WILFRID CUMBERMEDE. 

[Illustration: ONE DAY, AS WE WERE WALKING OVER THE FIELDS, I TOLD HIMTHE WHOLE STORY OF THE LOSS OF THE WEAPON AT MOLDWARP HALL. ]

 WILFRID CUMBERMEDE

 BY

 GEORGE MACDONALD

 _WITH 14 FULL PAGE BLACK-AND-WHITE ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. FRASER. _

CONTENTS. 

CHAP. 

 INTRODUCTION. 

 I. WHERE I FIND MYSELF. II. MY UNCLE AND AUNT. III. AT THE TOP OF THE CHIMNEY-STAIR. IV. THE PENDULUM. V. I HAVE LESSONS. VI. I COBBLE. VII. THE SWORD ON THE WALL. VIII. I GO TO SCHOOL, AND GRANNIE LEAVES IT. IX. I SIN AND REPENT. X. I BUILD CASTLES. XI. A TALK WITH MY UNCLE. XII. THE HOUSE-STEWARD. XIII. THE LEADS. XIV. THE GHOST. XV. AWAY. XVI. THE ICE-CAVE. XVII. AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. XVIII. AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE. XIX. CHARLEY NURSES ME. XX. A DREAM. XXI. THE FROZEN STREAM. XXII. AN EXPLOSION XXIII. ONLY A LINK XXIV. CHARLEY AT OXFORD XXV. MY WHITE MARE XXVI. A RIDING LESSON XXVII. A DISAPPOINTMENT XXVIII. IN LONDON XXIX. CHANGES XXX. PROPOSALS XXXI. ARRANGEMENTS XXXII. PREPARATIONS XXXIII. ASSISTANCE XXXIV. AN EXPOSTULATION XXXV. A TALK WITH CHARLEY XXXVI. TAPESTRY XXXVII. THE OLD CHESTXXXVIII. MARY OSBORNE XXXIX. A STORM XL. A DREAM XLI. A WAKING XLII. A TALK ABOUT SUICIDE XLIII. THE SWORD IN THE SCALE XLIV. I PART WITH MY SWORD XLV. UMBERDEN CHURCH XLVI. MY FOLIO XLVII. THE LETTERS AND THEIR STORY XLVIII. ONLY A LINK XLIX. A DISCLOSURE L. THE DATES LI. CHARLEY AND CLARA LII. LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE LIII. TOO LATE LIV. ISOLATION LV. ATTEMPTS AND COINCIDENCES LVI. THE LAST VISION LVII. ANOTHER DREAM LVIII. THE DARKEST HOUR LIX. THE DAWN LX. MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER LXI. THE PARISH REGISTER LXII. A FOOLISH TRIUMPH LXIII. A COLLISION LXIV. YET ONCE LXV. CONCLUSION

WILFRID CUMBERMEDE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

I am--I will not say how old, but well past middle age. This much Ifeel compelled to mention, because it has long been my opinion that noman should attempt a history of himself until he has set foot upon theborder land where the past and the future begin to blend in aconsciousness somewhat independent of both, and hence interpretingboth. Looking westward, from this vantage-ground, the setting sun isnot the less lovely to him that he recalls a merrier time when theshadows fell the other way. Then they sped westward before him, as ifto vanish, chased by his advancing footsteps, over the verge of theworld. Now they come creeping towards him, lengthening as they come. And they are welcome. Can it be that he would ever have chosen a worldwithout shadows? Was not the trouble of the shadowless noon thedreariest of all? Did he not then long for the curtained queen--theall-shadowy night? And shall he now regard with dismay the setting sunof his earthly life? When he looks back, he sees the farthest cloud ofthe sun-deserted east alive with a rosy hue. It is the prophecy of thesunset concerning the dawn. For the sun itself is ever a rising sun, and the morning will come though the night should be dark. 

In this 'season of calm weather, ' when the past has receded so far thathe can behold it as in a picture, and his share in it as the history ofa man who had lived and would soon die; when he can confess his faultswithout the bitterness of shame, both because he is humble, and becausethe faults themselves have dropped from him; when his good deeds lookpoverty-stricken in his eyes, and he would no more claim considerationfor them than expect knighthood because he was no thief; when he careslittle for his reputation, but much for his character--little for whathas gone beyond his control, but endlessly much for what yet remains inhis will to determine; then, I think, a man may do well to write hisown life. 

'So, ' I imagine my reader interposing, 'you profess to have arrived atthis high degree of perfection yourself?'

I reply that the man who has attained this kind of indifference to thepast, this kind of hope in the future, will be far enough fromconsidering it a high degree of perfection. The very idea is to such aman ludicrous. One may eat bread without claiming the honours of anathlete; one may desire to be honest and not count himself a saint. Myobject in thus shadowing out what seems to me my present condition ofmind, is merely to render it intelligible to my reader how anautobiography might come to be written without rendering the writerjustly liable to the charge of that overweening, or self-conceit, whichmight be involved in the mere conception of the idea. 

In listening to similar recitals from the mouths of elderly people, Ihave observed that many things which seemed to the persons principallyconcerned ordinary enough, had to me a wonder and a significance theydid not perceive. Let me hope that some of the things I am about torelate may fare similarly, although, to be honest, I must confess Icould not have undertaken the task, for a task it is, upon this chancealone: I do think some of my history worthy of being told, just for thefacts' sake. God knows I have had small share of that worthiness. Theweakness of my life has been that I would ever do some great thing; thesaving of my life has been my utter failure. I have never done a greatdeed. If I had, I know that one of my temperament could not haveescaped serious consequences. I have had more pleasure when a grown manin a certain discovery concerning the ownership of an apple of which Ihad taken the ancestral bite when a boy, than I can remember to haveresulted from any action of my own during my whole existence. But Idetest the notion of puzzling my reader in order to enjoy her fanciedsurprise, or her possible praise of a worthless ingenuity ofconcealment. If I ever appear to behave thus, it is merely that Ifollow the course of my own knowledge of myself and my affairs, withoutany desire to give either the pain or the pleasure of suspense, ifindeed I may flatter myself with the hope of interesting her to such adegree that suspense should become possible. 

When I look over what I have written, I find the tone so sombre--let mesee: what sort of an evening is it on which I commence this book? Ah! Ithought so: a sombre evening. The sun is going down behind a low bankof grey cloud, the upper edge of which he tinges with a faded yellow. There will be rain before morning. It is late Autumn, and most of thecrops are gathered in. A bluish fog is rising from the lower meadows. As I look I grow cold. It is not, somehow, an interesting evening. Yetif I found just this evening well described in a novel, I should enjoyit heartily. The poorest, weakest drizzle upon the window-panes of adreary roadside inn in a country of slate-quarries, possesses aninterest to him who enters it by the door of a book, hardly less thanthe pouring rain which threatens to swell every brook to a torrent. Howis this? I think it is because your troubles do not enter into the bookand its troubles do not enter into you, and therefore nature operatesupon you unthwarted by the personal conditions which so oftencounteract her present influences. But I will rather shut out thefading west, the gathering mists, and the troubled consciousness ofnature altogether, light my fire and my pipe, and then try whether inmy first chapter I cannot be a boy again in such fashion that mycompanion, that is, my reader, will not be too impatient to linger alittle in the meadows of childhood ere we pass to the corn-fields ofriper years. 

CHAPTER I. 

WHERE I FIND MYSELF. 

No wisest chicken, I presume, can recall the first moment when thechalk-oval surrounding it gave way, and instead of the cavern oflimestone which its experience might have led it to expect, it found aworld of air and movement and freedom and blue sky--with kites in it. For my own part, I often wished, when a child, that I had watched whileGod was making me, so that I might have remembered how he did it. Nowmy wonder is whether, when I creep forth into 'that new world which isthe old, ' I shall be conscious of the birth, and enjoy the whole mightysurprise, or whether I shall become gradually aware that things arechanged and stare about me like the new-born baby. What will be thecandle-flame that shall first attract my new-born sight? But I forgetthat speculation about the new life is not writing the history of theold. 

I have often tried how far back my memory could go. I suspect there areawfully ancient shadows mingling with our memories; but, as far as Ican judge, the earliest definite memory I have is the discovery of howthe wind is made; for I saw the process going on before my very eyes, and there could be, and there was, no doubt of the relation of causeand effect in the matter. There were the trees swaying themselves aboutafter the wildest fashion, and there was the wind in consequencevisiting my person somewhat too roughly. The trees were blowing in myface. They made the wind, and threw it at me. I used my natural senses, and this was what they told me. The discovery impressed me so deeplythat even now I cannot look upon trees without a certain indescribableand, but for this remembrance, unaccountable awe. A grove was to me formany years a fountain of winds, and, in the stillest day, to look intoa depth of gathered stems filled me with dismay; for the whole awfulassembly might, writhing together in earnest and effectual contortion, at any moment begin their fearful task of churning the wind. 

There were no trees in the neighbourhood of the house where I was born. It stood in the midst of grass, and nothing but grass was to be seenfor a long way on every side of it. There was not a gravel path or aroad near it. Its walls, old and rusty, rose immediately from thegrass. Green blades and a few heads of daisies leaned trustinglyagainst the brown stone, all the sharpness of whose fractures had longsince vanished, worn away by the sun and the rain, or filled up by theslow lichens, which I used to think were young stones growing out ofthe wall. The ground was part of a very old dairy-farm, and my uncle, to whom it belonged, would not have a path about the place. But thenthe grass was well subdued by the cows, and, indeed, I think, wouldnever have grown very long, for it was of that delicate sort which wesee only on downs and in parks and on old grazing farms. All about thehouse--as far, at least, as my lowly eyes could see--the ground wasperfectly level, and this lake of greenery, out of which it rose like asolitary rock, was to me an unfailing mystery and delight. This willsound strange in the ears of those who consider a mountainous, or atleast an undulating, surface essential to beauty; but nature isaltogether independent of what is called fine scenery. There are otherorgans than the eyes, even if grass and water and sky were not of thebest and loveliest of nature's shows. 

The house, I have said, was of an ancient-looking stone, grey and greenand yellow and brown. It looked very hard; yet there were some attemptsat carving about the heads of the narrow windows. The carving had, however, become so dull and shadowy that I could not distinguish asingle form or separable portion of design: still some ancient thoughtseemed ever flickering across them. The house, which was two stories inheight, had a certain air of defence about it, ill to explain. It hadno eaves, for the walls rose above the edge of the roof; but the hintsat battlements were of the merest. The roof, covered with grey slates, rose very steep, and had narrow, tall dormer windows in it. The edgesof the gables rose, not in a slope, but in a succession of notches, like stairs. Altogether, the shell to which, considered as acrustaceous animal, I belonged--for man is every animal according asyou choose to contemplate him--had an old-world look about it--a lookof the time when men had to fight in order to have peace, to kill inorder to live. Being, however, a crustaceous animal, I, the heir of allthe new impulses of the age, was born and reared in closestneighbourhood with strange relics of a vanished time. Humanity so farretains its chief characteristics that the new generations can alwaysflourish in the old shell. 

The dairy was at some distance, so deep in a hollow that a carelessglance would not have discovered it. I well remember my astonishmentwhen my aunt first took me there; for I had not even observed thedepression of surface: all had been a level green to my eyes. Beyondthis hollow were fields divided by hedges, and lanes, and the variousgoings to and fro of a not unpeopled although quiet neighbourhood. Until I left home for school, however, I do not remember to have seen acarriage of any kind approach our solitary dwelling. My uncle wouldhave regarded it as little short of an insult for any one to drivewheels over the smooth lawny surface in which our house dwelt like asolitary island in the sea. 

Before the threshold lay a brown patch, worn bare of grass, and beatenhard by the descending feet of many generations. The stone thresholditself was worn almost to a level with it. A visitor's first step wasinto what would, in some parts, be called the house-place, a room whichserved all the purposes of a kitchen, and yet partook of the characterof an old hall. It rose to a fair height, with smoke-stained beamsabove; and was floored with a kind of cement, hard enough, and yet soworn that it required a good deal of local knowledge to avoid certainjars of the spine from sudden changes of level. All the furniture wasdark and shining, especially the round table, which, with itsbewildering, spider-like accumulation of legs, waited under themullioned, lozenged window until meal-times, when, like an animalroused from its lair, it stretched out those legs, and assumed expandedand symmetrical shape in front of the fire in Winter, and nearer thedoor in Summer. It recalls the vision of my aunt, with a hand at eachend of it, searching empirically for the level--feeling for it, thatis, with the creature's own legs--before lifting the hanging-leaves, and drawing out the hitherto supernumerary legs to support them; afterwhich would come a fresh adjustment of level, another hustling to andfro, that the new feet likewise might settle on elevations of equalheight; and then came the snowy cloth or the tea-tray, depositedcautiously upon its shining surface. 

The walls of this room were always whitewashed in the Spring, occasioning ever a sharpened contrast with the dark-brown ceiling. Whether that was even swept I do not know; I do not remember everseeing it done. At all events, its colour remained unimpaired by paintor whitewash. On the walls hung various articles, some of them highabove my head, and attractive for that reason if for no other. I neversaw one of them moved from its place--not even the fishing-rod, whichrequired the whole length betwixt the two windows: three rusty hookshung from it, and waved about when a wind entered ruder than common. Over the fishing-rod hung a piece of tapestry, about a yard in width, and longer than that. It would have required a very capableconstructiveness indeed to supply the design from what remained, sofragmentary were the forms, and so dim and faded were the once brightcolours. It was there as an ornament; for that which is a merecomplement of higher modes of life, becomes, when useless, the ornamentof lower conditions: what we call great virtues are little regarded bythe saints. It was long before I began to think how the tapestry couldhave come there, or to what it owed the honour given it in the house. 

On the opposite wall hung another object, which may well have been thecause of my carelessness about the former--attracting to itself all myinterest. It was a sword, in a leather sheath. From the point, half wayto the hilt, the sheath was split all along the edge of the weapon. Thesides of the wound gaped, and the blade was visible to my prying eyes. It was with rust almost as dark a brown as the scabbard that infoldedit. But the under parts of the hilt, where dust could not settle, gleamed with a faint golden shine. That sword was to my childish eyesthe type of all mystery, a clouded glory, which for many long years Inever dreamed of attempting to unveil. Not the sword Excalibur, had itbeen 'stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, ' could haveradiated more marvel into the hearts of young knights than that swordradiated into mine. Night after night I would dream of danger drawingnigh--crowds of men of evil purpose--enemies to me or to my country;and ever in the beginning of my dream, I stood ready, foreknowing andwaiting; for I had climbed and had taken the ancient power from thewall, and had girded it about my waist--always with a straw rope, thesole band within my reach; but as it went on, the power departed fromthe dream: I stood waiting for foes who would not come; or they drewnear in fury, and when I would have drawn my weapon, old blood and rustheld it fast in its sheath, and I tugged at it in helpless agony; andfear invaded my heart, and I turned and fled, pursued by my foes untilI left the dream itself behind, whence the terror still pursued me. 

There were many things more on those walls. A pair of spurs, of makemodern enough, hung between two pewter dish-covers. Hangingbook-shelves came next; for although most of my uncle's books were inhis bed-room, some of the commoner were here on the wall, next to anold fowling-piece, of which both lock and barrel were devoured withrust. Then came a great pair of shears, though how they should havebeen there I cannot yet think, for there was no garden to the house, nohedges or trees to clip. I need not linger over these things. Theirproper place is in the picture with which I would save words and helpunderstanding if I could. 

Of course there was a great chimney in the place; chiefly to bementioned from the singular fact that just round its corner was alittle door opening on a rude winding stair of stone. This appeared tobe constructed within the chimney; but on the outside of the wall, wasa half-rounded projection, revealing that the stair was not indebted toit for the whole of its accommodation. Whither the stair led, I shallhave to disclose in my next chapter. From the opposite end of thekitchen, an ordinary wooden staircase, with clumsy balustrade, led upto the two bed-rooms occupied by my uncle and my aunt; to a largelumber-room, whose desertion and almost emptiness was a source ofuneasiness in certain moods; and to a spare bed-room, which was betterfurnished than any of ours, and indeed to my mind a very grand andspacious apartment. This last was never occupied during my childhood;consequently it smelt musty notwithstanding my aunt's exemplaryhousekeeping. Its bedsteads must have been hundreds of years old. Abovethese rooms again were those to which the dormer windows belonged, andin one of them I slept. It had a deep closet in which I kept my fewtreasures, and into which I used to retire when out of temper ortroubled, conditions not occurring frequently, for nobody quarrelledwith me, and I had nobody with whom I might have quarrelled. 

When I climbed upon a chair, I could seat myself on the broad sill ofthe dormer window. This was the watch-tower whence I viewed the world. Thence I could see trees in the distance--too far off for me to tellwhether they were churning wind or not. On that side those trees alonewere between me and the sky. 

One day when my aunt took me with her into the lumber-room, I foundthere, in a corner, a piece of strange mechanism. It had a kind ofpendulum; but I cannot describe it because I had lost sight of it longbefore I was capable of discovering its use, and my recollection of itis therefore very vague--far too vague to admit of even a conjecturenow as to what it could have been intended for. But I remember wellenough my fancy concerning it, though when or how that fancy awoke Icannot tell either. It seems to me as old as the finding of theinstrument. The fancy was that if I could keep that pendulum wagginglong enough, it would set all those trees going too; and if I stillkept it swinging, we should have such a storm of wind as no living manhad ever felt or heard of. That I more than half believed it, will beevident from the fact that, although I frequently carried the pendulum, as I shall call it, to the window sill, and set it in motion by way ofexperiment, I had not, up to the time of a certain incident which Ishall very soon have to relate, had the courage to keep up theoscillation beyond ten or a dozen strokes; partly from fear of thetrees, partly from a dim dread of exercising power whose source andextent were not within my knowledge. I kept the pendulum in the closetI have mentioned, and never spoke to any one of it. 

CHAPTER II. 

MY UNCLE AND AUNT. 

We were a curious household. I remembered neither father nor mother;and the woman I had been taught to call _auntie_ was no such nearrelation. My uncle was my father's brother, and my aunt was his cousin, by the mother's side. She was a tall, gaunt woman, with a sharp noseand eager eyes, yet sparing of speech. Indeed, there was very littlespeech to be heard in the house. My aunt, however, looked as if shecould have spoken. I think it was the spirit of the place that kept hersilent, for there were those eager eyes. She might have been expectedalso to show a bad temper, but I never saw a sign of such. To me shewas always kind; chiefly, I allow, in a negative way, leaving me to dovery much as I pleased. I doubt if she felt any great tenderness forme, although I had been dependent upon her care from infancy. Inafter-years I came to the conclusion that she was in love with myuncle; and perhaps the sense that he was indifferent to her save aftera brotherly fashion, combined with the fear of betraying herself andthe consciousness of her unattractive appearance, to produce thecontradiction between her looks and her behaviour. 

Every morning, after our early breakfast, my uncle walked away to thefarm, where he remained until dinner-time. Often, when busy at my owninvented games in the grass, I have caught sight of my aunt, standingmotionless with her hand over her eyes, watching for the first glimpseof my uncle ascending from the hollow where the farm-buildings lay; andoccasionally, when something had led her thither as well, I would watchthem returning together over the grass, when she would keep glancing upin his face at almost regular intervals, although it was evident theywere not talking, but he never turned his face or lifted his eyes fromthe ground a few yards in front of him. 

He was a tall man of nearly fifty, with grey hair, and quiet meditativeblue eyes. He always looked as if he were thinking. He had beenintended for the Church, but the means for the prosecution of hisstudies failing, he had turned his knowledge of rustic affairs toaccount, and taken a subordinate position on a nobleman's estate, wherehe rose to be bailiff. When my father was seized with his last illness, he returned to take the management of the farm. It had been in thefamily for many generations. Indeed that portion of it upon which thehouse stood, was our own property. When my mother followed my father, my uncle asked his cousin to keep house for him. Perhaps she hadexpected a further request, but more had not come of it. 

When he came in, my uncle always went straight to his room; and havingwashed his hands and face, took a book and sat down in the window. If Iwere sent to tell him that the meal was ready, I was sure to find himreading. He would look up, smile, and look down at his book again; nor, until I had formally delivered my message, would he take further noticeof me. Then he would rise, lay his book carefully aside, take my hand, and lead me down-stairs. 

To my childish eyes there was something very grand about my uncle. Hisface was large-featured and handsome; he was tall, and stoopedmeditatively. I think my respect for him was founded a good deal uponthe reverential way in which my aunt regarded him. And there was greatwisdom, I came to know, behind that countenance, a golden speech behindthat silence. 

My reader must not imagine that the prevailing silence of the houseoppressed me. I had been brought up in it, and never felt it. My ownthoughts, if thoughts those conditions of mind could be called, whichwere chiefly passive results of external influences--whatever theywere--thoughts or feelings, sensations, or dim, slow movements ofmind--they filled the great pauses of speech; and besides, I could readthe faces of both my uncle and aunt like the pages of a well-knownbook. Every shade of alteration in them I was familiar with, for theirchanges were not many. 

Although my uncle's habit was silence, however, he would now and thentake a fit of talking to me. I remember many such talks; the better, perhaps, that they were divided by long intervals. I had perfectconfidence in his wisdom, and submission to his will. I did not muchmind my aunt. Perhaps her deference to my uncle made me feel as if sheand I were more on a level. She must have been really kind, for shenever resented any petulance or carelessness. Possibly she sacrificedher own feeling to the love my uncle bore me; but I think it was ratherthat, because he cared for me, she cared for me too. 

Twice during every meal she would rise from the table with some dish inher hand, open the door behind the chimney, and ascend the windingstair. 

CHAPTER III. 

AT THE TOP OF THE CHIMNEY-STAIR. 

I fear my reader may have thought me too long occupied with theexplanatory foundations of my structure: I shall at once proceed toraise its walls of narrative. Whatever further explanations may benecessary, can be applied as buttresses in lieu of a broader base. 

One Sunday--it was his custom of a Sunday--I fancy I was then somewhereabout six years of age--my uncle rose from the table after our homelydinner, took me by the hand, and led me to the dark door with the longarrow-headed hinges, and up the winding stone stair which I neverascended except with him or my aunt. At the top was another ruggeddoor, and within that, one covered with green baize. The last opened onwhat had always seemed to me a very paradise of a room. It wasold-fashioned enough; but childhood is of any and every age, and it wasnot old-fashioned to me--only intensely cosy and comfortable. The firstthing my eyes generally rested upon was an old bureau, with a book-caseon the top of it, the glass-doors of which were lined with faded redsilk. The next thing I would see was a small tent-bed, with the whitestof curtains, and enchanting fringes of white ball-tassels. The bed wascovered with an equally charming counterpane of silk patchwork. Thenext object was the genius of the place, in a high, close, easy-chair, covered with some dark stuff, against which her face, surrounded withits widow's cap, of ancient form, but dazzling whiteness, was stronglyrelieved. How shall I describe the shrunken, yet delicate, thegracious, if not graceful form, and the face from which extreme old agehad not wasted half the loveliness? Yet I always beheld it with anindescribable sensation, one of whose elements I can isolate andidentify as a faint fear. Perhaps this arose partly from the fact that, in going up the stair, more than once my uncle had said to me, 'Youmust not mind what grannie says, Willie, for old people will oftenspeak strange things that young people cannot understand. But you mustlove grannie, for she is a very good old lady. '

'Well, grannie, how are you to-day?' said my uncle, as we entered, thisparticular Sunday. 

I may as well mention at once that my uncle called her _grannie_ in hisown right and not in mine, for she was in truth my great-grandmother. 

'Pretty well, David, I thank you; but much too long out of my grave, 'answered grannie; in no sepulchral tones, however, for her voice, although weak and uneven, had a sound in it like that of one of theupper strings of a violin. The plaintiveness of it touched me, and Icrept near her--nearer than, I believe, I had ever yet gone of my ownwill--and laid my hand upon hers. I withdrew it instantly, for therewas something in the touch that made me--not shudder, exactly--butcreep. Her hand was smooth and soft, and warm too, only somehow theskin of it seemed dead. With a quicker movement than belonged to heryears, she caught hold of mine, which she kept in one of her hands, while she stroked it with the other. My slight repugnance vanished forthe time, and I looked up in her face, grateful for a tenderness whichwas altogether new to me. 

'What makes you so long out of your grave, grannie?' I asked. 

'They won't let me into it, my dear. '

'Who won't let you, grannie?'

'My own grandson there, and the woman down the stair. '

'But you don't really want to go--do you, grannie?'

'I do want to go, Willie. I ought to have been there long ago. I amvery old; so old that I've forgotten how old I am. How old am I?' sheasked, looking up at my uncle. 

'Nearly ninety-five, grannie; and the older you get before you go thebetter we shall be pleased, as you know very well. '

'There! I told you, ' she said with a smile, not all of pleasure, as sheturned her head towards me. 'They won't let me go. I want to go to mygrave, and they won't let me! Is that an age at which to keep a poorwoman from her grave?'

'But it's not a nice place, is it, grannie?' I asked, with the vaguestideas of what _the grave_ meant. 'I think somebody told me it was inthe churchyard. '

But neither did I know with any clearness what the church itself meant, for we were a long way from church, and I had never been there yet. 

'Yes, it is in the churchyard, my dear. '

'Is it a house?' I asked. 

'Yes, a little house; just big enough for one. '

'I shouldn't like that. '

'Oh yes, you would. '

'Is it a nice place, then?'

'Yes, the nicest place in the world, when you get to be so old as I am. If they would only let me die!'

'Die, grannie!' I exclaimed. My notions of death as yet were derivedonly from the fowls brought from the farm, with their necks hangingdown long and limp, and their heads wagging hither and thither. 

'Come, grannie, you mustn't frighten our little man, ' interposed myuncle, looking kindly at us both. 

'David!' said grannie, with a reproachful dignity, '_you_ know what Imean well enough. You know that until I have done what I have to do, the grave that is waiting for me will not open its mouth to receive me. If you will only allow me to do what I have to do, I shall not troubleyou long. Oh dear! oh dear!' she broke out, moaning and rocking herselfto and fro, 'I am too old to weep, and they will not let me to my bed. I want to go to bed. I want to go to sleep. '

She moaned and complained like a child. My uncle went near and took herhand. 

'Come, come, dear grannie!' he said, 'you must not behave like this. You know all things are for the best. '

'To keep a corpse out of its grave!' retorted the old lady, almostfiercely, only she was too old and weak to be fierce. 'Why should youkeep a soul that's longing to depart and go to its own people, lingering on in the coffin? What better than a coffin is this witheredbody? The child is old enough to understand me. Leave him with me forhalf an hour, and I shall trouble you no longer. I shall at least waitmy end in peace. But I think I should die before the morning. '

Ere grannie had finished this sentence, I had shrunk from her again andretreated behind my uncle. 

'There!' she went on, 'you make my own child fear me. Don't befrightened, Willie dear; your old mother is not a wild beast; she lovesyou dearly. Only my grand-children are so undutiful! They will not letmy own son come near me. '

How I recall this I do not know, for I could not have understood it atthe time. The fact is that during the last few years I have foundpictures of the past returning upon me in the most vivid andunaccountable manner, so much so as almost to alarm me. Things I hadutterly forgotten--or so far at least that when they return, they mustappear only as vivid imaginations, were it not for a certain convictionof fact which accompanies them--are constantly dawning out of the past. Can it be that the decay of the observant faculties allows the memoryto revive and gather force? But I must refrain, for my business is tonarrate, not to speculate. 

My uncle took me by the hand, and turned to leave the room. I cast onelook at grannie as he led me away. She had thrown her head back on herchair, and her eyes were closed; but her face looked offended, almostangry. She looked to my fancy as if she were trying but unable to liedown. My uncle closed the doors very gently. In the middle of the stairhe stopped, and said in a low voice, 'Willie, do you know that when people grow very old they are not quitelike other people?'

'Yes. They want to go to the churchyard, ' I answered. 

'They fancy things, ' said my uncle. 'Grannie thinks you are her ownson. '

'And ain't I?' I asked innocently. 

'Not exactly, ' he answered. 'Your father was her son's son. She forgetsthat, and wants to talk to you as if you were your grandfather. Poorold grannie! I don't wish you to go and see her without your aunt orme: mind that. '

Whether I made any promise I do not remember; but I know that a newsomething was mingled with my life from that moment. An air as it wereof the tomb mingled henceforth with the homely delights of my life. Grannie wanted to die, and uncle would not let her. She longed for hergrave, and they would keep her above-ground. And from the feeling thatgrannie ought to be buried, grew an awful sense that she was notalive--not alive, that is, as other people are alive, and a gulf wasfixed between her and me which for a long time I never attempted topass, avoiding as much as I could all communication with her, even whenmy uncle or aunt wished to take me to her room. They did not seemdispleased, however, when I objected, and not always insisted onobedience. Thus affairs went on in our quiet household for what seemedto me a very long time. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE PENDULUM. 

It may have been a year after this, it may have been two, I cannottell, when the next great event in my life occurred. I think it wastowards the close of an Autumn, but there was not so much about ourhouse as elsewhere to mark the changes of the seasons, for the grasswas always green. I remember it was a sultry afternoon. I had been outalmost the whole day, wandering hither and thither over the grass, andI felt hot and oppressed. Not an air was stirring. I longed for abreath of wind, for I was not afraid of the wind itself, only of thetrees that made it. Indeed, I delighted in the wind, and would runagainst it with exuberant pleasure, even rejoicing in the fancy that I, as well as the trees, could make the wind by shaking my hair about as Iran. I must run, however; whereas the trees, whose prime business itwas, could do it without stirring from the spot. But this was much toohot an afternoon for me, whose mood was always more inclined to thepassive than the active, to run about and toss my hair, even for thesake of the breeze that would result therefrom. I bethought myself. Iwas nearly a man now; I would be afraid of things no more; I would getout my pendulum, and see whether that would not help me. Not this timewould I flinch from what consequences might follow. Let them be whatthey might, the pendulum should wag, and have a fair chance of doingits best. 

[Illustration: "I SAT AND WATCHED IT WITH GROWING AWE. "]

I went up to my room, a sense of high emprise filling my little heart. Composedly, yea solemnly, I set to work, even as some enchanter of oldmight have drawn his circle, and chosen his spell out of hisiron-clasped volume. I strode to the closet in which the awfulinstrument dwelt. It stood in the furthest corner. As I lifted it, something like a groan invaded my ear. My notions of locality were notthen sufficiently developed to let me know that grannie's room was onthe other side of that closet. I almost let the creature, for as such Iregarded it, drop. I was not to be deterred, however. I bore itcarefully to the light, and set it gently on the window sill, full inview of the distant trees towards the west. I left it then for amoment, as if that it might gather its strength for its unwontedlabours, while I closed the door, and, with what fancy I can scarcelyimagine now, the curtains of my bed as well. Possibly it was with somenotion of having one place to which, if the worst came to the worst, Imight retreat for safety. Again I approached the window, and afterstanding for some time in contemplation of the pendulum, I set it inmotion, and stood watching it. 

It swung slower and slower. It wanted to stop. It should not stop. Igave it another swing. On it went, at first somewhat distractedly, nextmore regularly, then with slowly retarding movement. But it should notstop. 

I turned in haste and got from the side of my bed the only chair in theroom, placed it in the window, sat down before the reluctantinstrument, and gave it a third swing. Then, my elbows on the sill, Isat and watched it with growing awe, but growing determination as well. Once more it showed signs of refusal; once more the forefinger of myright hand administered impulse. 

Something gave a crack inside the creature: away went the pendulum, swinging with a will. I sat and gazed, almost horror-stricken. Ere manymoments had passed, the feeling of terror had risen to such a heightthat, but for the very terror, I would have seized the pendulum in afrantic grasp. I did not. On it went, and I sat looking. My dismay wasgradually subsiding. 

I have learned since that a certain ancestor--or was he only agreat-uncle?--I forget--had a taste for mechanics, even to the craze ofthe perpetual motion, and could work well in brass and iron. Thecreature was probably some invention of his. It was a real marvel how, after so many years of idleness, it could now go as it did. I confess, as I contemplate the thing, I am in a puzzle, and almost fancy thewhole a dream. But let it pass. At worst, something of which this isthe sole representative residuum, wrought an effect on me whichembodies its cause thus, as I search for it in the past. And why shouldnot the individual life have its misty legends as well as that ofnations? From them, as from the golden and rosy clouds of morning, dawns at last the true sun of its unquestionable history. Every boy hashis own fables, just as the Romes and the Englands of the world havetheir Romuli and their Arthurs, their suckling wolves and theirgranite-sheathed swords. Do they not reflect each other? I tell thetale as 'tis left in me. 

How long I sat thus gazing at the now self-impelled instrument, Icannot say. The next point in the progress of the legend, is a gust ofwind rattling the window in whose recess I was seated. I jumped from mychair in terror. While I had been absorbed in the pendulum, the eveninghad closed in; clouds had gathered over the sky, and all was gloomyabout the house. It was much too dark to see the distant trees, butthere could be no doubt they were at work. The pendulum had rousedthem. Another, a third, and a fourth gust rattled and shook the ricketyframe. I had done it at last! The trees were busy away there in thedarkness. I and my pendulum could make the wind. 

The gusts came faster and faster, and grew into blasts which settledinto a steady gale. The pendulum went on swinging to and fro, and thegale went on increasing in violence. I sat half in terror, half indelight, at the awful success of my experiment. I would have opened thewindow to let in the coveted air, but that was beyond my knowledge andstrength. I could make the wind blow, but, like other magicians, Icould not share in its benefits. I would go out and meet it on the openplain. I crept down the stair like a thief--not that I feareddetention, but that I felt such a sense of the important, even thedread, about myself and my instrument, that I was not in harmony withsouls reflecting only the common affairs of life. In a moment I was inthe middle of a storm--for storm it very nearly was and soon became. Irushed to and fro in the midst of it, lay down and rolled in it, andlaughed and shouted as I looked up to the window where the pendulum wasswinging, and thought of the trees at work away in the dark. The windgrew stronger and stronger. What if the pendulum should not stop atall, and the wind went on and on, growing louder and fiercer, till itgrew mad and blew away the house? Ah, then, poor grannie would have achance of being buried at last! Seriously, the affair might growserious. 

