selina Digby."

"O you know she is not pretty at all!"

"We agreed not to let such things as that influence us."

"And she is older than I am."

"She has L50,000, that is more than double Elizabeth's fortune. A man
can't have every thing. It is entirely at her own disposal also. Your
brother-in-law is far too much absorbed in politics to interfere--the
ground there is clear for you."

"If I succeed?"

"I will promise to find capital equal to yours. What did my lord say
concerning our plan?"

"He said we must have some instruction, and that he would speak to
Sir Thomas Harrington. My father secured his seat in Parliament, and
he is sure to allow us to enter his house. We shall have every facility
there for acquiring a rapid practical knowledge of banking and finance.
I told father it was that or the colonies. I have no idea of being
'only Lord Francis's brother.'"

"Money is the axle on which the world turns, George. When you and I
have it we can buy titles--if we want them."

The fever of fortune-making had seized both young men. They were
ambitious in the most personal sense of the word. George's position
as younger son constantly mortified him. He had had dreams of obtaining
honor both as a scholar and a soldier, but he had satisfied himself
that for one career he had not the mental ability, and for the other
neither the physical courage nor endurance necessary. Of mere rank
he was not envious. He had lived among noble men, and familiarity had
bred its usual consequence. But he did want money. He fully recognized
that gold entered every earthly gate, and he felt within himself the
capacity for its acquirement. He had also precedents for this
determination which seemed to justify it. The Duke of Norham's
younger son had a share in an immense brewery and wielded a power far
beyond that of his elder brother, who was simply waiting for a dukedom.
Lord Egremont, a younger son of the Earl of Soho, controlled large
amounts of railway stock, and it was said held a mortgage on the family
castle. To prove to his father and mother that no law of primogeniture
could disinherit him, appeared to George Eltham an object worth
striving for.

With these thoughts simmering in his heart he met Antony Hallam at
Oxford. They speedily became friends. Antony wanted money also. But
in him the craving arose from a more domineering ambition. He wished
to rule men, to be first every-where. He despised the simple provincial
title to which he was born, and the hall, with all its sweet gray
antiquity, was only a dull prison. He compared its mediaeval strength,
its long narrow lattices, its low rambling rooms, its Saxon simplicity,
with the grand mansions of modern date in which he visited. It must
be remembered that it is only recently old houses and old furniture
and early English have become fashionable. Antony's dream of a home
was not of Hallam, but of a grander Eltham castle, whose rooms should
be twice as large and lofty and splendid.

He would control men through their idol, gold; he would buy some old
earldom, and have orders and honors thrust upon him. His long,
honorable descent would be a good foundation to build upon. He told
himself that the Hallams ought to have built upon it generations ago.
He almost despised his ancestors for the simple lives they had led.
He could not endure to think of himself sitting down as squire Hallam
and ruling a few cottagers and tilling a few hundred acres. In George
Eltham he found a kindred spirit. They might work for different
motives, but gold was the aim of both.

Many plans had been entertained and discussed, but they had finally
settled upon a co-partnership in finance. They would discount bills,
make advances, and secure government contracts. The latter was the
special aim of Antony's desires. But they were not foolish enough to
think they could succeed without some preliminary initiation, and this
they proposed to acquire in the great banking house of Sir Thomas
Harrington. M.P. Lord Eltham had approved the plan. It now remained
to secure the squire's agreement and co-operation. As for the money
necessary, George Eltham proposed to acquire it by marriage. Antony
had his own plan; he was only waiting until the Fontaines' visit was
over, and "that contemptible Craven affair settled."

For he saw plainly that for the time the squire's mind was full of
outside interests, and when Antony discussed a subject so vital to
himself, he was resolved his father should be in a position to feel
its importance, and give it his undivided attention. Personally he
had no ill-feeling toward Ben Craven, but he was annoyed at the
intrusion of so vulgar an object of sympathy into his home. The
squire's advocacy at Eltham had irritated him. He was quietly angry
at Elizabeth and Phyllis daily visiting the dame. And when the
Methodist preacher had been twice to Hallam to see the squire on the
subject, he could not treat the affair with his usual tolerant
indifference.

"I have changed my mind," he said, one evening, with that smiling
positiveness which is so aggravating: "I am very much inclined to
believe that Ben Craven did kill Clough."

The squire looked at him, first with amazement, then with anger, and
asked, "When did ta lose thy good sense, and thy good-will, son
Antony?"

"I had a talk with Swale to-day, and in his judgment--"

"Thou knows what I think o' Swale. Was there ever a bigger old cheat
than he is? I'll put my heart afore Swale's judgment, Ben Craven's
all right."

"He will have strong evidence and a clever lawyer against him. He is
sure to be convicted."

"Don't thee reckon to know so much. Ben's got a clever lawyer, too;
but if he'd nobbut God and his mother to plead for him, his cause 'ud
be in varry good hands, thou may be sure o' that."

"I am only saying, father, what Swale says every-where."

"I'll warrant he'll talk. There's no tax on lying. My word, if there
was, Swale'd hev to keep his mouth shut."

"I cannot imagine, father, what makes you trouble yourself so much
about the Cravens."

"Thou can't, can't ta? Then thou canst imagine gratitude for faithful
service given cheerfully for three hundred years. Why-a lad, 'twas
a Craven saved Alfred Hallam's life at Worcester fight."

"I suppose he paid him for the service. Any how the debt is not ours."

"Ay, is it. It's my debt, and it's thine, too. Ben may live to do thee
a service for aught thou knows."

Antony smiled contemptuously, and the squire continued, almost angrily,
"There's things more unlikely; look here, my lad, nivver spit in any
well: thou may hev to drink of t' water."

When the words were said the squire was sorry for them. They had come
from his lips in that forceful prophetic way some speeches take, and
they made an unpleasant impression on both father and son; just such
an impression as a bad dream leaves, which yet seems to be wholly
irrelevant and unaccountable.

Craven was in Leeds jail, and the trial was fixed for the summer term.
All things may be better borne than suspense, and all were glad when
Ben could have a fair hearing. But every thing was against him, and
at the end of the second day's trial, the squire came home in sincere
trouble; Ben had been found guilty, but a conviction of his innocence,
in spite of the evidence, seemed also to have possessed the jury, for
they had strongly recommended him to her majesty's mercy.

Elizabeth and Phyllis went with sick, sorrowful heart to see the dame.
The strain had told upon her before the trial, and she had lost her
cheerfulness somewhat. But she had come to a place now where anger
and sense of wrong and impatience were past.

"Lost confidence, sister Phyllis," she said; "not I; I hev only stopped
reckoning on any man or woman now, be 't queen's sen; and I hev put
my whole trust i' God. Such like goings on as we've hed! Paper and
ink and varry little justice; but God'll sort ivery thing afore long."

"The case is to come before the queen."

"That's well enough. Miss Hallam, but I'll tak' it mysen into God's
council-chamber--there's no key on that door, and there's no fee to
pay either. He'll put ivery thing right, see if he doesn't!"

"And besides, Sister Martha, things may not be as far wrong as we think
they are--may not be wrong at all. God moves in a mysterious way."

"And he needs to, Sister Phyllis. There's many a soul 'ud run away
from him, even when he was coming to help 'em, if they knew it was
him." "I understand what you mean, Martha--'as a thief in the night.'
He breaks all bars and bursts all doors closed against him when he
visits either a soul or a cause. I heard you were at Leeds. Do you
mind telling us how things went? The squire will not talk to any one."

"I nivver was one to shut my grief up i' my heart, and let it poison
my life; not I, indeed. It seemed to me, though, as varry little fight
were made for Ben Clough afore he died; he'd signed a paper, declaring
positive as it were Ben who shot him; and t' case were half done when
that were said. Then Bingley were sworn, and he said, as he were
coming ovver t' moor, about half past six, he heard a shot, and saw
Ben Craven come from behind a whin bush, and run toward t' village;
and a minute after Bill Laycock came in sight; and Ben, he said, ran
past him, also; and Laycock looked after Ben, and said to
Bingley--'that's Ben Craven; he's in a bit of a hurry, I think.'"

"Was Laycock coming from the moor also?"

"Nay, he was coming from t' village, and was going across t' moor to
a knur match on Eltham Common."

"Did Laycock swear to that?"

"Ay, he did. He were varry loth to do it; for Ben and him hed laked
together when they were lads, and been thick as thack iver since, till
Mary Clough came between 'em. But I noticed one thing, and I think
the jury saw it, too--when Laycock were asked, 'if he were sure it
was Ben that passed him,' he turned white to the varry lips, and could
scarce make out to whisper, _'Ay, he were sure.'_ Then Ben looked
at him, and I'll nivver forget that look, no, nor any body else that
saw it, and least of a' t' man hes got it."

"You think Laycock swore to a lie?"

"I know he swore to a lie."

"It is a pity that Ben's working-suit has never been found."

"It'll come to light; see if it doesn't."

"Who spoke for Ben?"

"I did. I told t' truth, and there's none that knows me hes a doubt
o' that. I said that Ben came home a bit early. He hed his cup o' tea
wi' me, and I told him how bad off Sarah Fisher was; and I said, 'I'll
wash up t' tea things, lad, and go bide wi' her till it's chapel time;
and so thou be ready to go wi' me.' Before I went out I looked into
Ben's room, and he'd dressed himsen up i' his Sunday clothes, and were
sitting studying i' a book called 'Mechanics;' and I said, 'Why, Ben!
Whatever hes ta put thy best clothes on for?' I knew right well it
was for Mary Clough, but I wasn't too well pleased wi' Mary, and so
I couldn't help letting him see as he weren't deceiving me; and Ben
said, 'Nivver thee mind, mother, what clothes I've on, and don't be
too late for t' chapel.'"

"And yet Bingley and Laycock swore that Ben had his working-clothes
on?"

"Ay, they sware that."

"You are come into deep waters, Martha."

"Ay, I am; but there's One on t' water wi' me. I hev his hand, and
he's none going to let me sink. And good-night to you, dearies, now;
for I want to be alone wi' him. He isn't far off; you can tak' t' word
of a sorrowful woman that he lets himsen be found, if nobbut you're
i' earnest seeking him."

She turned from them, and seated herself before her lonely hearthstone,
and Phyllis saw her glance upward at the four words, that even in the
darkest night was clear to her--_"In God we trust."_

"Martha used to be so curious, so gossippy, so well acquainted with
all her neighbors, so anxious for their good opinion, that it strikes
me as singular," said Elizabeth, "that she seems to have forgotten
the whole village, and to be careless as to its verdict. Does sorrow
make us indifferent, I wonder?"

"No, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own
level--the earth-level; the sorrowful look up."

Not far from Martha's garden gate they met the Methodist preacher.
He was going to see Martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he
turned and walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He was
a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes.
People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio,
as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls,
and talking earnestly to them.

"Well I nivver!" said old Peggy Howarth, nodding her head wisely,
"what does ta think o' that, Jane Sykes?"

"It beats ivery thing! There's Ezra Dixon. He's on his way to a
class-meeting, I'll lay thee owt ta likes; Ezra!"

"Well, woman! What does ta want?"

"Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi' t' preacher?"

"For sure I do. They're in varry good company."

"They'll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on't. They say Martha taks
it varry quiet like."

"Ay, she's none o' them as whimpers and whines. Now if it wer' thee,
Peggy, thou'd worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer' thy
trade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. Martha's none like
that. Is ta going to thy class to-night?"

"Nay, then, I'm not going."

"I'd go if I was thee, Peggy. Thou'lt hev thysen to talk about there,
and thou'lt not be tempted to say things about t' Cravens thou wont
be able to stand up to."

"I'd hev some human nature in me, Ezra Dixon, if I was thee. To think
o' this being t' first murder as iver was i' Hallam! and thou talking
as if I ought to buckle up my tongue about it."

"Thou ought; but 'oughts' stand for nothing. To be sure thou'll talk
about it; but go and talk i' thy class-meeting wi' Josiah Banks looking
i' thy face, and then thou'll talk wi' a kind heart. Do as I tell
thee."

"Nay, I'll not do it."

"Thou nivver will disappoint t' devil, Peggy."

Peggy did not answer; she was too much interested in the rector's
proceedings. He was actually crossing the road and joining the ladies
and the preacher.

"Now, then! Dost ta see that, Ezra? Whativer's coming to folk? Why-a!
They're a' going on together!"

"Why not? T' rector's a varry good man. It 'ud be strange if he didn't
feel for poor Martha as well as ivery other kind heart. Her trouble
hes made a' maks o' Christians feel together."

"If Martha was nobbut a Church o' England woman."

"Dost ta really think that t' rector is cut on that sort o' a pattern?
Not he. A man may be a Christian, Peggy, even if he isn't a Wesleyan
Methody. Them's my principles, and I'm not a bit 'shamed o' them."

It was quite true; the rector had joined the girls and the preacher,
and they walked on together as far as the park gates, talking of Martha
and her great sorrow and great faith. Then the preacher turned back,
carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that comes from
real Christian sympathy and communion.

"What clear prophetic eyes that Mr. North has," said the rector, as
they walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms.

"He lives very near to the other world," said Phyllis; "I think his
eyes have got that clear far-off look with habitually gazing into
eternity. It is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feels
that he is just from the presence of God."

"I have heard that you are a Dissenter, Miss Fontaine."

"O no, I am not. I am a Methodist."

"That is what I meant."

"But the two are not the same. I am quite sure that the line between
Dissent and Methodism has been well defined from the beginning."

The rector smiled tolerantly down at Phyllis's bright thoughtful face,
and said: "Do young ladies in America study theological history?"

"I think most of them like to understand the foundation upon which
their spiritual faith is built. I have found every side study of
Methodism very interesting. Methodism is a more charitable and a more
spiritual thing than Dissent."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes. Dissenters began every-where with showing how fallen was the
Church, how unworthy were her ministers; but Methodism began
every-where with showing her hearers how fallen they themselves were,
and how utterly unworthy. Dissent was convinced that Episcopacy was
wrong; Methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. Dissent
discussed schemes of church government, as if the salvation of the
world depended upon certain forms; Methodism had one object, to save
souls and inculcate personal holiness. Dissent boldly separated herself
from the Church; Methodism clung with loving affection to her mother.
Her separation was gradual, and accompanied with fond regrets."

"I like that reasoning, Miss Fontaine."

"Do not give me credit for it; it comes from those who have authority
to speak upon such matters. But ought not a young lady to know as much
about the origin and constitution of her Church as of her country?"

"I suppose she ought. What do you say, Miss Hallam?"

"That I will begin and study the history of my Church. I am ashamed
to say I know nothing about it."

"And I say that I will look into Methodism a little. John Wesley, as
a man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. It was a pity
he left the Church."

"But he never did leave it. Just as St. Peter and St. Paul and St.
John went up to the temple at Jerusalem to pray, so Wesley, until the
very last, frequented the Church ordinances. I think he was really
a very High-Churchman. He was even prejudiced against Presbyterians;
and a very careless reader of his works must see that he was deeply
impressed with the importance of Episcopacy, and that he regarded it
as an apostolic institution. If he were to return to this world again,
he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the American Methodist
Episcopal Church."

"But remember how he countenanced field-preaching and religious
services without forms."

"Do you think it a sin to save souls out of church? Don't you
think the Sermon on the Mount a very fair precedent in favor of
field-preaching?"

"Miss Fontaine, you argue like a woman. That question is not in logical
sequence. Here come Mr. Fontaine and the squire. I hope some other
time you will allow me to resume this conversation."

The squire's face brightened when he saw the rector. "A 'good-evening,'
parson. Thou thought I'd be in a bit o' trouble to-night, didn't ta?"

"I knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for Martha
and Ben Craven to-night."

"Ay, to be sure." He had clasped Phyllis's hand in one of his own,
and turned round with the party; as he did so, drawing the rector's
attention by a significant glance to Elizabeth, who had fallen behind
with Richard.

"I am very glad if that is the case, squire."

"Ay, it pleases me, too. But about poor Martha, hev you seen her?"

"She wishes to be alone."

"And no wonder. I'm sure I don't know whativer must be done."

"Perhaps the queen will have mercy."

"Mercy! He'll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. Hanging isn't
any better than its called, I'll be bound; but if I was Ben, I'd a-deal
rather be hung, and done wi' it. That I would!"

"I think Ben Craven will yet be proved innocent. His mother is sure
of it, uncle."

"That's t' way wi' a mother. You can't make 'em understand--they will
hang on."

"Yes," said the rector. "Mother-love almost sees miracles."

"Mother-love _does_ see miracles," answered Phyllis. "The mother
of Moses would 'hang on,' as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracle
of salvation. So did the Shunammite mother, and the Syro-phoenician
mother, and millions of mothers before and since. Just as long as
Martha hopes, I shall hope; and just as long as Martha prays, she will
hope."

"Does ta think Martha can pray against t' English Constitution?"

"I heard the rector praying against the atmospheric laws last Sunday,
and you said every word after him, uncle. When you prayed for fine
weather to get the hay in, did you expect it in spite of all the
conditions against it--falling barometer, gathering clouds? If you
did, you were expecting a miracle."

"Ay, I told t' beadle, mysen, that there wasn't a bit o' good praying
for fine weather as long as t' wind kept i' such a contrary quarter;
and it's like enough to rain to-night again, and heigh, for sure! its
begun mizzling. We'll hev to step clever, or we'll be wet before we
reach t' hall."

The rector smiled at the squire's unconscious statement of his own
position; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, before
they reached shelter the ladies' dresses were wet through, and there
was so many evidences of a storm that the rector determined to stay
all night with his friends. When Elizabeth and Phyllis came down in
dry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, and
a servant laying the table for supper.

"Elizabeth, let's hev that round o' spiced beef, and some cold chicken,
and a bit o' raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there's owt
o' t' sort in t' buttery. There's nothing like a bit o' good eating,
if there's owt wrong wi' you."

The rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of the
ample hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay pipe in
their mouth. The serenity of their faces, and their air of thorough
comfort was a delightful picture to Phyllis. She placed herself close
to her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. The two men were
talking in easy, far-apart sentences of "tithes," and, as the subject
did not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room,
noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, and
its heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-colored
rugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on the high sideboard, and
the gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. The table, covered
with snowy damask, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and Phyllis thought
she had never seen Elizabeth look so grandly fair and home-like as
she did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles.
She did not wonder that Richard heard nothing of the conversation,
and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife.

The squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared as
if his advice was very good medicine. Happiness, hope, and a sense
of gratitude was in each heart. The old room grew wonderfully cozy
and bright; the faces that gathered round the table and the fire were
full of love, and sweet, reasonable contentment. When supper was over
Richard and Elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, where
there was always a little fire burning. They had their own hopes and
joys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle,
and this was fully recognized. Phyllis only gave them a bright smile
as they withdrew. The squire ignored their absence; Antony was at
Eltham; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortals
may be.

The rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked fitfully
about "tithes." It seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortably
to the pauses in a long pipe. But when he had finished his "thimbleful"
of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes carefully, he looked at Phyllis
with a face full of renewed interest, and said,

"Squire, do you know that your niece thinks John Wesley was a
High-Churchman?"

"What I meant, sir, was this: Wesley had very decided views in favor
of the Episcopacy. He would suffer none to lay unconsecrated hands
upon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, I think he was as
ascetic as any monk."

"Do you think, then, that if he had lived before the Reformation he
might have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like La Trappe?"

"No, indeed, sir! He might have founded an order, and it would,
doubtless, have been a rigorous one; but it would not have been one
shut up behind walls. It would have been a preaching order, severely
disciplined, perhaps, but burning with all the zeal of the
Redemptionist Fathers on a mission."

The squire patted the little hand, which was upon his knee, and proudly
asked,

"Now, then, parson, what does ta say to that?"

"I say it would be a very good description of 'the people called
Methodists' when they began their crusade in England."

"It is always a good description of them when they have missionary
work to do. We have had brave soldiers among the Fontaines, and wise
statesmen, also; but braver than all, wiser than all, was my
grandfather Fontaine, who went into the wilderness of Tennessee an
apostle of Methodism, with the Bible in his heart and his life in his
hand. If I was a man, I would do as Richard always does, lift my hat
whenever his name is mentioned."

"Such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes, Miss Fontaine; men,
of whom the world is not worthy."

"Ah, do not say that! It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them.
They are not extinct. They are still preaching--on the savannas of
the southwest--on all the border-lands of civilization--among the
savages of the Pacific isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa;
voices crying in the wilderness, 'God so loved the world, that he gave
his only begotten Son' for its salvation. A Methodist preacher is
necessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hear
Wesley's 'charge' to his preachers?"

"No, I never heard it, Miss Fontaine."

"If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. I'se warrant it'll
fit his office very well."

"Yes, I know it; I have heard it many a time from my grandfather's
lips. In his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he never
said any thing else to them. 'Observe,' charged Wesley, 'it is not
your business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that
society, but to save as many souls as you can.'"

"Now, then, that's enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t' candle and both
o' you come wi' me; I've got summat to say mysen happen."

He had that happy look on his face which people wear who are conscious
of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a large
room above those in the east wing which were specially his own. It
was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used.

"Look 'ee here, now;" and he lifted the candle toward a picture over
the fire place. "Who do you mak' that out to be?"

"John Wesley," said Phyllis.

"For sure; it's John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals
for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, was
a Methodist--one o' t' first o' them--and so you see, Phyllis, my lass,
you hev come varry naturally by your way o' thinking."

The rector was examining the face with great interest. "It is a
wonderful countenance," he said; "take a look at it, Miss Fontaine,
and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about La
Trappe."

"No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined,
thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church."

"Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi."

"It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face--the face of a scholar
and a gentleman."

"A little of the fanatic in it--admit that. I have seen pictures of
grand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it."

"You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admit
that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of
Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of
the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other;
but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity
which comes from an assurance of the love of God."

"God love thee, Phyllis! Thou'lt be makkin' a Methodist o' me, whether
I will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a' that in t' picture.
I wont stay here any longer. Thanks be! It's sleeping-time, missee."

"I should like to sleep in this room, squire."

"Why, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o' fire and some aired bed-clothes
is a' it wants. Thou's sure to sleep well in it, and thou'lt hev t' sunrise
to wake thee up."

And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept
some of the sunshine in his face. He was walking up and down the
terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons
promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change
like opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the soft
earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air
was full of a thousand scents.

"How beautiful all is, and how happy you look," and Phyllis put her
hand in the rector's, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace,
where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine.

"Did you sleep well in Wesley's chamber?"

"I slept very well; and this morning the pleasantest thing happened.
Upon a little table I saw a Bible lying, and I read the morning lesson,
which was a very happy one; then I lifted another book upon the stand.
It was 'The Pilgrim's Progress;' and this was the passage I lighted
upon: 'The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber facing the
sunrising. The name of the chamber was Peace.' There was a pencil-mark
against the passage, and I fancy John Wesley put it there. It was a
little thing, but it has made me very happy."

"I can understand."

"God bless you, child! I am sure you can."




CHAPTER III.


    "He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him
  in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor him." Psa. xci, 15.

    "Alas for hourly change! Alas for all
  The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall,
    Even as the beads of a told rosary!"

That very day Richard received a letter from Bishop Elliott. He was
going to the Holy Land and wished Richard to join him in Rome, and
then accompany him to Palestine. Richard preferred to remain at Hallam,
but both Elizabeth and Phyllis thought he ought to respond to the
Bishop's desire. He was an aged man among strangers, and, apart from
inclination, it seemed to be a duty to accede to his request. So rather
reluctantly Richard left Hallam, half-inclined to complain that
Elizabeth was not sorry enough to part with him. In truth she was
conscious of feeling that it would be pleasant to be a little while
alone with the great joy that had come to her; to consider it quietly,
to brood over it, and to ask some questions of her soul which it must
answer very truthfully.

People of self-contained natures weary even of happiness, if happiness
makes a constant demand upon them. She loved Richard with the first
love of her heart, she loved him very truly and fondly, but she was
also very happy through the long summer days sitting alone, or with
Phyllis, and sewing pure, loving thoughts into wonderful pieces of
fine linen and cambric and embroidery. Sometimes Phyllis helped her,
and they talked together in a sweet confidence of the lovers so dear
to them, and made little plans for the future full of true
unselfishness.

In the cool of the day they walked through the garden and the park
to see Martha; though every day it became a more perplexing and painful
duty. The poor woman, as time went by, grew silent and even stern.
She heeded not any words of pity, she kept apart from the world, and
from all her neighbors, and with heart unwaveringly fixed upon God,
waited with a grand and pathetic patience the answer to her prayers.
For some reason which her soul approved she remained in the little
chapel with her petition, and the preacher going in one day,
unexpectedly, found her prostrate before the communion table, pleading
as mothers only can plead. He knelt down beside her, and took her hand,
and prayed with her and for her.

Quite exhausted, she sat down beside him afterward and said, amid
heart-breaking sobs, "It isn't Ben's life I'm asking, sir. God gave
him, and he's a fair right to tak' him, when and how he will. I hev
given up asking for t' dear lad's life. But O if he'd nobbut clear
his good name o' the shameful deed! I know he's innocent, and God knows
it; but even if they hang Ben first, I'll give my Maker no peace till
he brings the guilty to justice, and sets t' innocent in t' leet o'
his countenance."

"'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence,' Martha, 'and the violent
take it by force.' Don't get weary. Christ had a mother, and he loved
her. Does he not love her still?"

"Thank you, sir, for that word. I'll be sure and remind him o' her.
I'd forget that there was iver any mother but me; or any son but my
son." "Say a word for all other weeping mothers. Think of them, Martha,
all over the world, rich and poor, Christian and heathen. How many
mothers' hearts are breaking to-day. You are not alone, Martha. A great
company are waiting and weeping with you. Don't be afraid to ask for
them, too. There is no limit to God's love and power."

"I'll pray for ivery one o' them, sir."

"Do, Martha, and you'll get under a higher sky. It's a good thing to
pray for ourselves; it's a far grander thing to pray for others. God
bless you, sister, and give you an answer of peace."

Very shortly after this conversation one of those singular changes
in public opinion, which cannot be accounted for, began to manifest
itself. After Clough's positive dying declaration, it was hardly to
be expected that his daughter Mary could show any kindness to her old
lover, Ben Craven. But week after week went by, and people saw that
she positively refused to speak to Bill Laycock, and that she shrank
even from his passing shadow, and they began to look queerly at the
man. It amounted at first to nothing more than that; but as a mist
creeps over the landscape, and gradually possesses it altogether, so
this chill, adverse atmosphere enfolded him. He noticed that old
acquaintances dropped away from him; men went three miles farther off
to get a shoe put on a horse. No one could have given a clear reason
for doing so, and one man did not ask another man "why?" but the fact
needed no reasoning about. It was there. At the harvest festivals the
men drew away from him, and the girls would not have him for a partner
in any rural game. He was asked to resign his place in the knur club,
and if he joined any cricket eleven, the match fell to the ground.

One September evening Elizabeth and Phyllis went to the village to
leave a little basket of dainties in Martha's cottage. They now seldom
saw her, she was usually in the chapel; but they knew she was grateful
for the food, and it had become all they could do for her in the hard
struggle she was having. The trees were growing bare; the flowers were
few and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy,
and twittered and complained, while the swallows were restless, like
those going a long journey. Singing time was over, life burning down,
it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little.

They left the basket on Martha's table and went quietly up the
street. In a few minutes they met the preacher, but he also seemed
strangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. At the chapel
gates there were five or six people standing. "We are going to have
a prayer-meeting," he said, "will you come in?"

"It will soon be dark," answered Elizabeth, "we must reach home as
quickly as possible."

Just then Martha Craven came out of the chapel. A sorrow nobly borne
confers a kind of moral rank. Her neighbors, with respect and pity,
stood aside silently. She appeared to be quite unconscious of them.
At Phyllis and Elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shook
her head mournfully. To the preacher she said, "It's t' eleventh hour,
sir, and no answer yet!"

"Go thy ways, Martha Craven. It will come! It is impossible thy prayers
should fail! As the Lord liveth no harm shall come to thee or to
thine!"

The plain little man was transfigured. No ancient prophet at the height
of his vision ever spoke with more authority. Martha bowed her head
and went her way without a word; and Elizabeth and Phyllis, full of
a solemn awe, stood gazing at the man whose rapt soul and clear,
prophetic eyes looked into the unseen and received its assurance. He
seemed to have forgotten their presence, and walked with uplifted face
into the chapel.

Elizabeth was the first to speak. "What did he mean?"

"He has had some assurance from God. _He knows."_

"Do you mean to say, Phyllis, that God speaks to men?"

"Most surely God speaks to those who will hear. Why should you doubt
it? He changeth not. When God talked with Enoch, and Abraham spoke
with God, no one was astonished. When Hagar wandered in the desert,
and saw an angel descend from heaven with succor, she was not
surprised. In those days, Elizabeth, men whose feet were in the dust
breathed the air of eternity. They spoke to God, and he answered them."

"Does Methodism believe that this intercourse is still possible?"

"Methodism knows it is possible. The doctrine of assurance is either
a direct divine interposition or it is a self-deception. It is out
of the province of all human reason and philosophy. But it is
impossible that it can be self-deception. Millions of good men and
women of every shade of mental and physical temperament have witnessed
to its truth."

"And you, Phyllis?"

"I know it."

How wonderfully certain moods of nature seem to frame certain states
of mind. Elizabeth never forgot the still serenity of that September
evening; the rustling of the falling leaves under their feet, the
gleaming of the blue and white asters through the misty haze gathering
over the fields and park. They had expected to meet the squire at the
gates, but they were nearly at home ere they saw him. He was evidently
in deep trouble; even Fanny divined it, and, with singular canine
delicacy, walked a little behind him, and forebore all her usual
demonstrations.