Such thoughts were passing in my mind, when all at once the wind gave aroar which made me spring to my feet and rush for the house. I muststop the pendulum. There was a strange sound in that blast. The treesthemselves had had enough of it, and were protesting against thecreature's tyranny. Their master was working them too hard. I ran upthe stair on all fours: it was my way when I was in a hurry. Swingingwent the pendulum in the window, and the wind roared in the chimney. Iseized hold of the oscillating thing, and stopped it; but to my amazeand consternation, the moment I released it, on it went again. I mustsit and hold it. But the voice of my aunt called me from below, and asI dared not explain why I would rather not appear, I was forced toobey. I lingered on the stair, half minded to return. 

'What a rough night it is!' I heard my aunt say, with rare remark. 

'It gets worse and worse, ' responded my uncle. 'I hope it won't disturbgrannie; but the wind must roar fearfully in her chimney. '

I stood like a culprit. What if they should find out that I was at theroot of the mischief, at the heart of the storm!

'If I could believe all that I have been reading to-night about thePrince of the Power of the Air, I should not like this storm at all, 'continued my uncle, with a smile. 'But books are not always to betrusted because they are old, ' he added with another smile. 'From theglass, I expected rain and not wind. '

'Whatever wind there is, we get it all, ' said my aunt. 'I wonder whatWillie is about. I thought I heard him coming down. Isn't it time, David, we did something about his schooling? It won't do to have himidling about this way all day long. '

'He's a mere child, ' returned my uncle. 'I'm not forgetting him. But Ican't send him away yet. '

'You know best, ' returned my aunt. 

_Send me away!_ What could it mean? Why should I--where should I go?Was not the old place a part of me, just like my own clothes on my ownbody? This was the kind of feeling that woke in me at the words. Buthearing my aunt push back her chair, evidently with the purpose offinding me, I descended into the room. 

'Come along, Willie, ' said my uncle. 'Hear the wind how it roars!'

'Yes, uncle; it does roar, ' I said, feeling a hypocrite for the firsttime in my life. Knowing far more about the roaring than he did, I yetspoke like an innocent!

'Do you know who makes the wind, Willie?'

'Yes. The trees, ' I answered. 

My uncle opened his blue eyes very wide, and looked at my aunt. He hadhad no idea what a little heathen I was. The more a man has wrought outhis own mental condition, the readier he is to suppose that childrenmust be able to work out theirs, and to forget that he did not work outhis information, but only his conclusions. My uncle began to think itwas time to take me in hand. 

'No, Willie, ' he said. 'I must teach you better than that. '

I expected him to begin by telling me that God made the wind; but, whether it was that what the old book said about the Prince of thePower of the Air returned upon him, or that he thought it an unfittingoccasion for such a lesson when the wind was roaring so as might renderits divine origin questionable, he said no more. Bewildered, I fancy, with my ignorance, he turned, after a pause, to my aunt. 

'Don't you think it's time for him to go to bed, Jane?' he suggested. 

My aunt replied by getting from the cupboard my usual supper--a basinof milk and a slice of bread; which I ate with less circumspection thanusual, for I was eager to return to my room. As soon as I had finished, Nannie was called, and I bade them good-night. 

'Make haste, Nannie, ' I said. 'Don't you hear how the wind is roaring?'

It was roaring louder than ever, and there was the pendulum swingingaway in the window. Nannie took no notice of it, and, I presume, onlythought I wanted to get my head under the bed-clothes, and so escapethe sound of it. Anyhow, she did make haste, and in a very few minutesI was, as she supposed, snugly settled for the night. But the momentshe shut the door I was out of bed, and at the window. The instant Ireached it, a great dash of rain swept against the panes, and the windhowled more fiercely than ever. Believing I had the key of theposition, inasmuch as, if I pleased, I could take the pendulum to bedwith me, and stifle its motions with the bed-clothes--for this happyidea had dawned upon me while Nannie was undressing me--I was composedenough now to press my face to a pane, and look out. There was a smallspace amidst the storm dimly illuminated from the windows below, andthe moment I looked--out of the darkness into this dim space, as ifblown thither by the wind, rushed a figure on horseback, his largecloak flying out before him, and the mane of the animal he rodestreaming out over his ears in the fierceness of the blast. He pulledup right under my window, and I thought he looked up, and madethreatening gestures at me; but I believe now that horse and man pulledup in sudden danger of dashing against the wall of the house. I shrankback, and when I peeped out again he was gone. The same moment thependulum gave a click and stopped; one more rattle of rain against thewindows, and then the wind stopped also. I crept back to my bed in anew terror, for might not this be the Prince of the Power of the Air, come to see who was meddling with his affairs? Had he not come rightout of the storm, and straight from the trees? He must have somethingto do with it all! Before I had settled the probabilities of thequestion, however, I was fast asleep. 

I awoke--how long after, I cannot tell--with the sound of voices in myears. It was still dark. The voices came from below. I had beendreaming of the strange horseman, who had turned out to be the awfulbeing concerning whom Nannie had enlightened me as going about at nightto buy little children from their nurses, and make bagpipes of theirskins. Awaked from such a dream, it was impossible to lie still withoutknowing what those voices down below were talking about. The strangeone must belong to the being, whatever he was, whom I had seen come outof the storm; and of whom could they be talking but me? I was right inboth conclusions. 

With a fearful resolution I slipped out of bed, opened the door asnoiselessly as I might, and crept on my bare, silent feet down thecreaking stair, which led, with open balustrade, right into thekitchen, at the end furthest from the chimney. The one candle at theother end could not illuminate its darkness, and I sat unseen, a fewsteps from the bottom of the stair, listening with all my ears, andstaring with all my eyes. The stranger's huge cloak hung drying beforethe fire, and he was drinking something out of a tumbler. The lightfell full upon his face. It was a curious, and certainly not to me anattractive face. The forehead was very projecting, and the eyes werevery small, deep set, and sparkling. The mouth--I had almost saidmuzzle--was very projecting likewise, and the lower jaw shot in frontof the upper. When the man smiled the light was reflected from whatseemed to my eyes an inordinate multitude of white teeth. His ears werenarrow and long, and set very high upon his head. The hand which heevery now and then displayed in the exigencies of his persuasion, waswhite, but very large, and the thumb was exceedingly long. I hadweighty reasons for both suspecting and fearing the man; and, leavingmy prejudices out of the question, there was in the conversation itselfenough besides to make me take note of dangerous points in hisappearance. I never could lay much claim to physical courage, and Iattribute my behaviour on this occasion rather to the fascination ofterror than to any impulse of self-preservation: I sat there in uttersilence, listening like an ear-trumpet. The first words I coulddistinguish were to this effect:--

'You do not mean, ' said the enemy, 'to tell me, Mr Cumbermede, that youintend to bring up the young fellow in absolute ignorance of thedecrees of fate?'

'I pledge myself to nothing in the matter, ' returned my uncle, calmly, but with something in his tone which was new to me. 

'Good heavens!' exclaimed the other. 'Excuse me, sir, but what rightcan you have to interfere after such a serious fashion with the younggentleman's future?'

'It seems to me, ' said my uncle, 'that you wish to interfere with itafter a much more serious fashion. There are things in which ignorancemay be preferable to knowledge. '

'But what harm could the knowledge of such a fact do him?'

'Upset all his notions, render him incapable of thinking about anythingof importance, occasion an utter--'

But _can_ anything be more important?' interrupted the visitor. 

My uncle went on without heeding him. 

'Plunge him over head and ears in--'

'Hot water, I grant you, ' again interrupted the enemy, to my horror;'but it wouldn't be for long. Only give me your sanction, and I promiseyou to have the case as tight as a drum before I ask you to move a stepin it. '

'But why should you take so much interest in what is purely ouraffair?' asked my uncle. 

'Why, of course you would have to pay the piper, ' said the man. 

This was too much! _Pay_ the man that played upon me after I was madeinto bagpipes! The idea was too frightful. 

'I must look out for business, you know; and, by Jove! I shall neverhave such a chance, if I live to the age of Methuselah. '

'Well, you shall not have it from me. '

'Then, ' said the man, rising, 'you are more of a fool than I took youfor. '

'Sir!' said my uncle. 

'No offence; no offence, I assure you. But it is provoking to findpeople so blind--so wilfully blind--to their own interest. You may sayI have nothing to lose. Give me the boy, and I'll bring him up like myown son; send him to school and college, too--all on the chance ofbeing repaid twice over by--'

I knew this was all a trick to get hold of my skin. The man said it onhis way to the door, his ape-face shining dim as he turned it a littleback in the direction of my uncle, who followed with the candle. I lostthe last part of the sentence in the terror which sent me bounding upthe stair in my usual four-footed fashion. I leaped into my bed, shaking with cold and agony combined. But I had the satisfactionpresently of hearing the _thud_ of the horse's hoofs upon the sward, dying away in the direction whence they had come. After that I soonfell asleep. 

I need hardly say that I never set the pendulum swinging again. Manyyears after, I came upon it when searching for a key, and the thrillwhich vibrated through my whole frame announced a strange and unwelcomepresence long before my memory could recall its origin. 

It must not be supposed that I pretend to remember all the conversationI have just set down. The words are but the forms in which, enlightenedby facts which have since come to my knowledge, I clothe certain vaguememories and impressions of such an interview as certainly took place. 

In the morning, at breakfast, my aunt asked my uncle who it was thatpaid such an untimely visit the preceding night. 

'A fellow from Minstercombe' (the county town), 'an attorney--what didhe say his name was? Yes, I remember. It was the same as the steward'sover the way. Coningham, it was. '

'Mr Coningham has a son there--an attorney too, I think, ' said my aunt. 

My uncle seemed struck by the reminder, and became meditative. 

'That explains his choosing such a night to come in. His father isgetting an old man now. Yes, it must be the same. '

'He's a sharp one, folk say, ' said my aunt, with a pointedness in theremark which showed some anxiety. 

'That he cannot conceal, sharp as he is, ' said my uncle, and there theconversation stopped. 

The very next evening my uncle began to teach me. I had a vague notionthat this had something to do with my protection against themachinations of the man Coningham, the idea of whom was inextricablyassociated in my mind with that of the Prince of the Power of the Air, darting from the midst of the churning trees, on a horse whosestreaming mane and flashing eyes indicated no true equine origin. Igave myself with diligence to the work my uncle set me. 

CHAPTER V. 

I HAVE LESSONS. 

It is a simple fact that up to this time I did not know my letters. Itwas, I believe, part of my uncle's theory of education that as littlepain as possible should be associated with merely intellectual effort:he would not allow me, therefore, to commence my studies until the taskof learning should be an easy one. Henceforth, every evening, aftertea, he took me to his own room, the walls of which were nearly coveredwith books, and there taught me. 

One peculiar instance of his mode I will give, and let it stand ratheras a pledge for the rest of his system than an index to it. It was onlythe other day it came back to me. Like Jean Paul, he would utter thename of God to a child only at grand moments; but there was a greatdifference in the moments the two men would have chosen. Jean Paulwould choose a thunder-storm, for instance; the following will show thekind of my uncle's choice. One Sunday evening he took me for a longerwalk than usual. We had climbed a little hill: I believe it was thefirst time I ever had a wide view of the earth. The horses were allloose in the fields; the cattle were gathering their supper as the sunwent down; there was an indescribable hush in the air, as if Natureherself knew the seventh day; there was no sound even of water, forhere the water crept slowly to the far-off sea, and the slant sunlightshone back from just one bend of a canal-like river; the hay-stacks andricks of the last year gleamed golden in the farmyards; great fields ofwheat stood up stately around us, the glow in their yellow brought outby the red poppies that sheltered in the forest of their stems; theodour of the grass and clover came in pulses; and the soft blue sky wasflecked with white clouds tinged with pink, which deepened until itgathered into a flaming rose in the west, where the sun was welling outoceans of liquid red. 

I looked up in my uncle's face. It shone in a calm glow, like ananswering rosy moon. The eyes of my mind were opened: I saw that hefelt something, and then I felt it too, His soul, with the glory for aninterpreter, kindled mine. 

He, in turn, caught the sight of my face, and his soul broke forth inone word:--

God! Willie; God!' was all he said; and surely it was enough. 

It was only then in moments of strong repose that my uncle spoke to meof God. 

Although he never petted me, that is, never showed me any animalaffection, my uncle was like a father to me in this, that he was aboutand above me, a pure benevolence. It is no wonder that I should learnrapidly under his teaching, for I was quick enough, and possessed themore energy that it had not been wasted on unpleasant tasks. 

Whether from indifference or intent I cannot tell, but he never forbademe to touch any of his books. Upon more occasions than one he found meon the floor with a folio between my knees; but he only smiled andsaid--

'Ah, Willie! mind you don't crumple the leaves. '

About this time also I had a new experience of another kind, whichimpressed me almost with the force of a revelation. 

I had not yet explored the boundaries of the prairie-like level onwhich I found myself. As soon as I got about a certain distance fromhome, I always turned and ran back. Fear is sometimes the firstrecognition of freedom. Delighting in liberty, I yet shrunk from theunknown spaces around me, and rushed back to the shelter of thehome-walls. But as I grew older I became more adventurous; and oneevening, although the shadows were beginning to lengthen, I went on andon until I made a discovery. I found a half-spherical hollow in thegrassy surface. I rushed into its depth as if it had been a mine ofmarvels, threw myself on the ground, and gazed into the sky as if I hadnow for the first time discovered its true relation to the earth. Theearth was a cup, and the sky its cover. 

There were lovely daisies in this hollow--not too many to spoil thegrass--and they were red-tipped daisies. There was besides, in the veryheart of it, one plant of the finest pimpernels I have ever seen, andthis was my introduction to the flower. Nor were these all thetreasures of the spot. A late primrose, a tiny child, born out of duetime, opened its timid petals in the same hollow. Here then weregathered red-tipped daisies, large pimpernels, and one tiny primrose. I lay and looked at them in delight--not at all inclined to pull them, for they were where I loved to see them. I never had much inclinationto gather flowers. I see them as a part of a whole, and rejoice in themin their own place without any desire to appropriate them. I lay andlooked at these for a long time. Perhaps I fell asleep. I do not know. I have often waked in the open air. All at once I looked up and saw avision. 

My reader will please to remember that up to this hour I had never seena lady. I cannot by any stretch call my worthy aunt a lady; and mygrandmother was too old, and too much an object of mysterious anxiety, to produce the impression, of a lady upon me. Suddenly I became awarethat a lady was looking down on me. Over the edge of my horizon, thecircle of the hollow that touched the sky, her face shone like a risingmoon. Sweet eyes looked on me, and a sweet mouth was tremulous with asmile. I will not attempt to describe her. To my childish eyes she wasmuch what a descended angel must have been to eyes of old, in the dayswhen angels did descend, and there were Arabs or Jews on the earth whocould see them. A new knowledge dawned in me. I lay motionless, lookingup with worship in my heart. As suddenly she vanished. I lay far intothe twilight, and then rose and went home, half bewildered, with asense of heaven about me which settled into the fancy that my motherhad come to see me. I wondered afterwards that I had not followed her;but I never forgot her, and, morning, midday, or evening, whenever thefit seized me, I would wander away and lie down in the hollow, gazingat the spot where the lovely face had arisen, in the fancy, hardly inthe hope, that my moon might once more arise and bless me with hervision. 

Hence I suppose came another habit of mine, that of watching in thesame hollow, and in the same posture, now for the sun, now for themoon, but generally for the sun. You might have taken me for afire-worshipper, so eagerly would I rise when the desire came upon me, so hastily in the clear grey of the morning would I dress myself, lestthe sun should be up before me, and I fail to catch his firstlance-like rays dazzling through the forest of grass on the edge of myhollow world. Bare-footed I would scud like a hare through the dew, heedless of the sweet air of the morning, heedless of the fewbird-songs about me, heedless even of the east, whose saffron mightjust be burning into gold, as I ran to gain the green hollow whencealone I would greet the morning. Arrived there, I shot into itsshelter, and threw myself panting on the grass, to gaze on the spot atwhich I expected the rising glory to appear. Ever when I recall thecustom, that one lark is wildly praising over my head, for he sees thesun for which I am waiting. He has his nest in the hollow beside me. Iwould sooner have turned my back on the sun than disturbed the home ofhis high-priest, the lark. And now the edge of my horizon begins toburn; the green blades glow in their tops; they are melted through withlight; the flashes invade my eyes; they gather; they grow, until I hidemy face in my hands. The sun is up. But on my hands and my knees I rushafter the retreating shadow, and, like a child at play with its nurse, hide in its curtain. Up and up comes the peering sun; he will find me;I cannot hide from him; there is in the wide field no shelter from hisgaze. No matter then. Let him shine into the deepest corners of myheart, and shake the cowardice and the meanness out of it. 

I thus made friends with Nature. I had no great variety even in her, but the better did I understand what I had. The next Summer I began tohunt for glow-worms, and carry them carefully to my hollow, that in thewarm, soft, moonless nights they might illumine it with a strangelight. When I had been very successful, I would call my uncle and auntto see. My aunt tried me by always having something to do first. Myuncle, on the other hand, would lay down his book at once, and followme submissively. He could not generate amusement for me, but hesympathized with what I could find for myself. 

'Come and see my cows, ' I would say to him. 

I well remember the first time I took him to see them. When we reachedthe hollow, he stood for a moment silent. Then he said, laying his handon my shoulder, 'Very pretty, Willie! But why do you call them cows?'

'You told me last night, ' I answered, 'that the road the angels goacross the sky is called the milky way--didn't you, uncle?'

'I never told you the angels went that way, my boy. '

'Oh! didn't you? I thought you did. '

'No, I didn't. '

'Oh! I remember now: I thought if it was a way, and nobody but theangels could go in it, that must be the way the angels did go. '

'Yes, yes, I see! But what has that to do with the glow-worms?'

'Don't you see, uncle? If it be the milky way, the stars must be thecows. Look at my cows, uncle. Their milk is very pretty milk, isn'tit?'

'Very pretty, indeed, my dear--rather green. '

'Then I suppose if you could put it in auntie's pan, you might makeanother moon of it?'

'That's being silly now, ' said my uncle; and I ceased, abashed. 

'Look, look, uncle!' I exclaimed, a moment after; 'they don't likebeing talked about, my cows. '

For as if a cold gust of wind had passed over them, they all dwindledand paled. I thought they were going out. 

'Oh dear, oh dear!' I cried, and began dancing about with dismay. Thenext instant the glow returned, and the hollow was radiant. 

'Oh, the dear light!' I cried again. 'Look at it, uncle! Isn't itlovely?'

He took me by the hand. His actions were always so much more tenderthan his words!

'Do you know who is the light of the world, Willie?'

'Yes, well enough. I saw him get out of bed this morning. '

My uncle led me home without a word more. But next night he began toteach me about the light of the world, and about walking in the light. I do not care to repeat much of what he taught me in this kind, forlike my glow-worms it does not like to be talked about. Somehow itloses colour and shine when one talks. 

I have now shown sufficiently how my uncle would seize opportunitiesfor beginning things. He thought more of the beginning than of anyother part of a process. 

'All's well that begins well, ' he would say. I did not know what hissmile meant as he said so. 

I sometimes wonder how I managed to get through the days without beingweary. No one ever thought of giving me toys. I had a turn for using myhands; but I was too young to be trusted with a knife. I had never seena kite, except far away in the sky: I took it for a bird. There were norushes to make water-wheels of, and no brooks to set them turning in. Ihad neither top nor marbles. I had no dog to play with. And yet I donot remember once feeling weary. I knew all the creatures that wentcreeping about in the grass, and although I did not know the propername for one of them, I had names of my own for them all, and was sofamiliar with their looks and their habits, that I am confident I couldin some degree interpret some of the people I met afterwards by theirresemblances to these insects. I have a man in my mind now who hasexactly the head and face, if face it can be called, of an ant. It isnot a head, but a helmet. I knew all the butterflies--they were mostlysmall ones, but of lovely varieties. A stray dragon-fly would now andthen delight me; and there were hunting-spiders and wood-lice, andqueerer creatures of which I do not yet know the names. Then there weregrasshoppers, which for some time I took to be made of green leaves, and I thought they grew like fruit on the trees till they were ripe, when they jumped down, and jumped for ever after. Another child mighthave caught and caged them; for me, I followed them about, and watchedtheir ways. 

In the Winter, things had not hitherto gone quite so well with me. ThenI had been a good deal dependent upon Nannie and her stories, whichwere neither very varied nor very well told. But now that I had begunto read, things went better. To be sure, there were not in my uncle'slibrary many books such as children have now-a-days; but there were oldhistories, and some voyages and travels, and in them I revelled. I amperplexed sometimes when I look into one of these books--for I havethem all about me now--to find how dry they are. The shine seems tohave gone out of them. Or is it that the shine has gone out of the eyesthat used to read them? If so, it will come again some day. I do notfind that the shine has gone out of a beetle's back; and I can read_The Pilgrim's Progress_ still. 

CHAPTER VI. 

I COBBLE. 

All this has led me, after a roundabout fashion, to what became forsome time the chief delight of my Winters--an employment, moreover, which I have taken up afresh at odd times during my life. It came aboutthus. My uncle had made me a present of an old book with pictures init. It was called _The Preceptor_--one of Dodsley's publications. Therewere wonderful folding plates of all sorts in it. Those whichrepresented animals were of course my favourites. But these especiallywere in a very dilapidated condition, for there had been childrenbefore me somewhere; and I proceeded, at my uncle's suggestion, to tryto mend them by pasting them on another piece of paper. I made bad workof it at first, and was so dissatisfied with the results, that I setmyself in earnest to find out by what laws of paste and paper successmight be secured. Before the Winter was over, my uncle found me grownso skilful in this manipulation of broken leaves--for as yet I had notventured further in any of the branches of repair--that he gave meplenty of little jobs of the sort, for amongst his books there weremany old ones. This was a source of great pleasure. Before thefollowing Winter was over, I came to try my hand at repairing bindings, and my uncle was again so much pleased with my success that one day hebrought me from the county town some sheets of parchment with which toattempt the fortification of certain vellum-bound volumes which wereconsiderably the worse for age and use. I well remember how troublesomethe parchment was for a long time; but at last I conquered it, andsucceeded very fairly in my endeavours to restore to tidiness thegarments of ancient thought. 

But there was another consequence of this pursuit which may beconsidered of weight in my history. This was the discovery of a copy ofthe Countess of Pembroke's _Arcadia_--much in want of skilful patching, from the title-page, with its boar smelling at the rose-bush, to thegraduated lines and the _Finis_. This book I read through from boar tofinis--no small undertaking, and partly, no doubt, under itsinfluences, I became about this time conscious of a desire afterhonour, as yet a notion of the vaguest. I hardly know how I escaped thetaking for granted that there were yet knights riding about onwar-horses, with couched lances and fierce spurs, everywhere as in daysof old. They might have been roaming the world in all directions, without my seeing one of them. But somehow I did not fall into themistake. Only with the thought of my future career, when I should be aman and go out into the world, came always the thought of the swordwhich hung on the wall. A longing to handle it began to possess me, andmy old dream returned. I dared not, however, say a word to my uncle onthe subject. I felt certain that he would slight the desire, andperhaps tell me I should hurt myself with the weapon; and one whoseheart glowed at the story of the battle between him on the white horsewith carnation mane and tail, in his armour of blue radiated with gold, and him on the black-spotted brown, in his dusky armour of despair, could not expose himself to such an indignity. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE SWORD ON THE WALL. 

Where possession was impossible, knowledge might yet be reached: couldI not learn the story of the ancient weapon? How came that which hadmore fitly hung in the hall of a great castle, here upon the wall of akitchen? My uncle, however, I felt, was not the source whence I mighthope for help. No better was my aunt. Indeed I had the conviction thatshe neither knew nor cared anything about the useless thing. It was hertea-table that must be kept bright for honour's sake. But there wasgrannie!

My relations with her had continued much the same. The old fear of herlingered, and as yet I had had no inclination to visit her room bymyself. I saw that my uncle and aunt always behaved to her with thegreatest kindness and much deference, but could not help observing alsothat she cherished some secret offence, receiving their ministrationswith a certain condescension which clearly enough manifested its originas hidden cause of complaint and not pride. I wondered that my uncleand aunt took no notice of it, always addressing her as if they were onthe best possible terms; and I knew that my uncle never went to hiswork without visiting her, and never went to bed without reading aprayer by her bedside first. I think Nannie told me this. 

She could still read a little, for her sight had been short, and hadheld out better even than usual with such. But she cared nothing forthe news of the hour. My uncle had a weekly newspaper, though not byany means regularly, from a friend in London, but I never saw it in mygrandmother's hands. Her reading was mostly in the _Spectator_, or inone of De Foe's works. I have seen her reading Pope. 

The sword was in my bones, and as I judged that only from grannie couldI get any information respecting it, I found myself beginning toinquire why I was afraid to go to her. I was unable to account for it, still less to justify it. As I reflected, the kindness of her words andexpressions dawned upon me, and I even got so far as to believe that Ihad been guilty of neglect in not visiting her oftener and doingsomething for her. True, I recalled likewise that my uncle had desiredme not to visit her except with him or my aunt, but that was ages ago, when I was a very little boy and might have been troublesome. I couldeven read to her now if she wished it. In short, I felt myselfperfectly capable of entering into social relations with her generally. But if there was any flow of affection towards her, it was the swordthat had broken the seal of its fountain. 

One morning at breakfast I had been sitting gazing at the sword on thewall opposite me. My aunt had observed the steadiness of my look. 

'What are you staring at, Willie?' she said. 'Your eyes are fixed inyour head. Are you choking?'

The words offended me. I got up and walked out of the room. As I wentround the table I saw that my uncle and aunt were staring at each othervery much as I had been staring at the sword. I soon felt ashamed ofmyself, and returned, hoping that my behaviour might be attributed tosome passing indisposition. Mechanically I raised my eyes to the wall. Could I believe them? The sword was gone--absolutely gone! My heartseemed to swell up into my throat; I felt my cheeks burning. Thepassion grew within me, and might have broken out in some form orother, had I not felt that would at once betray my secret. I sat stillwith a fierce effort, consoling and strengthening myself with theresolution that I would hesitate no longer, but take the first chanceof a private interview with grannie. I tried hard to look as if nothinghad happened, and when breakfast was over, went to my own room. It wasthere I carried on my pasting operations. There also at this time Idrank deep in the 'Pilgrim's Progress;' there were swords, and armour, and giants, and demons there: but I had no inclination for eitheremployment now. 

My uncle left for the farm as usual, and to my delight I soondiscovered that my aunt had gone with him. The ways of the house wereas regular as those of a bee-hive. Sitting in my own room I knewprecisely where any one must be at any given moment; for although theonly clock we had was oftener standing than going, a perfect instinctof time was common to the household, Nannie included. At that momentshe was sweeping up the hearth and putting on the kettle. In half anhour she would have tidied up the kitchen, and would have gone toprepare the vegetables for cooking: I must wait. But the sudden fearstruck me that my aunt might have taken the sword with her--might begoing to make away with it altogether. I started up, and rushed aboutthe room in an agony. What could I do? At length I heard Nannie'spattens clatter out of the kitchen to a small outhouse where she paredthe potatoes. I instantly descended, crossed the kitchen, and went upthe winding stone stair. I opened grannie's door, and went in. 

She was seated in her usual place. Never till now had I felt how oldshe was. She looked up when I entered, for although she had grown verydeaf, she could feel the floor shake. I saw by her eyes, which lookedhigher than my head, that she had expected a taller figure to followme. When I turned from shutting the door, I saw her arms extended withan eager look, and could see her hands trembling ere she folded themabout me, and pressed my head to her bosom. 

'O Lord!' she said, 'I thank thee. I will try to be good now. O Lord, Ihave waited, and thou hast heard me. I will believe in thee again!'

From that moment I loved my grannie, and felt I owed her something aswell as my uncle. I had never had this feeling about my aunt. 

'Grannie!' I said, trembling from a conflict of emotions; but before Icould utter my complaint, I had burst out crying. 

'What have they been doing to you, child?' she asked, almost fiercely, and sat up straight in her chair. Her voice, although feeble andquavering, was determined in tone. She pushed me back from her andsought the face I was ashamed to show. 'What have they done to you, myboy?' she repeated, ere I could conquer my sobs sufficiently to speak. 

'They have taken away the sword that--'

'What sword?' she asked quickly. 'Not the sword that yourgreat-grandfather wore when he followed Sir Marmaduke?'

'I don't know, grannie. '

'Don't know, boy? The only thing your father took when he--. Not thesword with the broken sheath? Never! They daren't do it! I will go downmyself. I must see about it at once. '

'Oh, grannie, don't!' I cried in terror, as she rose from her chair. 'They'll not let me ever come near you again, if you do. '

She sat down again. After seeming to ponder for a while in silence, shesaid:--

'Well, Willie, my dear, you're more to me than the old sword. But Iwouldn't have had it handled with disrespect for all that the place isworth. However, I don't suppose they can--. What made them do it, child? They've not taken it down from the wall?'

'Yes, grannie. I think it was because I was staring at it too much, grannie. Perhaps they were afraid I would take it down and hurt myselfwith it. But I was only going to ask you about it. Tell me a storyabout it, grannie. '

All my notion was some story, I did not think whether true or false, like one of Nannie's stories. 

'That I will, my child--all about it--all about it. Let me see. '

Her eyes went wandering a little, and she looked perplexed. 

'And they took it from you, did they? Poor child! Poor child!'

'They didn't take it from me, grannie. I never had it in my hands. '

'Wouldn't give it you then? Oh dear! Oh dear!'

I began to feel uncomfortable--grannie looked so strange and lost. Theold feeling that she ought to be buried because she was dead returnedupon me; but I overcame it so far as to be able to say:

'Won't you tell me about it then, grannie? I want so much to hear aboutthe battle. '

'What battle, child? Oh yes! I'll tell you all about it some day, butI've forgot now, I've forgot it all now. '

She pressed her hand to her forehead, and sat thus for some time, whileI grew very frightened. I would gladly have left the room and creptdown-stairs, but I stood fascinated, gazing at the withered facehalf-hidden by the withered hand. I longed to be anywhere else, but mywill had deserted me, and there I must remain. At length grannie tookher hand from her eyes, and seeing me, started. 

'Ah, my dear!' she said, ' I had forgotten you. You wanted me to dosomething for you: what was it?'

'I wanted you to tell me about the sword, grannie. '

'Oh yes, the sword!' she returned, putting her hand again to herforehead. 'They took it away from you, did they? Well, never mind. Iwill give you something else--though I don't say it's as good as thesword. '

She rose, and taking an ivory-headed stick which leaned against theside of the chimney-piece, walked with tottering steps towards thebureau. There she took from her pocket a small bunch of keys, andhaving, with some difficulty from the trembling of her hands, chosenone and unlocked the sloping cover, she opened a little drawer inside, and took out a gold watch with a bunch of seals hanging from it. Nevershall I forget the thrill that went through my frame. Did she mean tolet me hold it in my own hand? Might I have it as often as I came tosee her? Imagine my ecstasy when she put it carefully in the two handsI held up to receive it, and said:

'There, my dear! You must take good care of it, and never give it awayfor love or money. Don't you open it--there's a good boy, till you're aman like your father. He _was_ a man! He gave it to me the day we weremarried, for he had nothing else, he said, to offer me. But I would nottake it, my dear. I liked better to see him with it than have itmyself. And when he left me, I kept it for you. But you must take careof it, you know. '

'Oh, thank you, grannie!' I cried, in an agony of pleasure. 'I _will_take care of it--indeed I will. Is it a real watch, grannie--as real asuncle's?'

'It's worth ten of your uncle's, my dear. Don't you show it him, though. He might take that away too. Your uncle's a very good man, mydear, but you mustn't mind everything he says to you. He forgetsthings. I never forget anything. I have plenty of time to think aboutthings. I never forget. '

'Will it go, grannie?' I asked, for my uncle was a much lessinteresting subject than the watch. 

'It won't go without being wound up; but you might break it. Besides, it may want cleaning. It's several years since it was cleaned last. Where will you put it now?'

'Oh! I know where to hide it safe enough, grannie, ' I exclaimed. 'I'lltake care of it. You needn't be afraid, grannie. '

The old lady turned, and with difficulty tottered to her seat. Iremained where I was, fixed in contemplation of my treasure. She calledme. I went and stood by her knee. 

'My child, there is something I want very much to tell you, but youknow old people forget things--'

'But you said just now that you never forgot anything, grannie. '

'No more I do, my dear; only I can't always lay my hands upon a thingwhen I want it. '

'It was about the sword, grannie, ' I said, thinking to refresh hermemory. 

'No, my dear; I don't think it was about the sword exactly--though thathad something to do with it. I shall remember it all by-and-by. It willcome again. And so must you, my dear. Don't leave your old mother solong alone. It's weary, weary work, waiting. '

'Indeed I won't, grannie, ' I said. 'I will come the very first time Ican. Only I mustn't let auntie see me, you know. --You don't want to beburied now, do you, grannie?' I added; for I had begun to love her, andthe love had cast out the fear, and I did not want her to wish to beburied. 

'I am very, very old; much too old to live, my dear. But I must do youjustice before I can go to my grave. _Now_ I know what I wanted to say. It's gone again. Oh dear! Oh dear! If I had you in the middle of thenight, when everything comes back as if it had been only yesterday, Icould tell you all about it from beginning to end, with all the ins andouts of it. But I can't now--I can't now. '

She moaned and rocked herself to and fro. 

'Never mind, grannie, ' I said cheerfully, for I was happy enough forall eternity with my gold watch; 'I will come and see you again as soonas ever I can. ' And I kissed her on the white cheek. 

'Thank you, my dear. I think you had better go now. They may miss you, and then I should never see you again--to talk to, I mean. '

'Why won't they let me come, and see you, grannie?' I asked. 

'That's what I wanted to tell you, if I could only see a littlebetter, ' she answered, once more putting her hand to her forehead. 'Perhaps I shall be able to tell you next time. Go now, my dear. '

I left the room, nothing loth, for I longed to be alone with mytreasure. I could not get enough of it in grannie's presence even. Noiseless as a bat I crept down the stair. When I reached the door atthe foot I stood and listened. The kitchen was quite silent. I steppedout. There was no one there. I scudded across and up the other stair tomy own room, carefully shutting the door behind me. Then I sat down onthe floor on the other side of the bed, so that it was between me andthe door, and I could run into the closet with my treasure before anyone entering should see me. 

The watch was a very thick round one. The back of it was crowded withraised figures in the kind of work called _repoussée_. I pored overthese for a long time, and then turned to the face. It was set allround with shining stones--diamonds, though I knew nothing of diamondsthen. The enamel was cracked, and I followed every crack as well asevery figure of the hours. Then I began to wonder what I could do withit next. I was not satisfied. Possession I found was not bliss: it hadnot rendered me content. But it was as yet imperfect: I had not seenthe inside. Grannie had told me not to open it: I began to think ithard that I should be denied thorough possession of what had been givento me, I believed I should be quite satisfied if I once saw what madeit go. I turned it over and over, thinking I might at least find how itwas opened. I have little doubt if I had discovered the secret of it, my virtue would have failed me. All I did find, however, was the headof a curious animal engraved on the handle. This was something. Iexamined it as carefully as the rest, and then finding I had for thetime exhausted the pleasures of the watch, I turned to the seals. Onone of them was engraved what looked like letters, but I could not readthem. I did not know that they were turned the wrong way. One of themwas like a W. On the other seal--there were but two and acuriously-contrived key--I found the same head as was engraved on thehandle--turned the other way of course. Wearied at length, I took theprecious thing into the dark closet, and laid it in a little box whichformed one of my few possessions. I then wandered out into the field, and went straying about until dinner-time, during which I believe Inever once lifted my eyes to the place where the sword had hung, lesteven that action should betray the watch. 

From that day my head, and as much of my heart as might be, were filledwith the watch. And, alas! I soon found that my bookmending had growndistasteful to me, and for the satisfaction of employment, possessionwas a poor substitute. As often as I made the attempt to resume it, Igot weary, and wandered almost involuntarily to the closet to feel formy treasure in the dark, handle it once more, and bring it out into thelight. Already I began to dree the doom of riches, in the vain attemptto live by that which was not bread. Nor was this all. A certain weightbegan to gather over my spirit--a sense almost of wrong. For althoughthe watch had been given me by my grandmother, and I never doubtedeither her right to dispose of it or my right to possess it, I couldnot look my uncle in the face, partly from a vague fear lest he shouldread my secret in my eyes, partly from a sense of something out ofjoint between him and me. I began to fancy, and I believe I was right, that he looked at me sometimes with a wistfulness I had never seen inhis face before. This made me so uncomfortable that I began to avoidhis presence as much as possible. And although I tried to please himwith my lessons, I could not learn them as hitherto. 

One day he asked me to bring him the book I had been repairing. 

'It's not finished yet, uncle, ' I said. 

'Will you bring it me just as it is. I want to look for something init. '

I went and brought it with shame. He took it, and having found thepassage he wanted, turned the volume once over in his hands, and gaveit me back without a word. 

Next day I restored it to him finished and tidy. He thanked me, lookedit over again, and put it in its place. But I fairly encountered aninquiring and somewhat anxious gaze. I believe he had a talk with myaunt about me that night. 

The next morning, I was seated by the bedside, with my secret in myhand, when I thought I heard the sound of the door-handle, and glidedat once into the closet. When I came out in a flutter of anxiety, therewas no one there. But I had been too much startled to return to what Ihad grown to feel almost a guilty pleasure. 

The next morning after breakfast, I crept into the closet, put my handunerringly into the one corner of the box, found no watch, and after anunavailing search, sat down in the dark on a bundle of rags, with thesensations of a ruined man. My world was withered up and gone. How theday passed, I cannot tell. How I got through my meals, I cannot evenimagine. When I look back and attempt to recall the time, I see but acloudy waste of misery crossed by the lightning-streaks of a sense ofinjury. All that was left me now was a cat-like watching for the chanceof going to my grandmother. Into her ear I would pour the tale of mywrong. She who had been as a haunting discomfort to me, had grown to bemy one consolation. 

My lessons went on as usual. A certain pride enabled me to learn themtolerably for a day or two; but when that faded, my whole being beganto flag. For some time my existence was a kind of life in death. Atlength one evening my uncle said to me, as we finished my lessons farfrom satisfactorily--

'Willie, your aunt and I think it better you should go to school. Weshall be very sorry to part with you, but it will be better. You willthen have companions of your own age. You have not enough to amuse youat home. '

He did not allude by a single word to the affair of the watch. Could myaunt have taken it, and never told him? It was not likely. 

I was delighted at the idea of any change, for my life had grownirksome to me. 

'Oh, thank you, uncle!' I cried, with genuine expression. 

I think he looked a little sad; but he uttered no reproach. 

My aunt and he had already arranged everything. The next day but one, Isaw, for the first time, a carriage drive up to the door of the house. I was waiting for it impatiently. My new clothes had all been packed ina little box. I had not put in a single toy: I cared for nothing I hadnow. The box was put up beside the driver. My aunt came to the doorwhere I was waiting for my uncle. 

'Mayn't I go and say good-bye to grannie?' I asked. 

'She's not very well to-day, ' said my aunt. 'I think you had betternot. You will be back at Christmas, you know. '

I was not so much grieved as I ought to have been. The loss of my watchhad made the thought of grannie painful again. 

'Your uncle will meet you at the road, ' continued my aunt, seeing mestill hesitate. 'Good-bye. '

I received her cold embrace without emotion, clambered into the chaise, and looking out as the driver shut the door, wondered what my aunt washolding her apron to her eyes for, as she turned away into the house. My uncle met us and got in, and away the chaise rattled, bearing metowards an utterly new experience; for hardly could the strangestregion in foreign lands be more unknown to the wandering mariner thanthe faces and ways of even my own kind were to me. I had never playedfor one half-hour with boy or girl. I knew nothing of their play-thingsor their games. I hardly knew what boys were like, except, outwardly, from the dim reflex of myself in the broken mirror in my bed-room, whose lustre was more of the ice than the pool, and, inwardly, from thepartly exceptional experiences of my own nature, with which even I waspoorly enough acquainted. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

I GO TO SCHOOL, AND GRANNIE LEAVES IT. 

It is an evil thing to break up a family before the natural period ofits dissolution. In the course of things, marriage, the necessities ofmaintenance, or the energies of labour guiding 'to fresh woods andpastures new, ' are the ordered causes of separation. 

Where the home is happy, much injury is done the children in sendingthem to school, except it be a day-school, whither they go in themorning as to the labours of the world, but whence they return at nightas to the heaven of repose. Conflict through the day, rest at night, isthe ideal. A day-school will suffice for the cultivation of thenecessary public or national spirit, without which the love of thefamily may degenerate into a merely extended selfishness, but which isitself founded upon those family affections. At the same time, it mustbe confessed that boarding-schools are, in many cases, an antidote tosome of the evil conditions which exist at home. 

To children whose home is a happy one, the exile to a school must bebitter. Mine, however, was an unusual experience. Leaving aside thespecially troubled state in which I was when thus carried to thevillage of Aldwick, I had few of the finer elements of the ideal homein mine. The love of my childish heart had never been drawn out. Mygrandmother had begun to do so, but her influence had been speedilyarrested. I was, as they say of cats, more attached to the place thanthe people, and no regrets whatever interfered to quell the excitementof expectation, wonder, and curiosity which filled me on the journey. The motion of the vehicle, the sound of the horses' hoofs, thetravellers we passed on the road--all seemed to partake of theexuberant life which swelled and overflowed in me. Everything was ashappy, as excited, as I was. 

When we entered the village, behold it was a region of glad tumult!Were there not three dogs, two carts, a maid carrying pails of water, and several groups of frolicking children in the street--not to mentionlive ducks, and a glimpse of grazing geese on the common? There werealso two mothers at their cottage-doors, each with a baby in her arms. I knew they were babies, although I had never seen a baby before. Andwhen we drove through the big wooden gate, and stopped at the door ofwhat had been the manor-house but was now Mr Elder's school, the aspectof the building, half-covered with ivy, bore to me a most friendlylook. Still more friendly was the face of the master's wife, whoreceived us in a low dark parlour, with a thick soft carpet and richred curtains. It was a perfect paradise to my imagination. Nor did theappearance of Mr Elder at all jar with the vision of coming happiness. His round, rosy, spectacled face bore in it no premonitory suggestionof birch or rod, and although I continued at his school for six years, I never saw him use either. If a boy required that kind of treatment, he sent him home. When my uncle left me, it was in more thancontentment with my lot. Nor did anything occur to alter my feelingwith regard to it. I soon became much attached to Mrs Elder. She wasjust the woman for a schoolmaster's wife--as full of maternity as shecould hold, but childless. By the end of the first day I thought Iloved her far more than my aunt. My aunt had done her duty towards me;but how was a child to weigh that? She had taken no trouble to make melove her; she had shown me none of the signs of affection, and I couldnot appreciate the proofs of it yet. 

I soon perceived a great difference between my uncle's way of teachingand that of Mr Elder. My uncle always appeared aware of somethingbehind which pressed upon, perhaps hurried, the fact he was making meunderstand. He made me feel, perhaps too much, that it was a mere steptowards something beyond. Mr Elder, on the other hand, placed everypoint in such a strong light that it seemed in itself of primaryconsequence. Both were, if my judgment after so many years be correct, admirable teachers--my uncle the greater, my school-master the moreimmediately efficient. As I was a manageable boy to the very verge ofweakness, the relations between us were entirely pleasant. 

There were only six more pupils, all of them sufficiently older thanmyself to be ready to pet and indulge me. No one who saw me mounted onthe back of the eldest, a lad of fifteen, and driving four of them inhand, while the sixth ran alongside as an outrider--could have wonderedthat I should find school better than home. Before the first day wasover, the sorrows of the lost watch and sword had vanished utterly. Forwhat was possession to being possessed? What was a watch, even had itbeen going, to the movements of life? To peep from the wicket in thegreat gate out upon the village street, with the well in the middle ofit, and a girl in the sunshine winding up the green dripping bucketfrom the unknown depths of coolness, was more than a thousand watches. But this was by no means the extent of my new survey of things. One ofthe causes of Mr Elder's keeping no boy who required chastisement washis own love of freedom, and his consequent desire to give the boys asmuch liberty out of school hours as possible. He believed in freedom. 'The great end of training, ' he said to me many years after, when hewas quite an old man, 'is liberty; and the sooner you can get a boy tobe a law to himself, the sooner you make a man of him. This end isimpossible without freedom. Let those who have no choice, or who havenot the same end in view, do the best they can with such boys as theyfind: I chose only such as could bear liberty. I never set up as areformer--only as an educator. For that kind of work others were morefit than I. It was not my calling. ' Hence Mr Elder no more allowedlabour to intrude upon play, than play to intrude upon labour. As soonas lessons were over, we were free to go where we would and do what wewould, under certain general restrictions, which had more to do withsocial proprieties than with school regulations. We roamed the countryfrom tea-time till sun-down; sometimes in the Summer long after that. Sometimes also on moonlit nights in Winter, occasionally even when thestars and the snow gave the only light, we were allowed the sameliberty until nearly bedtime. Before Christmas came, variety, exercise, and social blessedness had wrought upon me so that when I returnedhome, my uncle and aunt were astonished at the change in me. I hadgrown half a head, and the paleness, which they had considered apeculiar accident of my appearance, had given place to a rosy glow. Myflitting step too had vanished: I soon became aware that I made morenoise than my aunt liked, for in the old house silence was in its verytemple. My uncle, however, would only smile and say--

'Don't bring the place about our ears, Willie, my boy. I should like itto last my time. '

'I'm afraid, ' my aunt would interpose, 'Mr Elder doesn't keep very goodorder in his school. '

Then I would fire up in defence of the master, and my uncle would sitand listen, looking both pleased and amused. 

I had not been many moments in the house before I said--

'Mayn't I run up and see grannie, uncle?'

'I will go and see how she is, ' my aunt said, rising. 

She went, and presently returning, said

'Grannie seems a little better. You may come. She wants to see you. '

I followed her. When I entered the room and looked expectantly towardsher usual place, I found her chair empty. I turned to the bed. Thereshe was, and I thought she looked much the same; but when I camenearer, I perceived a change in her countenance. She welcomed mefeebly, stroked my hair and my cheeks, smiled sweetly, and closed hereyes. My aunt led me away. 

When bedtime came, I went to my own room, and was soon fast asleep. What roused me I do not know, but I awoke in the midst of the darkness, and the next moment I heard a groan. It thrilled me with horror. I satup in bed and listened, but heard no more. As I sat listening, heedlessof the cold, the explanation dawned upon me, for my powers ofreflection and combination had been developed by my enlarged experienceof life. In our many wanderings, I had learned to choose between roadsand to make conjectures from the _lie_ of the country. I had likewiselived in a far larger house than my home. Hence it now dawned upon me, for the first time, that grannie's room must be next to mine, althoughapproached from the other side, and that the groan must have been hers. She might be in need of help. I remembered at the same time how she hadwished to have me by her in the middle of the night, that she might beable to tell me what she could not recall in the day. I got up at once, dressed myself, and stole down the one stair, across the kitchen, andup the other. I gently opened grannie's door and peeped in. A fire wasburning in the room. I entered and approached the bed. I wondered how Ihad the courage; but children more than grown people are moved byunlikely impulses. Grannie lay breathing heavily. I stood for a moment. The faint light flickered over her white face. It was the middle of thenight, and the tide of fear inseparable from the night began to rise. My old fear of her began to return with it. But she lifted her lids, and the terror ebbed away. She looked at me, but did not seem to knowme. I went nearer. 

'Grannie, ' I said, close to her ear, and speaking low; 'you wanted tosee me at night--that was before I went to school. I'm here, grannie. '

The sheet was folded back so smooth that she could hardly have turnedover since it had been arranged for the night. Her hand was lying uponit. She lifted it feebly and stroked my cheek once more. Her lipsmurmured something which I could not hear, and then came a deep sigh, almost a groan. The terror returned when I found she could not speak tome. 

'Shall I go and fetch auntie?' I whispered. 

She shook her head feebly, and looked wistfully at me. Her lips movedagain. I guessed that she wanted me to sit beside her. I got a chair, placed it by the bedside, and sat down. She put out her hand, as ifsearching for something. I laid mine in it. She closed her fingers uponit and seemed satisfied. When I looked again, she was asleep andbreathing quietly. I was afraid to take my hand from hers lest I shouldwake her. I laid my head on the side of the bed, and was soon fastasleep also. 

I was awaked by a noise in the room. It was Nannie laying the fire. When she saw me she gave a cry of terror. 

'Hush, Nannie!' I said; 'you will wake grannie:' and as I spoke I rose, for I found my hand was free. 

'Oh, Master Willie!' said Nannie, in a low voice; 'how did you comehere? You sent my heart into my mouth. '

'Swallow it again, Nannie, ' I answered, 'and don't tell auntie. I cameto see grannie, and fell asleep. I'm rather cold. I'll go to bed now. Auntie's not up, is she?

'No. It's not time for anybody to be up yet. '

Nannie ought to have spent the night in grannie's room, for it was herturn to watch; but finding her nicely asleep as she thought, she hadslipped away for just an hour of comfort in bed. The hour had grown tothree. When she returned the fire was out. 

When I came down to breakfast the solemn look upon my uncle's facecaused me a foreboding of change. 

'God has taken grannie away in the night, Willie, ' said he, holding thehand I had placed in his. 

'Is she dead?' I asked. 

'Yes, ' he answered. 

'Oh, then, you will let her go to her grave now, won't you?' Isaid--the recollection of her old grievance coming first in associationwith her death, and occasioning a more childish speech than belonged tomy years. 

'Yes. She'll get to her grave now, ' said my aunt, with a trembling inher voice I had never heard before. 

'No, ' objected my uncle. 'Her body will go to the grave, but her soulwill go to heaven. '

'Her soul!' I said. 'What's that?'

'Dear me, Willie! don't you know that?' said my aunt. 'Don't you knowyou've got a soul as well as a body?'

'I'm sure _I_ haven't, ' I returned. 'What was grannie's like?'

'That I can't tell you, ' she answered. 

'Have you got one, auntie?'

'Yes. '

'What is yours like then?'

'I don't know. '

'But, ' I said, turning to my uncle, 'if her body goes to the grave, andher soul to heaven, what's to become of poor grannie--without either ofthem, you see?'

My uncle had been thinking while we talked. 

'That can't be the way to represent the thing, Jane; it puzzles thechild. No, Willie; grannie's body goes to the grave, but grannieherself is gone to heaven. What people call her soul is just grannieherself. '

'Why don't they say so, then?'

My uncle fell a-thinking again. He did not, however, answer this lastquestion, for I suspect he found that it would not be good for me toknow the real cause--namely, that people hardly believed it, andtherefore did not say it. Most people believe far more in their bodiesthan in their souls. What my uncle did say was--

'I hardly know. But grannie's gone to heaven anyhow. '

'I'm so glad!' I said. 'She will be more comfortable there. She was tooold, you know, uncle. '

He made no reply. My aunt's apron was covering her face, and when shetook it away, I observed that those eager almost angry eyes were redwith weeping. I began to feel a movement at my heart, the firstfluttering physical sign of a waking love towards her. 'Don't cry, auntie, ' I said. 'I don't see anything to cry about. Grannie has gotwhat she wanted. '

She made me no answer, and I sat down to my breakfast. I don't know howit was, but I could not eat it. I rose and took my way to the hollow inthe field. I felt a strange excitement, not sorrow. Grannie wasactually dead at last. I did not quite know what it meant. I had neverseen a dead body. Neither did I know that she had died while I sleptwith my hand in hers. Nannie, seeing something peculiar, had gone toher the moment I left the room, and had found her quite cold. Had webeen a talking family, I might have been uneasy until I had told thestory of my last interview with her; but I never thought of saying aword about it. I cannot help thinking now that I was waked up and sentto the old woman, my great-grandmother, in the middle of the night, tohelp her to die in comfort. Who knows? What we can neither prove norcomprehend forms, I suspect, the infinitely larger part of our being. 

When I was taken to see what remained of grannie, I experienced nothingof the dismay which some children feel at the sight of death. It was asif she had seen something just in time to leave the look of it behindher there, and so the final expression was a revelation. For a whilethere seems to remain this one link between some dead bodies and theirliving spirits. But my aunt, with a common superstition, would have metouch the face. That, I confess, made me shudder: the cold of death isso unlike any other cold! I seemed to feel it in my hand all the restof the day. 

I saw what seemed grannie--I am too near death myself to consent tocall a dead body the man or the woman--laid in the grave for which shehad longed, and returned home with a sense that somehow there was abarrier broken down between me and my uncle and aunt. I felt as near myuncle now as I had ever been. That evening he did not go to his ownroom, but sat with my aunt and me in the kitchen-hall. We pulled thegreat high-backed oaken settle before the fire, and my aunt made agreat blaze, for it was very cold. They sat one in each corner, and Isat between them, and told them many things concerning the school. Theyasked me questions and encouraged my prattle, seeming well pleased thatthe old silence should be broken. I fancy I brought them a littlenearer to each other that night. It was after a funeral, and yet theyboth looked happier than I had ever seen them before. 

CHAPTER IX. 

I SIN AND REPENT. 

The Christmas holidays went by more rapidly than I had expected. Ibetook myself with enlarged faculty to my book-mending, and more thanever enjoyed making my uncle's old volumes tidy. When I returned toschool, it was with real sorrow at parting from my uncle; and eventowards my aunt I now felt a growing attraction. 

I shall not dwell upon my school history. That would be to spin out mynarrative unnecessarily. I shall only relate such occurrences as areguide-posts in the direction of those main events which properlyconstitute my history. 

I had been about two years with Mr Elder. The usual holidays hadintervened, upon which occasions I found the pleasures of home somultiplied by increase of liberty and the enlarged confidence of myuncle, who took me about with him everywhere, that they were now almostcapable of rivalling those of school. But before I relate an incidentwhich occurred in the second Autumn, I must say a few words about mycharacter at this time. 

My reader will please to remember that I had never been driven, oroppressed in any way. The affair of the watch was quite an isolatedinstance, and so immediately followed by the change and fresh life ofschool that it had not left a mark behind. Nothing had yet occurred togenerate in me any fear before the face of man. I had been vaguelyuneasy in relation to my grandmother, but that uneasiness had almostvanished before her death. Hence the faith natural to childhood hadreceived no check. My aunt was at worst cold; she had never been harsh;while over Nannie I was absolute ruler. The only time that evil hadthreatened me, I had been faithfully defended by my guardian uncle. Atschool, while I found myself more under law, I yet found myselfpossessed of greater freedom. Every one was friendly and more thankind. From all this the result was that my nature was unusuallytrusting. 

We had a whole holiday, and, all seven, set out to enjoy ourselves. Itwas a delicious morning in Autumn, clear and cool, with a great lightin the east, and the west nowhere. Neither the autumnal tints nor thesharpening wind had any sadness in those young years which we call theold years afterwards. How strange it seems to have--all of us--to saywith the Jewish poet: I have been young, and now am old! A wood in thedistance, rising up the slope of a hill, was our goal, for we wereafter hazel-nuts. Frolicking, scampering, leaping over stiles, we feltthe road vanish under our feet. When we gained the wood, although wefailed in our quest we found plenty of amusement; that grew everywhere. At length it was time to return, and we resolved on going home byanother road--one we did not know. 

After walking a good distance, we arrived at a gate and lodge, where westopped to inquire the way. A kind-faced woman informed us that weshould shorten it much by going through the park, which, as we seemedrespectable boys, she would allow us to do. We thanked her, entered, and went walking along a smooth road, through open sward, clumps oftrees and an occasional piece of artful neglect in the shape of roughhillocks covered with wild shrubs, such as brier and broom. It was verydelightful, and we walked along merrily. I can yet recall theindividual shapes of certain hawthorn trees we passed, whose extremeage had found expression in a wild grotesqueness which would have beenridiculous but for a dim, painful resemblance to the distortion of oldage in the human family. 

After walking some distance, we began to doubt whether we might nothave missed the way to the gate of which the woman had spoken. For awall appeared, which, to judge from the tree-tops visible over it, mustsurround a kitchen garden or orchard; and from this we feared we hadcome too nigh the house. We had not gone much further before a branch, projecting over the wall, from whose tip, as if the tempter had goneback to his old tricks, hung a rosy-cheeked apple, drew our eyes andarrested our steps. There are grown people who cannot, without aneffort of the imagination, figure to themselves the attraction betweena boy and an apple; but I suspect there are others the memories ofwhose boyish freaks will render it yet more difficult for them tounderstand a single moment's contemplation of such an object withoutthe endeavour to appropriate it. To them the boy seems made for theapple, and the apple for the boy. Rosy, round-faced, spectacled MrElder, however, had such a fine sense of honour in himself that he hadbeen to a rare degree successful in developing a similar sense in hisboys, and I do believe that not one of us would, under anycircumstances, except possibly those of terrifying compulsion, havepulled that apple. We stood in rapt contemplation for a few moments, and then walked away. But although there are no degrees in Virtue, whowill still demand her uttermost farthing, there are degrees in thevirtuousness of human beings. 

As we walked away, I was the last, and was just passing from under thebranch when something struck the ground at my heel. I turned. An applemust fall some time, and for this apple that some time was then. It layat my feet. I lifted it and stood gazing at it--I need not say withadmiration. My mind fell a-working. The adversary was there, and theangel too. The apple had dropped at my feet; I had not pulled it. Thereit would lie wasting, if some one with less right than I--said theprince of special pleaders--was not the second to find it. Besides, what fell in the road was public property. Only this was not a publicroad, the angel reminded me. My will fluttered from side to side, nowturning its ear to my conscience, now turning away and hearkening to myimpulse. At last, weary of the strife, I determined to settle it by ajust contempt of trifles--and, half in desperation, bit into the ruddycheek. 

The moment I saw the wound my teeth had made, I knew what I had done, and my heart died within me. I was self-condemned. It was a new and anawful sensation--a sensation that could not be for a moment endured. The misery was too intense to leave room for repentance even. With asudden resolve born of despair, I shoved the type of the broken lawinto my pocket and followed my companions. But I kept at some distancebehind them, for as yet I dared not hold further communication withrespectable people. I did not, and do not now, believe that there wasone amongst them who would have done as I had done. Probably also notone of them would have thought of my way of deliverance fromunendurable self-contempt. The curse had passed upon me, but I saw away of escape. 

A few yards further, they found the road we thought we had missed. Itstruck off into a hollow, the sides of which were covered with trees. As they turned into it they looked back and called me to come on. I ranas if I wanted to overtake them, but the moment they were out of sight, left the road for the grass, and set off at full speed in the samedirection as before. I had not gone far before I was in the midst oftrees, overflowing the hollow in which my companions had disappeared, and spreading themselves over the level above. As I entered theirshadow, my old awe of the trees returned upon me--an awe I had nearlyforgotten, but revived by my crime. I pressed along, however, for toturn back would have been more dreadful than any fear. At length, witha sudden turn, the road left the trees behind, and what a scene openedbefore me! I stood on the verge of a large space of greensward, smoothand well-kept as a lawn, but somewhat irregular in surface. From allsides it rose towards the centre. There a broad, low rock seemed togrow out of it, and upon the rock stood the lordliest house my childisheyes had ever beheld. Take situation and all, and I have scarcely yetbeheld one to equal it. Half castle, half old English country seat, itcovered the rock with a huge square of building, from various parts ofwhich rose towers, mostly square also, of different heights. I stoodfor one brief moment entranced with awful delight. A building which hasgrown for ages, the outcome of the life of powerful generations, hasabout it a majesty which, in certain moods, is overpowering. For onebrief moment I forgot my sin and its sorrow. But memory awoke with afresh pang. To this lordly place I, poor miserable sinner, was a debtorby wrong and shame. Let no one laugh at me because my sin was small: itwas enough for me, being that of one who had stolen for the first time, and that without previous declension, and searing of the conscience. Ihurried towards the building, anxiously looking for some entrance. 

I had approached so near that, seated on its rock, it seemed to shootits towers into the zenith, when, rounding a corner, I came to a partwhere the height sank from the foundation of the house to the level bya grassy slope, and at the foot of the slope espied an elderlygentleman, in a white hat, who stood with his hands in hisbreeches-pockets, looking about him. He was tall and stout, and carriedhimself in what seemed to me a stately manner. As I drew near him Ifelt somewhat encouraged by a glimpse of his face, which was rubicundand, I thought, good-natured; but, approaching him rather from behind, I could not see it well. When I addressed him he started, 'Please, sir, ' I said, 'is this your house?'

'Yes, my man; it is my house, ' he answered, looking down on me withbent neck, his hands still in his pockets. 

'Please, sir, ' I said, but here my voice began to tremble, and he grewdim and large through the veil of my gathering tears. I hesitated. 

'Well, what do you want?' he asked, in a tone half jocular, half kind. 

I made a great effort and recovered my self-possession. 

'Please, sir, ' I repeated, 'I want you to box my ears. '

'Well, you are a funny fellow! What should I box your ears for, pray?'

'Because I've been very wicked, ' I answered; and, putting my hand intomy pocket, I extracted the bitten apple, and held it up to him. 

'Ho! ho!' he said, beginning to guess what I must mean, but hardly theless bewildered for that; 'is that one of my apples?'

'Yes, sir. It fell down from a branch that hung over the wall. I tookit up, and--and--I took a bite of it, and--and--I'm so sorry!'

Here I burst into a fit of crying which I choked as much as I could. Iremember quite well how, as I stood holding out the apple, my arm wouldshake with the violence of my sobs. 

'I'm not fond of bitten apples, ' he said. 'You had better eat it upnow. '

This brought me to myself. If he had shown me sympathy, I should havegone on crying. 

'I would rather not. Please box my ears. '

'I don't want to box your ears. You're welcome to the apple. Only don'ttake what's not your own another time. ' 'But, please, sir, I'm somiserable!'

'Home with you! and eat your apple as you go, ' was his unconsolingresponse. 

'I can't eat it; I'm so ashamed of myself. '

'When people do wrong, I suppose they must be ashamed of themselves. That's all right, isn't it?'

'Why won't you box my ears, then?' I persisted. 

 [Illustration: "HERE IS A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, MRS. WILSON, WHO SEEMS TOHAVE LOST HIS WAY. "]

It was my sole but unavailing prayer. He turned away towards the house. My trouble rose to agony. I made some wild motion of despair, and threwmyself on the grass. He turned, looked at me for a moment in silence, and then said in a changed tone--

'My boy, I am sorry for you. I beg you will not trouble yourself anymore. The affair is not worth it. Such a trifle! What can I do foryou?'

I got up. A new thought of possible relief had crossed my mind. 

'Please, sir, if you won't box my ears, will you shake hands with me?'

'To be sure I will, ' he answered, holding out his hand, and giving minea very kindly shake. 'Where do you live?'

'I am at school at Aldwick, at Mr Elder's. '

'You're a long way from home!'

'Am I, sir? Will you tell me how to go? But it's of no consequence. Idon't mind anything now you've forgiven me. I shall soon run home. '

'Come with me first. You must have something to eat. '

I wanted nothing to eat, but how could I oppose anything he said? Ifollowed him at once, drying my eyes as I went. He led me to a greatgate which I had passed before, and opening a wicket, took me across acourt, and through another building where I saw many servants goingabout; then across a second court, which was paved with large flags, and so to a door which he opened, calling--

'Mrs Wilson! Mrs Wilson! I want you a moment. '

'Yes, Sir Giles, ' answered a tall, stiff-looking elderly woman whopresently appeared descending, with upright spine, a corkscrewstaircase of stone. 

'Here is a young gentleman, Mrs Wilson, who seems to have lost his way. He is one of Mr Elder's pupils at Aldwick. Will you get him somethingto eat and drink, and then send him home?'

'I will, Sir Giles. '

'Good-bye, my man, ' said Sir Giles, again shaking hands with me. Thenturning anew to the housekeeper, for such I found she was, he added:

'Couldn't you find a bag for him, and fill it with some of those brownpippins? They're good eating, ain't they?'

'With pleasure, Sir Giles. '

Thereupon Sir Giles withdrew, closing the door behind him, and leavingme with the sense of life from the dead. 

'What's your name, young gentleman?' asked Mrs Wilson, with, I thought, some degree of sternness. 

'Wilfrid Cumbermede, ' I answered. 

She stared at me a little, with a stare which would have been a startin most women. I was by this time calm enough to take a quiet look ather. She was dressed in black silk, with a white neckerchief crossingin front, and black mittens on her hands. After gazing at me fixedlyfor a moment or two, she turned away and ascended the stair, which wentup straight from the door, saying--

'Come with me, Master Cumbermede. You must have some tea before yougo. '

I obeyed, and followed her into a long, low-ceiled room, wainscottedall over in panels, with a square moulding at the top, which served fora cornice. The ceiling was ornamented with plaster reliefs. The windowslooked out, on one side into the court, on the other upon the park. Thefloor was black and polished like a mirror, with bits of carpet hereand there, and a rug before the curious, old-fashioned grate, where alittle fire was burning and a small kettle boiling fiercely on the topof it. The tea-tray was already on the table. She got another cup andsaucer, added a pot of jam to the preparations, and said:

'Sit down and have some bread and butter, while I make the tea. '

She cut me a great piece of bread, and then a great piece of butter, and I lost no time in discovering that the quality was worthy of thequantity. Mrs Wilson kept a grave silence for a good while. At last, asshe was pouring out the second cup, she looked at me over the teapot, and said--

'You don't remember your mother, I suppose, Master Cumbermede?'

'No, ma'am. I never saw my mother. '

'Within your recollection, you mean. But you must have seen her, foryou were two years old when she died. '

'Did you know my mother, then, ma'am?' I asked, but without any greatsurprise, for the events of the day had been so much out of theordinary that I had for the time almost lost the faculty of wonder. 

She compressed her thin lips, and a perpendicular wrinkle appeared inthe middle of her forehead, as she answered--

'Yes; I knew your mother. '

'She was very good, wasn't she, ma'am?' I said, with my mouth full ofbread and butter. 

'Yes. Who told you that?'

'I was sure of it. Nobody ever told me. '

'Did they never talk to you about her?'

'No, ma'am. '

'So you are at Mr Elder's, are you?' she said, after another longpause, during which I was not idle, for my trouble being gone I couldnow be hungry. 

'Yes, ma'am. '

'How did you come here, then?'

'I walked with the rest of the boys; but they are gone home withoutme. '

Thanks to the kindness of Sir Giles, my fault had already withdrawn sofar into the past, that I wished to turn my back upon it altogether. Isaw no need for confessing it to Mrs Wilson; and there was none. 

'Did you lose your way?'

'No, ma'am. '

'What brought you here, then? I suppose you wanted to see the place. '

'The woman at the lodge told us the nearest way was through the park. '

I quite expected she would go on cross-questioning me, and then all thetruth would have had to come out. But to my great relief, she went nofurther, only kept eyeing me in a manner so oppressive as to compel meto eat bread and butter and strawberry jam with self-defensiveeagerness. I presume she trusted to find out the truth by-and-by. Shecontented herself in the mean time with asking questions about my uncleand aunt, the farm, the school, and Mr and Mrs Elder, all in a cold, stately, refraining manner, with two spots of red in her face--one oneach cheek-bone, and a thin rather peevish nose dividing them. But herforehead was good, and when she smiled, which was not often, her eyesshone. Still, even I, with my small knowledge of womankind, was dimlyaware that she was feeling her way with me, and I did not like hermuch. 

'Have you nearly done?' she asked at length. 

'Yes, quite, thank you, ' I answered. 

'Are you going back to school to-night?'

'Yes, ma'am; of course. '

'How are you going?'

'If you will tell me the way--'

'Do you know how far you are from Aldwick?'

'No, ma'am. '

'Eight miles, ' she answered; 'and it's getting rather late. '

I was seated opposite the windows to the park, and, looking up, sawwith some dismay that the air was getting dusky. I rose at once, saying--

'I must make haste. They will think I am lost. '

'But you can never walk so far, Master Cumbermede. '

'Oh, but I must! I can't help it. I must get back as fast as possible. '

'You never can walk such a distance. Take another bit of cake while Igo and see what can be done. '

Another piece of cake being within the bounds of possibility, I mightat least wait and see what Mrs Wilson's design was. She left the room, and I turned to the cake. In a little while she came back, sat down, and went on talking. I was beginning to get quite uneasy, when a maidput her head in at the door, and said--

'Please, Mrs Wilson, the dog-cart's ready, ma'am. '

'Very well, ' replied Mrs Wilson, and turning to me, said--more kindlythan she had yet spoken--

'Now, Master Cumbermede, you must come and see me again. I'm too busyto spare much time when the family is at home; but they are all goingaway the week after next, and if you will come and see me then, I shallbe glad to show you over the house. '

As she spoke she rose and led the way from the room, and out of thecourt by another gate from that by which I had entered. At the bottomof a steep descent, a groom was waiting with the dog-cart. 