Antony was sitting at the hall fire. His handsome person was
faultlessly dressed, and, with a newspaper laid over his knee, he was
apparently lost in the contemplation of the singular effects made by
the firelight among the antlers and armor that adorned the wall. He
roused himself when the girls entered, and apologized for not having
come to meet them; but there was an evident constraint and unhappiness
in the home atmosphere. Even the "bit o' good eating," which was the
squire's panacea, failed in his own case. Antony, indeed, sat and
laughed and chatted with an easy indifference, which finally appeared
to be unbearable to his father, for he left the table before the meal
was finished.

Then a shadow settled over the party. Elizabeth had a troubled look.
She was sure there had been some very unusual difference between Antony
and his father. They soon separated for the night, Elizabeth going
with Phyllis to her for room a final chat. There was a little fire
there, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room,
and deepened all its pretty rose tints. This was to the girls their
time of sweetest confidence. They might be together all the day, but
they grew closest of all at this good-night hour.

They spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all Elizabeth's
suppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. In fact,
the squire had received one of those blows which none but a living
hand can deal, for there are worse things between the cradle and the
grave than death--the blow, too, had fallen without the slightest
warning. It was not the thing that he had feared which had happened
to him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. He
had been walking up and down the terrace with Fanny, smoking his pipe,
and admiring the great beds of many-colored asters, when he saw Antony
coming toward him. He waited for his son's approach, and met him with
a smile. Antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortness
of the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his whole
heart.

"Father, George Eltham and I are thinking of going into business
together."

"Whatever is ta saying? Business? What business?"

"Banking."

"Now, then, be quiet, will ta? Such nonsense!"

"I am in dead earnest, father. I cannot waste my life any longer."

"Who asks thee to waste thy life? Hev I iver grudged thee any thing
to make it happy? Thou hes hed t' best o' educations. If ta wants to
travel, there's letters o' credit waiting for thee. If ta wants work,
I've told thee there's acres and acres o' wheat on the Hallam marshes,
if they were only drained. I'll find ta money, if ta wants work."

"Father, I could not put gold in a marsh, and then sit down and wait
for the wheat to grow; and all the wheat on Hallam, unless it bore
golden ears, would not satisfy me. George and I are going into Sir
Thomas Harrington's for a few months. Lord Eltham has spoken to him.
Then George is to marry Selina Digby. She has fifty thousand pounds;
and we are going to begin business."

"Wi' fifty thousand pounds o' Miss Digby's money! It's t' meanest
scheme I iver heard tell on! I'm fair shamed o' thee!"

"I must put into the firm fifty thousand pounds also; and I want to
speak to you about it."

"For sure! How does ta think to get it out o' me now?"

"I could get Jews to advance it on my inheritance, but I would do
nothing so mean and foolish as that. I thought it would be better to
break the entail. You give me fifty thousand pounds as my share of
Hallam, and you can have the reversion and leave the estate to whom
you wish."

The squire fairly staggered. Break the entail! Sell Hallam! The young
man was either mad, or he was the most wicked of sons.

"Does ta know what thou is talking about! Hallam has been ours for
a thousand years. O Antony! Antony!"

"We have had it so long, father, that we have grown to it like
vegetables."

"Has ta no love for t' old place? Look at it. Is there a bonnier spot
in t' wide world? Why-a! There's an old saying,

  "'When a' t' world is up aloft,
    God's share will be fair Hallam-Croft.'

"Look at ta dear old home, and t' sweet old gardens, and t' great park
full o' oaks that hev sheltered Saxons, Danes, Normans--ivery race
that has gone to make up t' Englishman o' to-day."

"There are plenty of fairer spots than Hallam. I will build a house
far larger and more splendid than this. There shall be a Lord Hallam,
an Earl Hallam, perhaps. Gold will buy any thing that is in the
market."

"Get thee out o' my sight! And I'll tell Lord Eltham varry plainly
what I think o' his meddling in my affairs. In order to set up his
youngest son I must give up t' bond on t' home that was my fathers
when his fathers were driving swine, the born thralls of the Kerdics
of Kerdic Forest. Thou art no Hallam. No son o' mine. Get out o' my
sight wi' thee!"

Antony went without anger and without hurry. He had expected even a
worse scene. He sat down by the hall fire to think, and he was by no
means hopeless as to his demand. But the squire had received a shock
from which he never recovered himself. It was as if some evil thing
had taken all the sweetest and dearest props of love, and struck him
across the heart with them. He had a real well-defined heart-ache,
for the mental shock had had bodily sympathies which would have
prostrated a man of less finely balanced _physique_.

All night long he sat in his chair, or walked up and down his room.
The anger which comes from wronged love and slighted advantages and
false friendship alternately possessed him. The rooms he occupied in
the east wing had been for generations the private rooms of the masters
of Hallam, and its walls were covered with their pictures--fair, large
men, who had for the most part lived simple, kindly lives, doing their
duty faithfully in the station to which it had pleased God to call
them. He found some comfort in their pictured presence. He stood long
before his father, and tried to understand what he would have done
in his position. Toward daylight he fell into a chill, uneasy sleep,
and dreamed wearily and sadly of the old home. It was only a dream,
but dreams are the hieroglyphics of the other world if we had the key
to them; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are real
enough. "Poor Martha!" was the squire's first thought on rousing
himself. "I know now what t' heart-ache she spoke of is like. I'm
feared I heven't been as sorry as I might hev been for her."

Yet that very night, while the squire was suffering from the first
shock of wounded, indignant amazement, God had taken Martha's case
in his own hand. The turn in Ben's trouble began just when the
preacher spoke to Martha. At that hour Bill Laycock entered the village
ale-house and called for a pot of porter. Three men, whom he knew well,
were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. To one of them Bill
said, "It's a fine night," and after a sulky pause the man answered,
"It ails nowt." Then he looked at his mates, put down his pot, and
walked out. In a few minutes the others followed.

Laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. There was no
use fighting popular ill-will any longer. Mary would not walk on the
same side of the street with him. It was the evident intention of the
whole village to drive him away. He remembered that Swale had told
him there was "a feeling against him," and advised him to leave. But
Swale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value,
and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice. "And it's
Swale's doing, I know," he muttered; "he's been a-fighting for it iver
since. Well, I'll tak t' L300 he offers, wi' t' L80 I hev in t' house,
I can make shift to reach t' other side o' t' world, and one side is
happen as good as t' other side. I'll go and see Swale this varry
hour."

He was arrested by a peculiar sound in the cellar beneath his feet,
a sound that made him turn pale to the very lips. In a few moments
the door opened, and Tim Bingley stepped into the room.

"Thou scoundrel! What does ta want here?"

"Thou get me summat to eat and drink, and then I'll tell thee what
I want."

His tone was not to be disputed. He was a desperate man, and Laycock
obeyed him.

"Thou told me thou would go abroad."

"I meant to go abroad, but I didn't. I got drunk and lost my brass.
Thou'll hev to give me some more. I'll go clean off this time."

"I've got none to give thee."

"Varry well, then I'll hev to be took up; and if I'm sent to York
Castle, thou'lt hev lodgings varry close to me. Mak' up thy mind to
that, Bill Laycock."

"I didn't kill Clough, and thou can't say I did."

Bingley did not answer. He sat munching his bread and casting evil
glances every now and then at his wretched entertainer.

"What does ta want?"

"Thou hed better give me a fresh suit o' clothes; these are fair worn
out--and L20. I'll be i' Hull early to-morrow, and I'll tak' t' varry
first ship I can get."

"How do I know thou will?"

"Thou'lt hev to trust my word--it's about as good as thine, I reckon."

O but the way of the transgressor is hard! There was nothing else to
be done. Hatefully, scornfully, he tossed him a suit of his own
clothes, and gave him L20 of his savings. Then he opened the door and
looked carefully all around. It was near midnight, and all was so still
that a bird moving in the branches could have been heard. But Laycock
was singularly uneasy. He put on his hat and walked one hundred yards
or more each way.

"Don't be a fool," said Bingley, angrily; "when did ta iver know any
body about at this time o' night, save and it might be at Hallam or
Crossley feasts?"

"But where was ta a' day, Bingley? Is ta sure nobody saw thee? And
when did ta come into my cellar?"

"I'll tell thee, if ta is bad off to know. I got into Hallam at three
o'clock this morning, and I hid mysen in Clough's shut-up mill a' day.
Thou knows nobody cares to go nigh it, since--"

"Thou shot him."

"Shut up! Thou'd better let that subject drop. I knew I were safe
there. When it was dark and quiet, I came to thee. Now, if ta'll let
me pass thee, I'll tak' Hull road."

"Thou is sure nobody has seen thee?"

"Ay, I'm sure o' that. Let be now. I hevn't any time to waste."

Laycock watched him up the Hull road till he slipped away like a shadow
into shade. Then he sat down to wait for morning. He would not stay
in Hallam another day. He blamed himself for staying so long. He would
take any offer Swale made him in the morning. There would be neither
peace nor safety for him, if Tim Bingley took it into his will to
return to Hallam whenever he wanted money.

At daylight Dolly Ives, an old woman who cleaned his house and cooked
his meals, came. She had left the evening before at six o'clock, and
if any thing was known of Bingley's visit to Hallam, she would likely
have heard of it. She wasn't a pleasant old woman, and she had not
a very good reputation, but her husband had worked with Laycock's
father, and he had been kind to her on several occasions when she had
been in trouble. So she had "stuck up for Bill Laycock," and her
partisanship had become warmer from opposition.

It was at best a rude kind of liking, for she never failed to tell
any unkind thing she heard about him. She had, however, nothing fresh
to say, and Bill felt relieved. He ate his breakfast and went to his
forge until ten o'clock. Then he called at Swale's. He fancied the
lawyer was "a bit offish," but he promised him the money that night,
and with this promise Bill had to be content. Business had long been
slack; his forge was cold when he got back, and he had no heart to
rekindle it. Frightened and miserable, he was standing in the door
tying on his leather apron, when he saw Dolly coming as fast as she
could toward him.

He did not wait, but went to meet her. "Whativer is ta coming here
for?"

"Thou knows. Get away as fast as ta can. There hev been men searching
t' house, and they hev takken away t' varry suit Bingley wore at Ben
Craven's trial. Now, will ta go? Here's a shilling, it's a' I hev."

Terrified and hurried, he did the worst possible thing for his own
case--he fled, as Dolly advised, and was almost immediately followed
and taken prisoner. In fact, he had been under surveillance, even
before Bingley left his house at midnight. Suspicion had been aroused
by a very simple incident. Mary Clough had noticed that a stone jar,
which had stood in one of the windows of the mill ever since it had
been closed, was removed. In that listless way which apparently trivial
things have of arresting the attention, this jar had attracted Mary
until it had become a part of the closed mill to her. It was in its
usual place when she looked out in the morning; at noon it had
disappeared.

Some one, then, was in the mill. A strong conviction took possession
of her. She watched as the sparrow-hawk watches its prey. Just at dusk
she saw Bingley leave the mill and steal away among the alders that
lined the stream. She suspected where he was going, and, by a shorter
route, reached a field opposite Laycock's house, and, from behind the
hedge, saw Bingley push aside the cellar window and crawl in. He had
tried the door first, but it was just at this hour Laycock was in the
ale-house. The rector was a magistrate; and she went to him with her
tale, and he saw at once the importance of her information. He posted
the men who watched Laycock's house; they saw Bingley leave it, and
when he was about a mile from Hallam they arrested him, and took him
to Leeds. Laycock's arrest had followed as early as a warrant could
be obtained. He sent at once for Mr. North, and frankly confessed to
him his share in the tragedy.

"It was a moment's temptation, sir," he said, with bitter sorrow, "and
I hev been as miserable as any devil out o' hell could be iver since.
T' night as Clough were shot, I had passed his house, and seen Mary
Clough at t' garden gate, and she hed been varry scornful, and told
me she'd marry Ben Craven, or stay unmarried; and I were feeling bad
about it. I thought I'd walk across t' moor and meet Clough, and tell
him what Mary said, and as I went along I heard a shot, and saw a man
running. As he came near I knew it was Bingley i' Ben Craven's working
clothes. He looked i' my face, and said, 'Clough thinks Ben Craven
fired t' shot. If ta helps me away, thou'lt get Mary. Can I go to thy
cottage?' And I said, 'There's a cellar underneath.' That was all.
He had stole Ben's overworker's brat and cap from t' room while Ben
was drinking his tea, and Ben nivver missed it till Jerry Oddy asked
where it was. At night I let him burn them i' my forge. I hev wanted
to tell t' truth often; and I were sick as could be wi' swearing away
Ben's life; indeed I were!"

Before noon the village was in an uproar of excitement. Laycock
followed Bingley to Leeds, and both were committed for trial to York
Castle. Both also received the reward of their evil deed: Bingley
forfeited his life, and Laycock went to Norfolk Island to serve out
a life sentence.

The day of Ben's release was a great holiday. Troubled as the squire
was, he flung open the large barn at Hallam, and set a feast for the
whole village. After it there was a meeting at the chapel, and Ben
told how God had strengthened and comforted him, and made his prison
cell a very gate of heaven. And Martha, who had so little to say to
any human being for weeks, spoke wondrously. Her heart was burning
with love and gratitude; the happy tears streamed down her face; she
stood with clasped hands, telling how God had dealt with her, and
trying in vain to express her love and praise until she broke into
a happy song, and friends and neighbors lifted it with her, and the
rafters rang to

  "Hallelujah to the Lamb,
    Who has purchased our pardon!
   We will praise him again
    When we pass over Jordan."

If we talk of heaven on earth, surely they talk of earth in heaven;
and if the angels are glad when a sinner repents, they must also feel
joy in the joy and justification of the righteous. And though Martha
and Ben's friends and neighbors were rough and illiterate, they sang
the songs of Zion, and spoke the language of the redeemed, and they
gathered round the happy son and mother with the unselfish sympathy
of the sons and daughters of God. Truly, as the rector said, when
speaking of the meeting, "There is something very humanizing in
Methodism."

"And something varry civilizing, too, parson," answered the squire;
"if they hedn't been in t' Methodist chapel, singing and praising God,
they 'ud hev been in t' ale-house, drinking and dancing, and varry
like quarreling. There's no need to send t' constable to a Methodist
rejoicing. I reckon Mary Clough'll hev to marry Ben Craven in t' long
run, now."

"I think so. Ben is to open the mill again, and to have charge of it
for Mary. It seems a likely match."

"Yes. I'm varry glad. Things looked black for Ben at one time."

"Only we don't know what is bad and what good."

"It's a great pity we don't. It 'ud be a varry comfortable thing when
affairs seemed a' wrong if some angel would give us a call, and tell
us we were a bit mistaken. There's no sense i' letting folks be
unhappy, when they might be taking life wi' a bit o' comfort."

"But, then, our faith would not be exercised."

"I don't much mind about that. I'd far rather hev things settled. I
don't like being worritted and unsettled i' my mind."

The squire spoke with a touching irritability, and every one looked
sadly at him. The day after Antony's frank statement of his plans,
the squire rode early into Bradford and went straight to the house
of old Simon Whaley. For three generations the Whaleys had been the
legal advisers of the Hallams, and Simon had touched the lives or
memory of all three. He was a very old man, with a thin, cute face,
and many wrinkles on his brow; and though he seldom left his house,
age had not dimmed his intellect, or dulled his good-will toward the
family with whom he had been so frequently associated.

"Why-a! Hallam! Come in, squire; come in, and welcome. Sit thee down,
old friend. I'm fain and glad to see thee. What cheer? And whativer
brings thee to Bradford so early?"

"I'm in real trouble, Whaley."

"About some wedding, I'll be bound."

"No; neither love nor women folk hev owt to do wi' it. Antony Hallam
wants me to break t' entail and give him L50,000."

"Save us a'! Is t' lad gone by his senses?"

Then the squire repeated, as nearly as possible, all that Antony had
said to him; after which both men sat quite still; the lawyer thinking,
the squire watching the lawyer.

"I'll tell thee what, Hallam, thou hed better give him what he asks.
If thou doesn't, he'll get Hallam into bad hands. He has thought o'
them, or he would nivver hev spoke o' them; and he'll go to them,
rather than not hev his own way. Even if he didn't, just as soon as he
was squire, he'd manage it. The Norfolk Hallams, who are next to him,
are a poor shiftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. Now dost thou
want to keep Hallam i' thy own flesh and blood? If ta does, I'll tell
thee what to do."

"That is the dearest, strongest wish I hev; and thou knows it, Whaley."

"Then go thy ways home and tell Antony Hallam he can hev L50,000, if
he gives up to thee every possible claim on Hallam, and every possible
assistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave as
thou wishes."

"He'll do that fast enough."

"Then thou choose a proper husband for thy daughter and settle it upon
her. Her husband must take the name o' Hallam; and thy grandchildren
by Elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by Antony."

"Elizabeth has chosen her husband. He is a son of my aunt, Martha
Hallam; the daughter of Sibbald Hallam."

"What does ta want better? That's famous!"

"But he's an American."

"Then we must mak' an Englishman o' him. T' Hallams must be kept up.
What's his name?"

"Fontaine."

"It's a varry Frenchified name. I should think he'd be glad to get
rid o' it. Where is he now? At Hallam?"

"He is in t' Holy Land somewhere."

"Is he a parson?"

"No, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too."

"Whativer does he want in t' Holy Land, then?"

"He's wi' a Bishop."

"Ay? Then he's pious?"

"For sure; he's a Methodist."

"That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist. He saved more 'an
a bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built main
part o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. There nivver
was a better or thriftier holder o' Hallam. Ay, ay, there's a kind
o' fellowship between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will do
uncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think."

"If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi' him,
thinks ta?"

"I wouldn't try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon or
later thy son Antony will take his own way, no matter where it leads
him. Thou hes t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settle
this thing while thou hes. It's a deep wound, but it's a clean wound
yet; cut off t' limb afore it begins to fester and poison t' whole
body. And don't thee quarrel wi' him. He's a man now, and there hes
to be a' mak's o' men to do t' world's work. Let Antony be; he'll mebbe
be a credit to thee yet."

"I don't believe, Whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is to
me."

"Don't I? I've got a heart yet, Hallam, though thou'd happen think
I've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but I'll tell
thee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou hes, just tak' a
look at them thou hesn't. I nivver gave thee a bit o' advice better
worth seven-and-sixpence than that is."

"What does ta mean?"

"I'll tell thee. Thou's fretting because Antony wants to go into
business, and to get hold o' as much gold and honor as iver he can
put his hands on. Now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he could
get hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fields
and gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' month o' hell.
Wouldn't that be worse?"

"Ay, it would."

"And they who hanker after an earldom'll be varry like to pick up some
good things on t' road to it. When ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee,
turn round and sail wi' t' wind."

"Thou sees, Whaley, I hev saved a good bit o' money, and I gave Antony
t' best education Oxford could hand over for it; and I reckoned on
him getting into Parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir there, and
building up t' old name wi' a deal o' honor."

"Varry good; but _strike t' nail that'll go!_ What is t' use o'
hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get mebbe
t' weight o' t' blow on thy own finger-ends. Go thee home and talk
reasonably to thy son. He's gotten a will o' his own--that's a way
wi' t' Hallams--and he'll tak' it. Mak' up thy mind to that."

"But children ought to obey their fathers."

"Ought hesn't been t' fashion since iver I remember; and t' young
people o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Commandment--happen that's
t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that I
asked for wi' the keeping o' it."

The squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family,
and really suffering very keenly. But toward evening he sent for his
son. As Antony entered his room he looked at him with a more conscious
and critical regard than he had ever done before. He was forced to
admit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting their
physical peculiarities. They were mostly splendid animals, with faces
radiant with courage and high spirits and high health. Antony's face
was clearer and more refined, more complex, more suggestive. His form,
equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, not
so aggressively erect. One felt that the older Hallams would have
walked straight up to the object of their ambition and demanded it, or,
if necessary, fought for it. One was equally sure that Antony had the
ability to stoop, to bow, to slide past obstacles, to attain his object
by the pleasantest road possible.

He met his father with marked respect and a conciliating manner;
standing, with one hand leaning on the central table, until told to
sit down.

"Thou can hev what ta wants on thy own terms, son Antony."

"Thank you, sir."

"Nay, I want no thanks. I hev only made t' best o' a bad job."

"I hope you may live to see that it is not a bad job, sir. I intend
no dishonor to our name. I am as proud of it as you are. I only desire
to make it a power and an influence, and to give it the honor it
deserves."

"Ay, ay; thou's going to light thy torch at t' sun, no doubt. I hev
heard young men talk afore thee. There is Squire Cawthorpe--he was
at college wi' me--what a grand poem he was going to write! He's master
o' Bagley fox hounds now, and he nivver wrote a line as I heard tell
o'. There's Parson Leveret! He was going to hand in t' millennium,
and now he cares for nowt i' t' world but his tithes and a bottle o'
good port. Howiver, there's no use talking. Whaley will manage t'
business, and when thou art needed he'll go up to London to see thee.
As long as thou art young Squire Hallam I shall continue thy allowance;
when thou hest signed away thy birthright thou wilt hev L50,000, and
nivver another penny-piece from Hallam."

"That is just and right."

"And sooner thou leaves Hallam, and better it will be for both o' us,
I'm sure. It hurts me to my heart to see thee; that it does,"--and
he got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears that
forced themselves into his eyes.

"Shake hands with me, father."

"Nay, I'd rather not."

He had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept them
there, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his large
blue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. Antony watched him
a moment, and then approached him.

"Forget, sir, what I am going to do. Before I leave Hallam give me
your hand, father, as you would give it to your son Antony."

The squire was not able to resist this appeal. He sunk into his chair
and covered his face, saying mournfully: "O, Antony! Antony! Thou hes
broken my heart."

But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay
so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement
of dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, and he was
alone--as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave.

Antony's adieu to Phyllis was easily made, but his parting with his
sister hurt him in his deepest affections. Whatever of unselfish love
he felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the
very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a long
conference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion,
leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thing
to witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyllis was unhappy
without being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. But it is one
blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the
duties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squire
washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and
lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by
the change. And Elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought for
her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in
order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable.
And the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide of
unhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been some
smiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, had
whispered to both father and sister, "Keep a good heart! Things may
be better than they appear to be."

As the squire rose from the table, he said: "Now, Elizabeth, I hev
something varry particular to say to thee. Phyllis will bide by herself
an hour, and then we'll hev no more secrets, and we'll try to be as
happy as things will let us be."

Elizabeth was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say;
but she was placed in a very unhappy position. She did what was kindest
and wisest under the circumstances, accepted without remonstrance the
part assigned her. The young are usually romantic, and their first
impulses are generously impracticable ones. Elizabeth was not wiser
than her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. For the first
few minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thing
to refuse to stand in her brother's place. But her good heart and good
sense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit.
Yet she was quite aware that her succession would be regarded by the
tenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. They would look upon
Richard and herself as supplanters; Richard's foreign birth would be
a constant offense; her clear mind took in all the consequences, and
she felt hurt at Antony for forcing them upon her.

She sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainly
trying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position.

"Thou must know what thou art doing, Elizabeth," he said, "and must
take the charge wi' thy eyes open to a' it asks of thee."

Then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand the
value of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and young
plantation of wood. "It's a grand property, and Antony was a born fool
to part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' finer ones in
t' bush. Does ta understand its value?"

"I am sure I do."

"And thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land?"

"I love every rood of it."

"Then listen to me. Thy mother gave thee L5,000. It was put out at
interest on thy first birthday, and I hev added a L100 now and then,
as I could see my way clear to do so. Thou hes now L22,000 o' thy
own--a varry tidy fortune. If ta takes Hallam thou must pay down a'
of this to Antony. I'll hev to find t' other L28,000 by a mortgage.
Then I shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o'
Hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. That will take time to do wisely,
and it will be work enough for me for t' balance or my life. But I'll
leave thee Hallam clear if God spare me five years longer, and then
there'll be few women i' England thou need envy."

"Whatever I have is yours, father. Do as you think best. I will try
to learn all about the estate, and I promise you most faithfully to
hold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me."

"Give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. I don't say as a lass can
iver be to Hallam what Antony should hev been; but thou'rt bound to
do thy best."

"And, father, Antony is very clever. Who can tell what he may do? If
a man wants to go up, the door is open to wit and skill and industry.
Antony has all these."

"Fair words! Fair words, Elizabeth! But we wont sell t' wheat till
we have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. He's gotten
more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't like
such ways!"

"If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own
interest. He knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure."

"Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is a
bad road until I'm safe off it."

"We may as well hope for the best. Antony appeared to understand what
he was doing."

"Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed
who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbut
talking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more
'an a bit lonely, I'm feared."

A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rector
was sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singing
at the piano. She looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finished
her hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious
father and sister:

  "Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
    But trust him for his grace;
  Behind a frowning providence
    He hides a smiling face."

"Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she
did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless
chambers with confidence and peace.




CHAPTER IV.


  "Stir the deep wells of life that flow within you,
    Touched by God's genial hand;
  And let the chastened sure ambition win you
    To serve his high command.

  "And mighty love embracing all things human
    In one all-fathering name,
  Stamping God's seal on trivial things and common,
    With consecrated aim."

As the weeks went on the squire's confidence insensibly grew. He met
Lord Eltham one day when he was out riding, and they did not quarrel.
On the contrary, Eltham was so conciliating, so patient, and so
confidently hopeful, that it was almost impossible for Hallam not to
be in some measure influenced by him.

"I'm quite sure t' young fellows will succeed," he said, "and if
there's more 'an one son i' a family thou may take my word for it it's
a varry comfortable thing to hev more 'an one living for 'em."

"And if they spoil t' horn instead o' making t' spoon, what then,
Eltham?"

"They'll hev hed t' experience, and they'll be more ready to settle
down to what is made for 'em, and to be content wi' it."

"That's varry fine i' thy case, for t' experience'll cost thee
nothing. Thou is giving thy younger son a chance out o' t' Digby's
and Hallam's money."

Eltham only laughed. "Ivery experiment comes out o' somebody's pocket,
Hallam--it'll be my turn next happen. Will ta come t' hunt dinner at
Eltham on Thursday?"

"Nay, I wont. I'll not bite nor sup at thy table again till we see
what we shall see. If I want to say what I think about thee, I'm none
going to tie my tongue aforehand."

"We'll be fast friends yet. See, if we bean't! Good-bye to thee,
Hallam. Thou'lt be going through t' park, I expect?"

"Ay; I'll like enough find company there."

It was about three o'clock, gray and chill. There had been a good deal
of snow, and, except where it was brushed away from the foot-path,
it lay white and unbroken, the black trunks of the trees among it
looking like pillars of ebony in the ivory-paved courts of a temple.
Up in the sky winter was passing with all his somber train, the clouds
flying rapidly in great grotesque masses, and seeming to touch the tops
of the trees like a gloomy, floating veil.

Phyllis and Elizabeth, wrapped in woolens and furs, walked cheerily
on, Phyllis leaning upon the arm of Elizabeth. They were very happy,
and their low laughter and snatches of Christmas carols made a distinct
sound in the silent park, for the birds were all quiet and preoccupied,
and flitted about the hawthorns with anxious little ways that were
almost human in their care and melancholy. The girls had some crumbs
of bread and ears of wheat in a basket, and they scattered them here
and there in sheltered nooks.

"I'm so glad you remembered it, Phyllis. I shall never forgive myself
for not having thought of it before."

"It is only bare justice to our winged sisters. God made the berries
for their winter store, and we have taken them to adorn our houses
and churches. Unless we provide a good substitute there is an odor
of cruel sacrifice about our festal decorations. And if the poor little
robins and wrens die of hunger, do you think He, who sees them fall,
will hold us innocent?"

"Look how with bright black eyes they watch us scattering the food!
I hope it will not snow until all of them have had a good supper."

Elizabeth was unusually gay. She had had a delightful letter from
Richard, and he was to return to Hallam about the New-Year. There had
also been one from Antony, beginning "Honored Sir," and ending with
the "affectionate duty" of Antony Hallam; and, though the squire had
handed it over to Elizabeth without a word, she understood well the
brighter light in his face and the cheerful ring in his voice.

They went into Martha's laughing, and found her standing upon a table
hanging up Christmas boughs. The little tea-pot was in a bower of holly
leaves, and held a posy of the scarlet hawthorn berries mixed with
the white, waxy ones of the mistletoe.

"You wont forget the birds, Martha? You have been stealing from their
larder, I see."

"I'm none o' that sort, Miss Phyllis. Look 'ee there;" and she pointed
to the broad lintel of her window, which had been scattered over with
crumbs; where, busily picking them up, were two robin redbreasts, who
chirruped thankfully, and watched Martha with bright curious eyes.

"Mary Clough's coming to dinner to-morrow, and her and Ben are going
to t' chapel together. Ben's getten himsen a new suit o' broadcloth,
and my word! they'll be a handsome couple!"

"You'll have a happy Christmas, Martha."

"Nobody in a' England hes more reason to keep a joyful Christmas, Miss
Hallam."

"No two Christmases are exactly alike; are they, Martha? Last year
your daughter was with you. Now she is married and gone far away. Last
Christmas my brother was at home. He is not coming this year."

"I found that out long ago, Miss Hallam. First we missed father, then
mother; then it was a brother or a sister, or a child more or less;
then my husband went, and last year, Sarah Ann."

"Will you and Ben come to the hall to-night?"

"Why--mebbe we will."

"Ben has quite got over his trouble?"

"Ah, Mary helped him a deal."

"Mary will get a good husband."

"She will that. Ben Craven is good at home. You may measure a man by
his home conduct, it's t' right place to draw t' line, you may depend
upon it. Tak' a bit o' Christmas loaf, and go your ways back now,
dearies, for we'll be heving a storm varry soon."