'Here, James, ' said Mrs Wilson, 'take good care of the young gentleman, and put him down safe at Mr Elder's. Master Wilfrid, you'll find ahamper of apples underneath. You had better not eat them all yourself, you know. Here are two or three for you to eat by the way. '

'Thank you, Mrs Wilson. No; I'm not quite so greedy as that, ' Ianswered gaily, for my spirits were high at the notion of a ride in thedog-cart instead of a long and dreary walk. 

When I was fairly in, she shook hands with me, reminding me that I wasto visit her soon, and away went the dog-cart behind a high-steppinghorse. I had never before been in an open vehicle of any higherdescription than a cart, and the ride was a great delight. We went adifferent road from that which my companions had taken. It lay throughtrees all the way till we were out of the park. 

'That's the land-steward's house, ' said James. 

'Oh, is it?' I returned, not much interested. 'What great trees thoseare all about it. '

'Yes; they're the finest elms in all the county those, ' he answered. 'Old Coningham knew what he was about when he got the last baronet tolet him build his nest there. Here we are at the gate!'

We came out upon a country road, which ran between the wall of the parkand a wooden fence along a field of grass. I offered James one of myapples, which he accepted. 

'There, now!' he said, 'there's a field!--A right good bit o' grassthat! Our people has wanted to throw it into the park for hundreds ofyears. But they won't part with it for love or money. It ought byrights to be ours, you see, by the lie of the country. It's all onegrass with the park. But I suppose them as owns it ain't of the samemind. --Cur'ous old box!' he added, pointing with his whip a long wayoff. 'You can just see the roof of it. '

I looked in the direction he pointed. A rise in the ground hid all butan ancient, high-peaked roof. What was my astonishment to discover init the roof of my own home! I was certain it could be no other. Itcaused a strange sensation, to come upon it thus from the outside, asit were, when I thought myself miles and miles away from it, I fella-pondering over the matter; and as I reflected, I became convincedthat the trees from which we had just emerged were the same which usedto churn the wind for my childish fancies. I did not feel inclined toshare my feelings with my new acquaintance; but presently he put hiswhip in the socket and fell to eating his apple. There was nothing morein the conversation he afterwards resumed deserving of record. Hepulled up at the gate of the school, where I bade him good-night andrang the bell. 

There was great rejoicing over me when I entered, for the boys hadarrived without me a little while before, having searched all about theplace where we had parted company, and come at length to the conclusionthat I had played them a trick in order to get home without them, therehaving been some fun on the road concerning my local stupidity. MrElder, however, took me to his own room, and read me a lecture on thenecessity of not abusing my privileges. I told him the whole affairfrom beginning to end, and thought he behaved very oddly. He turnedaway every now and then, blew his nose, took off his spectacles, wipedthem carefully, and replaced them before turning again to me. 

'Go on, go on, my boy. I'm listening, ' he would say. 

I cannot tell whether he was laughing or crying. I suspect both. When Ihad finished, he said, very solemnly--

'Wilfrid, you have had a narrow escape. I need not tell you how wrongyou were about the apple, for you know that as well as I do. But youdid the right thing when your eyes were opened. I am greatly pleasedwith you, and greatly obliged to Sir Giles. I will write and thank himthis very night. '

'Please, sir, ought I to tell the boys? I would rather not. '

'No. I do not think it necessary. '

He rose and rang the bell. 

'Ask Master Fox to step this way. '

Fox was the oldest boy, and was on the point of leaving. 

'Fox, ' said Mr Elder, 'Cumbermede has quite satisfied me. Will youoblige me by asking him no questions. I am quite aware such a requestmust seem strange, but I have good reasons for making it, '

'Very well, sir, ' said Fox, glancing at me. 

'Take him with you, then, and tell the rest. It is as a favour tomyself that I put it, Fox. '

'That is quite enough, sir. '

Fox took me to Mrs Elder, and had a talk with the rest before I sawthem. Some twenty years after, Fox and I had it out. I gave him a fullexplanation, for by that time I could smile over the affair. But whatdoes the object matter?--an apple, or a thousand pounds? It is but thepeg on which the act hangs. The act is everything. 

To the honour of my school-fellows I record that not one of them everlet fall a hint in the direction of the mystery. Neither did Mr or MrsElder once allude to it. If possible they were kinder than before. 

CHAPTER X. 

I BUILD CASTLES. 

My companions had soon found out, and I think the discovery hadsomething to do with the kindness they always showed me, that I was agood hand at spinning a yarn: the nautical phrase had got naturalizedin the school. We had no chance, if we would have taken it, of spendingany part of school-hours in such a pastime; but it formed an unfailingamusement when weather or humour interfered with bodily exercises. Norwere we debarred from the pleasure after we had retired for thenight, --only, as we were parted in three rooms, I could not have alarge audience then. I well remember, however, one occasion on which itwas otherwise. The report of a super-excellent invention having goneabroad, one by one they came creeping into my room, after I and mycompanion were in bed, until we lay three in each bed, all beingpresent but Fox. At the very heart of the climax, when a spectre wasappearing and disappearing momently with the drawing in and sending outof his breath, so that you could not tell the one moment where he mightshow himself the next, Mr Elder walked into the room with hischamber-candle in his hand, straightway illuminating six countenancespale with terror--for I took my full share of whatever emotion I rousedin the rest. But instead of laying a general interdict on the custom, he only said, 'Come, come, boys! it's time you were asleep. Go to your roomsdirectly. '

'Please, sir, ' faltered one--Moberly by name--the dullest and mosthonourable boy, to my thinking, amongst us, 'mayn't I stay where I am?Cumbermede has put me all in a shiver. '

Mr Elder laughed, and turning to me, asked with his usual good-humour, 'How long will your story take, Cumbermede?'

'As long as you please, sir, ' I answered. 

'I can't let you keep them awake all night, you know. '

'There's no fear of that, sir, ' I replied. 'Moberly would have beenasleep long ago if it hadn't been a ghost. Nothing keeps him awake butghosts. '

'Well, is the ghost nearly done with?'

'Not quite, sir. The worst is to come yet. '

'Please, sir, ' interposed Moberly, 'if you'll let me stay where I am, I'll turn round on my deaf ear, and won't listen to a word more of it. It's awful, I do assure you, sir. ' Mr Elder laughed again. 

'No, no, ' he said. 'Make haste and finish your story, Cumbermede, andlet them go to sleep. You, Moberly, may stay where you are for thenight, but I can't have this made a practice of. '

'No, no, sir, ' said several at once. 

'But why don't you tell your stories by daylight, Cumbermede? I'm sureyou have time enough for them then. '

'Oh, but he's got one going for the day and another for the night. '

'Then do you often lie three in a bed?' asked Mr Elder with someconcern. 

'Oh no, sir. Only this is an extra good one, you see. '

Mr Elder laughed again, bade us good-night, and left us. The horror, however, was broken. I could not call up one 'shiver more, and in a fewminutes Moberly, as well as his two companions, had slipped away toroomier quarters. 

The material of the tales I told my companions was in part suppliedfrom some of my uncle's old books, for in his little library there weremore than the _Arcadia_ of the same sort. But these had not merelyafforded me the stuff to remodel and imitate; their spirit had wroughtupon my spirit, and armour and war-horses and mighty swords were onlythe instruments with which faithful knights wrought honourable deeds. 

I had a tolerably clear perception that such deeds could not be done inour days; that there were no more dragons lying in the woods: and thatladies did not now fall into the hands of giants. But I had the witnessof an eternal impulse in myself that noble deeds had yet to be done, and therefore might be done, although I knew not how. Hence a feelingof the dignity of ancient descent, as involving association with greatmen and great actions of old, and therefore rendering such moreattainable in the future, took deep root in my mind. Aware of thehumbleness of my birth, and unrestrained by pride in my parents--I hadlost them so early--I would indulge in many a day-dream of what I wouldgladly have been. I would ponder over the delights of having a history, and how grand it would be to find I was descended from some far-awayknight who had done deeds of high emprise. In such moods therecollection of the old sword that had vanished from the wall wouldreturn: indeed the impression it had made upon me may have been at theroot of it all. How I longed to know the story of it! But it had goneto the grave with grannie. If my uncle or aunt knew it, I had no hopeof getting it from either of them; for I was certain they had nosympathy with any such fancies as mine. My favourite invention, one forwhich my audience was sure to call when I professed incompetence, andwhich I enlarged and varied every time I returned to it, was of a youthin humble life who found at length he was of far other origin then hehad supposed. I did not know then, that the fancy, not uncommon withboys, has its roots in the deepest instincts of our human nature. Ineed not add that I had not yet read Jean Paul's _Titan, or Hesperus, or Comet_. 

This tendency of thought-received a fresh impulse from my visit toMoldwarp Hall, as I choose to name the great house whither myrepentance had led me. It was the first I had ever seen to wake thesense of the mighty antique. My home was, no doubt, older than someparts of the hall; but the house we are born in never looks older thanthe last generation until we begin to compare it with others. By thistime, what I had learned of the history of my country, and the generalgrowth of the allied forces of my intellect, had rendered me capable offeeling the hoary eld of the great Hall. Henceforth it had a part inevery invention of my boyish imagination. 

I was therefore not undesirous of keeping the half-engagement I hadmade with Mrs Wilson, but it was not she that drew me. With all herkindness, she had not attracted me, for cupboard-love is not the sole, or always the most powerful, operant on the childish mind: it is ingeneral stronger in men than in either children or women. I wouldrather not see Mrs Wilson again--she had fed my body, she had notwarmed my heart. It was the grand old house that attracted me. True, itwas associated with shame, but rather with the recovery from it thanwith the fall itself; and what memorials of ancient grandeur andknightly ways must lie within those walls, to harmonize with my manydreams!

On the next holiday, Mr Elder gave me a ready permission to revisitMoldwarp Hall. I had made myself acquainted with the nearest way bycrossroads and footpaths, and full of expectation, set out with mycompanions. They accompanied me the greater part of the distance, andleft me at a certain gate, the same by which they had come out of thepark on the day of my first visit. I was glad when they were gone, forI could then indulge my excited fancy at will. I heard their voicesdraw away into the distance. I was alone on a little footpath which ledthrough a wood. All about me were strangely tall and slender oaks; butas I advanced into the wood, the trees grew more various, and in someof the opener spaces great old oaks, short and big-headed, stretchedout their huge shadow-filled arms in true oak-fashion. The ground wasuneven, and the path led up and down over hollow and hillock, nowcrossing a swampy bottom, now climbing the ridge of a rocky eminence. It was a lovely forenoon, with grey-blue sky and white clouds. The sunshone plentifully into the wood, for the leaves were thin. They hunglike clouds of gold and royal purple above my head, layer over layer, with the blue sky and the snowy clouds shining through. On the groundit was a world of shadows and sunny streaks, kept ever in interfluentmotion by such a wind as John Skelton describes:

 'There blew in that gardynge a soft piplyng cold Enbrethyng of Zepherus with his pleasant wynde. '

I went merrily along. The birds were not singing, but my heart did notneed them. It was Spring-time there, whatever it might be in the world. The heaven of my childhood wanted no lark to make it gay. Had the treesbeen bare, and the frost shining on the ground, it would have been allthe same. The sunlight was enough. 

I was standing on the root of a great beech-tree, gazing up into thegulf of its foliage, and watching the broken lights playing about inthe leaves and leaping from twig to branch, like birds yet more goldenthan the leaves, when a voice startled me. 

'You're not looking for apples in a beech-tree, hey? it said. 

I turned instantly, with my heart in a flutter. To my great relief Isaw that the speaker was not Sir Giles, and that probably no allusionwas intended. But my first apprehension made way only for another pang, for, although I did not know the man, a strange dismay shot through meat sight of him. His countenance was associated with an undefined butpainful fact that lay crouching in a dusky hollow of my memory. I hadno time now to entice it into the light of recollection. I took heartand spoke. 

'No, ' I answered; 'I was only watching the sun on the leaves. '

'Very pretty, ain't it? Ah, it's lovely! It's quite beautiful--ain't itnow? You like good timber, don't you? Trees, I mean?' he explained, aware, I suppose, of some perplexity on my countenance. 

'Yes, ' I answered. 'I like big old ones best. '

'Yes, yes, ' he returned, with an energy that sounded strange andjarring to my mood; 'big old ones, that have stood for ages--themonarchs of the forest. Saplings ain't bad things either, though. Butold ones are best. Just come here, and I'll show you one worth lookingat. _It_ wasn't planted yesterday, _I_ can tell you. '

I followed him along the path, until we came out of the wood. Beyond usthe ground rose steep and high, and was covered with trees; but here inthe hollow it was open. A stream ran along between us and the height. On this side of the stream stood a mighty tree, towards which mycompanion led me. It was an oak, with such a bushy head and such greatroots rising in serpent rolls and heaves above the ground, that thestem looked stunted between them. 

'There!' said my companion; 'there's a tree! there's something like atree! How a man must feel to call a tree like that his own! That'sQueen Elizabeth's oak. It is indeed. England is dotted with would-beQueen Elizabeth's oaks; but there is the very oak which she admired somuch that she ordered luncheon to be served under it. .. . Ah! she knewthe value of timber--did good Queen Bess. _That's_ now--now--let mesee--the year after the Armada--nine from fifteen--ah well, somewhereabout two hundred and thirty years ago. '

'How lumpy and hard it looks!' I remarked. 

'That's the breed and the age of it, ' he returned. 'The wonder to me isthey don't turn to stone and last for ever, those trees. Ah! there'ssomething to live for now!'

He had turned away to resume his walk, but as he finished the sentence, he turned again towards the tree, and shook his finger at it, as ifreproaching it for belonging to somebody else than himself. 

'Where are you going now?' he asked, wheeling round upon me sharply, with a keen look in his magpie-eyes, as the French would call them, which hardly corresponded with the bluntness of his address. 

'I'm going to the Hall, ' I answered, turning away. 

'You'll never get there that way. How are you to cross the river?'

'I don't know. I've never been this way before. '

'You've been to the Hall before, then? Whom do you know there?'

'Mrs Wilson, ' I answered. 

'H'm! Ah! You know Mrs Wilson, do you? Nice woman, Mrs Wilson!'

He said this as if he meant the opposite. 

'Here, ' he went on--'come with me. I'll show you the way. '

I obeyed, and followed him along the bank of the stream. 

'What a curious bridge!' I exclaimed, as we came in sight of an ancientstructure lifted high in the middle on the point of a Gothic arch. 

'Yes, ain't it? he said. 'Curious? I should think so! And well it maybe! It's as old as the oak there at least. There's a bridge now for aman like Sir Giles to call his own!'

'He can't keep it though, ' I said, moralizing; for, in carrying on thethreads of my stories, I had come to see that no climax could last forever. 

'Can't keep it! He could carry off every stone of it if he liked. '

'Then it wouldn't be the bridge any longer. '

'You're a sharp one, ' he said. 

'I don't know, ' I answered, truly enough. I seemed to myself to betalking sense, that was all. 

'Well, I do. What do you mean by saying he couldn't keep it?'

'It's been a good many people's already, and it'll be somebody else'ssome day, ' I replied. 

He did not seem to relish the suggestion, for he gave a kind of grunt, which gradually broke into a laugh as he answered, 'Likely enough! likely enough!'

We had now come round to the end of the bridge, and I saw that it wasfar more curious than I had perceived before. 

'Why is it so narrow?' I asked, wonderingly, for it was not three feetwide, and had a parapet of stone about three feet high on each side ofit. 

'Ah!' he replied, 'that's it, you see. As old as the hills. It wasbuilt, _this_ bridge was, before ever a carriage was made--yes, beforeever a carrier's cart went along a road. They carried everything thenupon horses' backs. They call this the pack-horse bridge. You seethere's room for the horses' legs, and their loads could stick out overthe parapets. That's the way they carried everything to the Hall then. That was a few years before _you_ were born, young gentleman. '

'But they couldn't get their legs--the horses, I mean--couldn't gettheir legs through this narrow opening, ' I objected; for a flat stonealmost blocked up each end. 

'No; that's true enough. But those stones have been up only a hundredyears or so. They didn't want it for pack-horses any more then, and thestones were put up to keep the cattle, with which at some time or otherI suppose some thrifty owner had stocked the park, from crossing tothis meadow. That would be before those trees were planted up there. '

When we had crossed the stream, he stopped at the other end of thebridge and said, 'Now, you go that way--up the hill. There's a kind of path, if you canfind it, but it doesn't much matter. Good morning. '

He walked away down the bank of the stream, while I struck into thewood. 

When I reached the top, and emerged from the trees that skirted theridge, there stood the lordly Hall before me, shining in autumnalsunlight, with gilded vanes and diamond-paned windows, as if it were arock against which the gentle waves of the sea of light rippled andbroke in flashes. When you looked at its foundation, which seemed tohave torn its way up through the clinging sward, you could not tellwhere the building began and the rock ended. In some parts indeed therock was wrought into the walls of the house; while in others it wasfaced up with stone and mortar. My heart beat high with vaguerejoicing. Grand as the aged oak had looked, here was a grandergrowth--a growth older too than the oak, and inclosing within it athousand histories. 

I approached the gate by which Mrs Wilson had dismissed me. A flight ofrude steps cut in the rock led to the portcullis, which still hung, nowfixed in its place in front of the gate; for though the Hall had noexternal defences, it had been well fitted for the half-sieges oftroublous times. A modern mansion stands, with its broad sweep up tothe wide door, like its hospitable owner in full dress andbroad-bosomed shirt on his own hearth-rug: this ancient house stoodwith its back to the world, like one of its ancient owners, ready toride, in morion, breast-plate, and jack-boots--yet not armed_cap-à-pie_, not like a walled castle, that is. 

I ascended the steps, and stood before the arch--filled with a greatiron-studded oaken gate--which led through a square tower into thecourt. I stood gazing for some minutes before I rang the bell. Twothings in particular I noticed. The first was--over the arch of thedoorway, amongst others--one device very like the animal's head uponthe watch and the seal which my great-grandmother had given me. I couldnot be sure it was the same, for the shape--both in the stone and in mymemory--was considerably worn. The other interested me far more. Inthe great gate was a small wicket, so small that there was hardly roomfor me to pass without stooping. A thick stone threshold lay before it. The spot where the right foot must fall in stepping out of the wicketwas worn into the shape of a shoe, to the depth of between three andfour inches I should judge, vertically into the stone. The deepfoot-mould conveyed to me a sense of the coming and going ofgenerations, such as I could not gather from the age-worn walls of thebuilding. 

A great bell-handle at the end of a jointed iron-rod hung down by theside of the wicket. I rang. An old woman opened the wicket, and allowedme to enter. I thought I remembered the way to Mrs Wilson's door wellenough, but when I ascended the few broad steps, curved to the shape ofthe corner in which the entrance stood, and found myself in the flaggedcourt, I was bewildered, and had to follow the retreating portress fordirections. A word set me right, and I was soon in Mrs Wilson'spresence. She received me kindly, and expressed her satisfaction that Ihad kept what she was pleased to consider my engagement. 

After some refreshment and a little talk, Mrs Wilson said, 'Now, Master Cumbermede, would you like to go and see the gardens, ortake a walk in the park and look at the deer?'

'Please, Mrs Wilson, ' I returned, 'you promised to show me the house. '

'You would like that, would you?'

'Yes, ' I answered, --'better than anything. '

'Come, then, ' she said, and took a bunch of keys from the wall. 'Someof the rooms I lock up when the family's away. '

It was a vast place. Roughly it may be described as a large oblongwhich the great hall, with the kitchen and its offices, divided intotwo square courts--the one flagged, the other gravelled. A passagedividing the hall from the kitchen led through from the one court tothe other. We entered this central portion through a small tower; and, after a peep at the hall, ascended to a room above the entrance, accessible from an open gallery which ran along two sides of the hall. The room was square, occupying the area-space of the little entrancetower. To my joyous amazement, its walls were crowded with swords, daggers--weapons in endless variety, mingled with guns and pistols, forwhich I cared less. Some which had hilts curiously carved and evenjewelled, seemed of foreign make. Their character was different fromthat of the rest; but most were evidently of the same family with theone sword I knew. Mrs Wilson could tell me nothing about them. All sheknew was that this was the armoury, and that Sir Giles had a book withsomething written in it about every one of the weapons. They were nochance collection: each had a history. I gazed in wonder and delight. Above the weapons hung many pieces of armour--no entire suits, however;of those there were several in the hall below. Finding that Mrs Wilsondid not object to my handling the weapons within my reach, I was soonso much absorbed in the examination of them that I started when shespoke. 

'You shall come again, Master Cumbermede, ' she said. 'We must go now. 'I replaced a Highland broadsword, and turned to follow her. She wasevidently pleased with the alacrity of my obedience, and for the firsttime bestowed on me a smile as she led the way from the armoury byanother door. To my enhanced delight this door led into the library. Gladly would I have lingered, but Mrs Wilson walked on, and I followedthrough rooms and rooms, low-pitched, and hung with tapestry, somecarpeted, some floored with black polished oak, others with some kindof cement or concrete, all filled with ancient furniture whose veryaspect was a speechless marvel. Out of one into another, along endlesspassages, up and down winding stairs, now looking from the summit of alofty tower upon terraces and gardens below--now lost in gloomy arches, again out upon acres of leads, and now bathed in the sweet gloom of theancient chapel with its stained windows of that old glass which seemsnothing at first, it is so modest and harmonious, but which for thatvery reason grows into a poem in the brain: you see it last and love itbest--I followed with unabating delight. 

When at length Mrs Wilson said I had seen the whole, I begged her tolet me go again into the library, for she had not given me a moment tolook at it. She consented. 

It was a part of the house not best suited for the purpose, connectedwith the armoury by a descent of a few steps. It lay over some of thehousekeeping department, was too near the great hall, and looked intothe flagged court. A library should be on the ground-floor in a quietwing, with an outlook on grass, and the possibility of gaining it atonce without going through long passages. Nor was the library itself, architecturally considered, at all superior to its position. Thebooks had greatly outgrown the space allotted to them, and several ofthe neighbouring rooms had been annexed as occasion required; hence itconsisted of half-a-dozen rooms, some of them merely closets intendedfor dressing-rooms, and all very ill lighted. I entered it however inno critical spirit, but with a feeling of reverential delight. Myuncle's books had taught me to love books. I had been accustomed toconsider his five hundred volumes a wonderful library; but here werethousands--as old, as musty, as neglected, as dilapidated, thereforeas certainly full of wonder and discovery, as man or boy couldwish. --Oh the treasures of a house that has been growing for ages! Ileave a whole roomful of lethal weapons, to descend three stepsinto six roomfuls of books--each 'the precious life-blood of amaster-spirit'--for as yet in my eyes all books were worthy! Which didI love best? Old swords or old books? I could not tell! I had only thegrace to know which I _ought_ to love best. 

As we passed from the first room into the second, up rose a white thingfrom the corner of the window-seat, and came towards us. I started. MrsWilson exclaimed:

'La! Miss Clara! how ever--?

The rest was lost in the abyss of possibility. 

'They told me you were somewhere about, Mrs Wilson, and I thought I hadbetter wait here. How do you do?'

'La, child, you've given me such a turn!' said Mrs Wilson. 'You mighthave been a ghost if it had been in the middle of the night. '

[Illustration: SHE WAS A YEAR OR TWO OLDER THAN MYSELF, I THOUGHT, ANDTHE LOVLIEST CREATURE I HAD EVER SEEN. ]

'I'm very sorry, Mrs Wilson, ' said the girl merrily. 'Only you see ifit had been a ghost it couldn't have been me. '

'How's your papa, Miss Clara?'

'Oh! he's always quite well. '

'When did you see him?'

'To-day. He's at home with grandpapa now. '

'And you ran away and left him?'

'Not quite that. He and grandpapa went out about some business--to thecopse at Deadman's Hollow, I think. They didn't want my advice--theynever do; so I came to see you, Mrs Wilson. '

By this time I had been able to look at the girl. She was a year or twoolder than myself, I thought, and the loveliest creature I had everseen. She had large blue eyes of the rare shade called violet, a littleround perhaps, but the long lashes did something to rectify that fault;and a delicate nose--turned up a little of course, else at her age shecould not have been so pretty. Her mouth was well curved, expressing afull share of Paley's happiness; her chin was something large andprojecting, but the lines were fine. Her hair was a light brown, butdark for her eyes, and her complexion would have been enchanting to anyone fond of the 'sweet mixture, red and white. ' Her figure was that ofa girl of thirteen, undetermined--but therein I was not critical. 'Anexceeding fair forehead, ' to quote Sir Philip Sidney, and plump, white, dimple-knuckled hands complete the picture sufficiently for thepresent. Indeed it would have been better to say only that I was takenwith her, and then the reader might fancy her such as he would havebeen taken with himself. But I was not fascinated. It was only that Iwas a boy and she was a girl, and there being no element of decidedrepulsion, I felt kindly disposed towards her. 

Mrs Wilson turned to me. 

'Well, Master Cumbermede, you see I am able to give you more than Ipromised. '

'Yes, ' I returned; 'you promised to show me the old house--'

'And here, ' she interposed, 'I show you a young lady as well. '

'Yes, thank you, ' I said simply. But I had a feeling that Mrs Wilsonwas not absolutely well-pleased. 

I was rather shy of Miss Clara--not that I was afraid of her, but thatI did not exactly know what was expected of me, and Mrs Wilson gave usno further introduction to each other. I was not so shy, however, asnot to wish Mrs Wilson would leave us together, for then, I thought, weshould get on well enough; but such was not her intent. Desirous ofbeing agreeable, however--as far as I knew how, and remembering thatMrs Wilson had given me the choice before, I said to her--

'Mightn't we go and look at the deer, Mrs Wilson?'

'You had better not, ' she answered. 'They are rather ill-tempered justnow. They might run at you. I heard them fighting last night, andknocking their horns together dreadfully. '

'Then we'd better not, ' said Clara. 'They frightened me very muchyesterday. '

We were following Mrs Wilson from the room. As we passed the hall-door, we peeped in. 

'Do you like such great high places?' asked Clara. 

'Yes, I do, ' I answered. 'I like great high places. It makes you gaspsomehow. '

'Are you fond of gasping? Does it do you good?' she asked, with amock-simplicity which might be humour or something not so pleasant. 

'Yes, I think it does, ' I answered. 'It pleases me. '

'I don't like it. I like a quiet snug place like the library--not agreat wide place like this, that looks as if it had swallowed you anddidn't know it. '

'What a clever creature she is!' I thought. We turned away and followedMrs Wilson again. 

I had expected to spend the rest of the day with her, but the moment wereached her apartment, she got out a bottle of her home-made wine andsome cake, saying it was time for me to go home. I was muchdisappointed--the more that the pretty Clara remained behind; but whatcould I do? I strolled back to Aldwick with my head fuller than ever offancies new and old. But Mrs Wilson had said nothing of going to seeher again, and without an invitation I could not venture to revisit theHall. 

In pondering over the events of the day, I gave the man I had met inthe wood a full share in my meditations. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A TALK WITH MY UNCLE. 

When I returned home for the Christmas holidays, I told my uncle, amongst other things, all that I have just recorded; for although theaffair seemed far away from me now, I felt that he ought to know it. Hewas greatly pleased with my behaviour in regard to the apple. He didnot identify the place, however, until he heard the name of thehousekeeper: then I saw a cloud pass over his face. It grew deeper whenI told him of my second visit, especially while I described the man Ihad met in the wood. 

'I have a strange fancy about him, uncle, ' I said. 'I think he must bethe same man that came here one very stormy night--long ago--and wantedto take me away. '

'Who told you of that?' asked my uncle startled. 

I explained that I had been a listener. 

'You ought not to have listened. '

'I know that now; but I did not know then. I woke frightened, and heardthe voices. '

'What makes you think he was the same man?'

'I can't be sure, you know. But as often as I think of the man I met inthe wood, the recollection of that night comes back to me. '

'I dare say. What was he like?'

I described him as well as I could. 

'Yes, ' said my uncle, 'I dare say. He is a dangerous man. '

'What did he want with me?'

'He wanted to have something to do with your education. He is an oldfriend--acquaintance I ought to say--of your father's. I should besorry you had any intercourse with him. He is a very worldly kind ofman. He believes in money and rank and getting on. He believes innothing else that, I know. '

'Then I am sure I shouldn't like him, ' I said. 

'I am pretty sure you wouldn't, ' returned my uncle. 

I had never before heard him speak so severely of any one. But fromthis time he began to talk to me more as if I had been a grown man. There was a simplicity in his way of looking at things, however, whichmade him quite intelligible to a boy as yet uncorrupted by false aimsor judgments. He took me about with him constantly, and I began to seehim as he was, and to honour and love him more than ever. 

Christmas-day this year fell on a Sunday. It was a model Christmas-day. My uncle and I walked to church in the morning. When we started, thegrass was shining with frost, and the air was cold; a fog hung aboutthe horizon, and the sun shone through it with red rayless countenance. But before we reached the church, which was some three miles from home, the fog was gone, and the frost had taken shelter with the shadows; thesun was dazzling without being clear, and the golden cock on the spirewas glittering keen in the moveless air. 

'What do they put a cock on the spire for, uncle?' I asked. 

'To end off with an ornament, perhaps, ' he answered. 

'I thought it had been to show how the wind blew. '

'Well, it wouldn't be the first time great things--I mean the spire, not the cock--had been put to little uses. '

'But why should it be a cock, ' I asked, 'more than any other bird?'

'Some people--those to whom the church is chiefly historical--wouldtell you it is the cock that rebuked St Peter. Whether it be so or not, I think a better reason for putting it there would be that the cock isthe first creature to welcome the light, and tell people that it iscoming. Hence it is a symbol of the clergyman. '

'But our clergyman doesn't wake the people, uncle. I've seen him send_you_ to sleep sometimes. '

My uncle laughed. 

'I dare say there are some dull cocks too, ' he answered. 

'There's one at the farm, ' I said, 'which goes on crowing every now andthen all night--in his sleep--Janet says. But it never wakes till allthe rest are out in the yard. '

My uncle laughed again. We had reached the churchyard, and by the timewe had visited grannie's grave--that was the only one I thought of inthe group of family mounds--the bells had ceased, and we entered. 

I at least did not sleep this morning; not however because of theanti-somnolence of the clergyman--but that, in a pew not far off fromme, sat Clara. I could see her as often as I pleased to turn my headhalf-way round. Church is a very favourable place for falling in love. It is all very well for the older people to shake their heads and sayyou ought to be minding the service--that does not affect the factstated--especially when the clergyman is of the half-awake order whotake to the church as a gentleman-like profession. Having to sit sostill, with the pretty face so near, with no obligation to pay itattention, but with perfect liberty to look at it, a boy in the habitof inventing stories could hardly help fancying himself in love withit. Whether she saw me or not, I cannot tell. Although she passed meclose as we came out, she did not look my way, and I had not thehardihood to address her. 

As we were walking home, my uncle broke the silence. 

'You would like to be an honourable man, wouldn't you, Willie?' hesaid. 

'Yes, that I should, uncle. '

'Could you keep a secret now?'

'Yes, uncle. '

'But there are two ways of keeping a secret. '

'I don't know more than one. '

'What's that?'

'Not to tell it. '

'Never to show that you knew it, would be better still. '

'Yes, it would--'

'But, suppose a thing:--suppose you knew that there was a secret;suppose you wanted very much to find it out, and yet would not try tofind it out: wouldn't that be another way of keeping it?'

'Yes, it would. If I knew there was a secret, I should like to find itout. '

'Well, I am going to try you. There is a secret. I know it; you do not. You have a right to know it some day, but not yet. I mean to tell ityou, but I want you to learn a great deal first. I want to keep thesecret from hurting you. Just as you would keep things from a babywhich would hurt him, I have kept some things from you. '

'Is the sword one of them, uncle?' I asked. 

'You could not do anything with the secret if you did know it, ' myuncle went on, without heeding my question; 'but there may be designingpeople who would make a tool of you for their own ends. It is farbetter you should be ignorant. Now will you keep my secret?--or, inother words, will you trust me?' I felt a little frightened. Myimagination was at work on the formless thing. But I was chiefly afraidof the promise--lest I should anyway break it. 

'I will try to keep the secret--keep it from myself, that is--ain't it, uncle?'

'Yes. That is just what I mean. '

'But how long will it be for, uncle?'

'I am not quite sure. It will depend on how wise and sensible you grow. Some boys are men at eighteen--some not at forty. The more reasonableand well-behaved you are, the sooner shall I feel at liberty to tell ityou. '

He ceased, and I remained silent. I was not astonished. The vague newsfell in with all my fancies. The possibility of something pleasant, nayeven wonderful and romantic, of course suggested itself, and the hopewhich thence gilded the delay tended to reconcile me to my ignorance. 

'I think it better you should not go back to Mr Elder's, Willie, ' saidmy uncle. 

I was stunned at the words. Where could a place be found to compare forblessedness with Mr Elder's school? Not even the great Hall, with itsacres of rooms and its age-long history, could rival it. 

Some moments passed before I could utter a faltering 'Why?'

'That is part of my secret, Willie, ' answered my uncle. 'I know it willbe a disappointment to you, for you have been very happy with MrElder. '

'Yes, indeed, ' I answered. It was all I could say, for the tears wererolling down my cheeks, and there was a great lump in my throat. 

'I am very sorry indeed to give you pain, Willie, ' he said kindly. 

'It's not my blame, is it, uncle?' I sobbed. 

'Not in the least, my boy. '

'Oh! then, I don't mind it so much. '

'There's a brave boy! Now the question is, what to do with you. '

'Can't I stop at home, then?'

'No, that won't do either, Willie. I must have you taught, and Ihaven't time to teach you myself. Neither am I scholar enough for itnow; my learning has got rusty. I know your father would have wished tosend you to college, and although I do not very well see how I canmanage it, I must do the best I can. I'm not a rich man, you see, Willie, though I have a little laid by. I never could do much at makingmoney, and I must not leave your aunt unprovided for. '

'No, uncle. Besides, I shall soon be able to work for myself and youtoo. '

'Not for a long time if you go to college, Willie. But we need not talkabout that yet. '

In the evening I went to my uncle's room. He was sitting by his firereading the New Testament. 

'Please, uncle, ' I said, 'will you tell me something about my fatherand mother?'