They went merrily out, and about fifty yards away met Mr. North. He
also looked very happy, and his lips were moving, as if he was silently
singing. In fact, he was very happy; he had been giving gifts to the
poor, and the blessing of many "ready to perish" was upon him. He
thanked Phyllis and Elizabeth for the Christmas offerings sent to his
chapel; and told them of a special service that was to be held on the
first Sunday of the new year. "I should like you to be there, Miss
Fontaine," he said, "for I think this peculiar service of Methodism
is not held in America."

His happiness had conquered his timidity. He looked almost handsome,
as he gave them at parting "God's blessing," and the wish for a "Merry
Christmas."

"I wish you would ask him to dinner, Elizabeth?"

"Certainly, I will. I should like to do it."

They hurried after him, and overtook him, with his hand upon a cottage
gate.

"Will you come and dine with us, Mr. North? It is a gala night at the
hall, and many of your people will be there. They will like to see
you, and you will add to our pleasure also."

"Thank you, Miss Hallam. It will be very pleasant to me. My duty will
be finished in half an hour, then I will follow you."

His face was as happy and as candid as a child's, as he lifted his
hat, and entered the cottage garden. Elizabeth involuntarily watched
him. "He seems to tread upon air. I don't believe he remembers he is
still in the body. He looks like a gentleman to-day."

"He is always a gentleman, Elizabeth. I am told he has about L70 a
year. Who but a gentleman could live upon that and look as he does?
Ben Craven has double it, but who would call Ben a gentleman?"

"There is a singular thing about the appearance of Methodist preachers,
Phyllis; they all look alike. If you see a dozen of them together,
the monotony is tiresome. The best of them are only larger specimens
of the same type--are related to the others as a crown piece is related
to a shilling. You know a Methodist minister as soon as you see him."

"That is just as it ought to be. They are the Methodist coin, and they
bear its image and its superscription. The disciples had evidently
the same kind of 'monotony.' People who were not Nazarenes 'took
knowledge of them, that they had been with Jesus.' But if this is a
fault, surely the English clergy have it in a remarkable degree. I know
an Episcopal clergyman just as soon and just as far as I can see him."

"Their cloth--"

"O, it is not only their 'cloth.' That long surtout, and nicely
adjusted white tie, and general smoothness and trimness, is all very
distinctive and proper; but I refer quite as much to that peculiar
self-containedness of aspect and that air of propriety and polish which
surrounds them like an atmosphere."

"Now we are quits, Phyllis, and I think we had better walk faster.
See what large flakes of snow are beginning to fall!"

The squire had reached home first, and was standing at the door to
meet them, his large rosy face all smiles. There was a roaring, leaping
fire in the hall, and its trophies of chase and war were wreathed and
crowned with fir and box and holly. Branches of mistletoe hung above
the doors and the hearth-stone; and all the rooms were equally bright.
The servants tripped about in their best clothes, the men with bits
of hawthorn berries and box on their breast, the women with sprigs
of mistletoe. There was the happiest sense of good humor and good-will,
the far-away echo of laughter, the tinkling of glass and china and
silver, the faint delicious aroma, through opening doors, of plentiful
good cheer.

"Whativer kept you so long, dearies? Run away and don yourselves, and
make yourselves gay and fine. Christmas comes but once a year. And
don't keep dinner waiting; mind that now! T' rector's here, and if
there's any thing that puts him about, it's waiting for his dinner."

"We asked Mr. North, father; he will be here soon."

"I'm uncommon glad you asked him. Go your ways and get your best frocks
on. I'll go to t' door to meet him."

In about an hour the girls came down together, Phyllis in a pale gray
satin, with delicate edgings of fine lace. It fitted her small form
to perfection, close to the throat, close to the wrists, and it had
about it a slight but charming touch of puritanism. There was a white
japonica in her hair, and a flame-colored one at her throat, and these
were her only ornaments. Elizabeth wore a plain robe of dark blue
velvet, cut, as was the fashion in those days, to show the stately
throat and shoulders. Splendid bracelets were on her arms, and one
row of large white pearls encircled her throat. She looked like a
queen, and Phyllis wished Richard could have seen her.

"She'll be a varry proper mistress o' Hallam-Croft," thought the
squire, with a passing sigh. But--his eyes dwelt with delight upon
Phyllis. "Eh!" he said, "but thou art a bonny lass! T' flowers that
bloom for thee to wear are t' happiest flowers that blow, I'll
warrant thee."

After dinner the squire and his daughter went to the servants' hall
to drink "loving cup" at their table, and to give their Christmas
gifts. The rector, in the big chair he loved, sat smoking his long
pipe. Mr. North, with a face full of the sweetest serenity and
pleasure, sat opposite, his thin white hands touching each other at all
their finger tips, and his clear eyes sometimes resting on the blazing
fire, and sometimes drifting away to the face of Phyllis, or to that of
the rector.

"You have been making people happy all day, Mr. North?"

"Yes; it has been a good day to me. I had twelve pounds to give away.
They made twelve homes very happy. I don't often have such a pleasure."

"I have noticed, Mr. North," said the rector, "that you do very little
pastoral visiting."

"That is not my duty."

"I think it a very important part of my duty."

"You are right. It is. You are a pastor."

"And you?"

"I am a preacher. My duty is to preach Christ and him crucified. To
save souls. There are others whose work it is to serve tables, and
comfort and advise in trouble and perplexity."

"But you must lose all the personal and social influence of a pastor."

"If I had desired personal and social influence, I should hardly have
chosen the office of a Methodist preacher. 'Out of breath pursuing
souls,' was said of John Wesley and his pretorian band of helpers.
I follow, as best I can, in their footsteps. But though I have no time
for visiting, it is not neglected."

"Yes?" said the rector, inquiringly.

"Our class-leaders do that. John Dawson and Jacob Hargraves and Hannah
Sarum are the class-leaders in Hallam and West Croft. You know them?"

"Yes."

"They are well read in the Scriptures. They have sorrowed and suffered.
They understand the people. They have their local prejudices and
feelings. They have been in the same straits. They speak the same
tongue. It is their duty to give counsel and comfort, and material
help if it is needed; to watch over young converts; to seek those that
are backsliding; to use their influence in every way for such of the
flock as are under their charge. John Dawson has twenty-two men and
Jacob Hargraves nineteen men under their care. Hannah Sarum has a very
large class. No one pastor could do as regards meat and money matters
what these three can do. Besides, the wealthy, the educated, and the
prosperous cannot so perfectly enter into the joys and sorrows of the
poor. If a woman has a drunken husband, or a disobedient child, she
will more readily go to Hannah for comfort and advice than to me; and
when James Baker was out of work, it was John Dawson who loaned him
five pounds, and who finally got him a job in Bowling's mill. I could
have done neither of these things for him, however willing I might
have been."

"I have never understood the office, then. It is a wonderful
arrangement for mutual help."

"It gives to all our societies a family feeling. We are what we call
ourselves--brothers and sisters;" and, with a smile, he stretched out
his hand to take the one which Phyllis, by some sympathetic
understanding, offered him.

"There was something like it in the apostolic Church?"

"Yes; our class-leader is the apostolic diaconate. The apostles were
preachers, evangelists, hasting here and there to save souls. The
deacons were the pastors of the infant churches. I preach seven times
a week. I walk to all the places I preach at. It is of more importance
to me that men are going to eternal destruction, than that they are
needing a dinner or a coat."

"But if you settled down in one place you would soon become familiar
with the people's needs; you would only have to preach two sermons
a week, and you could do your own pastoral duty."

"True; but then I would not be any longer a Methodist preacher. A
Methodist pastor is a solecism; Methodism is a moving evangelism. When
it settles down for a life pastorate it will need a new name."

"However, Mr. North, it seems to me, that a preacher should bring every
possible adjunct to aid him. The advantages of a reputation for piety,
wisdom, and social sympathy are quite denied to a man who is only a
preacher."

"He has the cross of Christ. It needs no aid of wealth, or wisdom,
or social sympathy. It is enough for salvation. The banner of the
Methodist preacher is that mighty angel flying over land and sea, and
having the everlasting Gospel to preach!"

His enthusiasm had carried him away. He sighed, and continued, "But
I judge no man. There must be pastors as well as preachers. I was sent
to preach."

For a moment there was silence, then the fine instinct of Phyllis
perceived that the conversation had reached exactly that point when
it demanded relief in order to effect its best ends. She went to the
piano and began to sing softly some tender little romance of home and
home joys. In the midst of it the squire and Elizabeth entered, and
the conversation turned upon Christmas observances. So, it fell out
naturally enough that Phyllis should speak of her southern home, and
describe the long rows of white cabins among the live oaks, and the
kind-hearted dusky dwellers in them; and, finally, as she became almost
tearful over her memories, she began to sing one of the "spirituals,"
then so totally unknown beyond plantation life, singing it _sotto
voce_, swaying her body gently to the melody, and softly clapping
her small hands as an accompaniment:

  "My soul! Massa Jesus! My soul!
           My soul!
  Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,
  An' de more I dig him, de better he spring:
           My soul!
  Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,
  An' he set my soul on fire:
           My soul!
  Massa Jesus! My soul! My soul!"

Then changing the time and tune, she continued:

  "De water deep, de water cold,
    Nobody here to help me!
  O de water rise! De water roll!
    Nobody here to help me!
           Dear Lord,
    Nobody here to help me!"

She had to sing them and many others over and over. Mr. North's eyes
were full of tears, and the rector hid his face in his hands. As for
the squire, he sat looking at her with wonder and delight.

"Why did ta nivver sing them songs afore, Phyllis? I nivver heard such
music."

"It never has been written down, uncle."

"Who made it up for 'em?"

"It was never made. It sprung from their sorrows and their captivity.
The slave's heart was the slave's lyre."

They talked until a deputation came from the servant's hall and asked
for Mr. North. They belonged to the Christmas waits, and if he was
going back to the village they wished to accompany him home; an offer
he readily accepted.

"I have had a happy evening, squire;" and his smile included every
one in the blessing he left behind. They all followed him to the door,
and watched the little crowd take their way through the white park.
The snow had quite ceased, the moon rode full and clear in mid-heaven,
and near by her there was one bright, bold, steady star.

In a short time Elizabeth went with Phyllis to her room, and they laid
aside their dresses and ornaments, and, sitting down before the fire,
began to talk of Richard and Antony, of Rome and America, and of those
innocent, happy hopes which are the joy of youth. How bright their
faces were! How prettily the fire-light glinted in their white robes
and loosened hair! How sweetly their low voices and rippling laughter
broke the drowsy silence of the large, handsome room! Suddenly the
great clock in the tower struck twelve. They counted off the strokes
on their white fingers, looking into each other's faces with a bright
expectancy; and after a moment's pause, out clashed the Christmas
bells, answering each other from hill to hill through the moonlit
midnight. Phyllis was in an ecstasy of delight. She threw open her
window and stood listening, "O, I know what they say, Elizabeth. Glory
be to God on high! And hark! There is singing!"

"It is the waits, Phyllis."

A company of about fifty men and women were coming through the park,
filling the air as they came with music, till all the hills and valleys
re-echoed the "In Excelsis Gloria" of the sweet old carol:

  "When Christ was born of Mary free,
   In Bethlehem that fair citie,
   The angels sang in holy glee,
           'In excelsis gloria!'"

They finished the last verses under the Hall windows, and then, after
a greeting from the rector and the squire, they turned happily back
to the village, singing Herrick's most perfect star song:

  "Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue,
   Where is the Babe that lately sprung?
   Lies He the lily-banks among?"

Phyllis was weeping unrestrainedly; Elizabeth, more calm and
self-contained, held her against her breast, and smiled down at the
happy tears. Blessed are they who have wept for joy! They have
known a rapture far beyond the power of laughter to express.

The next week was full of visiting and visitors. The squire kept open
house. The butler stood at the sideboard all day long, and there was
besides one large party which included all the families within a few
miles of Hallam that had any acquaintance with the squire. It was,
perhaps, a little trial at this time for Phyllis to explain to
Elizabeth that she could not dance.

"But father is expecting to open the ball with you. He will be very
much disappointed."

"I am sorry to disappoint him; but, indeed, I cannot."

"I will teach you the step and figure in half an hour."

"I do not wish to learn. I have both conscientious and womanly scruples
against dancing."

"I forgot. The Methodists do not sanction dancing, I suppose; but you
must admit, Phyllis, that very good people are mentioned in the Bible
as dancing."

"True, Elizabeth; but the religious dances of Judea were triumphant
adoration. You will hardly claim so much for the polka or waltz. All
ancient dances were symbolical, and meant something. Every motion was
a thought, every attitude a sentiment. If the daughter of Herodias
had danced a modern cotillion, do you think that John the Baptist's
head would have fallen at her feet?"

"Don't associate modern dancing with such unpleasant things. We do
not want it to mean any thing but pleasure."

"But how can you find rational pleasure in spinning round like a
teetotum in a room of eighty degrees temperature?"

"All people do not waltz; I do not myself."

"The square dances, then? What are they but slouching mathematical
dawdling, and 'promiscuous' bobbing around?"

"But people must do something to pass the time."

"I do not see that, Elizabeth. We are told not 'to pass the time,'
but to 'redeem' it. I think dancing a foolish thing, and folly and
sin are very close kin."

"You said 'unwomanly' also?"

"Yes; I think dancing is unwomanly in public. If you waltz with Lord
Francis Eltham, you permit him to take a liberty with you in public
you would not allow under any other circumstances. And then just look
at dancers! How heated, flushed, damp, and untidy they look after the
exercise! Did you ever watch a lot of men and women dancing when you
could not hear the music, but could only see them bobbing up and down
the room? I assure you they look just like a party of lunatics."

Elizabeth laughed; but Phyllis kept her resolution. And after the ball
was over, Elizabeth said, frankly, "You had the best of it, Phyllis,
every way. You looked so cool and sweet and calm in the midst of the
confusion and heat. I declare every one was glad to sit down beside
you, and look at you. And how cheerfully you sang and played! You did
not dance, but, nevertheless, you were the belle of the ball."

On the first Sabbath of the new year Phyllis was left at the little
Methodist chapel. Her profession had always been free from that
obtrusive demonstration of religious opinion which is seldom united
with true piety. While she dwelt under her uncle's roof it had seemed
generally the wisest and kindest thing to worship with his family.
It involved nothing that hurt her conscience, and it prevented many
disputes which would probably have begun in some small household
disarrangement, and bred only dislike and religious offense. Her
Methodism had neither been cowardly nor demonstrative, but had been
made most conscious to all by her sweet complaisance and charitable
concessions.

So, when she said to the squire, "Uncle, Mr. North tells me there is
to be a very solemn Methodist service to-morrow, and one which I never
saw in America; I should like you to leave me at the chapel," he
answered: "To be sure, Phyllis. We would go with thee, but there's none
but members admitted. I know what service thou means well enough."