'With pleasure, my boy, ' he answered, and after a moment's thoughtbegan to give me a sketch of my father's life, with as many touches ofthe man himself as he could at the moment recall. I will not detain myreader with the narrative. It is sufficient to say that my father was asimple honourable man, without much education, but a great lover ofplain books. His health had always been delicate; and before he died hehad been so long an invalid that my mother's health had given way innursing him, so that she very soon followed him. As his narrativeclosed my uncle said: 'Now, Willie, you see, with a good man like thatfor your father, you are bound to be good and honourable! Never mindwhether people praise you or not; you do what you ought to do. Anddon't be always thinking of your rights. There are people who considerthemselves very grand because they can't bear to be interfered with. They think themselves lovers of justice, when it is only justice tothemselves they care about. The true lover of justice is one who wouldrather die a slave than interfere with the rights of others. To wrongany one is the most terrible thing in the world. Injustice _to_ you isnot an awful thing like injustice _in_ you. I should like to see you agreat man, Willie. Do you know what I mean by a great man?'

'Something else than I know, I'm afraid, uncle, ' I answered. 

'A great man is one who will try to do right against the devil himself:one who will not do wrong to please anybody or to save his life. '

I listened, but I thought with myself a man might do all that, and beno great man. I would do something better--some fine deed or other--Idid not know what now, but I should find out by-and-by. My uncle wastoo easily pleased: I should demand more of a great man. Not so did theknights of old gain their renown. I was silent. 

'I don't want you to take my opinions as yours, you know, Willie, ' myuncle resumed. 'But I want you to remember what my opinion is. '

As he spoke, he went to a drawer in the room, and brought out somethingwhich he put in my hands. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was thewatch grannie had given me. 

'There, ' he said, 'is your father's watch. Let it keep you in mind thatto be good is to be great. '

'Oh, thank you, uncle!' I said, heeding only my recovered treasure. 'But didn't it belong to somebody before my father? Grannie gave it meas if it had been hers. '

'Your grandfather gave it to your father; but when he died, yourgreat-grandmother took it. Did she tell you anything about it?'

'Nothing particular. She said it was her husband's. '

'So it was, I believe. '

'She used to call him my father. '

'Ah, you remember that!'

'I've had so much time to think about things, uncle!'

'Yes. Well--I hope you will think more about things yet. '

'Yes, uncle. But there's something else I should like to ask youabout. '

'What's that?'

'The old sword. '

My uncle smiled, and rose again, saying, 'Ah! I thought as much. Isthat anything like it?' he added, bringing it from the bottom of acupboard. 

I took it from his hands with awe. It was the same. If I could havemistaken the hilt, I could not mistake the split sheath. 

'Oh, uncle!' I exclaimed, breathless with delight. 

'That's it--isn't it?' he said, enjoying my enjoyment. 

'Yes, that it is! Now tell me all about it, please. '

'Indeed I can tell you very little. Some ancestor of ours fought withit somewhere. There was a story about it, but I have forgot it. You mayhave it if you like. '

'No, uncle! May I? To take away with me?'

'Yes. I think you are old enough now not to do any mischief with it. '

I do not believe there was a happier boy in England that night. I didnot mind where I went now. I thought I could even bear to bid Mrs Elderfarewell. Whether therefore possession had done me good, I leave myreader to judge. But happily for our blessedness, the joy of possessionsoon palls, and not many days had gone by before I found I had a heartyet. Strange to say, it was my aunt who touched it. 

I do not yet know all the reasons which brought my uncle to theresolution of sending me abroad: it was certainly an unusual mode ofpreparing one for the university; but the next day he disclosed theplan to me. I was pleased with the notion. But my aunt's apron went upto her eyes. It was a very hard apron, and I pitied those eyes althoughthey were fierce. 

'Oh, auntie!' I said, 'what are you crying for? Don't you like me togo?'

'It's too far off, child. How am I to get to you if you should be takenill?'

Moved both by my own pleasure and her grief, I got up and threw my armsround her neck. I had never done so before. She returned my embrace andwept freely. 

As it was not a fit season for travelling, and as my uncle had not yetlearned whither it would be well to send me, it was after all resolvedthat I should return to Mr Elder's for another half-year. This gave meunspeakable pleasure; and I set out for school again in such a blissfulmood as must be rare in the experience of any life. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE HOUSE-STEWARD. 

My uncle had had the watch cleaned and repaired for me, so that, notwithstanding its great age, it was yet capable of a doubtful sort ofservice. Its caprices were almost human, but they never impaired thecredit of its possession in the eyes of my school-fellows; rather theyadded to the interest of the little machine, inasmuch as no one couldforetell its behaviour under any circumstances. We were far oftenerlate now, when we went out for a ramble. Heretofore we had used ourfaculties and consulted the sky--now we trusted to the watch, andindeed acted as if it could regulate the time to our convenience, andcarry us home afterwards. We regarded it, in respect Of time, very muchas some people regard the Bible in respect of eternity. And theconsequences were similar. We made an idol of it, and the idol playedus the usual idol-pranks. 

But I think the possession of the sword, in my own eyes too a fargrander thing than the watch, raised me yet higher in the regard of mycompanions. We could not be on such intimate terms with the sword, forone thing, as with the watch. It was in more senses than one beyond oursphere--a thing to be regarded with awe and reverence. Mr Elder hadmost wisely made no objection to my having it in our bed-room; but hedrove two nails into the wall and hung it high above my reach, sayingthe time had not come for my handling it. I believe the good manrespected the ancient weapon, and wished to preserve it from such usageas it might have met with from boys. It was the more a constantstimulus to my imagination, and I believe insensibly to my moral natureas well, connecting me in a kind of dim consciousness with foregoneancestors who had, I took it for granted, done well on thebattle-field. I had the sense of an inherited character to sustain inthe new order of things. But there was more in its influence which Ican hardly define--the inheritance of it even gave birth to a certainsense of personal dignity. 

Although I never thought of visiting Moldwarp Hall again without aninvitation, I took my companions more than once into the woods whichlay about it: thus far I used the right of my acquaintance with thehousekeeper. One day in Spring, I had gone with them to the old narrowbridge. I was particularly fond of visiting it. We lingered a long timeabout Queen Elizabeth's oak; and by climbing up on each other'sshoulders, and so gaining some stumps of vanished boughs, had succeededin clambering, one after another, into the wilderness of its branches, where the young buds were now pushing away the withered leaves beforethem, as the young generations of men push the older into the grave. When my turn came, I climbed and climbed until I had reached a greatheight in its top. 

Then I sat down, holding by the branch over my head, and began to lookabout me. Below was an entangled net, as it seemed--a labyrinth ofboughs, branches, twigs, and shoots. If I had fallen I could hardlyhave reached the earth. Through this environing mass of lines, I caughtglimpses of the country around--green fields, swelling into hills, where the fresh foliage was bursting from the trees; and below, thelittle stream was pursuing its busy way by a devious but certain pathto its unknown future. Then my eyes turned to the tree-clad ascent onthe opposite side: through the topmost of its trees, shone a goldenspark, a glimmer of yellow fire. It was the vane on the highest towerof the Hall. A great desire seized me to look on the lordly pile oncemore. I descended in haste, and proposed to my companions that weshould climb through the woods, and have a peep at the house. Theeldest, who was in a measure in charge of us--his name was Bardsley, for Fox was gone--proposed to consult my watch first. Had we known thatthe faithless thing had stopped for an hour and a half, and thenresumed its onward course as if nothing had happened, we should nothave delayed our return. As it was, off we scampered for the pack-horsebridge, which we left behind us only after many frog-leaps over theobstructing stones at the ends. Then up through the wood we went likewild creatures, abstaining however from all shouting and mischief, aware that we were on sufferance only. At length we stood on the vergeof the descent, when to our surprise we saw the sun getting low in thehorizon. Clouds were gathering overhead, and a wailful wind made onemoaning sweep through the trees behind us in the hollow. The sun hadhidden his shape, but not his splendour, in the skirts of the whiteclouds which were closing in around him. Spring as it was, I thought Ismelled snow in the air. But the vane which had drawn me shonebrilliant against a darkening cloud, like a golden bird in the sky. Welooked at each other, not in dismay exactly, but with a common feelingthat the elements were gathering against us. The wise way would ofcourse have been to turn at once and make for home; but the watch hadto be considered. Was the watch right, or was the watch wrong? Itshealth and conduct were of the greatest interest to the commonweal. That question must be answered. We looked from the watch to the sun, and back from the sun to the watch. Steady to all appearance as thedescending sun itself, the hands were trotting and crawling along theirappointed way, with a look of unconscious innocence, in the midst oftheir diamond coronet. I volunteered to settle the question: I wouldrun to the Hall, ring the bell, and ask leave to go as far into thecourt as to see the clock on the central tower. The proposition wasapplauded. I ran, rang, and being recognized by the portress, was atonce admitted. In a moment I had satisfied myself of the treachery ofmy bosom-friend, and was turning to leave the court, when a latticeopened, and I heard a voice calling my name. It was Mrs Wilson's. Shebeckoned me. I went up under the window. 

'Why don't you come and see me, Master Cumbermede?' she said. 

'You didn't ask me, Mrs Wilson. I should have liked to come very much. '

'Come in, then, and have tea with me now. '

'No, thank you, ' I answered. 'My schoolfellows are waiting for me, andwe are too late already. I only came to see the clock. '

'Well, you must come soon, then. '

'I will, Mrs Wilson. Good-night, ' I answered, and away I ran, openedthe wicket for myself, set my foot in the deep shoe-mould, then rusheddown the rough steps and across the grass to my companions. 

When they heard what time it was, they turned without a word, and inless than a minute we were at the bottom of the hill and over thebridge. The wood followed us with a moan which was gathering to a roar. Down in the meadow it was growing dark. Before we reached the lodge, ithad begun to rain, and the wind, when we got out upon the road, wasblowing a gale. We were seven miles from home. Happily the wind was inour back, and, wet to the skin, but not so weary because of the aid ofthe wind, we at length reached Aldwick. The sole punishment we had forbeing so late--and that was more a precaution than a punishment--wasthat we had to go to bed immediately after a hurried tea. To face andfight the elements is, however, an invaluable lesson in childhood, andI do not think those parents do well who are over-careful to preserveall their children from all inclemencies of weather or season. 

When the next holiday drew near, I once more requested and obtainedpermission to visit Moldwarp Hall. I am now puzzled to understand whymy uncle had not interdicted it, but certainly he had laid noinjunctions upon me in regard thereto. Possibly he had communicatedwith Mrs Wilson: I do not know. If he had requested Mr. Elder toprevent me, I could not have gone. So far, however, must this have beenfrom being the case that, on the eve of the holiday, Mr Elder said tome:

'If Mrs Wilson should ask you to stay all night, you may. '

I suspect he knew more about some things than I did. The notion ofstaying all night seemed to me, however, out of the question. MrsWilson could not be expected to entertain me to that extent. I fancy, though, that she had written to make the request. My schoolfellowsaccompanied me as far as the bridge, and there left me. Mrs Wilsonreceived me with notable warmth, and did propose that I should stay allnight, to which I gladly agreed, more, it must be confessed, from theattraction of the old house than the love I bore to Mrs Wilson. 

'But what is that you are carrying?' she asked. 

It was my sword. This requires a little explanation. 

It was natural enough that on the eve of a second visit, as I hoped, tothe armoury, I should, on going up to bed, lift my eyes with longinglook to my own sword. The thought followed--what a pleasure it wouldbe to compare it with the other swords in the armoury. If I could onlyget it down and smuggle it away with me! It was my own. I believed MrElder would not approve of this, but at the same time he had never toldme not to take it down: he had only hung it too high for any of us toreach it--almost close to the ceiling, in fact. But a want ofenterprise was not then a fault of mine, and the temptation was great. So, when my chum was asleep, I rose, and by the remnant of a fadingmoon got together the furniture--no easy undertaking when the leastnoise would have betrayed me. Fortunately there was a chest of drawersnot far from under the object of my ambition, and I managed by halfinches to move it the few feet necessary. On the top of this I hoistedthe small dressing-table, which, being only of deal, was very light. The chest of drawers was large enough to hold my small box beside thetable. I got on the drawers by means of a chair, then by means of thebox I got on the table, and so succeeded in getting down the sword. Having replaced the furniture, I laid the weapon under my bolster, andwas soon fast asleep. The moment I woke I got up, and before the housewas stirring had deposited the sword in an outbuilding whence I couldeasily get it off the premises. Of course my companions knew, and Itold them all my design. Moberly hinted that I ought to have asked MrElder, but his was the sole remark in that direction. 

'It is my sword, Mrs Wilson, ' I answered. 

'How do you come to have a sword?' she asked. 'It is hardly a fitplaything for you. '

I told her how it had been in the house since long before I was born, and that I had brought it to compare with some of the swords in thearmoury. 

'Very well, ' she answered. 'I dare say we can manage it; but when MrClose is at home it is not very easy to get into the armoury. He's sojealous of any one touching his swords and guns!'

'Who is Mr Close, then?'

'Mr Close is the house-steward. '

'But they're not his, then, are they?'

'It's quite enough that he thinks so. He has a fancy for that sort ofthing. I'm sure I don't see anything so precious in the rusty oldrubbish. '

I suspected that, as the saying is, there was no love lost between MrsWilson and Mr Close. I learned afterwards that he had been chaplain toa regiment of foot, which, according to rumour, he had had to leave forsome misconduct. This was in the time of the previous owner of MoldwarpHall, and nobody now knew the circumstances under which he had becomehouse-steward--a position in which Sir Giles, when he came to theproperty, had retained his services. 

'We are going to have company, and a dance, this evening, ' continuedMrs Wilson. 'I hardly know what to do with you, my hands are so full. '

This was not very consistent with her inviting me to stay all night, and confirms my suspicion that she had made a request to that purportof Mr. Elder, for otherwise, surely, she would have sent me home. 

'Oh! never mind me, Mrs Wilson, ' I said. 'If you will let me wanderabout the place, I shall be perfectly comfortable. '

'Yes; but you might get in the way of the family, or the visitors, ' shesaid. 

'I'll take good care of that, ' I returned. 'Surely there is room inthis huge place without running against any one. '

'There ought to be, ' she answered. 

After a few minutes' silence, she resumed. 

'We shall have a good many of them staying all night', but there willbe room for you, I dare say. What would you like to do with yourselftill they begin to come?'

'I should like to go to the library, ' I answered, thinking, I confess, of the adjacent armoury as well. 'Should I be in the way there?'

'No; I don't think you would, ' she replied, thoughtfully. 'It's notoften any one goes there. '

'Who takes charge of the books?' I asked. 

'Oh! books don't want much taking care of, ' she replied. 'I havethought of having them down and dusting the place out, but it would besuch a job! and the dust don't signify upon old books. They ain't ofmuch count in this house. Nobody heeds them. '

'I wish Sir Giles would let me come and put them in order in theholidays, ' I said, little knowing how altogether unfit I yet was forsuch an undertaking. 

'Ah well! we'll see. Who knows?'

'You don't think he would!' I exclaimed. 

'I don't know. Perhaps he might. But I thought you were going abroadsoon. '

I had not said anything to her on the subject. I had never had anopportunity. 

'Who told you that, Mrs Wilson?'

'Never you mind. A little bird. Now you had better go to the library. Idare say you won't hurt anything, for Sir Giles, although he neverlooks at the books, would be dreadfully angry if he thought anythingwere happening to them. '

'I'll take as good care of them as if they were my uncle's. He used tolet me handle his as much as I liked. I used to mend them up for him. I'm quite accustomed to books, I assure you, Mrs Wilson. '

'Come, then; I will show you the way, ' she said. 

'I think I know the way, ' I answered. For I had pondered so much overthe place, and had, I presume, filled so many gaps of recollection withcreations of fancy, that I quite believed I knew my way all about thehouse. 

'We shall see, ' she returned with a smile. 'I will take you the nearestway, and you shall tell me on your honour if you remember it. '

She led the way, and I followed. Passing down the stone stair andthrough several rooms, mostly plain bedrooms, we arrived at a woodenstaircase, of which there were few in the place. We ascended a littleway, crossed one or two rooms more, came out on a small gallery open tothe air, a sort of covered bridge across a gulf in the building, re-entered, and after crossing other rooms, tapestried, and to my eyesrichly furnished, arrived at the first of those occupied by thelibrary. 

'Now did you know the way, Wilfrid?'

'Not in the least, ' I answered. 'I cannot think how I could haveforgotten it so entirely. I am ashamed of myself. '

'You have no occasion, ' she returned. 'You never went that way at all. '

'Oh, dear me!' I said; 'what a place it is! I might lose myself in itfor a week. '

'You would come out somewhere, if you went on long enough, I dare say. But you must not leave the library till I come and fetch you. You willwant some dinner before long. '

'What time do you dine?' I asked, putting my hand to my watch-pocket. 

'Ah! you've got a watch--have you? But indeed, on a day like this, Idine when I can. You needn't fear. I will take care of you. '

'Mayn't I go into the armoury?'

'If you don't mind the risk of meeting Mr Close. But he's not likely tobe there to-day. '

She left me with fresh injunctions not to stir till she came for me. But I now felt the place to be so like a rabbit-warren, that I darednot leave the library, if not for the fear of being lost, then for thefear of intruding upon some of the family. I soon nestled in a corner, with books behind, books before, and books all around me. After tryingseveral spots, like a miner searching for live lodes, and findingnothing auriferous to my limited capacities and tastes, I at lengthstruck upon a rich vein, instantly dropped on the floor, and, with myback against the shelves, was now immersed in 'The Seven Champions ofChristendom. ' As I read, a ray of light, which had been creeping alongthe shelves behind me, leaped upon my page. I looked up. I had not yetseen the room so light. Nor had I perceived before in what confusionand with what disrespect the books were heaped upon the shelves. A dimfeeling awoke in me that to restore such a world to order would be likea work of creation; but I sank again forthwith in the delights of afeast provided for an imagination which had in general to feed itself. I had here all the delight of invention without any of its effort. 

At length I became aware of some weariness. The sunbeam had vanished, not only from the page, but from the room. I began to stretch my arms. As the tension of their muscles relaxed, my hand fell upon the swordwhich I had carried with me and laid on the floor by my side. It awokeanother mental nerve. I would go and see the armoury. 

I rose, and wandered slowly through room after room of the library, dragging my sword after me. When I reached the last, there, in thecorner next the outer wall of the house, rose the three stone stepsleading to the little door that communicated with the treasury ofancient strife. I stood at the foot of the steps irresolute for amoment, fearful lest my black man, Mr Close, should be within, polishing his weapons perhaps, and fearful in his wrath. I ascended thesteps, listened at the door, heard nothing, lifted the old, quaintly-formed latch, peeped in, and entered. There was the wholecollection, abandoned to my eager gaze and eager hands! How long Istood, taking down weapon after weapon, examining each like an oldbook, speculating upon modes of use, and intention of varieties inform, poring over adornment and mounting, I cannot tell. Historicallythe whole was a sealed book; individually I made a thoroughacquaintance with not a few, noting the differences and resemblancesbetween them and my own, and instead of losing conceit of the latter, finding more and more reasons for holding it dear and honourable. I waspoising in one hand, with the blade upright in the air--for otherwise Icould scarcely have held it in both--a huge two-handed, double-hiltedsword with serrated double edge, when I heard a step approaching, andbefore I had well replaced the sword, a little door in a corner which-Ihad scarcely noticed--the third door to the room--opened, and down thelast steps of the narrowest of winding stairs a little man in blackscrewed himself into the armoury. I was startled, but not altogetherfrightened. I felt myself grasping my own sword somewhat nervously inmy left hand, as I abandoned the great one, and let it fall back with aclang into its corner. 

'By the powers!' exclaimed Mr Close, revealing himself an Irishman atonce in the surprise of my presence, 'and whom have we here?'

I felt my voice tremble a little as I replied, 'Mrs Wilson allowed me to come, sir. I assure you I have not beenhurting anything. '

'Who's to tell that? Mrs Wilson has no business to let any one comehere. This is my quarters. There--you've got one in your hand now!You've left finger-marks on the blade, I'll be bound. Give it me. '

He stretched out his hand. I drew back. 

'This one is mine, ' I said. 

'Ho, ho, young gentleman! So you're a collector--are you? Already too!Nothing like beginning in time. Let me look at the thing, though. '

He was a little man, as I have said, dressed in black, with a frockcoat and a deep white neckcloth. His face would have been vulgar, especially as his nose was a traitor to his mouth, revealing in its huethe proclivities of its owner, but for a certain look of theconnoisseur which went far to redeem it. The hand which he stretchedout to take my weapon, was small and delicate--like a woman's indeed. His speech was that of a gentleman. I handed him the sword at once. 

He had scarcely glanced at it when a strange look passed over hiscountenance. He tried to draw it, failed, and looking all along thesheath, saw its condition. Then his eyes flashed. He turned from meabruptly, and went up the stair he had descended. I waited anxiouslyfor what seemed to me half an hour: I dare say it was not more than tenminutes. At last I heard him revolving on his axis down the corkscrewstaircase. He entered and handed me my sword, saying--

'There! I can't get it out of the sheath. It's in a horrid state ofrust. Where did you fall in with it?'

I told him all I knew about it. If he did not seem exactly interested, he certainly behaved with some oddity. When I told him what mygrandmother had said about some battle in which an ancestor had wornit, his arm rose with a jerk, and the motions of his face, especiallyof his mouth, which appeared to be eating its own teeth, were for amoment grotesque. When I had finished, he said, with indifferent tone, but eager face--

'Well, it's a rusty old thing, but I like old weapons. I'll give you abran new officer's sword, as bright as a mirror, for it--I will. Therenow! Is it a bargain?'

'I could not part with it, sir--not for the best sword in the country, 'I answered. 'You see it has been so long in our family. '

'Hm! hm! you're quite right, my boy. I wouldn't if I were you. But as Isee you know how to set a right value on such a weapon, you may stayand look at mine as long as you like. Only if you take any of them fromtheir sheaths, you must be very careful how you put them in again. Don't use any force. If there is any one you can't manage easily, justlay it on the window-sill, and I will attend to it. Mind you don'thandle--I mean touch--the blades at all. There would be no end ofrust-spots before morning. '

I was full of gratitude for the confidence he placed in me. 

'I can't stop now to tell you about them all, but I will--some day. '

So saying he disappeared once more up the little staircase, leaving melike Aladdin in the jewel-forest. I had not been alone more than halfan hour or so, however, when he returned, and taking down a dagger, said abruptly, 'There, that is the dagger with which Lord Harry Rolleston'--I thinkthat was the name, but knowing nothing of the family or its history, Icould not keep the names separate--'stabbed his brother Gilbert. Andthere is--'

He took down one after another, and with every one he associated somefact--or fancy perhaps, for I suspect now that he invented not a few ofhis incidents. 

'They have always been fond of weapons in this house, ' he said. 'Therenow is one with the strangest story! It's in print--I can show it youin print in the library there. It had the reputation of being a magicsword--'

'Like King Arthur's Excalibur?' I asked, for I had read a good deal ofthe history of Prince Arthur. 

'Just so, ' said Mr Close. 'Well, that sword had been in the family formany years--I may say centuries. One day it disappeared, and there wasa great outcry. A lackey had been discharged for some cause or other, and it was believed he had taken it. But before they found him, thesword was in its place upon the wall. Afterwards the man confessed thathe had taken it, out of revenge, for he knew how it was prized. But inthe middle of the next night, as he slept in a roadside inn, a figuredressed in ancient armour had entered the room, taken up the sword, andgone away with it. I dare say it was all nonsense. His heart had failedhim when he found he was followed, and he had contrived by the help ofsome fellow-servant to restore it. But there are very queer storiesabout old weapons--swords in particular. I must go now, ' he concluded, 'for we have company to-night, and I have a good many things to seeto. '

So saying he left me. I remained a long time in the armoury, and thenreturned to the library, where I seated myself in the same corner asbefore, and went on with my reading--lost in pleasure. 

All at once I became aware that the light was thickening, and that Iwas very hungry. At the same moment I heard a slight rustle in theroom, and looked round, expecting to see Mrs Wilson come to fetch me. But there stood Miss Clara--not now in white, however, but in a blacksilk frock. She had grown since I saw her last, and was prettier thanever. She started when she saw me. 

'You here!' she exclaimed, as if we had known each other all our lives. 'What are you doing here?'

'Reading, ' I answered, and rose from the floor, replacing the book as Irose. 'I thought you were Mrs Wilson come to fetch me. '

'Is she coming here?'

'Yes. She told me not to leave the library till she came for me. '

'Then I must get out of the way. '

'Why so, Miss Clara?' I asked. 

'I don't mean her to know I am here. If you tell, I shall think you themeanest--'

'Don't trouble yourself to find your punishment before you've foundyour crime, ' I said, thinking of my own processes of invention. What alittle prig I must have been!

'Very well, I will trust you, ' she returned, holding out her hand. --'Ididn't give it you to keep, though, ' she added, finding that, with moreof country manners than tenderness, I fear, I retained it in my boyishgrasp. 

I felt awkward at once, and let it go. 

'Thank you, ' she said. 'Now, when do you expect Mrs. Wilson?'

'I don't know at all. She said she would fetch me for dinner. There shecomes, I do believe. '

Clara turned her head like a startled forest creature that wants tolisten, but does not know in what direction, and moved her feet as ifshe were about to fly. 

'Come back after dinner, ' she said: 'you had better!' and darting tothe other side of the room, lifted a piece of hanging tapestry, andvanished just in time, for Mrs Wilson's first words crossed her last. 

'My dear boy--Master Cumbermede, I should say, I am sorry I have notbeen able to get to you sooner. One thing after another has kept me onmy legs till I'm ready to drop. The cook is as tiresome as cooks onlycan be. But come along; I've got a mouthful of dinner for you at last, and a few minutes to eat my share of it with you, I hope. '

I followed without a word, feeling a little guilty, but only towardsMrs Wilson, not towards myself, if my reader will acknowledge thedifference--for I did not feel that I ought to betray Miss Clara. Wereturned as we came; and certainly whatever temper the cook might bein, there was nothing amiss with the dinner. Had there been, however, Iwas far too hungry to find fault with it. 

'Well, how have you enjoyed yourself, Master Wilfrid? Not very much, Iam afraid. But really I could not help it, ' said Mrs Wilson. 

'I couldn't have enjoyed myself more, ' I answered. 'If you will allowme, I'll go back to the library as soon as I've done my dinner. '

'But it's almost dark there now. '

'You wouldn't mind letting me have a candle, Mrs Wilson?'

'A candle, child! It would be of no use. The place wouldn't light upwith twenty candles. '

'But I don't want it lighted up. I could read by one candle as well asby twenty. '

'Very well. You shall do as you like. Only be careful, for the oldhouse is as dry as tinder, and if you were to set fire to anything, weshould be all in a blaze in a moment. '

'I will be careful, Mrs Wilson. You may trust me. Indeed you may. '

She hurried me a little over my dinner. The bell in the court rangloudly. 

'There's some of them already! That must be the Simmonses. They'realways early, and they always come to that gate--I suppose because theyhaven't a carriage of their own, and don't like to drive into the highcourt in a chaise from the George and Pudding. '

'I've quite done, ma'am: may I go now?'

'Wait till I get you a candle. '

She took one from a press in the room, lighted it, led me once more tothe library, and there left me with a fresh injunction not to bepeeping out and getting in the way of the visitors. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE LEADS. 

The moment Mrs Wilson was gone, I expected to see Clara peep out frombehind the tapestry in the corner; but as she did not appear, I liftedit, and looked in. There was nothing behind but a closet almost filledwith books, not upon shelves, but heaped up from floor to ceiling. There had been just room, and no more, for Clara to stand between thetapestry and the books. It was of no use attempting to look for her--atleast I said so to myself, for as yet the attraction of an old book wasequal to that of a young girl. Besides, I always enjoyed waiting--up toa certain point. Therefore I resumed my place on the floor, with the_Seven Champions_ in one hand, and my chamber-candlestick in the other. 

I had for the moment forgotten Clara in the adventures of St. Andrew ofScotland, when the _silking_ of her frock aroused me. She was at myside. 

'Well, you've had your dinner? Did she give you any dessert?'

'This is my dessert, ' I said, holding up the book. 'It's far morethan--'

'Far more than your desert, ' she pursued, 'if you prefer it to me. '

'I looked for you first, ' I said defensively. 

'Where?'

'In the closet there. '

'You didn't think I was going to wait there, did you? Why the veryspiders are hanging dead in their own webs in there. But here's somedessert for you--if you're as fond of apples as most boys, ' she added, taking a small rosy-cheeked beauty from her pocket. 

I accepted it, but somehow did not quite relish being lumped with boysin that fashion. As I ate it, which I should have felt bound to do evenhad it been less acceptable in itself, she resumed--

'Wouldn't you like to see the company arrive? That's what I came for. Iwasn't going to ask Goody Wilson. '

'Yes, I should, ' I answered; 'but Mrs Wilson told me to keep here, andnot get in their way. '

'Oh! I'll take care of that. We shan't go near them. I know everycorner of the place--a good deal better than Mrs Wilson. Come along, Wilfrid--that's your name, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. Am I to call you Clara?'

'Yes, if you are good--that is, if you like. I don't care what you callme. Come along. '

I followed. She led me into the armoury. A great clang of the bell inthe paved court fell upon our ears. 

'Make haste, ' she said, and darted to the door at the foot of thelittle stair. 'Mind how you go, ' she went on. 'The steps are very muchworn. Keep your right shoulder foremost. '

I obeyed her directions, and followed her up the stair. We passed thedoor of a room over the armoury, and ascended still, to creep out atlast through a very low door on to the leads of the little squaretower. Here we could on the one side look into every corner of thepaved court, and on the other, across the roof of the hall, could seeabout half of the high court, as they called it, into which thecarriages drove; and from this post of vantage, we watched the arrivalof a good many parties. I thought the ladies tripping across the pavedcourt, with their gay dresses lighting up the Spring twilight, andtheir sweet voices rippling its almost pensive silence, suited the timeand the place much better than the carriages dashing into the othercourt, fine as they looked with their well-kept horses and theirservants in gay liveries. The sun was down, and the moon wasrising--near the full, but there was too much light in the sky to lether make much of herself yet. It was one of those Spring evenings whichyou could not tell from an Autumn one except for a certain something inthe air appealing to an undefined sense--rather that of smell than anyother. There were green buds and not withering leaves in it--life andnot death; and the voices of the gathering guests were of the season, and pleasant to the soul. Of course Nature did not then affect me sodefinitely as to make me give forms of thought to her influences. It isnow first that I turn them into shapes and words. 

As we stood, I discovered that I had been a little mistaken about theposition of the Hall. I saw that, although from some points in front itseemed to stand on an isolated rock, the ground rose behind it, terraceupon terrace, the uppermost of which terraces were crowned with rows oftrees. Over them, the moon was now gathering her strength. 

'It is rather cold; I think we had better go in, ' said Clara, after wehad remained there for some minutes without seeing any fresh arrivals. 

'Very well, ' I answered. 'What shall we do? Shall you go home?'

'No, certainly not. We must see a good deal more of the fun first. '

'How will you manage that? You will go to the ball-room, I suppose. Youcan go where you please, of course. '

'Oh no! I'm not grand enough to be invited. Oh, dear no! At least I amnot old enough. '

'But you will be some day. '

'I don't know. Perhaps. We'll see. Meantime we must make the best ofit. What are _you_ going to do?'

'I shall go back to the library. '

'Then I'll go with you--till the music begins; and then I'll take youwhere you can see a little of the dancing. It's great fun. '

'But how will you manage that?'

'You leave that to me. '

We descended at once to the armoury, where I had left my candle; andthence we returned to the library. 

'Would you like me to read to you?' I asked. 

'I don't mind--if it's anything worth hearing. '

'Well, I'll read you a bit of the book I was reading when you came in. '

'What! that musty old book! No, thank you. It's enough to give one thehorrors--the very sight of it is enough. How can you like such frumpyold things?'

'Oh! you mustn't mind the look of it, ' I said. 'It's _very_ niceinside!'

'I know where there is a nice one, ' she returned. 'Give me the candle. '

I followed her to another of the rooms, where she searched for sometime. At length--'There it is!' she said, and put into my hand _TheCastle of Otranto_. The name promised well. She next led the way to alovely little bay window, forming almost a closet, which looked outupon the park, whence, without seeing the moon, we could see her lighton the landscape, and the great deep shadows cast over the park fromthe towers of the Hall. There we sat on the broad window-sill, and Ibegan to read. It was delightful. Does it indicate loss of power, thatthe grown man cannot enjoy the book in which the boy delighted? Or isit that the realities of the book, as perceived by his keener eyes, refuse to blend with what imagination would supply if it might?

No sooner however did the first notes of the distant violins enter theear of my companion than she started to her feet. 

'What's the matter?' I asked, looking up from the book. 

'Don't you hear the music?' she said, half-indignantly. 

'I hear it now, ' I answered; 'but why--?'

'Come along, ' she interrupted, eagerly. 'We shall just be in time tosee them go across from the drawing-room to the ball-room. Come, come. Leave your candle. '

I put down my book with some reluctance. She led me into the armoury, and from the armoury out on the gallery half-encompassing the greathall, which was lighted up, and full of servants. Opening another doorin the gallery, she conducted me down a stair which led almost into thehall, but, ascending again behind it, landed us in a little lobby, onone side of which was the drawing-room, and on the other the ball-room, on another level, reached by a few high, semi-circular steps. 

'Quick! quick!' said Clara, and turning sharply round, she openedanother door, disclosing a square-built stone staircase. She pushed thedoor carefully against the wall, ran up a few steps, I following insome trepidation, turned abruptly, and sat down. I did as she did, questioning nothing: I had committed myself to her superior knowledge. 

The quick ear of my companion had caught the first sounds of the tuningof the instruments, and here we were, before the invitation to dance, acustomed observance at Moldwarp Hall, had begun to play. In a fewminutes thereafter, the door of the drawing-room opened; when, pairafter pair, the company, to the number of over a hundred and fifty, Ishould guess, walked past the foot of the stair on which we wereseated, and ascended the steps into the ball-room. The lobby was dimlylighted, except from the two open doors, and there was little danger ofour being seen. 

I interrupt my narrative to mention the odd fact that so fully was mymind possessed with the antiquity of the place, which it had been thepride of generation after generation to keep up, that now, when Irecall the scene, the guests always appear dressed not as they werethen, but in a far more antique style with which after knowledgesupplied my inner vision. 

Last of all came Lady Brotherton, Sir Giles's wife, a pale, delicate-looking woman, leaning on the arm of a tall, long-necked, would-be-stately, yet insignificant-looking man. She gave a shiver as, up the steps from the warm drawing-room, she came at once opposite ouropen door. 