She found in the chapel about two hundred men and women, for they had
come to Hallam from the smaller societies around. They were mostly
from what is often called "the lower orders," men and women whose hands
were hard with toil, and whose forms were bowed with labor. But what
a still solemnity there was in the place! No organ, no dim religious
light, no vergers, or beadles, or robed choristers, or priest in sacred
vestments. The winter light fell pale and cold through the plain
windows on bare white-washed walls, on a raised wooden pulpit, and
on pews unpainted and uncushioned. Some of the congregation were very
old; some, just in the flush of manhood and womanhood. All were in
the _immediate_ presence of God, and were intensely conscious
of it. There was a solemn hymn sung and a short prayer; then Mr.
North's gaze wandered over the congregation until it rested upon a man
in the center--a very old man--with hair as white as wool.

"Stephen Langside, can you stand up before God and man to-day?"

The old man rose, and, supported by two young farmers, lifted-up a
face full of light and confidence.

"They tell me that you are ninety-eight years old, and that this is
the seventy-first time that you will renew your covenant with the
eternal Father. Bear witness this day of him."

"His word is sure as t' everlasting hills! I hev been young, and now
I'm old, and I hev hed a deal to do wi' him, and he hes hed a deal
to do for me; and he nivver hes deceived me, and he hes nivver failed
me, and he has nivver turned t' cold shoulder to me; ay, and he hes
stuck up to his promises, when I was none ready to keep mine. There's
many good masters, but he is t' best Master of a'! There's many true
friends, but he is the truest of a'! Many a kind father, but no father
so kind as him! I _know_ whom I hev believed, and I can trust
him even unto death!"

"Brothers and sisters, this is the Master, the Friend, the Father,
whom I ask you to enter into covenant with to-day--a holy solemn
covenant, which you shall kneel down and make upon your knees, and
stand up and ratify in the sight of angels and of men."

Not ignorantly did Phyllis enter into this covenant with her Maker.
She had read it carefully over, and considered well its awful
solemnity. Slowly the grand abnegation, the solemn engagement, was
formed; every sentence recited without haste, and with full
consciousness of all its obligations. Then Mr. North, after a short
pause for mental examination, said:

"Remember now that you are in the actual presence of the Almighty God.
He is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and feet. He
besets you before and behind. He lays his hand upon you. Therefore
let all who, by standing up, give their soul's assent to this
consecration, remember well to whom they promise."

Slowly, one by one, the congregation arose; and so they remained
standing, until every face was lifted. Then the silence was broken
by the joyful singing of Doddridge's fine hymn,

  "O happy day that fixed my choice,"

and the service closed with the administration of the Holy Communion.

"Thou looks very happy, Phyllis," said the squire to her, as they both
sat by the fire that night.

"I am very happy, uncle."

"Thou beats me! I told t' rector where ta had gone to-day, and he said
it were a varry singular thing that thou should take such an obligation
on thee. He said t' terms of it would do for t' varry strictest o'
Roman Catholic orders."

"Do you not think, uncle, that Protestants should be as strict
regarding personal holiness as Catholics?"

"Nay, I know nowt about it, dearie. I wish women were a' like thee,
though. They'd be a deal better to live wi'. I like religion in a
woman, it's a varry reliable thing. I wish Antony hed hed his senses
about him, and got thee to wed him. Eh! but I would have been a happy
father!"

"Uncle, dear--you see--I love somebody else."

"Well I nivver! Thee! Why thou's too young! When did ta begin to think
o' loving any body?"

"When I was a little girl John Millard and I loved each other. I don't
know when I began to love him, I always loved him."

"What is ta talking about? Such nonsense!"

"Love is not nonsense, uncle. You remember the old English song you
like so much:

  "'O 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love
    That makes the world go round'"

"Now be quiet wi' thee. It's nowt o' t' sort. Songs and real life are
varry different things. If ta comes o real life, it's money, and not
love; t' world would varry soon stick without a bit o' money."

About the middle of January Richard returned to Hallam. The Bishop
was with friends in Liverpool, but he wished to sail immediately, and
Richard thought it best to sail with him. Phyllis was willing to go.
She had had a charming visit, but she had many duties and friends on
the other side, and her heart, also, was there. As for danger or
discomfort in a winter passage, she did not think it worth
consideration. Some discomfort there must be; and if storm, or even
death came, she was as near to heaven by sea as by land.

The squire had not written to Richard about his plans for the
succession of Hallam. He had felt more uncertainty on the subject than
he would admit even to his own heart. He thought he would prefer to
explain matters to him in person. So, one morning, as they were
together, he said "Look 'ee here, Richard!" and he led him to the
portrait of Colonel Alfred Hallam. "Thou can see where ta comes from.
Thou is t' varry marrow o' that Hallam!"

Richard was much pleased at the incident, and he traced with pleasure
the resemblances between them.

"Richard, I am going to leave Hallam to thee."

It was not in the squire's nature to "introduce" a subject. He could
never half say a thing. His bald statement made Richard look curiously
at him. He never for a moment believed him to mean what the words
implied. So he only smiled and bowed.

"Nay, thou needn't laugh! It's no laughing matter. I'll tell thee all
about it."

In the squire's way of telling, the tale was a very short one. The
facts were stated in a few sentences, without comment. They amazed
Richard, and left him for a moment speechless.

"Well, what does ta say?"

"I will be as frank as you have been, uncle. I cannot possibly accept
your offer."

"Thou'lt hev a reason?"

"More than one. First, I would not change my name. I should feel as
if I had slandered the Fontaines. My father was a brave soldier; my
grandfather was a missionary, whose praise is in all our churches.
I need go no farther back. If I had been born 'Hallam' I would have
stood by the name just as firmly."

"Then, thou wilt hev to give up Elizabeth. Succession must go in her
children and in her name."

"Miss Hallam and you accepted me as Richard Fontaine. Have I not the
right to expect that both she and you will keep your word with me?"

"Thou forgets, Richard. Her duty to her father and to her ancestors
stands before thee. If thy duty to thine will not let thee give up
thy name, hers may well be due to home and lands that hold her by a
tenure o' a thousand years. But neither Miss Hallam nor Hallam Hall
need go a-begging, lad. I ask thy pardon for offering thee owt so
worthless."

"Dear uncle, do not be angry with me."

"Ay, ay; it's 'dear uncle,' and 'dear father,' but it's also, 'I'll
tak' my own way', wi' both Antony and thee. I'm a varry unhappy old
man. I am that!"

He walked angrily off, leaving Richard standing before the picture
which so much resembled him. He turned quickly, and went in search
of Elizabeth. She was sitting with Phyllis in the breakfast parlor.
Phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thoughtfulness, was so
inclined at that hour, and she was answering Elizabeth's remarks, far
more curious of some mental vision than of the calm-browed woman,
sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. Richard came in like
a small tempest, and for once Elizabeth's quiet, inquiring regard
seemed to irritate him.

"Elizabeth;" and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on the
table. "My dear love! does Phyllis know?"

"What, Richard?"

"About Antony and the Hallam estate?"

"No; I thought it best to let you tell her."

"Because you were sure I would refuse it?--Phyllis!"

"Yes, Richard."

"Your uncle is going to disinherit Antony; and he wishes me to become
his heir and take his name."

"But that is impossible. You could not take Antony's place. You could
not give up your name--not for a kingdom."

"Then," said Elizabeth, a little proudly, "he must give me up. I cannot
disobey my father."

Phyllis quietly rose and went out. She could not interfere with the
lovers, but she felt sorry enough for them. Richard's compliance was
forbidden by every sentiment of honor. Elizabeth was little likely
to give way. Richard held her to her promise, and pleaded for its
fulfillment. He wanted no fortune. He was quite content that her
fortune should go to free Hallam. But he did not see that her life
and happiness, and his, also, should be sacrificed to Antony's insane
ambition. "He will marry, doubtless," he urged. "He may have a large
family; cannot one of them, in such case, be selected as heir?"

This was the only hope Elizabeth would admit. In her way she was as
immovable as Richard. She had made up her mind as to what was her duty
in the premises, and her lover could not move her from this position.
And, as the unhappy can seldom persuade themselves that "sufficient
unto the day is the evil thereof," each heart was heavy with the
probable sorrows that were to flow from this complication of affairs.

Phyllis, musing thoughtfully at her own room window, saw the squire
walking on the terrace. Her first impulse was to go to him, but she
sat down to consider the inclination. Her class-leader, a shrewd, pious
old Scotchman, had once said to her--"Nine impulses oot o' ten, Sister
Phyllis, come fra the de'il. Just put an impulse through its catechism
before ye go the gate it sends ye." So she sat down to think. "What
right have I to interfere? Ought I to solicit a confidence? Can I do
good? Might I not do harm? A good word spoken out of season is often
a bad word; and I am not sure what is the good word in this case. I
had better be still and wait."

Her patience had in some measure its reward. Toward afternoon Elizabeth
came to her room. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she said, "Father
and Richard have shaken hands, Phyllis; there is to be no ill-will
about the disappointment."

"I am very glad. But is it to be a disappointment--to you, I mean,
Elizabeth?"

"I fear so; I must stand by father's side as regards Hallam. I can
wait and love on. But I will not bind Richard. He is free."

"I am quite sure he is not free. Richard will never be free while there
remains a hope of eventually winning you."

"He says that nothing but my marriage to some other person shall make
him lose hope; but men say these things and forget."

"Richard means what he says. He will not forget; and time gives with
both hands to the patient and the truthful. Is the squire satisfied?"

"I don't think he blames Richard. The shadow I felt on the night of
our betrothal has begun to creep toward me, Phyllis. I am in its chill
and gloom. It will darken all our remaining hours together, and they
are few now."

"Make the most of them, dear. Get all the sunshine you can; stay with
Richard. I am going to the village to bid Martha good-bye."

"Richard says you are to sail Wednesday?"

"Yes; what is the use of drawing out a parting? We have had a happy
holiday. Let us go ere its spirit is over. There must be times and
seasons, Elizabeth; it is the part of love and wisdom never to force
them. Besides, uncle has a very sore place in his heart, and Richard
can hardly avoid rubbing against it. It is best for us to go."

Martha was a little dull, and Phyllis was struck with her explanation:
"I'm a bit selfish to-day; and t' heart that isn't loving isn't
cheerful. Ben and me hev been so much to each other, that it comes
a bit hard to hev to step aside for a lass as one doesn't care much
for." She put her checked apron to her eyes, and wiped away a few
tears.

"But Ben can never forget what you did for him."

"It was Mary after a' that saved him. I nobbut prayed night and day.
She brought the magistrate and t' constable. Men don't count much on
prayer."

"Dear Martha, God sends by whom he will send. If he had thought it
best, you would have got the order. God looks afar off--for the years
that are to come--when you may be where all tears are wiped away."

"I know, I know."

"Don't let Ben think you grudge him the fullest measure of his
happiness and deliverance. Mothers must have a deal to bear. The best
of children are blind, I think."

Martha was crying quietly. "He was t' last left me. I hev carried him
i' my heart for months, till my heart is fair empty without him. I
wanted him a little bit to mysen. She's a good girl, is Mary, and I'm
trying hard to love her; but I've got a weight on me that's bad to
bide."

"If it's a bitter cup, drink it, Martha."

"My lass, I'll do that. There'll be a blessing in t' bottom o' it,
never fear. I'm nobbut standing as a bairn does wi' a cup o' medicine;
and when a thing is hard to take, its nobbut human nature to say it's
none nice."

"I am come to say 'good-bye' Martha; I don't want to leave you in
tears."

"Nay then is ta! Surely to goodness thou isn't going in t' dead o'
winter?"

"Yes. We leave Hallam to-morrow."

"Then bide a bit. I'll mak' a cup o' tea in t' little Wesley tea-pot;
and I'll toast thee a Yorkshire cake, and we'll eat a mouthful together
in this world before we part. We'll be none like to meet again."

She wiped away every trace of tears, and drew the little table to the
hearth-stone, and set out her humble service. And she quite put away
her own trouble and spoke cheerfully, and served Phyllis with busy
hospitality.

"For, you see," she said, as she knelt before the fire toasting the
cake, "I feel as if you were a pilgrim, Sister Phyllis, that had come
across my little cottage on your way to the kingdom. And if I didn't
mak' you welcome, and say a hearty, loving 'Godspeed' to you, I'd
happen miss a bit o' my own welcome when I enter the gates o' the
kingdom. So, eat and drink, dearie; and may the bread strengthen you,
and the cup be full o' blessing."

"I shall never forget you, Martha. I think we shall know each other
when we meet again."

"For sure we will. It will be in 'Jerusalem the golden' I don't doubt.
Farewell, sister!" and she took the sweet young face between her large
hands and kissed it.

Her smile was bright, her words cheerful, but Phyllis went down the
street with a heavy heart. She stopped at the house where Mr. North
lodged and asked to see him. He came down to her with a smile; but
when she said, "It is a good-bye, Mr. North," his face grew pale, his
eyes full of trouble; he was unable to answer her. The silence became
painful, and Phyllis rose.

"Let me walk a little way with you. Pardon me, I was not prepared for
this--blow."

Then Phyllis knew that he loved her. Then he knew it himself. A great
pity was in her heart. She was silent and constrained, and they walked
together as two who are walking toward a grave.

"It is very hard for me to say 'good-bye,' Miss Fontaine. I shall
never, never forget you."

"There are many hard things in life, Mr. North; we can but bear them."

"Is that all?"

"That is all."

"God help me!" He lifted her gloved hand and touched it with his lips.
No knight could have expressed in the act more respect, more hopeless
tenderness. Then he turned silently away. Phyllis's lips parted, but
no words would come. She was full of sorrow for the noble, suffering,
humble heart. She longed to say a kind word, and yet felt that it would
be unkind; and she stood still watching him as he went farther and
farther away. At a bend in the road he turned and saw her standing.
The level rays of the sun set her in a clear amber light. He gazed
at her steadily for a moment, raised his hand slowly, and passed
forever from her sight.

There was something so pathetic and yet so lofty in the slight,
vanishing figure, with the hand lifted heavenward, that she felt
strangely affected, and could scarcely restrain her tears.

When people come to the end of a pleasure, so many little things show
it. The first enthusiasms are gone, there is a little weariness in
joy, the heart begins to turn to those fundamental affections and those
homely ties which are the main reliance of life. It seemed to Phyllis
that, for the first time, she was homesick. The low, white, rambling
wooden house, spreading itself under moss-covered trees, began to grow
very fair in her memory. The mocking-birds were calling her across
the sea. She remembered the tangles of the yellow jasmine, the merry
darkies chatting and singing and laughing, and her soul turned westward
with an indescribable longing.

And she thought to herself, as she stood upon the terrace and looked
over the fair land she was leaving with so little regret, "When the
time comes for me to go to my heavenly home, I shall be just as willing
to leave the earthly one."




CHAPTER V.


    "I loved you alway, I will not deny it; not for three months, and
  not for a year; but I loved you from the first, when I was a child,
  and my love shall not wither, till death shall end me."--GAeLIC SONG.

    "Our own acts are our attending angels, in whose light or shadow
  we walk continually."