'What a draught there is here!' she said, adjusting her rose-colouredscarf about her shoulders. 'It feels quite wintry. Will you oblige me, Mr Mellon, by shutting that door? Sir Giles will not allow me to haveit built up. I am sure there are plenty of ways to the leads besidesthat. '

'This door, my lady?' asked Mr Mellon. 

I trembled lest he should see us. 

'Yes. Just throw it to. There's a spring lock on it. I can't think--'

The slam and echoing bang of the closing door cut off the end of thesentence. Even Clara was a little frightened, for her hand stole intomine for a moment before she burst out laughing. 

'Hush! hush!' I said. 'They will hear you. '

'I almost wish they would, ' she said. 'What a goose I was to befrightened, and not speak! Do you know where we are?'

'No, ' I answered; 'how should I? Where are we?'

My fancy of knowing the place had vanished utterly by this time. All mymental charts of it had got thoroughly confused, and I do not believe Icould have even found my way back to the library. 

'Shut out on the leads, ' she answered. 'Come along. We may as well goto meet our fate. '

I confess to a little palpitation of the heart as she spoke, for I wasnot yet old enough to feel that Clara's companionship made the doom alight one. Up the stairs we went--here no twisting corkscrew, but abroad flight enough, with square turnings. At the top was a door, fastened only with a bolt inside--against no worse housebreakers thanthe winds and rains. When we emerged, we found ourselves in the opennight. 

'Here we are in the moon's drawing-room!' said Clara. 

The scene was lovely. The sky was all now--the earth only a backgroundor pedestal for the heavens. The river, far below, shone here and therein answer to the moon, while the meadows and fields lay as in theoblivion of sleep, and the wooded hills were only dark formless masses. But the sky was the dwelling-place of the moon, before whose radiance, penetratingly still, the stars shrunk as if they would hide in theflowing skirts of her garments. There was scarce a cloud to be seen, and the whiteness of the moon made the blue thin. I could hardlybelieve in what I saw. It was as if I had come awake without gettingout of the dream. 

We were on the roof of the ball-room. We felt the rhythmic motion ofthe dancing feet shake the building in time to the music. 'A lowmelodious thunder' buried beneath--above, the eternal silence of thewhite moon!

We passed to the roof of the drawing-room. From it, upon one side, wecould peep into the great gothic window of the hall, which rose highabove it. We could see the servants passing and repassing, with dishesfor the supper which was being laid in the dining-room under thedrawing-room, for the hall was never used for entertainment now, excepton such great occasions as a coming of age, or an election-feast, whenall classes met. 

'We mustn't stop here, ' said Clara. 'We shall get our deaths of cold. '

'What shall we do, then?' I asked. 

'There are plenty of doors, ' she answered--'only Mrs Wilson has afoolish fancy for keeping them all bolted. We must try, though. '

Over roof after roof we went; now descending, now ascending a fewsteps; now walking along narrow gutters, between battlement and slopingroof; now crossing awkward junctions--trying doors many in tower andturret--all in vain! Every one was bolted on the inside. We had grownquite silent, for the case looked serious. 

'This is the last door, ' said Clara--'the last we can reach. There aremore in the towers, but they are higher up. What _shall_ we do? Unlesswe go down a chimney, I don't know what's to be done. ' Still her voicedid not falter, and my courage did not give way. She stood for a fewmoments, silent. I stood regarding her, as one might listen for adoubtful oracle. 

'Yes. I've got it!' she said at length. 'Have you a good head, Wilfrid?'

'I don't quite know what you mean, ' I answered. 

'Do you mind being on a narrow place, without much to hold by?'

'High up?' I asked with a shiver. 

'Yes. '

For a moment I did not answer. It was a special weakness of my physicalnature, one which my imagination had increased tenfold--the absolutehorror I had of such a transit as she was evidently about to propose. My worst dreams--from which I would wake with my heart going like afire-engine--were of adventures of the kind. But before a woman, howcould I draw back? I would rather lie broken at the bottom of the wall. And if the fear should come to the worst, I could at least throw myselfdown and end it so. 

'Well?' I said, as if I had only been waiting for her exposition of thecase. 

'Well!' she returned. --'Come along then. '

I did go along--like a man to the gallows; only I would not have turnedback to save my life. But I should have hailed the slightest change ofpurpose in her, with such pleasure as Daniel must have felt when hefound the lions would rather not eat him. She retraced our steps a longway--until we reached the middle of the line of building which dividedthe two courts. 

'There!' she said, pointing to the top of the square tower over theentrance to the hall, from which we had watched the arrival of theguests: it rose about nine feet only above where we now stood in thegutter--'I _know_ I left the door open when we came down. I did it onpurpose. I hate Goody Wilson. Lucky, you see!--that is if you have ahead. And if you haven't, it's all the same: I have. '

So saying, she pointed to a sort of flying buttress which sprungsideways, with a wide span, across the angle the tower made with thehall, from an embrasure of the battlement of the hall to the outercorner of the tower, itself more solidly buttressed. I think it musthave been made to resist the outward pressure of the roof of the hall;but it was one of those puzzling points which often occur--and oftenestin domestic architecture--where additions and consequent alterationshave been made from time to time. Such will occasion sometimes as muchconjecture towards their explanation as a disputed passage in Shakspereor Aeschylus. 

Could she mean me to cross that hair-like bridge? The mere thought wasa terror. But I would not blench. Fear I confess--cowardice if youwill:--poltroonery, not. 

'I see, ' I answered. 'I will try. If I fall, don't blame me. I will domy best. '

'You don't think, ' she returned, 'I'm going to let you go alone! Ishould have to wait hours before you found a door to let medown--unless indeed you went and told Goody Wilson, and I had ratherdie where I am. No, no. Come along. I'll show you how. '

With a rush and a scramble, she was up over the round back of thebuttress before I had time to understand that she meant as usual totake the lead. If she could but have sent me back a portion of herskill, or lightness, or nerve, or whatever it was, just to set me offwith a rush like that! But I stood preparing at once and hesitating. She turned and looked over the battlements of the tower. 

'Never mind, Wilfrid, ' she said; 'I'll fetch you presently. '

'No, no, ' I cried. 'Wait for me. I'm coming. '

I got astride of the buttress, and painfully forced my way up. It waslike a dream of leap-frog, prolonged under painfully recurringdifficulties. I shut my eyes, and persuaded myself that all I had to dowas to go on leap-frogging. At length, after more trepidation andbrain-turning than I care to dwell upon, lest even now it should bringback a too keen realization of itself, I reached the battlement, seizing which with one shaking hand, and finding the other grasped byClara, I tumbled on the leads of the tower. 

'Come along!' she said. 'You see, when the girls like, they can beatthe boys--even at their own games. We're all right now. '

'I did my best, ' I returned, mightily relieved. '_I'm_ not an angel, you know. I can't fly like you. '

She seemed to appreciate the compliment. 

'Never mind. I've done it before. It was game of you to follow. '

Her praise elated me. And it was well. 

'Come along, ' she added. 

She seemed to be always saying _Come along_. 

I obeyed, full of gratitude and relief. She skipped to the tiny turretwhich rose above our heads, and lifted the door-latch. But, instead ofdisappearing within, she turned and looked at me in white dismay. Thedoor was bolted. Her look roused what there was of manhood in me. Ifelt that, as it had now come to the last gasp, it was mine to comforther. 

'We are no worse than we were, ' I said. 'Never mind. '

'I don't know that, ' she answered mysteriously. --'Can _you_ go back asyou came? _I_ can't. '

I looked over the edge of the battlement where I stood. There was thebuttress crossing the angle of moonlight, with its shadow lying fardown on the wall. I shuddered at the thought of renewing my unspeakabledismay. But what must be must. 

[Illustration: SHE BENT OVER THE BATTLEMENT, STOOPED HER FACE TOWARDME, AND KISSED ME. ]

Besides, Clara had praised me for creeping where she could fly: now Imight show her that I could creep where she could not fly. 

'I will try, ' I returned, putting one leg through an embrasure, andholding on by the adjoining battlement. 

'Do take care, Wilfrid, ' she cried, stretching out her hands, as if tokeep me from falling. 

A sudden pulse of life rushed through me. All at once I became not onlybold, but ambitious. 

'Give me a kiss, ' I said, 'before I go. '

'Do you make so much of it?' she returned, stepping back a pace. --Howmuch a woman she was even then!

Her words roused something in me which to this day I have not been ablequite to understand. A sense of wrong had its share in the feeling; butwhat else I can hardly venture to say. At all events, an inroad ofcareless courage was the consequence. I stepped at once upon thebuttress, and stood for a moment looking at her--no doubt withreproach. She sprang towards me. 

'I beg your pardon, ' she said. 

The end of the buttress was a foot or two below the level of the leads, where Clara stood. She bent over the battlement, stooped her facetowards me, and kissed me on the mouth. My only answer was to turn andwalk down the buttress, erect; a walk which, as the arch of thebuttress became steeper, ended in a run and a leap on to the gutter ofthe hall. There I turned, and saw her stand like a lady in a balladleaning after me in the moonlight. I lifted my cap and sped away, notknowing whither, but fancying that out of her sight I could make up mymind better. Nor was I mistaken. The moment I sat down, my brains beganto go about, and in another moment I saw what might be attempted. 

In going from roof to roof, I had seen the little gallery along which Ihad passed with Mrs Wilson on my way to the library. It crossed whatmight be called an open shaft in the building. I thought I couldmanage, roofed as it was, to get in by the open side. It was some timebefore I could find it again; but when I did come upon it at last, Isaw that it might be done. By the help of a projecting gargoyle, curiously carved in the days when the wall to which it clung had formedpart of the front of the building, I got my feet upon the wooden railof the gallery, caught hold of one of the small pillars which supportedthe roof, and _slewed_ myself in. I was almost as glad as when I hadcrossed the buttress, for below me was a paved bottom, between highwalls, without any door, like a dry well in the midst of the building. 

My recollection of the way to the armoury, I found, however, almostobliterated. I knew that I must pass through a bedroom at the end ofthe gallery, and that was all I remembered. I opened the door, andfound myself face to face with a young girl with wide eyes. She stoodstaring and astonished, but not frightened. She was younger than Clara, and not so pretty. Her eyes looked dark, and also the hair she had beenbrushing. Her face would have been quite pale, but for the rosy tingeof surprise. She made no exclamation, only stared with her brush in herhand, and questions in her eyes. I felt far enough from comfortable;but with a great effort I spoke. 

'I beg your pardon. I had to get off the roof, and this was the onlyway. Please do not tell Mrs Wilson. '

'No, ' she said at once, very quietly; 'but you must go away. '

'If I could only find the library!' I said. 'I am so afraid of goinginto more rooms where I have no business. '

'I will show you the way, ' she returned with a smile; and laying downher brush, took up a candle, and led me from the room. 

In a few moments I was safe. My conductor vanished at once. The glimmerof my own candle in a further room guided me, and I was soon at the topof the corkscrew staircase. I found the door very slightly fastened:Clara must herself have unwittingly moved the bolt when she shut it. Ifound her standing, all eagerness, waiting me. We hurried back to thelibrary, and there I told her how I had effected an entrance, and metwith a guide. 

'It must have been little Polly Osborne, ' she said. 'Her mother isgoing to stay all night, I suppose. She's a good-natured little goose, and won't tell. --Now come along. We'll have a peep from thepicture-gallery into the ball-room. That door is sure to be open. '

'If you don't mind, Clara, I would rather stay where I am. I oughtn'tto be wandering over the house when Mrs Wilson thinks I am here. '

'Oh, you little coward!' said Clara. 

I thought I hardly deserved the word, and it did not make me moreinclined to accompany her. 

'You can go alone, ' I said. 'You did not expect to find me when youcame. '

'Of course I can. Of course not. It's quite as well too. You won't getme into any more scrapes. '

'_Did_ I get you into the scrape, Clara?'

'Yes, you did, ' she answered laughing, and walked away. 

I felt a good deal hurt, but comforted myself by saying she could notmean it, and sat down again to the _Seven Champions_. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE GHOST. 

I saw no more of Clara, but sat and read until I grew cold and tired, and wished very much that Mrs. Wilson would come. I thought she mighthave forgot me in the hurry, and there I should have to stay all night. After my recent escape, however, from a danger so much worse, I couldregard the prospect with some composure. A full hour more must havepassed; I was getting sleepy, and my candle had burned low, when atlength Mrs Wilson did make her appearance, and I accompanied hergladly. 

'I am sure you want your tea, poor boy!' she said. 

'Tea! Mrs. Wilson, ' I rejoined. 'It's bed I want. But when I think ofit, I _am_ rather hungry. '

'You shall have tea and bed both, ' she answered kindly. 'I'm sorryyou've had such a dull evening, but I could _not_ help it. '

'Indeed, I've not been dull at all, ' I answered--'till just the lasthour or so. '

I longed to tell her all I had been about, for I felt guilty; but Iwould not betray Clara. 

'Well, here we are!' she said, opening the door of her own room. 'Ihope I shall have peace enough to see you make a good meal. '

I did make a good meal. When I had done, Mrs Wilson took a rushlightand led the way. I took my sword and followed her. Into what quarter ofthe house she conducted me I could not tell. There was a nice fireburning in the room, and my night-apparel was airing before it. She setthe light on the floor, and left me with a kind good-night. I was soonundressed and in bed, with my sword beside me on the coverlet of silkpatchwork. 

But, from whatever cause, sleepy as I had been a little while before, Ilay wide awake now, staring about the room. Like many others in thehouse, it was hung with tapestry, which was a good deal worn andpatched--notably in one place, where limbs of warriors and horses cameto an untimely end, on all sides of a certain oblong piece quitedifferent from the rest in colour and design. I know now that it was apiece of _Gobelins, _ in the midst of ancient needlework. It looked thebrighter of the two, but its colours were about three, with a good dealof white; whereas that which surrounded it had had many and brilliantcolours, which, faded and dull and sombre, yet kept their harmony. Theguard of the rushlight cast deeper and queerer shadows, as the firesank lower. Its holes gave eyes of light to some of the figures in thetapestry, and as the light wavered, the eyes wandered about in aghostly manner, and the shadows changed and flickered and heaveduncomfortably. 

How long I had lain thus I do not know; but at last I found myselfwatching the rectangular patch of newer tapestry. Could it be that itmoved? It _could_ be only the effect of the wavering shadows. And yet Icould not convince myself that it did not move. It _did_ move. It cameforward. One side of it did certainly come forward. A kind of universalcramp seized me--a contraction of every fibre of my body. The patchopened like a door--wider and wider; and from behind came a greathelmet peeping. I was all one terror, but my nerves held out so farthat I lay like a watching dog--watching for what horror would comenext. The door opened wider, a mailed hand and arm appeared, and atlength a figure, armed cap-à-pie, stepped slowly down, stood for amoment peering about, and then began to walk through the room, as ifsearching for something. It came nearer and nearer to the bed. I wondernow, when I think of it, that the cold horror did not reach my heart. Icannot have been so much a coward, surely, after all! But I suspect itwas only that general paralysis prevented the extreme of terror, justas a man in the clutch of a wild beast is hardly aware of suffering. Atlast the figure stooped over my bed, and stretched out a long arm. Iremember nothing more. 

I woke in the grey of the morning. Could a faint have passed into asleep? or was it all a dream? I lay for some time before I could recallwhat made me so miserable. At length my memory awoke, and I gazedfearful about the room. The white ashes of the burnt-out fire werelying in the grate; the stand of the rushlight was on the floor; thewall with its tapestry was just as it had been; the cold grey light hadannihilated the fancied visions: I had been dreaming and was now awake. But I could not lie longer in bed. I must go out. The morning air wouldgive me life; I felt worn and weak. Vision or dream, the room washateful to me. With a great effort I sat up, for I still feared tomove, lest I should catch a glimpse of the armed figure. Terrible as ithad been in the night, it would be more terrible now. I peered intoevery corner. Each was vacant. Then first I remembered that I had beenreading the _Castile of Otranto_ and the _Seven Champions ofChristendom_ the night before. I jumped out of bed and dressed myself, growing braver and braver as the light of the lovely Spring morningswelled in the room. Having dipped my head in cold water, I was myselfagain. I opened the lattice and looked out. The first breath of air wasa denial to the whole thing. I laughed at myself. Earth and sky werealive with Spring. The wind was the breath of the coming Summer: therewere flakes of sunshine and shadow in it. Before me lay a green bankwith a few trees on its top. It was crowded with primroses growingthrough the grass. The dew was lying all about, shining and sparklingin the first rays of the level sun, which itself I could not see. Thetide of life rose in my heart and rushed through my limbs. I would takemy sword and go for a ramble through the park. I went to my bedside, and stretched across to find it by the wall. It must have slipped downat the back of the bed. No. Where could it be? In a word, I searchedeverywhere, but my loved weapon had vanished. The visions of the nightreturned, and for a moment I believed them all. The night once againclosed around me, darkened yet more with the despair of an irreparableloss. I rushed from the room and through a long passage, with the blinddesire to get out. The stare of an unwashed maid, already busy with herpail and brush, brought me to my senses. 

'I beg your pardon, ' I said; 'I want to get out. '

She left her implements, led me down a stair close at hand, opened adoor at its foot, and let me out into the high court. I gazed about me. It was as if I had escaped from a prison-cell into the chamber oftorture: I stood the centre of a multitude of windows--the eyes of thehouse all fixed upon me. On one side was the great gate, through which, from the roof, I had seen the carriages drive the night before; but itwas closed. I remembered, however, that Sir Giles had brought me in bya wicket in that gate. I hastened to it. There was but a bolt towithdraw, and I was free. 

But all was gloomy within, and genial nature could no longer enter. Glittering jewels of sunlight and dew were nothing but drops of waterupon blades of grass. Fresh-bursting trees were no more than thedeadest of winter-bitten branches. The great eastern window of theuniverse, gorgeous with gold and roses, was but the weary sun making afuss about nothing. My sole relief lay in motion. I roamed I knew notwhither, nor how long. 

At length I found myself on a height eastward of the Hall, overlookingits gardens, which lay in deep terraces beneath. Inside a low wall wasthe first of them, dark with an avenue of ancient trees, and below wasthe large oriel window in the end of the ball-room. I climbed over thewall, which was built of cunningly fitted stones, with mortar only inthe top row; and drawn by the gloom, strolled up and down the avenuefor a long time. At length I became aware of a voice I had heardbefore. I could see no one; but, hearkening about, I found it must comefrom the next terrace. Descending by a deep flight of old mossy steps, I came upon a strip of smooth sward, with yew trees, dark and trim, oneach side of it. At the end of the walk was an arbour, in which I couldsee the glimmer of something white. Too miserable to be shy, I advancedand peeped in. The girl who had shown me the way to the library wastalking to her mother. 

'Mamma!' she said, without showing any surprise, 'here is the boy whocame into our room last night. '

'How do you do?' said the lady kindly, making room for me on the benchbeside her. 

I answered as politely as I could, and felt a strange comfort glidefrom the sweetness of her countenance. 

'What an adventure you had last night!' she said. 'It was well you didnot fall. '

'That wouldn't have been much worse than having to stop where we were, 'I answered. 

The conversation thus commenced went on until I had told them all myhistory, including my last adventure. 

'You must have dreamed it, ' said the lady. 

'So I thought, ma'am, ' I answered, 'until I found that my sword wasgone. '

'Are you sure you looked everywhere?' she asked. 

'Indeed, I did. '

'It does not follow however that the ghost took it. It is more likelyMrs Wilson came in to see you after you were asleep, and carried itoff. '

'Oh yes!' I cried, rejoiced at the suggestion; 'that must be it. Ishall ask her. '

'I am sure you will find it so. Are you going home soon?'

'Yes--as soon as I've had my breakfast. It's a good walk from here toAldwick. '

'So it is. --We are going that way too?' she added thinkingly. 

'Mr. Elder is a great friend of papa's--isn't he, mamma?' said thegirl. 

'Yes, my dear. They were friends at college. '

'I have heard Mr Elder speak of Mr Osborne, ' I said. 'Do you live nearus?'

'Not very far off--in the next parish, where my husband is rector, ' sheanswered. 'If you could wait till the afternoon, we should be happy totake you there. The pony-carriage is coming for us. '

'Thank you, ma'am, ' I answered; 'but I ought to go immediately afterbreakfast. You won't mention about the roof, will you? I oughtn't toget Clara into trouble. '

'She is a wild girl, ' said Mrs Osborne; 'but I think you are quiteright. '

'How lucky it was I knew the library!' said Mary, who had become quitefriendly, from under her mother's wing. 

'That it was! But I dare say you know all about the place, ' I answered. 

'No, indeed!' she returned. 'I know nothing about it. As we went to ourroom, mamma opened the door and showed me the library, else I shouldn'thave been able to help you at all. '

'Then you haven't been here often?'

'No; and I never shall be again. --I'm going away to school, ' she added;and her voice trembled. 

'So am I, ' I said. 'I'm going to Switzerland in a month or two. Butthen I haven't a mamma to leave behind me. ' She broke down at that, andhid her head on her mother's bosom. I had unawares added to her grief, for her brother Charley was going to Switzerland too. 

I found afterwards that Mr Elder, having been consulted by Mr Osborne, had arranged with my uncle that Charley Osborne and I should gotogether. 

Mary Osborne--I never called her Polly as Clara did--continued soovercome by her grief, that her mother turned to me and said, 'I think you had better go, Master Cumbermede. '

I bade her good morning, and made my way to Mrs Wilson's apartment. Ifound she had been to my room, and was expecting me with some anxiety, fearing I had set off without my breakfast. Alas! she knew nothingabout the sword, looked annoyed, and, I thought, rather mysterious;said she would have a search, make inquiries, do what she could, andsuch like, but begged I would say nothing about it in the house. I lefther with a suspicion that she believed the ghost had carried it away, and that it was of no use to go searching for it. 

Two days after, a parcel arrived for me. I concluded it was my sword;but, to my grievous disappointment, found it was only a large hamper ofapples and cakes, very acceptable in themselves, but too plainlyindicating Mrs Wilson's desire to console me for what could not behelped. Mr Elder never missed the sword. I rose high in the estimationof my schoolfellows because of the adventure, especially in that ofMoberly, who did not believe in the ghost, but ineffectually tasked hispoor brains to account for the disappearance of the weapon. The bestlight was thrown upon it by a merry boy of the name of Fisher, whodeclared his conviction that the steward had carried it off to add tohis collection. 

CHAPTER XV. 

AWAY. 

Will not linger longer over this part of my history--already, I fear, much too extended for the patience of my readers. My excuse is that, inlooking back, the events I have recorded appear large and prominent, and that certainly they have a close relation with my after-history. 

The time arrived when I had to leave England for Switzerland. I willsay nothing of my leave-taking. It was not a bitter one. Hope wasstrong, and rooted in present pleasure. I was capable of muchhappiness--keenly responsive to the smallest agreeable impulse fromwithout or from within. I had good health, and life was happiness initself. The blowing of the wind, the shining of the sun, or the glitterof water, was sufficient to make me glad; and I had self-consciousnessenough to increase the delight by the knowledge that I was glad. 

The fact is I was coming in for my share in the spiritual influences ofNature, so largely poured on the heart and mind of my generation. Theprophets of the new blessing, Wordsworth and Coleridge, I knew nothingof. Keats was only beginning to write. I had read a little of Cowper, but did not care for him. Yet I was under the same spell as they all. Nature was a power upon me. I was filled with the vague recognition ofa present soul in Nature--with a sense of the humanity everywherediffused through her and operating upon ours. I was but fourteen, andhad only feelings, but something lay at the heart of the feelings, which would one day blossom into thoughts. 

At the coach-office in the county-town, I first met my futurecompanion, with his father, who was to see us to our destination. My uncle accompanied me no further, and I soon found myself on thetop of a coach, with only one thing to do--make the acquaintanceof Charles Osborne. His father was on the box-seat, and we two satbehind; but we were both shy, and for some time neither spoke. Charles was about my own age, rather like his sister, only that hiseyes were blue, and his hair a lightish brown. A tremulousness aboutthe mouth betrayed a nervous temperament. His skin was very fair andthin, showing the blue veins. As he did not speak, I sat for a littlewhile watching him, without, however, the least speculation concerninghim, or any effort to discover his character. I had not even yetreached the point of trying to find people out. I take what time andacquaintance disclose, but never attempt to forestall, which may comepartly from trust, partly from want of curiosity, partly from adisinclination to unnecessary mental effort. But as I watched his face, half-unconsciously, I could not help observing that now and then itwould light up suddenly and darken again almost instantly. At last hisfather turned round, and with some severity, said:

'You do not seem to be making any approaches to mutual acquaintance. Charles, why don't you address your companion?'

The words were uttered in the slow tone of one used to matters tooserious for common speech. The boy cast a hurried glance at me, smileduncertainly, and moved uneasily on his seat. His father turned away andmade a remark to the coachman. 

Mr Osborne was a very tall, thin, yet square-shouldered man, with apale face, and large features of delicate form. He looked severe, pure, and irritable. The tone of his voice, although the words were measuredand rather stilted, led me to this last conclusion quite as much as theexpression of his face; for it was thin and a little acrid. I soonobserved that Charley started slightly, as often as his fatheraddressed him; but this might be because his father always did so withmore or less of abruptness. At times there was great kindness in hismanner, seeming, however, less the outcome of natural tenderness than asense of duty. His being was evidently a weight upon his son's, andkept down the natural movements of his spirit. A number of smallcircumstances only led me to these conclusions; for nothing remarkableoccurred to set in any strong light their mutual relation. For his sideCharles was always attentive and ready, although with a promptitudethat had more in it of the mechanical impulse of habit than of pleasedobedience. Mr Osborne spoke kindly to me--I think the more kindly thatI was not his son, and he was therefore not so responsible for me. Buthe looked as if the care of the whole world lay on his shoulders; as ifan awful destruction were the most likely thing to happen to every one, and to him were committed the toilsome chance of saving some. Doubtlesshe would not have trusted his boy so far from home, but that theclergyman to whom he was about to hand him over was an old friend, ofthe same religious opinions as himself. 

I could well, but must not, linger over the details of our journey, full to me of most varied pleasure. The constant change, not so rapidas to prevent the mind from reposing a little upon the scenes whichpresented themselves; the passing vision of countries and peoples, manners and modes of life, so different from our own, did much toarouse and develop my nature. Those flashes of pleasure came uponCharles's pale face more and more frequently; and ere the close of thefirst day we had begun to talk with some degree of friendliness. But itbecame clear to me that with his father ever blocking up our horizon, whether he sat with his broad back in front of us on the coach-box, orpaced the deck of a vessel, or perched with us under the hood on thetop of a diligence, we should never arrive at any freedom of speech. Isometimes wondered, long after, whether Mr Osborne had begun todiscover that he was overlaying and smothering the young life of hisboy, and had therefore adopted the plan, so little to have beenexpected from him, of sending his son to foreign parts to continue hiseducation. 

I have no distinct recollection of dates, or even of the exact seasonof the year. I believe it was the early Summer, but in my memory thewhole journey is now a mass of confused loveliness and pleasure. Notthat we had the best of weather all the way. I well recollect pouringrains, and from the fact that I distinctly remember my first view of anAlpine height, I am certain we must have had days of mist and rainimmediately before. That sight, however, to me more like an individualrevelation or vision than the impact of an object upon the brain, stands in my mind altogether isolated from preceding and followingimpressions--alone, a thing to praise God for, if there be a God topraise. If there be not, then was the whole thing a grand and lovelyillusion, worthy, for grandeur and loveliness, of a world with a God atthe heart of it. But the grandeur and the loveliness spring from theoperation of natural laws; the laws themselves are real and true--howcould the false result from them? I hope yet, and will hope, that I amnot a bubble filled with the mocking breath of a Mephistopheles, but achild whom his infinite Father will not hardly judge because he couldnot believe in him so much as he would. I will tell how the visioncame. 

Although comparatively few people visited Switzerland in those days, MrOsborne had been there before, and for some reason or other haddetermined on going round by Interlachen. At Thun we found a sail-boat, which we hired to take us and our luggage. At starting, an incidenthappened which would not be worth mentioning, but for the impression itmade upon me. A French lady accompanied by a young girl approached MrOsborne--doubtless perceiving he was a clergyman, for, being an_Evangelical_ of the most pure, honest, and narrow type, he was inevery point and line of his countenance marked a priest and apart fromhis fellow-men--and asked him to allow her and her daughter to go inthe boat with us to Interlachen. A glow of pleasure awoke in me atsight of his courtly behaviour, with lifted hat and bowed head; for Ihad never been in the company of such a gentleman before. But the wishinstantly followed that his son might have shared in his courtesy. Wepartook freely of his justice and benevolence, but he showed us no suchgrace as he showed the lady. I have since observed that sons areendlessly grateful for courtesy from their fathers. 

The lady and her daughter sat down in the stern of the boat; andtherefore Charley and I, not certainly to our discomfiture, had to gobefore the mast. The men rowed out into the lake, and then hoisted thesail. Away we went careering before a pleasant breeze. As yet it blewfog and mist, but the hope was that it would soon blow it away. 

An unspoken friendship by this time bound Charley and me together, silent in its beginnings and slow in its growth--not the worst pledgesof endurance. And now for the first time in our journey, Charley washidden from his father: the sail came between them. He glanced at mewith a slight sigh, which even then I took for an involuntary sigh ofrelief. We lay leaning over the bows, now looking up at the mist blownin never-ending volumed sheets, now at the sail swelling in the windbefore which it fled, and again down at the water through which ourboat was ploughing its evanescent furrow. We could see very little. Portions of the shore would now and then appear, dim like reflectionsfrom a tarnished mirror, and then fade back into the depths of cloudydissolution. Still it was growing lighter, and the man who was on theoutlook became less anxious in his forward gaze, and less frequent inhis calls to the helmsman. I was lying half over the gunwale, lookinginto the strange-coloured water, blue dimmed with undissolved white, when a cry from Charles made me start and look up. It was indeed aGod-like vision. The mist yet rolled thick below, but away up, far awayand far up, yet as if close at hand, the clouds were broken into amighty window, through which looked in upon us a huge mountain peakswathed in snow. One great level band of darker cloud crossed itsbreast, above which rose the peak, triumphant in calmness, and stoodunutterably solemn and grand, in clouds as white as its 0wn whiteness. It had been there all the time! I sunk on my knees in the boat andgazed up. With a sudden sweep the clouds curtained the mighty window, and the Jungfrau withdrew into its Holy of Holies. I am painfullyconscious of the helplessness of my speech. The vision vanishes fromthe words as it vanished from the bewildered eyes. But from the mind itglorified it has never vanished. I have _been_ more ever since thatsight. To have beheld a truth is an apotheosis. What the truth was Icould not tell; but I had seen something which raised me above myformer self and made me long to rise higher yet. It awoke worship, anda belief in the incomprehensible divine; but admitted of being analysedno more than, in that transient vision, my intellect could--ere dawningit vanished--analyse it into the deserts of rock, the gulfs of greenice and flowing water, the savage solitudes of snow, the mysteriousmiles of draperied mist, that went to make up the vision, each and allessential thereto. 

I had been too much given to the attempted production in myself ofeffects to justify the vague theories towards which my inbornprepossessions carried me. I had felt enough to believe there was moreto be felt; and such stray scraps of verse of the new order as, floating about, had reached me, had set me questioning and testing myown life and perceptions and sympathies by what these awoke in me atsecond-hand. I had often doubted, oppressed by the power of these, whether I could myself see, or whether my sympathy with Nature was notmerely inspired by the vision of others. Ever after this, if such adoubt returned, with it arose the Jungfrau, looking into my very soul. 

'Oh Charley!' was all I could say. Our hands met blindly, and claspedeach other. I burst into silent tears. 

When I looked up, Charley was staring into the mist again. His eyes, too, were full of tears, but some troubling contradiction preventedtheir flowing: I saw it by the expression of that mobile but nowfirmly-closed mouth. 

Often ere we left Switzerland I saw similar glories: this visionremains alone, for it was the first. 

I will not linger over the tempting delight of the village near whichwe landed, its houses covered with quaintly-notched wooden scales likethose of a fish, and its river full to the brim of white-blue water, rushing from the far-off bosom of the glaciers. I had never had such asense of exuberance and plenty as this river gave me--especially whereit filled the planks and piles of wood that hemmed it in like a trough. I might agonize in words for a day and I should not express thedelight. And, lest my readers should apprehend a diary of a tour, Ishall say nothing more of our journey, remarking only that ifSwitzerland were to become as common to the mere tourist mind asCheapside is to a Londoner, the meanest of its glories would be no whitimpaired thereby. Sometimes, I confess, in these days of overcrowdedcities, when, in periodical floods, the lonely places of the earth arefrom them inundated, I do look up to the heavens and say to myself thatthere at least, between the stars, even in thickest of nebulousconstellations, there is yet plenty of pure, unadulterated room--noteven a vapour to hang a colour upon; but presently I return to mybetter mind and say that any man who loves his fellow will yet find hehas room enough and to spare. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE ICE-CAVE. 

During our journey, Mr Osborne had seldom talked to us, and far moreseldom in speech sympathetic. If by chance I came out with anything Ithought or felt, even if he did not disapprove altogether, he would yetfirst lay hold of something to which he could object, coming round onlyby degrees, and with differences, to express consent. Evidently withhim objection was the first step in instruction. It was better in hiseyes to say you were wrong than to say you were right, even if youshould be much more right than wrong. He had not the smallest idea ofsiding with the truth in you, of digging about it and watering it untilit grew a great tree in which all your thought-birds might nestle andsing their songs; but he must be ever against the error--forgettingthat the only antagonist of the false is the true. 'What, ' I used tothink in after-years, 'is the use of battering the walls to get at theerror, when the kindly truth is holding the postern open for you toenter, and pitch it out of window. '

The evening before we parted, he gave us a solemn admonishment on thedanger of being led astray by what men called the beauties ofNature--for the heart was so desperately wicked that, even of thethings God had made _to show his power_, it would make snares for ourdestruction. I will not go on with his homily, out of respect for theman; for there was much earnestness in him, and it would utterly shameme if I were supposed to hold that up to the contempt which the formsit took must bring upon it. Besides, he made such a free use of themost sacred of names, that I shrink from representing his utterance. Agood man I do not doubt he was; but he did the hard parts of his dutyto the neglect of the genial parts, and therefore was not a man to helpothers to be good. His own son revived the moment he took his leave ofus--began to open up as the little red flower called the Shepherd'sHour-Glass opens when the cloud withdraws. It is a terrible thing whenthe father is the cloud, and not the sun, of his child's life. IfCharley had been like the greater number of boys I have known, all thiswould only have hardened his mental and moral skin by the naturalprocess of accommodation. But his skin would not harden, and the evilwrought the deeper. From his father he had inherited a conscience ofabnormal sensibility; but he could not inherit the religious dogmas bymeans of which his father had partly deadened, partly distorted his;and constant pressure and irritation had already generated a greatsoreness of surface. 