The Fontaine place was a long, low, white building facing a tumbling
sea, and a stretch of burnt sea-sands. It had no architectural beauty,
and yet it was a wonderfully picturesque place. Broad piazzas draped
in vines ran all around the lower story, and the upper revealed itself
only in white glimpses among dense masses of foliage. And what did
it matter that outside the place there were brown sand-hills and
pale-sailed ships? A high hedge of myrtles hid it in a large garden
full of the scents of the sun-burnt South--a garden of fragrant beauty,
where one might dream idly all day long.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon of an August day, and every thing
was still; only the _cicadas_ ran from hedge to hedge telling
each other, in clear resonant voices, how hot it was. The house door
stood open, but all the green jalousies were closed, and not a breath
of air stirred the lace curtains hanging motionless before the windows.
The rooms, large and lofty, were in a dusky light, their atmosphere
still and warm and heavy with the scent of flowers. On the back piazza
half a dozen negro children were sleeping in all sorts of picturesque
attitudes, a bright mulatto women was dozing in a rocking-chair, and
the cook, having "fixed" his dinner ready for the stove, had rolled
himself in his blanket on the kitchen floor. Silence and dusk were
every-where, the dwelling might have been an enchanted one, and life
in it held in a trance.

In one of the upper rooms there was an occupant well calculated to
carry out this idea. It was Phyllis, fast asleep upon a white couch,
with both hands dropped toward the floor. But the sewing which had
fallen from them, and the thimble still upon her finger, was guarantee
for her mortality. And in a few minutes she opened her soft, dark eyes,
and smiled at her vacant hands. Then she glanced at the windows; the
curtains were beginning to stir, the gulf breeze had sprung up, the
birds were twittering, and the house awakening.

But it was pleasant to be quiet and think in such an indolent mood;
and Phyllis had some reasons for finding the "thinking" engrossing.
First, she had had a letter from Elizabeth, and it was in a very
hopeful tone. Antony and George Eltham were doing very well, and, as
Lord Eltham had become quietly interested in the firm, the squire felt
more easy as to its final success. Second, Mr. North was leaving
Hallam, his term there had expired, and the Conference, which would
determine his next movement, was then sitting. Her thoughts were
drifting on these two topics when a woman softly entered the room. She
looked at Phyllis's closed eyes, and with a smile went here and there
laying out clean white muslins, and knots of pink ribbons, and all the
pretty accessories of a young maiden's evening toilet.

"Thar now, Miss Phill! I'se ready--and I 'spects thar's some good news
for you, honey!"

Phyllis opened her eyes. "I heard you, Harriet. I was not asleep. As
for good news, I think you are always expecting it--besides, I had
some to-day."

"Dat's de reason,--Miss Phill--'whar you going good news? Jest whar
I'se been afore.' Dat's de way. I reckon I knows 'bout it."

"What makes you know this time, Harriet? Has the postman been, or a
bird whispered it to you, or have some of Waul's servants been making
a call here?"

"I don't 'ceive any of de Waul's servants, Miss Phill. I'se not
wanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. No, I draws
my s'picions in de properest way. Mass'r Richard git a letter dis
morning. Did he tell you, Miss Phill?"

"I have not seen him since breakfast."

"I thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. I knows dat letter
from Mass'r John. I'se sure ob it."

"Did you look--at the outside of it, I mean--Harriet?"

"No, Miss Phill, I didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside;
I's not dat kind; I look at Mass'r Richard's face. Bless you, Miss
Phill! Mass'r Richard kaint hide nothing. If he was in love Harriet
would know it, quick as a flash--"

"I think not, Harriet."

"Den I tell you something, Miss Phill. Mass'r Richard been in love
eber since he come back from ober de Atterlantic Ocean. P'raps you
don't know, but I done found him out."

Phyllis laughed.

"I tell you how I knows it. Mass'r Richard allays on de lookout for
de postman; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish letters wid a lady's face
in de corner."

"That is Queen Victoria's face. You don't suppose Master Richard is
in love with Queen Victoria?"

"Miss Phill, de Fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and think
dey pay her a compliment--dey mighty proud fambly, de Fontaines; but
I'se no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many cents
to carry de letter. But, Miss Phill, who sends de letters? Dat am de
question."

"Of course, that would decide it."

"Den when Mass'r Richard gits one of dem letters, he sits so
quiet-like, thinking and smiling to himself, and ef you speak to him, he
answers you kind ob far-away, and gentle. I done tried him often. But
he didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning.
Mass'r Richard got powerful high temper, Miss Phill."

"Then take care and not anger him, Harriet."

"You see, when I bring in de letter, I bring in wid me some fresh
myrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as I put dem in, and
fixed up de chimley-piece, I noticed Mass'r Richard through de
looking-glass--and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together,
and he crush'd de letter up in his hand."

"Harriet, you have no right to watch your master. It is a very mean
thing to do."

"Me watch Mass'r Richard! Now, Miss Phill, I'se none ob dat kind! But
I kaint shut my eyes, 'specially when I'se 'tending to de flower
vases."

"You could have left the vases just at that time."

"No, Miss Phill, I'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. Dey has to be
'tended to. You done told me ober and ober to hab a time for ebery
thing, and de time for de vases was jist den."

"Then, the next time you see Master Richard through the glass, tell
him so, Harriet; that is only fair, you know."

"Go 'way, Miss Phill! I'se got more sense dan tell Mass'r Richard any
sich thing."

Phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a decision she might be
compelled to make, and the question was one which touched her very
nearly on very opposite sides. She loved her brother with all her
heart. Their lives had been spent together, for Phyllis had been left
to his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him an
affection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of the
child, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. But John Millard
she loved, as women love but once. He was related by marriage to the
Fontaines, and had, when Phyllis and Richard were children, spent much
of his time at the Fontaine place.

But even as boys Richard and John had not agreed. To ask "why" is to
ask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. It is easy
to say that Richard was jealous of his sister, and jealous of John's
superiority in athletic games, and that John spoke sneeringly of
Richard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman ways; but there was
something deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for which
there seemed to be no reason, and for which there was no cure but the
compelling power of a divine love.

John Millard had been for two years on the frontier, and there had
been very meager and irregular news from him. If any one had asked
Richard, "Are you really hoping that he has been killed in some Indian
fight?" Richard would have indignantly denied it; and yet he knew that
if such a fate had come to his cousin Millard, he would not have been
sorry. And now the man with the easy confidence of a soldier who is
accustomed to make his own welcome, wrote to say "that he was coming
to New Orleans, and hoped to spend a good deal of his time with them."

The information was most unwelcome to Richard. He was not anxious for
his sister to marry; least of all, to marry a frontier settler. He
could not endure the thought of Phyllis roughing life in some log-cabin
on the San Marino. That was at least the aspect in which he put the
question to himself. He meant that he could not endure that John
Millard should at the last get the better of him about his own sister.
And when he put his foot down passionately, and said, between his
closed teeth, "He shall not do it!" it was the latter thought he
answered.

He felt half angry at Phyllis for being so lovely when she sat down
opposite him at dinner time. And there was an unusual light in her
eyes and an indescribable elation in her manner which betrayed her
knowledge of the coming event to him.

"Phyllis," he asked, suddenly, "who told you John Millard was coming?"

"Harriet told me you had a letter from him this morning."

"Confound--"

"Richard!"

"I beg your pardon, Phyllis. Be so good as to keep Harriet out of my
way. Yes; I had a letter--a most impertinent one, I think. Civilized
human beings usually wait for an invitation."

"Unless they imagine themselves going to a home."

"Home?"

"Yes. I think this is, in some sense, John's home. Mother always made
him welcome to it. Dear Richard, if it is foolish to meet troubles,
it is far more foolish to meet quarrels."

"I do not wish to quarrel, Phyllis; if John does not talk to you as
he ought not to talk. He ought to have more modesty than to ask you
to share such a home as he can offer you."

"Richard, dear, you are in a bad way. There is a trustees' meeting
to-night, and they are in trouble about dollars and cents; I would
go, if I were you."

"And have to help the deficiency?"

"Yes; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, the
best of all atonements is to do a good deed."

"O, Phyllis! Phyllis!"

"Yes, Richard; and you will see the Bishop there, very likely; and
you can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and I know what
he will say. 'It is but fair and square, son Richard, to treat a man
kindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkindness.' He will
say, 'Son Richard, if you have not the proofs upon which to blame a
man, don't blame him upon likelihoods.'"

"My good little sister, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to meet John, as we were met at Hallam, with trusting
courtesy."

"If you will promise me to--"

"I will promise you to do nothing secretly; to do nothing my mother
would blame me for. To ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt I do not
deserve. Now put on your hat and go to church. They will be
disappointed if you are absent."

"It will cost me $100."

"A man ought to pay his debts; and it is nicer to go and pay them than
to compel some one to call here and ask you to do it."

"A debt?"

"Call it a gift, if you like. When I look over the cotton-fields,
Richard, and see what a grand crop you are going to have this year,
somehow I feel as if you ought to have said $200."

"Give me my hat, Phyllis. You have won, as you always do." And he
stooped and kissed her, and then went slowly through the garden to
the road.

She did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was very
bright and cheerful "I am going to ride to Greyson's Timbers, Phyllis,"
he said; "I have some business with Greyson, and John will be almost
sure to 'noon' there. So we shall likely come back together."

She smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquire
into his motives or comment upon them. It was sufficient that Richard
had conquered his lower self, and whether the victory had been a
single-handed one, or whether the Bishop had been an ally, was not
of vital importance. One may enjoy the perfume of a good action without
investigating the processes of its production.

In the middle of the afternoon she heard their arrival. It was a
pleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, and
all that cheerful confusion, which as surely follows their advent as
thunder follows lightning. And Phyllis found it very pleasant to lie
still and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two,
whatever of joy or sorrow was coming to meet her; for she had not seen
John for two years. He might have ceased to love her. He might be so
changed that she would not dare to love him. But in the main she
thought hopefully. True love, like true faith, when there seems to,
be nothing at all to rest upon,

  "Treads on the void and finds
     The rock beneath."

Few women will blame Phyllis for being unusually careful about her
toilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart.
Even when she could hear Richard and John talking, she still delayed
the moment she had been longing for. She walked into the dining-room,
looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement of
the flowers. She looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and opened
the piano, and then, half ashamed of her self-consciousness, went to
the front piazza, where the young men were sitting.

There was a subtle likeness between Richard and his English ancestors
that neither intermarriage, climate, nor educational surroundings had
been able to overcome; but between him and John Millard there were
radical dissimilarities. Richard was sitting on the topmost of the
broad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. With the
exception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was altogether
dressed in white; and this dress was a singularly becoming contrast
to his black hair and glowing dark eyes. And in every attitude which
he took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestive
of an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic--or
cottonocratic--self-sufficiency. In his best moods he was well aware
of the dangerous points in his character, and kept a guard over them;
otherwise they came prominently forward; and, sitting in John Millard's
presence, Richard Fontaine was very much indeed the Richard Fontaine
of a nature distinctly overbearing and uncontrolled.

John Millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him.
He had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. His eyes
were very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snaps
like lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. He was very
tall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command.
His dress was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no arms
of any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assurance
of a sudden presentiment, "The man is a soldier."

Richard and he were talking of frontier defense, and Richard, out of
pure contradiction, was opposing it. In belittling the cause he had
some idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it.
John was just going to reply when Phyllis's approach broke the sentence
in two, and he did not finish it. He stood still watching her, his
whole soul in his face; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily,
"O, Phyllis, I am so happy to see you again! I was afraid I never
would!"

"What nonsense!" said Richard, coldly; "a journey to Europe is a
trifle--no need to make a fuss about it; is there, Phyllis? Come, let
us go to dinner. I hear the bell."

Before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. The
mocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet,
languid atmosphere, a dance full of mystery. The garden was like a
land of enchantment. It was easy to sit still and let the beauty of
heaven and earth sink into the heart. And for some time John was
contented with it. It was enough to sit and watch the white-robed
figure of Phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by the
green vines behind it. And Richard was silent because he was trying to
conquer his resentment at John finding satisfaction in the exquisite
picture.

Perhaps few people understand how jealous a true brotherly love can
be, How tenderly careful of a sister's welfare, how watchful of all
that pertains to her future happiness, how proud of her beauty and
her goodness, how exacting of all pretenders to her favor. His ideal
husband for Phyllis was not John Millard. He wondered what she could
see to admire in the bronzed frontier soldier. He wondered how John
could dare to think of transplanting a gentlewoman like Phyllis from
the repose and luxury of her present home to the change and dangers
and hardships of pioneer life.

It would have been an uncomfortable evening if the Bishop had not
called. He looked at John and loved him. Their souls touched each other
when they clasped hands. Perhaps it was because the nature of both
men was militant--perhaps because both men loved frontier fighting.
"I like," said the old soldier of Christ, "I dearly like to follow
the devil to his outposts. He has often fine fellows in them, souls
well worth saving. I was the first Methodist--I may say the first
Protestant preacher--that entered Washington County, in Texas. Texas
was one of our mission stations in 1837. I never was as happy as when
lifting the cross of Christ in some camp of outlaws."

"Did they listen to you?"

"Gladly. Many of them clung to it. The worst of them respected and
protected me. One night I came to a lonely log-house in the Brazos
woods--that was 'far, far West' then. I think the eight men in it were
thieves; I believe that they intended to rob, and perhaps to murder,
me. But they gave me supper, and took my saddle-bags, and put up my
horse. 'Reckon you're from the States,' one said. 'Twelve months ago.'
'Any news?' 'The grandest. If you'll get your boys together I'll tell
you it.'"

"They gathered very quickly, lit their pipes, and sat down; and,
sitting there among them, I preached the very best sermon I ever
preached in my life. I was weeping before I'd done, and they were just
as wretched as I like to see sinners. I laid down among them and slept
soundly and safely. Ten years afterward I gave the sacrament to four
of these very men in Bastrop Methodist Church. If I was a young man
I would be in the Rio Grande District. I would carry 'the glad tidings'
to the ranger camps on the Chicon and the Secor, and the United States
forts on the Mexican border. It is 'the few sheep in the wilderness'
that I love to seek; yea, it is the scape-goats that, loaded with the
sins of civilized communities, have been driven from among them!"

Richard started to his feet. "My dear father, almost you persuade me
to be a missionary!"

"Ah, son Richard, if you had the 'call' it would be no uncertain one!
You would not say 'almost;' but it is a grand thing to feel your heart
stir to the trumpet, even though you don't buckle on the armor.
A respectable, cold indifference makes me despair of a soul. I have
more hope for a flagrant sinner."

"I am sure," said John, "our camp on the San Saba would welcome you.
One night a stranger came along who had with him a child--a little
chap about five years old. He had been left an orphan, and the man
was taking him to an uncle that lived farther on. As we were sitting
about the fire he said, 'I'm going into the wagon now. I'm going to
sleep. Who'll hear my prayers?' And half a dozen of the boys said,
'I will,' and he knelt down at the knee of Bill Burleson, and clasped
his hands and said 'Our Father;' and I tell you, sir, there wasn't
a dry eye in camp when the little chap said 'Amen.' And I don't believe
there was an oath or a bad word said that night; every one felt as
if there was an angel among us."