When he began to open up, it was after a sad fashion at first. Toresume my simile of the pimpernel--it was to disclose a heart in whichthe glowing purple was blanched to a sickly violet. What happiness hehad, came in fits and bursts, and passed as quickly, leaving himdepressed and miserable. He was always either wishing to be happy, ortrying to be sure of the grounds of the brief happiness he had. Heallowed the natural blessedness of his years hardly a chance: themoment its lobes appeared above ground, he was handling them, examiningthem, and trying to pull them open. No wonder they crept undergroundagain! It may seem hardly credible that such should be the case with aboy of fifteen, but I am not mistaken in my diagnosis. I will go alittle further. Gifted with the keenest perceptions, and a natureunusually responsive to the feelings of others, he was born to be anartist. But he was content neither with his own suggestions, nor withunderstanding those of another; he must, by the force of his own will, generate his friend's feeling in himself, not perceiving the thingimpossible. This was one point at which we touched, and which went farto enable me to understand him. The original in him was thus constantlyrepressed, and he suffered from the natural consequences of repression. He suffered also on the physical side from a tendency to disease of thelungs inherited from his mother. 

Mr Forest's house stood high on the Grindelwald side of the WengernAlp, under a bare grassy height full of pasture both Summer and Winter. In front was a great space, half meadow, half common, rather poorlycovered with hill-grasses. The rock was near the surface, and in placescame through, when the grass was changed for lichens and mosses. Through this rocky meadow now roamed, now rushed, now tumbled one ofthose Alpine streams the very thought of whose ice-born plenitude makesme happy yet. Its banks were not abrupt, but rounded gently in, andgrassy down to the water's brink. The larger torrents of Winter worethe channel wide, and the sinking of the water in Summer let the grassgrow within it. But peaceful as the place was, and merry with theconstant rush of this busy stream, it had, even in the hottest Summerday, a memory of the Winter about it, a look of suppressed desolation;for the only trees upon it were a score of straggling pines--all dead, as if blasted by lightning, or smothered by snow. Perhaps they were thelast of the forest in that part, and their roots had reached a stratumwhere they could not live. All I know is that there they stood, blastedand dead every one of them. 

Charley could never bear them, and even disliked the place because ofthem. His father was one whom a mote in his brother's eye repelled. Theson suffered for this in twenty ways--one of which was that a singlespot in the landscape was to him enough to destroy the loveliness ofexquisite surroundings. 

A good way below lay the valley of the Grindelwald. The Eiger and theMatterhorn were both within sight. If a man has any sense of theinfinite, he cannot fail to be rendered capable of higher things bysuch embodiments of the high. Otherwise, they are heaps of dirt, to bescrambled up and conquered, for scrambling and conquering's sake. Theyare but warts, Pelion and Ossa and all of them. They seemed to oppressCharley at first. 

'Oh, Willie, ' he said to me one day, 'if I could but believe in thosemountains, how happy I should be! But I doubt, I doubt they are butrocks and snow. '

I only half understood him. I am afraid I never did understand him morethan half. Later I came to the conclusion that this was not the fitplace for him, and that if his father had understood him, he wouldnever have sent him there. 

It was some time before Mr Forest would take us any mountain ramble. Hesaid we must first get accustomed to the air of the place, else theprecipices would turn our brains. He allowed us, however, to rangewithin certain bounds. 

One day soon after our arrival, we accompanied one of our schoolfellowsdown to the valley of the Grindelwald, specially to see the head of thesnake-glacier, which having crept thither can creep no further. Somebody had even then hollowed out a cave in it. We crossed a littlebrook which issued from it constantly, and entered. Charley uttered acry of dismay, but I was too much delighted at the moment to heed him. For the whole of the white cavern was filled with blue air, so bluethat I saw the air which filled it. Perfectly transparent, it had nosubstance, only blueness, which deepened and deepened as I went furtherin. All down the smooth white walls evermore was stealing a thin veilof dissolution; while here and there little runnels of the purest waterwere tumbling in tiny cataracts from top to bottom. It was one of thethousand birthplaces of streams, ever creeping into the day of visionfrom the unlike and the unknown, unrolling themselves like the frondsof a fern out of the infinite of God. Ice was all around, hard and coldand dead and white; but out of it and away went the water babbling andsinging in the sunlight. 

'Oh, Charley!' I exclaimed, looking round in my transport for sympathy. It was now my turn to cry out, for Charley's face was that of a corpse. The brilliant blue of the cave made us look to each other most ghastlyand fearful. 

'Do come out, Wilfrid, ' he said; 'I cannot bear it. '

I put my arm in his, and we walked into the sunlight. He drew a deepbreath of relief, and turned to me with an attempt at a smile, but hislip quivered. 

'It's an awful place, Wilfrid. I don't like it. Don't go in again. Ishould stand waiting to see you come out in a winding-sheet. I thinkthere's something wrong with my brain. That blue seems to have got intoit. I see everything horribly dead. '

On the way back he started several times, and looked, round as if withinvoluntary apprehension, but mastered himself with an effort, andjoined again in the conversation. Before we reached home he was muchfatigued, and complaining of head-ache, went to bed immediately on ourarrival. 

We slept in the same room. When I went up at the usual hour, he wasawake. 

'Can't you sleep, Charley?' I said. 

'I've been asleep several times, ' he answered, 'but I've had such ahorrible dream every time! We were all corpses that couldn't get tosleep, and went about pawing the slimy walls of our marblesepulchre--so cold and wet! It was that horrible ice-cave, I suppose. But then you know that's just what it is, Wilfrid. '

'I don't know what you mean, ' I said, instinctively turning from thesubject, for the glitter of his blue eyes looked bodeful. I did notknow then how like he and I were, or how like my fate might have beento his, if, instead of finding at once a fit food for my fancy, and asafety-valve for its excess, in those old romances, I had had myregards turned inwards upon myself, before I could understand thephenomena there exhibited. Certainly I too should have been thusrendered miserable, and body and soul would have mutually preyed oneach other. 

I sought to change the subject. I could never talk to him about hisfather, but he had always been ready to speak of his mother and hissister. Now, however, I could not rouse him. 'Poor mamma!' was all theresponse he made to some admiring remark; and when I mentioned hissister Mary, he only said, 'She's a good girl, our Mary, ' and turneduneasily towards the wall. I went to bed. He lay quiet, and I fellasleep. 

When I woke in the morning, I found him very unwell. I suppose theillness had been coming on for some time. He was in a low fever. As thedoctor declared it not infectious, I was allowed to nurse him. He wasoften delirious, and spoke the wildest things. Especially, he wouldconverse with the Saviour after the strangest fashion. 

He lay ill for some weeks. Mr Forest would not allow me to sit up withhim at night, but I was always by his bedside early in the morning, anddid what I could to amuse and comfort him through the day. When atlength he began to grow better, he was more cheerful than I had knownhim hitherto; but he remained very weak for some time. He had grown agood deal during his illness, and indeed never looked a boy again. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

One summer morning we all got up very early, except Charley, who wasunfit for the exertion, to have a ramble in the mountains, and see thesun rise. The fresh friendly air, full of promise, greeting us themoment we crossed the threshold; the calm light which, without visiblesource, lay dream-like on the hills; the brighter space in the skywhence ere long the spring of glory would burst forth triumphant; thedull white of the snow-peaks, dwelling so awful and lonely in the midheavens, as if nothing should ever comfort them or make themacknowledge the valleys below; the sense of adventure with which weclimbed the nearer heights as familiar to our feet on ordinary days asthe stairs to our bedrooms; the gradual disappearance of the knownregions behind us, and the dawning sense of the illimitable and awful, folding in its bosom the homely and familiar--combined to produce animpression which has never faded. The sun rose in splendour, as ifnothing more should hide in the darkness for ever; and yet with thelight came a fresh sense of mystery, for now that which had appearedsmooth was all broken and mottled with shadows innumerable. Again andagain I found myself standing still to gaze in a rapture of delightwhich I can only recall, not express; again and again was I roused bythe voice of the master in front, shouting to me to come on, andwarning me of the danger of losing sight of the rest of the company;and again and again I obeyed, but without any perception of the peril. 

The intention was to cross the hills into the valley of theLauterbrunnen, not, however, by the path now so well known, but byanother way, hardly a path, with which the master and some of the boyswere familiar enough. It was my first experience of anything like realclimbing. As we passed rapidly over a moorland space, broken with hugeknolls and solitary rocks, something hurt my foot, and taking off myshoe, I found that a small chiropodical operation was necessary, whichinvolved the use of my knife. It slipped, and cut my foot, and I boundthe wound with a strip from my pocket-handkerchief. When I got up, Ifound that my companions had disappeared. This gave me little troubleat the moment, for I had no doubt of speedily overtaking them; and Iset out briskly in the direction, as I supposed, in which we had beengoing. But I presume that, instead of following them, I began at onceto increase the distance between us. At all events, I had not got farbefore a pang of fear shot through me--the first awaking doubt. Icalled--louder--and louder yet; but there was no response, and I knew Iwas alone. 

Invaded by sudden despair, I sat down, and for a moment did not eventhink. All at once I became aware of the abysses which surrounded thethrone of my isolation. Behind me the broken ground rose to an unseenheight, and before me it sloped gently downwards, without a break tothe eye, yet I felt as if, should I make one wavering movement, I mustfall down one of the frightful precipices which Mr Forest had told meas a warning lay all about us. I actually clung to the stone upon whichI sat, although I could not have been in more absolute safety for themoment had I been dreaming in bed. The old fear had returned upon mewith a tenfold feeling of reality behind it. I presume it is so allthrough life: it is not what is, but what may be, that oftenestblanches the cheek and paralyzes the limbs; and oftenest gives rise tothat sense of the need of a God which we are told nowadays is asuperstition, and which he whom we call the Saviour acknowledged andjustified in telling us to take no thought for the morrow, inasmuch asGod took thought for it. I strove to master my dismay, and forcedmyself to get up and run about; and in a few minutes the fear hadwithdrawn into the background, and I felt no longer an unseen forcedragging me towards a frightful gulf. But it was replaced by a morespiritual horror. The sense of loneliness seized upon me, and the firstsense of absolute loneliness is awful. Independent as a man may fancyhimself in the heart of a world of men, he is only to be convinced thatthere is neither voice nor hearing, to know that the face from which hemost recoils is of a kind essential to his very soul. Space is notroom; and when we complain of the over-crowding of our fellows, we arethankless for that which comforts us the most, and desire its absencein ignorance of our deepest nature. 

Not even a bird broke the silence. It lay upon my soul as the sky andthe sea lay upon the weary eye of the ancient mariner. It is useless toattempt to convey the impression of my misery. It was not yet the fearof death, or of hunger or thirst, for I had as yet no adequate idea ofthe vast lonelinesses that lie in a mountain land: it was simply thebeing alone, with no ear to hear and no voice to answer me--a tortureto which the soul is liable in virtue of the fact that it was not madeto be alone, yea, I think, I hope, never _can_ be alone; for that whichcould be fact could not be such horror. Essential horror springs froman idea repugnant to the _nature_ of the thinker, and which thereforein reality could not be. 

My agony rose and rose with every moment of silence. But when itreached its height, and when, to save myself from bursting into tears, I threw myself on the ground, and began gnawing at the plants aboutme--then first came help: I had a certain _experience_, as the Puritansmight have called it. I fear to build any definite conclusions upon it, from the dread of fanaticism and the danger of attributing a merelyphysical effect to a spiritual cause. But are matter and spirit so farasunder? It is my will moves my arm, whatever first moves my will. Besides, I do not understand how, unless another influence came intooperation, the extreme of misery and depression should work round intosuch a change as I have to record. 

But I do not know how to describe the change. The silence was crushingor rather sucking my life out of me--up into its own empty gulfs. Thehorror of the great stillness was growing deathly, when all at once Irose to my feet, with a sense of power and confidence I had never hadbefore. It was as if something divine within me awoke to outface thedesolation. I felt that it was time to act, and that I could act. Thereis no cure for terror like action: in a few moments I could haveapproached the verge of any precipice--at least without abject fear. The silence--no longer a horrible vacancy--appeared to tremble withunuttered thinkings. The manhood within me was alive and awake. I couldnot recognize a single landmark, or discover the least vestige of apath. I knew upon which hand the sun was when we started; and took myway with the sun on the other side. But a cloud had already come overhim. 

I had not gone far before I saw in front of me, on the other side of alittle hillock, something like the pale blue grey fog that broods overa mountain lake. I ascended the hillock, and started back with a cry ofdismay: I was on the very verge of an awful gulf. When I think of it, Imarvel yet that I did not lose my self-possession altogether. I onlyturned and strode in the other direction--the faster for the fear. ButI dared not run, for I was haunted by precipices. Over every height, every mound, one might be lying--a trap for my destruction. I no longerlooked out in the hope of recognizing some feature of the country; Icould only regard the ground before me, lest at any step I might comeupon an abyss. 

I had not walked far before the air began to grow dark. I glanced againat the sun. The clouds had gathered thick about him. Suddenly amountain wind blew cold in my face. I never yet can read that sonnet ofShakspere's, Full many a glorious morning I have seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with his disgrace, --

without recalling the gladness when I started from home and the miserythat so soon followed. But my new spirits did not yet give way. Itrudged on. The wind increased, and in it came by-and-by the trailingskirts of a cloud. In a few moments more I was wrapped in mist. It wasas if the gulf from which I had just escaped had sent up its indwellingdemon of fog to follow and overtake me. I dared hardly go on even withthe greatest circumspection. As I grew colder, my courage declined. Themist wetted my face and sank through my clothes, and I began to feelvery wretched, I sat down, not merely from dread of the precipices, butto reserve my walking powers when the mist should withdraw. I began toshiver, and was getting utterly hopeless and miserable when the foglifted a little, and I saw what seemed a great rock near me. I crepttowards it. Almost suddenly it dwindled, and I found but a stone, yetone large enough to afford me some shelter. I went to the leeward sideof it, and nestled at its foot. The mist again sank, and the wind blewstronger, but I was in comparative comfort, partly because myimagination was wearied. I fell fast asleep. 

I awoke stiff with cold. Rain was falling in torrents, and I was wet tothe skin; but the mist was much thinner, and I could see a good way. For awhile I was very heartless, what with the stiffness, and the fearof having to spend the night on the mountains. I was hungry too, notwith the appetite of desire but of need. The worst was that I had noidea in what direction I ought to go. Downwards lay precipices--upwardslay the surer loneliness. I knelt, and prayed the God who dwelt in thesilence to help me; then strode away I knew not whither--up the hill inthe faint hope of discovering some sign to direct me. As I climbed thehill rose. When I surmounted what had seemed the highest point, awaybeyond rose another. But the slopes were not over-steep, and I was ableto get on pretty fast. The wind being behind me, I hoped for someshelter over the highest brow, but that, for anything I knew, might bemiles away in the regions of ice and snow. 

[Illustration: I FELL FAST ASLEEP. ]

I had been walking I should think about an hour, when the mist brokeaway from around me, and the sun, in the midst of clouds of dull orangeand gold, shone out upon the wet hill. It was like a promise of safety, and woke in me courage to climb the steep and crumbling slope which nowlay before me. But the fear returned. People had died in the mountainsof hunger, and I began to make up my mind to meet the worst. I had notlearned that the approach of any fate is just the preparation for thatfate. I troubled myself with the care of that which was not impendingover me. I tried to contemplate the death-struggle with equanimity, butcould not. Had I been wearier and fainter, it would have appeared lessdreadful. Then, in the horror of the slow death of hunger, strange asit may appear, that which had been the special horror of my childishdreams returned upon me changed into a thought of comfort: I could, eremy strength failed me utterly, seek the verge of a precipice, lie downthere, and when the suffering grew strong enough to give me courage, roll myself over the edge, and cut short the agony. 

At length I gained the brow of the height, and at last the ground sankbeyond. There was no precipice to terrify, only a somewhat steepdescent into a valley large and wide. But what a vision arose on theopposite side of that valley!--an upright wilderness of rocks, slopes, precipices, snow, glaciers, avalanches! Weary and faint as I was, I wasfilled with a glorious awe, the terror of which was the opposite offear, for it lifted instead of debasing the soul. Not a pine-treesoftened the haggard waste; not a single stray sheep of the wind'sflock drew one trail of its thin-drawn wool behind it; all was hard andbare. The glaciers lay like the skins of cruel beasts, with the greenveins yet visible, nailed to the rocks to harden in the sun; and thelittle streams which ran down from their claws looked like theknife-blades they are, keen and hard and shining, sawing away at thebones of the old mountain. But although the mountain looked so silent, there came from it every now and then a thunderous sound. At first Icould not think what it was, but gazing at its surface more steadily, upon the face of a slope I caught sight of what seemed a larger streamthan any of the rest; but it soon ceased to flow, and after came thethunder of its fall: it _was_ a stream, but a solid one--an avalanche. Away up in the air the huge snow-summit glittered in the light of theAfternoon sun. I was gazing on the Maiden in one of her most savagemoods--or to speak prose--I was regarding one of the wildest aspects ofthe many-sided Jungfrau. 

Half way down the hill, almost right under my feet, rose a slendercolumn of smoke, I could not see whence. I hastened towards it, feelingas strong as when I started in the morning. I zig-zagged down theslope, for it was steep and slippery with grass, and arrived at lengthat a good-sized cottage, which faced the Jungfrau. It was built ofgreat logs laid horizontally one above the other, all with notches halfthrough near the end, by which notches, lying into each other, thesides of the house were held together at the corners. I soon saw itmust be a sort of roadside inn. There was no one about the place, butpassing through a dark vestibule, in which were stores of fodder andvarious utensils, I came to a room in which sat a mother and herdaughter, the former spinning, the latter making lace on a pillow. Inat the windows looked the great Jungfrau. The room was lined withplanks; the floor was boarded; the ceiling, too, was ofboards--pine-wood all around. 

The women rose when I entered. I knew enough of German to make themunderstand my story, and had learned enough of their _patois_ tounderstand them a little in return. They looked concerned, and theolder woman passing her hands over my jacket, turned to her daughterand commenced a talk much too rapid and no doubt idiomatic for me tofollow. It was in the end mingled with much laughter, evidently at someproposal of the mother. Then the daughter left the room, and the motherbegan to heap wood on the fire. In a few minutes the daughter returned, still laughing, with some garments, which the mother took from her. Iwas watching everything from a corner of the hearth, where I had seatedmyself wearily. The mother came up to me, and, without speaking, putsomething over my head, which I found to be a short petticoat such asthe women wore; then told me I must take off my clothes, and have themdried at the fire. She laid other garments on a chair beside me. 

'I don't know how to put them on, ' I objected. 

'Put on as many as you can, ' she said laughing, 'and I will help youwith the rest. '

I looked about. There was a great press in the room. I went behind itand pulled off my clothes; and having managed to put on some of thegirl's garments, issued from my concealment. The kindly laughter wasrenewed, and mother and daughter busied themselves in arranging myapparel, evidently seeking to make the best of me as a girl, an attemptfavoured by my pale face. When I seemed to myself completely arrayed, the girl said to her mother what I took to mean, 'Let us finish what wehave begun;' and leaving the room, returned presently with the velvetcollar embroidered with silver and the pendent chains which the womenof most of the cantons wear, and put it on me, hooking the chains andleaving them festooned under my arms. The mother was spreading out myclothes before the fire to dry. 

Neither was pretty, but both looked womanly and good. The daughter hadthe attraction of youth and bright eyes; the mother of goodwill andexperience; but both were sallow, and the mother very wrinkled for whatseemed her years. 

'Now, ' I said, summoning my German, 'you've almost finished your work. Make my short hair as like your long hair as you can, and then I shallbe a Swiss girl. '

I was but a boy, and had no scruple concerning a bit of fun of which Imight have been ashamed a few years later. The girl took a comb fromher own hair and arranged mine. When she had finished, 'One girl maykiss another, ' I said; and doubtless she understood me, for shereturned my kiss with a fresh laugh. I sat down by the fire, and as itswarmth crept into my limbs, I rejoiced over comforts which yesterdayhad been a matter of course. 

Meantime they were busy getting me something to eat. Just as they weresetting it on the table, however, a loud call outside took them bothaway. In a few moments two other guests entered, and then first I foundmyself ashamed of my costume. With them the mother re-entered, callingbehind her, 'There's nobody at home; you must put the horses upyourself, Annel. ' Then she moved the little table towards me, andproceeded to set out the meal. 

'Ah! I see you have got something to eat, ' said one of the strangers, in a voice I fancied I had heard before. 

'Will you please to share it?' returned the woman, moving the tableagain towards the middle of the room. 

I thought with myself that, if I kept silent, no one could tell I wasnot a girl; and, the table being finally adjusted, I moved my seattowards it. Meantime the man was helping his companion to take off herouter garments, and put them before the fire. I saw the face of neitheruntil they approached the table and sat down. Great was my surprise todiscover that the man was the same I had met in the wood on my way toMoldwarp Hall, and that the girl was Clara--a good deal grown--in fact, looking almost a woman. From after facts, the meeting became lessmarvellous in my eyes than it then appeared. 

I felt myself in an awkward position--indeed, I felt almost guilty, although any notion of having the advantage of them never entered myhead. I was more than half inclined to run out and help Annel with thehorses, but I was very hungry, and not at all willing to postpone mymeal, simple as it was--bread and butter, eggs, cheese, milk, and abottle of the stronger wine of the country, tasting like a coarsesherry. The two--father and daughter evidently--talked about theirjourney, and hoped they should reach the Grindelwald without more rain. 

'By the way, ' said the gentleman, 'it's somewhere not far from hereyoung Cumbermede is at school. I know Mr Forest well enough--used toknow him, at least. We may as well call upon him. '

'Cumbermede, ' said Clara; 'who is he?'

'A nephew of Mrs Wilson's--no, not nephew--second or third cousin--orsomething of the sort, I believe. --Didn't somebody tell me you met himat the Hall one day?'

'Oh, that boy--Wilfrid. Yes; I told you myself. Don't you remember whata bit of fun we had the night of the ball? We were shut out on theleads, you know. '

'Yes, to be sure, you did tell me. What sort of a boy is he?'

'Oh! I don't know. Much like other boys. I did think he was a coward atfirst, but he showed some pluck at last. I shouldn't wonder if he turnsout a good sort of fellow! We _were_ in a fix!'

'You're a terrible madcap, Clara! If you don't settle down as you grow, you'll be getting yourself into worse scrapes. '

'Not with you to look after me, papa dear, ' answered Clara, smiling. 'It was the fun of cheating old Goody Wilson, you know!'

Her father grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth, and looked at herwith amusement--almost sympathetic roguery, which she evidentlyappreciated, for she laughed heartily. 

Meantime I was feeling very uncomfortable. Something within told me Ihad no right to overhear remarks about myself; and, in my slow way, Iwas meditating how to get out of the scrape. 

'What a nice-looking girl that is!' said Clara, without lifting hereyes from her plate--'I mean for a Swiss, you know. But I do like thedress. I wish you would buy me a collar and chains like those, papa. '

'Always wanting to get something out of your old dad, Clara! Just likethe rest of you, always wanting something--eh?'

'No, papa; it's you gentlemen always want to keep everything foryourselves. We only want you to share. '

'Well, you shall have the collar, and I shall have the chains. --Willthat do?'

'Yes, thank you, papa, ' she returned, nodding her head. 'Meantime, hadn't you better give me your diamond pin? It would fasten thistroublesome collar so nicely!'

'There, child!' he answered, proceeding to take it from his shirt. 'Anything else?'

'No, no, papa dear. I didn't want it. I expected you, like everybodyelse, to decline carrying out your professed principles. '

'What a nice girl she is, ' I thought, 'after all!'

'My love, ' said her father, 'you will know some day that I would domore for you even than give you my pet diamond. If you are a good girl, and do as I tell you, there will be grander things than diamond pins instore for you. But you may have this if you like. '

He looked fondly at her as he spoke. 

'Oh no, papa!--not now at least. I should not know what to do with it. I should be sure to lose it. '

If my clothes had been dry, I would have slipped away, put them on, andappeared in my proper guise. As it was, I was getting more and moremiserable--ashamed of revealing who I was, and ashamed of hearing whatthe speakers supposed I did not understand. I sat on irresolute. In alittle while, however, either the wine having got into my head, or thefood and warmth having restored my courage, I began to contemplate thebolder stroke of suddenly revealing myself by some unexpected remark. They went on talking about the country, and the road they had come. 

'But we have hardly seen anything worth calling a precipice, ' saidClara. 

'You'll see hundreds of them if you look out of the window, ' said herfather. 

'Oh! but I don't mean that, ' she returned. 'It's nothing to look atthem like that. I mean from the top of them--to look down, you know. '

'Like from the flying buttress at Moldwarp Hall, Clara?' I said. 

The moment I began to speak, they began to stare. Clara's hand wasarrested on its way towards the bread, and her father's wine-glass hungsuspended between the table and his lips. I laughed. 

'By Jove!' said Mr Coningham--and added nothing, for amazement, butlooked uneasily at his daughter, as if asking whether they had not saidsomething awkward about me. 

'It's Wilfrid!' exclaimed Clara, in the tone of one talking in hersleep. Then she laid down her knife, and laughed aloud. 

'What a guy you are!' she exclaimed. 'Who would have thought of findingyou in a Swiss girl? Really it was too bad of you to sit there and letus go on as we did. I do believe we were talking about your preciousself! At least papa was. '

Again her merry laugh rang out. She could not have taken a better wayof relieving us. 

'I'm very sorry, ' I said; 'but I felt so awkward in this costume that Icouldn't bring myself to speak before. I tried very hard. '

'Poor boy!' she returned, rather more mockingly than I liked, herviolets swimming in the dews of laughter. 

By this time Mr Coningham had apparently recovered his self-possession. I say _apparently_, for I doubt if he had ever lost it. He had only, Ithink, been running over their talk in his mind to see if he had saidanything unpleasant, and now, re-assured, I think, he stretched hishand across the table. 

'At all events, Mr Cumbermede, ' he said, '_we_ owe _you_ an apology. Iam sure we can't have said anything we should mind you hearing; but--'

'Oh!' I interrupted, 'you have told me nothing I did not know already, except that Mrs Wilson was a relation, of which I was quite ignorant. '

'It is true enough, though. '

'What relation is she, then?'

'I think, when I gather my recollections of the matter--I think she wasfirst cousin to your mother--perhaps it was only second cousin. '

'Why shouldn't she have told me so, then?'

'She must explain that herself. _I_ cannot account for that. It is veryextraordinary. '

'But how do you know so well about me, sir--if you don't mind saying?'

'Oh! I am an old friend of the family. I knew your father better thanyour uncle, though. Your uncle is not over-friendly, you see. '

'I am sorry for that. '

'No occasion at all. I suppose he doesn't like me. I fancy, being aMethodist--'

'My uncle is not a Methodist, I assure you. He goes to the parishchurch regularly. '

'Oh! it's all one. I only meant to say that, being a man of somewhatpeculiar notions, I supposed he did not approve of my profession. Yourgood people are just as ready as others, however, to call in the lawyerwhen they fancy their rights invaded. Ha! ha! But no one has a right tocomplain of another because he doesn't choose to like him. Besides, itbrings grist to the mill. If everybody liked everybody, what wouldbecome of the lawsuits? And that would unsuit us--wouldn't it, Clara?'

'You know, papa dear, what mamma would say?'

'But she ain't here, you know. '

'But _I_ am, papa; and I don't like to hear you talk shop, ' said Claracoaxingly. 

'Very well; we won't then. But I was only explaining to Mr Cumbermedehow I supposed it was that his uncle did not like me. There was nooffence in that, I hope, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Certainly not, ' I answered. 'I am the only offender. But I wasinnocent enough as far as intention goes. I came in drenched and cold, and the good people here amused themselves dressing me like a girl. Itis quite time I were getting home now. Mr Forest will be in a way aboutme. So will Charley Osborne. '

'Oh yes, ' said Mr Coningham, 'I remember hearing you were at schooltogether somewhere in this quarter. But tell us all about it. Did youlose your way?'

I told them my story. Even Clara looked grave when I came to theincident of finding myself on the verge of the precipice. 

'Thank God, my boy!' said Mr Coningham kindly. 'You have had a narrowescape. I lost myself once in the Cumberland hills, and hardly got offwith my life. Here it is a chance you were ever seen again, alive ordead. I wonder you're not knocked up. '

I was, however, more so than I knew. 

'How are you going to get home?' he asked. 

'I don't know any way but walking, ' I answered. 

'Are you far from home?'

'I don't know. I dare say the people here will be able to tell me. ButI think you said you were going down into the Grindelwald. I shall knowwhere I am there. Perhaps you will let me walk with you. Horses can'tgo very fast along these roads. '

'You shall have my horse, my boy. '

'No. I couldn't think of that. '

'You must. I haven't been wandering all day like you. You can ride, Isuppose?'

'Yes, pretty well. '

'Then you shall ride with Clara, and I'll walk with the guide. I shallgo and see after the horses presently. '

It was indeed a delightful close to a dreadful day. We sat and chatteda while, and then Clara and I went out to look at the Jungfrau. Shetold me they had left her mother at Interlaken, and had been wanderingabout the Bernese Alps for nearly a week. 

'I can't think what should have put it in papa's head, ' she added; 'forhe does not care much for scenery. I fancy he wants to make the most ofpoor me, and so takes me the grand tour. He wanted to come withoutmamma, but she said we were not to be trusted alone. She had to give inwhen we took to horseback, though. '

It was getting late, and Mr Coningham came out to find us. 

'It is quite time we were going, ' he said. 'In fact we are too latenow. The horses are ready, and your clothes are dry, Mr Cumbermede. Ihave felt them all over. '

'How kind of you, sir!' I said. 

'Nonsense! Why should any one want another to get his death of cold? Ifyou are to keep alive, it's better to keep well as long as ever youcan. Make haste, though, and change your clothes. '

I hurried away, followed by Clara's merry laugh at my clumsy gait. In afew moments I was ready. Mr Coningham had settled my bill for me. Mother and daughter gave me a kind farewell, and I exhausted my Germanin vain attempts to let them know how grateful I was for theirgoodness. There was not much time, however, to spend even on gratitude. The sun was nearly down, and I could see Clara mounted and waiting forme before the window. I found Mr Coningham rather impatient. 

'Come along, Mr Cumbermede; we must be off, ' he said. 'Get up there. '

'You _have_ grown, though, after all, ' said Clara. 'I thought it mightbe only the petticoats that made you look so tall. '

I got on the horse which the guide, a half-witted fellow from the nextvalley, was holding for me, and we set out. The guide walked beside myhorse, and Mr Coningham beside Clara's. The road was level for a littleway, but it soon turned up on the hill where I had been wandering, andwent along the steep side of it. 

'Will this do for a precipice, Clara?' said her father. 

'Oh! dear no, ' she answered; 'it's not worth the name. It actuallyslopes outward. '

'Before we got down to the next level stretch it began again to rain. Amist came on, and we could see but a little way before us. Through themist came the sound of the bells of the cattle upon the hill. Our guidetrudged carefully but boldly on. He seemed to know every step of theway. Clara was very cool, her father a little anxious, and veryattentive to his daughter, who received his help with a never-failingmerry gratitude, making light of all annoyances. At length we came downupon the better road, and travelled on with more comfort. 

'Look, Clara!' I said, 'will that do?'

'What is it?' she asked, turning her head in the direction in which Ipointed. 

On our right, through the veil, half of rain, half of gauzy mist, whichfilled the air, arose a precipice indeed--the whole bulk it was of theEiger mountain, which the mist brought so near that it seemed literallyto overhang the road. Clara looked up for a moment, but betrayed nosign of awe. 

'Yes, I think that will do, ' she said. 

'Though you are only at the foot of it?' I suggested. 

'Yes, though I am only at the foot of it, ' she repeated. 

'What does it remind you of?' I asked. 

'Nothing. I never saw anything it could remind me of, ' she answered. 

'Nor read anything?'

'Not that I remember. '

'It reminds me of Mount Sinai in the _Pilgrim's Progress_. You rememberChristian was afraid because the side of it which was next the waysidedid hang so much over that he thought it would fall on his head. '

'I never read the _Pilgrim's Progress_, ' she returned, in a careless ifnot contemptuous tone. 

'Didn't you? Oh, you would like it so much!'

'I don't think I should. I don't like religious books. ' 'But that issuch a good story!'

'Oh! it's all a trap--sugar on the outside of a pill! The sting's inthe tail of it. They're all like that. _I_ know them. '

This silenced me, and for a while we went on without speaking. 

The rain ceased; the mist cleared a little; and I began to think I sawsome landmarks I knew. A moment more, and I perfectly understood wherewe were. 

'I'm all right now, sir, ' I said to Mr Coningham. 'I can find my wayfrom here. '

As I spoke I pulled up and proceeded to dismount. 

'Sit still, ' he said. 'We cannot do better than ride on to Mr Forest's. I don't know him much, but I have met him, and in a strange country allare friends, I dare say he will take us in for the night. Do you thinkhe could house us?'

'I have no doubt of it. For that matter, the boys could crowd alittle. '

'Is it far from here?'

'Not above two miles, I think. '

'Are you sure you know the way?'

'Quite sure. '

'Then you take the lead. '

I did so. He spoke to the guide, and Clara and I rode on in front. 

'You and I seem destined to have adventures together, Clara, ' I said. 

'It seems so. But this is not so much of an adventure as that night onthe leads, ' she answered. 

'You would not have thought so if you had been with me in the morning. '

'Were you very much frightened?'

'I was. And then to think of finding you!'

'It was funny, certainly. '

When we reached the house, there was great jubilation over me, but MrForest himself was very serious. He had not been back more than half anhour, and was just getting ready to set out again, accompanied by menfrom the village below. Most of the boys were quite knocked up, forthey had been looking for me ever since they missed me. Charley was ina dreadful way. When he saw me he burst into tears, and declared hewould never let me go out of his sight again. But if he had been withme, it would have been death to both of us: I could never have got himover the ground. 