"Thank you, John Millard. I like to hear such incidents. It's hard
to kill the divinity in any man. And you are on the San Saba? Tell
me about it."

It was impossible for Richard to resist the enthusiasm of the
conversation which followed. He forgot all his jealousy and pride,
and listened, with flashing eyes and eager face, and felt no angry
impulse, although Phyllis sat between the Bishop and John, and John
held her hand in his. But when the two young men were left alone the
reaction came to Richard. He was shy and cold. John did not perceive
it; he was too happy in his own thoughts.

"What a tender heart your sister has, Richard. Did you see how
interested she was when I was telling about the sufferings of the women
and children on the frontier?"

"No; I fancied she was rather bored."

John was at once dashed, and looked into Richard's face, and felt as
if he had been making a bragging fool of himself. And Richard was
angry, and ashamed, for a gentleman never tells a lie, though it be
only to his own consciousness, without feeling unspeakably mean. And by
a reflex motion of accountability he was angry with John for provoking
him into so contemptible a position.

The "good-night" was a cooler one than the evening had promised; but
Richard had recollected himself before he met John in the morning;
and John, for Phyllis's sake, was anxious to preserve a kindly feeling.
Love made him wise and forbearing; and he was happy, and happiness
makes good men tolerant; so that Richard soon saw that John would give
him no excuse for a quarrel. He hardly knew whether he was glad or
sorry, and the actions and speech of one hour frequently contradicted
those of the next.

Still there followed many days of sunshine and happy leisure, of
boating and fishing, of riding upon the long stretch of hard sands,
of sweet, silent games of chess in shady corners, of happy communion
in song and story, and of conscious conversations wherein so few words
meant so much. And perhaps the lovers in their personal joy grew a
little selfish, for; one night the Bishop said to Phyllis, "Come and
see me in the morning, daughter, I have something to say to you."

He was sitting waiting for her under an enormous fig-tree, a tree so
large that the space it shadowed made a pretty parlor, with roof and
walls of foliage so dense that not even a tropical shower could
penetrate them. He sat in a large wicker-chair, and on the rustic table
beside him was a cup of coffee, a couple of flaky biscuits, and a plate
of great purple figs, just gathered from the branches above him. When
Phyllis came, he pulled a rocking-chair to his side, and touched a
little hand-bell. "You shall have some coffee with me, and some bread
and fruit; eating lubricates talking, dear, and I want to talk to
you--very seriously."

"About John, father?"

"Yes, about John. You know your own mind, Phyllis Fontaine? You are
not playing with a good man's heart?"

"I told you two years ago, father, that I loved John. I love him still.
I have applied the test my leader gave me, and which I told you of.
I am more than willing to take John for eternity; I should be miserable
if I thought death could part us."

"Very good--so far; that is, for John and yourself. But you must think
of Richard. He has claims upon you, also. Last night I saw how he
suffered, how he struggled to subdue his temper. Phyllis, any moment
that temper may subdue him, and then there will be sorrow. You must
come to some understanding with him. John and you may enjoy the romance
of your present position, and put off, with the unreasonable
selfishness of lovers, matter-of-fact details, but Richard has a right
to them."

"Am I selfish, father?"

"I think you are."

"What must I do?"

"Send John to speak plainly to Richard. That will give your brother
an opportunity to say what he wishes. If the young men are not likely
to agree, tell John to propose my advice in the matter. You can trust
me to do right, daughter?"

"Yes, I can."

In the evening Phyllis called on the Bishop again. He was walking in
his garden enjoying the cool breeze, and when he saw her carriage he
went to meet her. A glance into her face was sufficient. He led her
into the little parlor under the fig-tree. "So you are in trouble,
Phyllis?"

"Yes, father. The conversation you advised had unfortunately taken
place before I got an opportunity to speak to John. There has been
a quarrel."

"What was said?"

"I scarcely know how the conversation began; but Richard told John,
that people were talking about his intimacy with me; and that, as
marriage was impossible between us, the intimacy must cease."

"What else?"

"I do not know; many hard things were said on both sides, and John
went away in a passion."

"Go home and see your brother, and make some concessions to his claim
upon your love. Tell him that you will not marry John for two years;
that will give John time to prepare in some measure for your comfort.
Promise in addition any thing that is reasonable. I fear Richard's
temper, but I fear John's more; for the anger of a patient man is a
deep anger, and John has been patient, very. Don't you be impatient,
Phyllis. Wait for time to carry you over the stream, and don't fling
yourself into the flood, and perish."

"Two years!"

"But reflect--a quarrel becomes a duel here very readily--dare you
provoke such a possibility?"

"Dear father, pray for me."

"I will. Trust God, and every rod shall blossom for you. Be patient
and prudent. Birds build their nests before they mate, and love needs
the consecration of a home. Tell John to make one for you, and then
to come and speak to Richard again. I don't say, wait for riches; but
I do say, wait for comforts. Comforts keep men innocent, bind them
to virtue by the strong cords of friends, families, homes, and the
kindnesses of kindred."

But when Phyllis arrived at home Richard was not there. He had gone
to the plantation, and left word for his sister that he might not
return until late the following day. Phyllis was very wretched. She
could hardly trust the message. It was possible that Richard had
considered flight from temptation the wisest course, and that he
expected John would leave during his absence. On the other hand, it was
just as likely that John would not leave, and that the quarrel would be
renewed at the hotel, or upon the street, under circumstances where
every influence would be against the young men.

She was sure that if she had John's promise to keep peace with Richard,
that he would not break it; but she did not know whether he was still
in the village or had gone away altogether. If the latter, she would
certainly receive some message from him; and, if no message came, she
must conclude that he was waiting for an opportunity to see her.

Harriet was sure that he was at the village 'hotel.' "Dime done seen
him thar," she said, positively, "and Mass'r John no sich fool as go
'way widout talkin' up for himself. I was 'stonished dis afternoon,
Miss Phill, he took Mass'r Richard's worryin' dat quiet-like; but I
could see de bearin's ob things mighty plain."

"You heard the quarrel, then, Harriet?"

"Couldn't help hearin' ob it, Miss Phill, no way; 'case I right thar.
I was in de dinin'-room fixin' up de clean window curtains, and de
young gen'lemen were on de p'azza. Cassie never do fix de curtains
right; she's not got de hang ob dem, Miss Phill; so I jist made up
my mind to do 'em myself; and while I was busy as a honey-bee 'bout
dem, Mass'r Richard, he walk proud-like up to Mass'r John, and say,
'he want to speak a few words wid him.' Den I kind ob open my ears,
case, Miss Phill, when gen'lemen want to 'say a few words,' dey're
most ob de time onpleasant ones."

"Did Master John answer?"

"He looked kind ob 'up-head,' and says he, 'Dat all right. I'se nothin'
'gainst you sayin' dem.' So Mass'r Richard he tell him dat he hear
some talk down town, and dat he won't have you talked 'bout, and dat
as thar was to be no marryin' 'tween you two, Mass'r John better go
'way." "Did Master Richard say 'go away,' Harriet?"

"Dat's jist what he say--'go 'way,' and Mass'r John he flash up like,
and say, he sorry to be turn'd out ob de ole home, and dat he'll go
as soon as he see you. Den Mass'r Richard, he git up in one ob his
white-hot still tempers, and he say, 'No gen'lemen need more 'an one
word;' and Mass'r John say, 'No gen'leman eber say dat one word;'
and Mass'r Richard say, 'Sir, you in my house, and you 'sume on dat
position;' and Mass'r John say he 'mighty soon be in some oder house,
and den Mass'r Richard not hab sich 'cuse;' and, wid dat, he stamp
his foot, and walk off like both sides ob de argument 'long to him."

"Then what, Harriet?"

"Mass'r Richard tear roun' to de stables, and he tole Moke to saddle
up Prince, and whilst de poor boy doin' his best, he storm roun' at
dis thing and dat thing, till Prince work himself up in a fury, too,
and I 'spects dey's both tired out by dis time. Prince he jist reared
and kicked and foamed at de mouth, and did all de debil's own horse
could do to fling Mass'r Richard, and Mass'r Richard, he de whitest
white man any body eber seen. Ki! but de whip come down steady, Miss
Phill."

"O, Harriet, how wretched you do make me."

"Dar isn't a bit need to worry, Miss Phill. Prince done tried himself
wid Mass'r Richard 'fore dis, and he allus come in de stable meek as
a lamb. When Mass'r Richard's got dat dumb debil in him, he'd ride
a ragin' lion, and bring him home like a lamb."

"It's not that, Harriet; it's not that. But if he meet Master John
there will be trouble--and O, the sin of it."

"Dat am true as preachin', Miss Phill."

"If I could only see John Millard."

"I'll mighty soon go for him, ef you say so."

"No; that will not do."

For Phyllis was aware that such a messenger would only make more
trouble. Harriet was known to be her maid, and John was known to be
her lover. To do anything which would give cause for ill-natured
remarks was to find Richard the excuse which would permit him active
interference. "I must avoid the appearance of evil," she said,
anxiously. "What must I do?"

"Clar' I don't know, Miss Phill. 'Pears like you'se on a bery dangerous
road. I reckon you'd best pray for de grace to choose de cleanest,
safest steppin'-stones."

"Yes; that is best, Harriet."

But Phyllis was not one of those rash beings who rush into the presence
of God without thought or solemnity. Slowly bending, body and soul,
she communed with her own heart and was still, until it burned within
her, and the supplication came. When she rose from her knees, she was
resigned in all things to God's will, no matter what self-denial it
involved; and she was not unhappy. For, O believe this truth, the
saddest thing under the sky is a soul incapable of sadness! Most
blessed are those souls who are capable of lodging so great a guest
as Sorrow, who know how to regret, and how to desire, and who have
learned that with renunciation life begins.

And Phyllis foresaw that renunciation would be the price of peace.
At the commencement of the inquiry with her own soul she had refused
to entertain the idea. She had tried to find reasons for seeking some
other human adviser than Bishop Elliott, because she feared that he
would counsel hard things to her. Ere she slept, however, she had
determined to go to him very early in the morning.

But while she was drinking her coffee John Millard entered the room.
He took her hands, and, looking sorrowfully into her face, said,
"Phyllis, my dearest, it was not my fault."

"I believe you, John."

"And you love me, Phyllis?"

"I shall always love you, for I believe you will always try to deserve
my love. But we must part at present. I was just going to ask the
Bishop to tell you this. I can trust you, John, and you can trust me.
He will tell you what you ought to do. And don't think hard of me if
I say 'good-bye' now; for though Richard went to the plantation last
night, he may be back any hour, and for my sake you must avoid him."

"Phyllis; you are asking a very hard thing. Richard has said words
which I can scarcely ignore. Two or three men have inquired if I was
going to put up with them?"

"What kind of men?"

"Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade and--"

"Nay, you need say no more. Will you sacrifice my happiness to the
opinion of Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade? Are you their slave? Richard
is not himself now; if you permit him to force a fight upon you, you
will both sorrow for it all your lives."

"I will go and see the Bishop, and do whatever he tells me. If I need
a defender from ill words--"

"You may safely leave your good name in his care, John. And who would
dare to dispute a word he said? Dear John, I knew I could trust you.
Goodbye, my love!"

He drew her to his breast and kissed her, and with a look of fervent,
sorrowful love, was leaving the room, when Richard entered by another
door. He intercepted the glance, and returned it to John with one of
contemptuous defiant anger. It did not help to soothe Richard that
John looked unusually handsome. There was a fire and persuasion in
his face, a tenderness and grace in his manner, that was very
irritating, and Richard could neither control his hands nor his tongue.
He began at once to feel for his pistol. "Why is John Millard here?" he
asked of Phyllis. "Answer me that."

"He is here to promise me that he will not put the name of Phyllis
Fontaine in the month of every drunken gambler and scornful man and
woman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride."

"He is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fighting
half-armed savages; but I propose to honor his behavior with more
attention than it deserves unless he runs away."

"John, dear John, do not mind what Richard says now. He will be sorry
for it. If you care for me, ever so little, you will not fight about
me. The shame would kill me. I don't deserve it. I will never marry
a man who drags my name into a quarrel. Richard, for our mother's sake,
be yourself. Brother, you ought to protect me! I appeal to you! For
God's sake, dear Richard, give me that pistol!"

"Phyllis," said John, "I will go. I will not fight. Your desire is
sufficient."

"Coward! You shall fight me! I will call you coward wherever I meet
you."

"No one, who knows us both, will believe you."

It was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which John
gave Phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control.
In a moment he had struck John, and John had cocked his pistol. In
the same moment Phyllis was between them, looking into John's eyes,
and just touching the dangerous weapon. John trembled all over and
dropped it. "Go your ways safely, Richard Fontaine. I could kill you
as easy as a baby, but for Phyllis's sake you are safe."

"But I will make you fight, sir;" and as he uttered the threat, he
attempted to push Phyllis aside. Ere one could have spoken, she had
faced Richard and fallen. Her movement in some way had fired the cocked
pistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. John lifted
her. Already the blood was staining the snowy muslin that covered her
breast. But she was conscious.

"Kiss me, John, and go. It was an accident, an accident, dear. Remember
that."

"Stay with her, Richard. I will go for a doctor, my horse is saddled
at the door;" and John rode away, as men ride between life and death.
Richard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that tried
to smile upon him, until the eyes closed in a death-like
unconsciousness.




CHAPTER VI.


  "Who redeemeth thy life from destruction."

  "Strike--for your altars and your fires;
  Strike--for the green graves of your sires;
       God, and your native land!"

The hours that followed were full of suffering to the heart. John came
back with the doctors he summoned, and during their investigation he
walked restlessly up and down the room in which the tragedy had
occurred. Richard never noticed him. He sat in a chair by the open
window, with his head in his hands, quite overcome by grief and
remorse. It was in John's strong arms Phyllis had been carried to her
own room, and no one now disputed his right to watch and to wait for
the doctors' verdict. He was very white; white through all the tan
of wind and sun; and, as he paced the room, he wrung his hands in an
agony beyond speech. Terrible, indeed, to both men was the silent
house, with the faint noises of hurried footsteps and closing doors up
stairs! What a mockery seemed the cool, clear sunshine outside! What a
strange sadness there was in the call of the crickets, and the faint
blooms of the last few flowers! There are scenes and sounds which, as
backgrounds to great events in life, photograph themselves in their
smallest details upon the mind. In the midst of his distress John could
not help noticing the pattern of the wall-paper, and the rustling of
the dropping leaves and nuts in the garden.

He pitied Richard; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, he
perceived a grief he could not touch--the anguish of a remorse which
might have no end in this life. As the doctors came down stairs John
went to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturing
anxiety was worth going for. The foremost made a slight movement, a
motion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and when
he heard the words, "She may recover," he hastened back to Richard,
and said, "There is a hope for her, and for us. God forgive us!"

Richard never answered a word, and John wandered for hours upon the
beach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to unders

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/6806