Mr and Mrs Forest received their visitors with the greatest cordiality, and invited them to spend a day or two with them, to which, after somedeliberation, Mr Coningham agreed. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

AGAIN THE ICE-CAVE. 

The next morning he begged a holiday for me and Charley, of whosefamily he knew something, although he was not acquainted with them. Iwas a little disappointed at Charley's being included in the request, not in the least from jealousy, but because I had set my heart ontaking Clara to the cave in the ice, which I knew Charley would notlike. But I thought we could easily arrange to leave him somewhere nearuntil we returned. I spoke to Mr Coningham about it, who entered intomy small scheme with the greatest kindness. Charley confided to meafterwards that he did not take to him--he was too like an ape, hesaid. But the impression of his ugliness had with me quite worn off;and for his part, if I had been a favourite nephew, he could not havebeen more complaisant and hearty. 

I felt very stiff when we set out, and altogether not quite myself; butthe discomfort wore off as we went. Charley had Mr Coningham's horse, and I walked by the side of Clara's, eager after any occasion, if but apretence, of being useful to her. She was quite familiar with me, butseemed shy of Charley. He looked much more of a man than I; for notonly, as I have said, had he grown much during his illness, but therewas an air of troubled thoughtfulness about him which made him lookconsiderably older than he really was; while his delicate complexionand large blue eyes had a kind of mystery about them that must havebeen very attractive. 

When we reached the village, I told Charley that we wanted to go onfoot to the cave, and hoped he would not mind waiting our return. Buthe refused to be left, declaring he should not mind going in the least;that he was quite well now, and ashamed of his behaviour on the formeroccasion; that, in fact, it must have been his approaching illness thatcaused it. I could not insist, and we set out. The footpath led usthrough fields of corn, with a bright sun overhead, and a sweet windblowing. It was a glorious day of golden corn, gentle wind, and bluesky--with great masses of white snow, whiter than any cloud, held up init. 

We descended the steep bank; we crossed the wooden bridge over thelittle river; we crunched under our feet the hail-like crystals lyingrough on the surface of the glacier; we reached the cave, and enteredits blue abyss. I went first into the delicious, yet dangerous-lookingblue. The cave had several sharp angles in it. When I reached thefurthest corner I turned to look behind me. I was alone. I walked backand peeped round the last corner. Between that and the one beyond itstood Clara and Charley--staring at each other with faces of ghastlyhorror. 

Clara's look certainly could not have been the result of any excess ofimagination. But many women respond easily to influences they could nothave originated. My conjecture is that the same horror had again seizedupon Charley when he saw Clara; that it made his face, alreadydeathlike, tenfold more fearful; that Clara took fright at his fear, her imagination opening like a crystal to the polarized light ofreflected feeling; and thus they stood in the paralysis of a dismaywhich ever multiplied itself in the opposed mirrors of theircountenances. 

I too was in terror--for Charley, and certainly wasted no time inspeculation. I went forward instantly, and put an arm round each. Theywoke up, as it were, and tried to laugh. But the laugh was worse thanthe stare. I hurried them out of the place. 

We came upon Mr Coningham round the next corner, amusing himself withthe talk of the half-silly guide. 

'Where are you going?' he asked. 

'Out again, ' I answered. 'The air is oppressive. '

'Nonsense!' he said merrily. 'The air is as pure as it is cold. Come, Clara; I want to explore the penetralia of this temple of Isis. '

I believe he intended a pun. 

Clara turned with him; Charley and I went out into the sunshine. 

'You should not have gone, Charley. You have caught a chill again, ' Isaid. 

'No, nothing of the sort, ' he answered. 'Only it was too dreadful. Thatlovely face! To see it like that--and know that is what it is comingto!'

'You looked as horrid yourself, ' I returned. 

'I don't doubt it. We all did. But why?'

'Why, just because of the blueness, ' I answered. 

'Yes--the blueness, no doubt. That was all. But there it was, youknow. '

Clara came out smiling. All her horror had vanished. I was looking intothe hole as she turned the last corner. When she first appeared, herface was 'like one that hath been seven days drowned;' but as sheadvanced, the decay thinned, and the life grew, until at last shestepped from the mouth of the sepulchre in all the glow of her merryyouth. It was a dumb show of the resurrection. 

As we went back to the inn, Clara, who was walking in front with herfather, turned her head and addressed me suddenly. 

'You see it was all a sham, Wilfrid!' she said. 

'What was a sham? I don't know what you mean, ' I rejoined. 

'Why that, ' she returned, pointing with her hand. Then addressing herfather, 'Isn't that the Eiger, ' she asked--'the same we rode underyesterday?'

'To be sure it is, ' he answered. 

She turned again to me. 

'You see it is all a sham! Last night it pretended to be on the veryedge of the road and hanging over our heads at an awful height. Now ithas gone a long way back, is not so very high, and certainly does nothang over. I ought not to have been satisfied with that precipice. Ittook me in. '

I did not reply at once. Clara's words appeared to me quite irreverent, and I recoiled from the very thought that there could be any sham innature; but what to answer her I did not know. I almost began todislike her; for it is often incapacity for defending the faith theylove which turns men into persecutors. 

Seeing me foiled, Charley advanced with the doubtful aid of a sophismto help me. 

'Which is the sham, Miss Clara?' he asked. 

'That Eiger mountain there. '

'Ah! so I thought. '

'Then you are of my opinion, Mr Osborne?'

'You mean the mountain is shamming, don't you--looking far off whenreally it is near?'

'Not at all. When it looked last night as if it hung right over ourheads, it was shamming. See it now--far away there!'

'But which, then, is the sham, and which is the true? It _looked_ nearyesterday, and now it _looks_ far away. Which is which?'

'It must have been a sham yesterday; for although it looked near, itwas very dull and dim, and you could only see the sharp outline of it. '

'Just so I argue on the other side. The mountain must be shamming now, for although it looks so far off, it yet shows a most contradictoryclearness--not only of outline but of surface. '

'Aha!' thought I, 'Miss Clara has found her match. They both know he istalking nonsense, yet she can't answer him. What she was saying wasnonsense too, but I can't answer it either--not yet. '

I felt proud of both of them, but of Charley especially, for I had hadno idea he could be so quick. 

'What ever put such an answer into your head, Charley?' I exclaimed. 

'Oh! it's not quite original, ' he returned. 'I believe it was suggestedby two or three lines I read in a review just before we left home. Theytook hold of me rather. '

He repeated half of the now well-known little poem of Shelley, headed_Passage of the Apennines_. He had forgotten the name of the writer, and it was many years before I fell in with the lines myself. 

 'The Apennine in the light of day Is a mighty mountain dim and gray, Which between the earth and sky doth lay; But when night comes, a chaos dread On the dim starlight then is spread, And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm. '

In the middle of it I saw Clara begin to titter, but she did notinterrupt him. When he had finished, she said with a grave face, toograve for seriousness:

'Will you repeat the third line--I think it was, Mr Osborne?'

He did so. 

'What kind of eggs did the Apennine lay, Mr Osborne?' she asked, stillperfectly serious. 

Charley was abashed to find she could take advantage of probably aprovincialism to turn into ridicule such fine verses. Before he couldrecover himself, she had planted another blow' or two. 

'And where is its nest?' Between the earth and the sky is vague. Butthen to be sure it must want a good deal of room. And after all, amountain is a strange fowl, and who knows where it might lay? Betweenearth and sky is quite definite enough? Besides, the bird-nesting boysmight be dangerous if they knew where it was. It would be such a findfor them!'

My champion was defeated. Without attempting a word in reply, he hungback and dropped behind. Mr Coningham must have heard the whole, but heoffered no remark. I saw that Charley's sensitive nature was hurt, andmy heart was sore for him. 

'That's too bad of you, Clara, ' I said. 

'What's too bad of me, Wilfrid?' she returned. 

I hesitated a moment, then answered--

'To make game of such verses. Any one with half a soul must see theywere fine. '

'Very wrong of you, indeed, my dear, ' said Mr Coningham from behind, ina voice that sounded as if he were smothering a laugh; but when Ilooked round, his face was grave. 

'Then I suppose that half soul I haven't got, ' returned Clara. 

'Oh! I didn't mean that, ' I said, lamely enough. 'But there's no logicin that kind of thing, you know. '

'You see, papa, ' said Clara, 'what you are accountable for. Why didn'tyou make them teach me logic?'

Her father smiled a pleased smile. His daughter's naiveté would in hiseyes make up for any lack of logic. 

'Mr Osborne, ' continued Clara, turning back, 'I beg your pardon. I am awoman, and you men don't allow us to learn logic. But at the same timeyou must confess you were making a bad use of yours. You know it wasall nonsense you were trying to pass off on me for wisdom. '

He was by her side the instant she spoke to him. A smile grew upon hisface; I could see it growing, just as you see the sun growing behind acloud. In a moment it broke out in radiance. 

'I confess, ' he said. 'I thought you were too hard on Wilfrid; and hehadn't anything at hand to say for himself. '

'And you were too hard upon me, weren't you? Two to one is not fairplay--is it now?'

'No; certainly not. '

'And that justified a little false play on my part?'

'No, it did _not_, ' said Charley, almost fiercely. 'Nothing justifiesfalse play. '

'Not even yours, Mr Osborne?' replied Clara, with a stately coldnessquite marvellous in one so young; and leaving him, she came again to myside. I peeped at Mr Coningham, curious to see how he regarded all thiswrangling with his daughter. He appeared at once amused and satisfied. Clara's face was in a glow, clearly of anger at the discourteous mannerin which Charley had spoken. 

'You mustn't be angry with Charley, Clara, ' I said. 

'He is very rude, ' she replied indignantly. 

'What he said was rude, I allow, but Charley himself is anything butrude. I haven't looked at him, but I am certain he is miserable aboutit already. '

'So he ought to be. To speak like that to a lady, when her veryfriendliness put her off her guard! I never was treated so in all mylife. '

She spoke so loud that she must have meant Charley to hear her. Butwhen I looked back, I saw that he had fallen a long way behind, and wascoming on very slowly, with dejected look and his eyes on the ground. Mr Coningham did not interfere by word or sign. 

When we reached the inn he ordered some refreshment, and behaved to usboth as if we were grown men. Just a touch of familiarity was the soleindication that we were not grown men. Boys are especially grateful forrespect from their superiors, for it helps them to respect themselves;but Charley sat silent and gloomy. As he would not ride back, and MrConingham preferred walking too, I got into the saddle and rode byClara's side. 

As we approached the house, Charley crept up the other side of Clara'shorse, and laid his hand on his mane. When he spoke Clara started, forshe was looking the other way and had not observed his approach. 

'Miss Clara, ' he said, 'I am very sorry I was so rude. Will you forgiveme?'

Instead of being hard to reconcile, as I had feared from her outburstof indignation, she leaned forward and laid her hand on his. He lookedup in her face, his own suffused with a colour I had never seen in itbefore. His great blue eyes lightened with thankfulness, and began tofill with tears. How she looked, I could not see. She withdrew herhand, and Charley dropped behind again. In a little while he came up tomy side, and began talking. He soon got quite merry, but Clara in herturn was silent. 

I doubt if anything would be worth telling but for what comes after. History itself would be worthless but for what it cannot tell, namely, its own future. Upon this ground my reader must excuse the apparenttriviality of the things I am now relating. 

When we were alone in our room that night--for ever since Charley'sillness we two had had a room to ourselves--Charley said, 'I behaved like a brute this morning, Wilfrid. '

'No, Charley; you were only a little rude from being over-eager. If shehad been seriously advocating dishonesty, you would have been quiteright to take it up so; and you thought she was. '

'Yes; but it was very silly of me. I dare say it was because I had beenso dishonest myself just before. How dreadful it is that I am alwaystaking my own side, even when I do what I am ashamed of in another! Isuppose I think I have got my horse by the head, and the other hasnot. '

'I don't know. That may be it, ' I answered. 'I'm afraid I can't thinkabout it to-night, for I don't feel well. What if it should be yourturn to nurse me now, Charley?'

He turned quite pale, his eyes opened wide, and he looked at meanxiously. 

Before morning I was aching all over: I had rheumatic fever. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

CHARLEY NURSES ME. 

I saw no more of Clara. Mr Coningham came to bid me good-bye, and spokevery kindly. Mr Forest would have got a nurse for me, but Charleybegged so earnestly to be allowed to return the service I had done forhim that he yielded. 

I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley's attentions wereunremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; andmade me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside ina moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear noone to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and mymedicine was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, whichhad been brought to do its duty at least respectably. 

One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, 'Shall I readsomething to you, Wilfrid?'

He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did. 

'I should like it, ' I answered. 

'What shall I read?' he asked. 

'Hadn't you something in your head, ' I rejoined, 'when you proposedit?'

'Well, I had; but I don't know if you would like it. '

'What did you think of, then?'

'I thought of a chapter in the New Testament. '

'How could you think I should not like that?'

'Because I never saw you say your prayers. '

'That is quite true. But you don't think I never say my prayers, although you never see me do it?'

The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did notapprove of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did nottherefore leave me without instruction in the matter of praying--eitherthe idlest or the most availing of human actions. He would say, 'Whenyou want anything, ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But don't fancy you are doing God any service bypraying to him. He likes you to pray to him because he loves you, andwants you to love him. And whatever you do, don't go saying a lot ofwords you don't mean. If you think you ought to pray, say your Lord'sPrayer, and have done with it. ' I had no theory myself on the matter;but when I was in misery on the wild mountains, I had indeed prayed toGod; and had even gone so far as to hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer. 

Charley made no reply. 

'It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn't be seen, Charley, 'I persisted. 

'Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly. ' 'Idon't think much of that either, ' I answered. 'But I've said a goodmany prayers since I've been here, Charley. I can't say I'm sure it'sof any use, but I can't help trying after something--I don't knowwhat--something I want, and don't know how to get. '

'But it's only the prayer of faith that's heard--do you believe, Wilfrid?'

'I don't know. I daren't say I don't. I wish I could say I do. But Idare say things will be considered. '

'Wouldn't it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?'

'What, Charley?'

'That God actually let his creatures see him--and--all that came of it, you know?'

'It would be grand indeed! But supposing it true, how could we beexpected to believe it like them that saw him with their own eyes? _I_couldn't be required to believe just as if I could have no doubt aboutit. It wouldn't be fair. Only--perhaps we haven't got the clew by theright end. '

'Perhaps not. But sometimes I hate the whole thing. And then again Ifeel as if I _must_ read all about it; not that I care for it exactly, but because a body must do something--because--I don't know how to sayit--because of the misery, you know. '

'I don't know that I do know--quite. But now you have started thesubject, I thought that was great nonsense Mr Forest was talking aboutthe authority of the Church the other day. '

'Well, _I_ thought so, too. I don't see what right they have to say soand so, if they didn't hear him speak. As to what he meant, they may beright or they may be wrong. If they _have_ the gift of the Spirit, asthey say--how am I to tell they have? All impostors claim it as well asthe true men. If I had ever so little of the same gift myself, Isuppose I could tell; but they say no one has till he believes--so theymay be all humbugs for anything I can possibly tell; or they may be alltrue men, and yet I may fancy them all humbugs, and can't help it. '

I was quite as much astonished to hear Charley talk in this style assome readers will be doubtful whether a boy could have talked such goodsense. I said nothing, and a silence followed. 

'Would you like me to read to you, then?' he asked. 

'Yes, I should; for, do you know, after all, I don't think there'sanything like the New Testament. '

'Anything like it!' he repeated. 'I should think not! Only I wish I didknow what it all meant. I wish I could talk to my father as I would toJesus Christ if I saw _him_. But if I could talk to my father, hewouldn't understand me. He would speak to me as if I were the very scumof the universe for daring to have a doubt of what _he_ told me. '

'But he doesn't mean _himself_, ' I said. 

'Well, who told him?'

'The Bible. '

'And who told the Bible?'

'God, of course. '

'But how am I to know that? I only know that they say so. Do you know, Wilfrid--I _don't_ believe my father is quite sure himself, and that iswhat makes him in such a rage with anybody who doesn't think as hedoes. He's afraid it mayn't be true after all. '

I had never had a father to talk to, but I thought something must bewrong when a boy _couldn't_ talk to his father. My uncle was a betterfather than that came to. 

Another pause followed, during which Charley searched for a chapter tofit the mood. I will not say what chapter he found, for, after all, Idoubt if we had any real notion of what it meant. I know, however, thatthere were words in it which found their way to my conscience; and, letmen of science or philosophy say what they will, the rousing of a man'sconscience is the greatest event in his existence. In such a matter, the consciousness of the man himself is the sole witness. A Chinese canexpose many of the absurdities and inconsistencies of the English: itis their own Shakspere who must bear witness to their sins and faults, as well as their truths and characteristics. 

After this we had many conversations about such things, one of which Ishall attempt to report by-and-by. Of course, in any such attempt allthat can be done is to put the effect into fresh conversational form. What I have just written must at least be more orderly than what passedbetween us; but the spirit is much the same, and mere fact is ofconsequence only as it affects truth. 

CHAPTER XX. 

A DREAM. 

The best immediate result of my illness was that I learned to loveCharley Osborne dearly. We renewed an affection resembling from afarthat of Shakspere for his nameless friend; we anticipated thatinforming _In Memoriam_. Lest I be accused of infinite arrogance, letme remind my reader that the sun is reflected in a dewdrop as in theocean. 

One night I had a strange dream, which is perhaps worth telling for theinvolution of its consciousness. 

 I thought I was awake in my bed, and Charley asleep in his. I laylooking into the room. It began to waver and change. The night-lightenlarged and receded; and the walls trembled and waved. The light hadgot behind them, and shone through them. 

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; for I was frightened. 

'I heard him move: but before he reached me, I was lying on a lawn, surrounded by trees, with the moon shining through them from behind. The next moment Charley was by my side. 

'Isn't it prime?' he said. 'It's all over. '

'What do you mean, Charley?' I asked. 

'I mean that we're both dead now. It's not so very bad--is it?'

'Nonsense, Charley!' I returned; '_I_'m not dead. I'm as wide alive asever I was. Look here. '

So saying, I sprung to my feet, and drew myself up before him. 

'Where's your worst pain?' said Charley, with a curious expression inhis tone. 

'Here, ' I answered. 'No; it's not; it's in my back. No, it isn't. It'snowhere. I haven't got any pain. '

Charley laughed a low laugh, which sounded as sweet as strange. It wasto the laughter of the world 'as moonlight is to sunlight, ' but not 'aswater is to wine, ' for what it had lost in sound it had gained insmile. 

'Tell me now you're not dead!' he exclaimed triumphantly. 

'But, ' I insisted, 'don't you see I'm alive? _You_ may be dead foranything I know--but I _am not_--I know that. '

'You're just as dead as I am, ' he said. 'Look here. '

A little way off, in an open plot by itself, stood a little white rosetree, half mingled with the moonlight. Charley went up to it, steppedon the topmost twig, and stood: the bush did not even bend under him. 

'Very well, ' I answered. 'You are dead, I confess. But now, look youhere. '

I went to a red rose-bush which stood at some distance, blanched in themoon, set my foot on the top of it, and made as if I would ascend, expecting to crush it, roses and all, to the ground. But behold! I wasstanding on my red rose opposite Charley on his white. 

'I told you so, ' he cried, across the moonlight, and his voice soundedas if it came from the moon far away. 

'Oh Charley!' I cried, 'I'm so frightened!'

'What are you frightened at?'

'At you. You're dead, you know. '

'It is a good thing, Wilfrid, ' he rejoined, in a tone of some reproach, 'that I am not frightened at you for the same reason; for what wouldhappen then?'

'I don't know. I suppose you would go away and leave me alone in thisghostly light. '

'If I were frightened at you as you are at me, we should not be able tosee each other at all. If you take courage the light will grow. '

'Don't leave me, Charley, ' I cried, and flung myself from my treetowards his. I found myself floating, half reclined on the air. We metmidway each in the other's arms. 

'I don't know where I am, Charley. '

'That is my father's rectory. '

He pointed to the house, which I had not yet observed. It lay quitedark in the moonlight, for not a window shone from within. 

'Don't leave me, Charley. '

'Leave you! I should think not, Wilfrid. I have been long enoughwithout you already. '

'Have you been long dead, then, Charley?'

'Not very long. Yes, a long time. But, indeed, I don't know. We don'tcount time as we used to count it. --I want to go and see my father. Itis long since I saw _him_, anyhow. Will you come?'

'If you think I might--if you wish it, ' I said, for I had no greatdesire to see Mr Osborne. 'Perhaps he won't care to see me. '

'Perhaps not, ' said Charley, with another low silvery laugh. 'Comealong. '

We glided over the grass. A window stood a little open on the secondfloor. We floated up, entered, and stood by the bedside of Charley'sfather. He lay in a sound sleep. 

'Father! father!' said Charley, whispering in his ear as he lay--'it'sall right. You need not be troubled about me any more. '

Mr Osborne turned on his pillow. 

'He's dreaming about us now, ' said Charley. 'He sees us both standingby his bed. '

But the next moment Mr Osborne sat up, stretched out his arms towardsus with the open palms outwards, as if pushing us away from him, andcried, 'Depart from me, all evil-doers. O Lord! do I not hate them that hatethee?'

He followed with other yet more awful words which I never could recall. I only remember the feeling of horror and amazement they left behind. Iturned to Charley. He had disappeared, and I found myself lying in thebed beside Mr Osborne. I gave a great cry of dismay--when there wasCharley again beside me, saying, 'What's the matter, Wilfrid? Wake up. My father's not here. '

I did wake, but until I had felt in the bed I could not satisfy myselfthat Mr Osborne was indeed not there. 

'You've been talking in your sleep. I could hardly get you waked, ' saidCharley, who stood there in his shirt. 

'Oh Charley!' I cried, 'I've had such a dream!'

'What was it, Wilfrid?'

'Oh! I can't talk about it yet, ' I answered. 

I never did tell him that dream; for even then I was often uneasy abouthim--he was so sensitive. The affections of my friend were as hoops ofsteel; his feelings a breath would ripple. Oh, my Charley! if ever wemeet in that land so vaguely shadowed in my dream, will you not knowthat I loved you heartily well? Shall I not hasten' to lay bare myheart before you--the priest of its confessional? Oh, Charley! when thetruth is known, the false will fly asunder as the Autumn leaves in thewind; but the true, whatever their faults, will only draw together themore tenderly that they have sinned against each other. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE FROZEN STREAM. 

Before the Winter arrived, I was well, and Charley had recovered fromthe fatigue of watching me. One holiday, he and I set out alone toaccomplish a scheme we had cherished from the first appearance of thefrost. How it arose I hardly remember; I think it came of some remarkMr Forest had made concerning the difference between the streams ofSwitzerland and England--those in the former country being emptiest, those in the latter fullest in the Winter. It was--when the frostshould have bound up the sources of the beck which ran almost by ourdoor, and it was no longer a stream, but a rope of ice--to take thatrope for our guide, and follow it as far as we could towards the secretrecesses of its Summer birth. 

Along the banks of the stream, we followed it up and up, meeting avaried loveliness which it would take the soul of a Wordsworth or aRuskin to comprehend or express. To my poor faculty the splendour ofthe ice-crystals remains the one memorial thing. In those lonelywater-courses the sun was gloriously busy, with none to praise himexcept Charley and me. 

Where the banks were difficult we went down into the frozen bed, andthere had story above story of piled-up loveliness, with opal anddiamond cellars below. Spikes and stars crystalline radiated andrefracted and reflected marvellously. But we did not reach the primarysource of the stream by miles; we were stopped by a precipitous rock, down the face of which one half of the stream fell, while the othercrept out of its foot, from a little cavernous opening about four feethigh. Charley was a few yards ahead of me, and ran stooping into thecavern. I followed. But when I had gone as far as I dared for thedarkness and the down-sloping roof, and saw nothing of him, I grewdismayed, and called him. There was no answer. With a thrill of horrormy dream returned upon me. I got on my hands and knees and creptforward. A short way further the floor sank--only a little, I believe, but from the darkness I took the descent for an abyss into whichCharley had fallen. I gave a shriek of despair, and scrambled out ofthe cave howling. In a moment he was by my side. He had only creptbehind a projection for a trick. His remorse was extreme. He begged mypardon in the most agonized manner. 

'Never mind, Charley, ' I said; 'you didn't mean it. '

'Yes, I did mean it, ' he returned. 'The temptation came, and I yielded;only I did not know how dreadful it would be to you. '

'Of course not. You wouldn't have done it if you had. '

'How am I to know that, Wilfrid? I might have done it. Isn't itfrightful that a body may go on and on till a thing is done, and thenwish he hadn't done it? I am a despicable creature. Do you know, Wilfrid, I once shot a little bird--for no good, but just to shoot atsomething. It wasn't that I didn't think of it--don't say that. I didthink of it. I knew it was wrong. When I had levelled my gun, I thoughtof it quite plainly, and yet drew the trigger. It dropped, a heap ofruffled feathers. I shall never get that little bird out of my head. And the worst of it is that to all eternity I can never make anyatonement'

'But God will forgive you, Charley. '

'What do I care for that, ' he rejoined, almost fiercely, 'when thelittle bird cannot forgive me?--I would go on my knees to the littlebird, if I could, to beg its pardon and tell it-what a brute I was, andit might shoot me if it would, and I should say "Thank you. "'

He laughed almost hysterically, and the tears ran down his face. 

I have said little about my uncle's teaching, lest I should bore myreaders. But there it came in, and therefore here it must come in. Myuncle had, by no positive instruction, but by occasional observations, not one of which I can recall, generated in me a strong hope that thelife of the lower animals was terminated at their death no more thanour own. The man who believes that thought is the result of brain, andnot the growth of an unknown seed whose soil is the brain, may wellsneer at this, for he is to himself but a peck of dust that has to beeaten by the devouring jaws of Time; but I cannot see how the man whobelieves in soul at all, can say that the spirit of a man lives, andthat the spirit of his horse dies. I do not profess to believe anythingfor _certain sure_ myself, but I do think that he who, if from merelyphilosophical considerations, believes the one, ought to believe theother as well. Much more must the theosophist believe it. But I hadnever felt the need of the doctrine until I beheld the misery ofCharley over the memory of the dead sparrow. Surely that sparrow fellnot to the ground without the Father's knowledge. 

'Charley! how do you know, ' I said, 'that you can never beg the bird'spardon? If God made the bird, do you fancy with your gun you coulddestroy the making of his hand? If he said, "Let there be, " do yousuppose you could say, "There shall not be"?' (Mr Forest had read thatchapter of first things at morning prayers. ) 'I fancy myself that forGod to put a bird all in the power of a silly thoughtless boy--'

'Not thoughtless! not thoughtless! There is the misery!' said Charley. 

But I went on--

'--would be worse than for you to shoot it. '

A great glow of something I dare not attempt to define grew uponCharley's face. It was like what I saw on it when Clara laid her handon his. But presently it died out again, and he sighed--

'If there _were_ a God--that is, if I were sure there was a God, Wilfrid!'

I could not answer. How could I? _I_ had never seen God, as the oldstory says Moses did on the clouded mountain. All I could return was, 'Suppose there should be a God, Charley!--Mightn't there be a God!'

'I don't know, ' he returned. 'How should _I_ know whether there _might_be a God?'

'But _may_ there not be a _might be?_' I rejoined. 

'There may be. How should I say the other thing?' said Charley. 

I do not mean this was exactly what he or I said. Unable to recall thewords themselves, I put the sense of the thing in as clear a shape as Ican. 

We were seated upon a stone in the bed of the stream, off which the sunhad melted the ice. The bank rose above us, but not far. I thought Iheard a footstep. I jumped up, but saw no one. I ran a good way up thestream to a place where I could climb the bank; but then saw no one. The footstep, real or imagined, broke our conversation at that point, and we did not resume it. All that followed was--

'If I were the sparrow, Charley, I would not only forgive you, buthaunt you for ever out of gratitude that you were sorry you had killedme. '

'Then you _do_ forgive me for frightening you?' he said eagerly. 

Very likely Charley and I resembled each other too much to be the bestpossible companions for each other. There was, however, this differencebetween us--that he had been bored with religion and I had not. Inother words, food had been forced upon him, which had only been laidbefore me. 

We rose and went home. A few minutes after our entrance, Mr Forest camein--looking strange, I thought. The conviction crossed my mind that itwas his footstep we had heard over our heads as we sat in the channelof the frozen stream. I have reason to think that he followed us for achance of listening. Something had set him on the watch--most likelythe fact that we were so much together, and did not care for thesociety of the rest of our schoolfellows. From that time, certainly, heregarded Charley and myself with a suspicious gloom. We felt it, butbeyond talking to each other about it, and conjecturing its cause, wecould do nothing. It made Charley very unhappy at times, deepening theshadow which brooded over his mind; for his moral skin was as sensitiveto changes in the moral atmosphere as the most sensitive of plants tothose in the physical. But unhealthy conditions in the smallestcommunities cannot last long without generating vapours which result insome kind of outburst. 

The other boys, naturally enough, were displeased with us for holdingso much together. They attributed it to some fancy of superiority, whereas there was nothing in it beyond the simplest preference for eachother's society. We were alike enough to understand each other, andunlike enough to interest and aid each other. Besides, we did not caremuch for the sports in which boys usually explode their superfluousenergy. I preferred a walk and a talk with Charley to anything else. 

I may here mention that these talks had nearly cured me ofcastle-building. To spin yarns for Charley's delectation would havebeen absurd. He cared for nothing but the truth. And yet he could neverassure himself that anything was true. The more likely a thing lookedto be true, the more anxious was he that it should be unassailable; andhis fertile mind would in as many moments throw a score of objectionsat it, looking after each with eager eyes as if pleading for arefutation. It was the very love of what was good that generated in himdoubt and anxiety. 

When our schoolfellows perceived that Mr Forest also was dissatisfiedwith us, their displeasure grew to indignation; and we did not endureits manifestations without a feeling of reflex defiance. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

AN EXPLOSION. 

One Spring morning we had got up early and sauntered out together. Iremember perfectly what our talk was about. Charley had started thequestion: 'How could it be just to harden Pharaoh's heart and thenpunish him for what came of it?' I who had been brought up without anysuperstitious reverence for the Bible, suggested that the narrator ofthe story might be accountable for the contradiction, and simply thatit was not true that God hardened Pharaoh's heart. Strange to say, Charley was rather shocked at this. He had as yet received the dogma ofthe infallibility of the Bible without thinking enough about it toquestion it. Nor did it now occur to him what a small affair it was tofind a book fallible, compared with finding the God of whom the bookspoke fallible upon its testimony--for such was surely the dilemma. Menhave been able to exist without a Bible: if there be a God it must bein and through Him that all men live; only if he be not true, then inHim, and not in the first Adam, all men die. 

We were talking away about this, no doubt after a sufficiently crudemanner, as we approached the house, unaware that we had lingered toolong. The boys were coming out from breakfast for a game before school. 

Amongst them was one of the name of Home, who considered himselfsuperior, from his connection with the Scotch Homes. He was a big, strong, pale-faced, handsome boy, with the least bit of a sneer alwayshovering upon his upper lip. Charley was half a head shorter than he, and I was half a head shorter than Charley. As we passed him, he saidaloud, addressing the boy next him--

'There they go--a pair of sneaks!'

Charley turned upon him at once, his face in a glow. 

'Home, ' he said, 'no gentleman would say so. '

'And why not?' said Home, turning and striding up to Charley in amagnificent manner. 

'Because there is no ground for the assertion, ' said Charley. 

'Then you mean to say I am a liar?'

'I mean to say, ' returned Charley, with more promptitude than I couldhave expected of him, 'that if you are a gentleman, you will be sorryfor it. '

'There is my apology, then!' said Home, and struck Charley a blow onthe head which laid him on the ground. I believe he repented it themoment he had done it. 

I caught one glimpse of the blood pouring over the transparentblue-veined skin, and rushed at Home in a transport of fury. 

I never was brave one step beyond being able to do what must be doneand bear what must be borne; and now it was not courage that inspiredme, but a righteous wrath. 

I did my best, got a good many hard blows, and planted not one inreturn, for I had never fought in my life. I do believe Home spared me, conscious of wrong. Meantime some of them had lifted Charley andcarried him into the house. 

Before I was thoroughly mauled, which must have been the final result, for I would not give in, the master appeared, and in a voice such as Ihad never heard from him before, ordered us all into the school-room. 

'Fighting like bullies!' he said. 'I thought my pupils were gentlemenat least!'

Perhaps dimly aware that he had himself given some occasion to thisoutbreak, and imagining in his heart a show of justice, he seized Homeby the collar, and gave him a terrible cut with the riding-whip whichhe had caught up in his anger. Home cried out, and the same momentCharley appeared, pale as death. 

'Oh, sir!' he said, laying his hand on the master's arm appealingly, 'Iwas to blame too. '

'I don't doubt it, ' returned Mr Forest. 'I shall settle with youpresently. Get away!'

'Now, sir, ' he continued, turning to me--and held the whip suspended, as if waiting a word from me to goad him on. He looked something elsethan a gentleman himself just then. It was a sudden outbreak of thebeast in him. 'Will you tell me why you punish me, sir, if you please?What have I done?' I said. 

His answer was such a stinging blow that for a moment I was bewildered, and everything reeled about me. But I did not cry out--I know that, forI asked two of the fellows after. 

'You prate about justice!' he said. 'I will let you know what justicemeans--to you at least. '

And down came a second cut as bad as the first. My blood was up. 

'If this is justice, then there _is_ no God, ' I said. 

He stood aghast. I went on. 

'If there be a God--'

'_If_ there be a God!' he shrieked, and sprang towards me. 

I did not move a step. 

'I hope there is, ' I said, as he seized me again; 'for you are unjust. '

I remember only a fierce succession of blows. With Voltaire and theFrench revolution present to his mind in all their horror, he had beennourishing in his house a toad of the same spawn! He had been remiss, but would now compel those whom his neglect had injured to pay off hisarrears! A most orthodox conclusion! but it did me little harm: it didnot make me think that God was unjust, for my uncle, not Mr Forest, wasmy type of Christian. The harm it did was of another sort--and toCharley, not to me. 

Of course, while under the hands of the executioner, I could notobserve what was going on around me. When I began to awake from theabsorption of my pain and indignation, I found myself in my room. I hadbeen ordered thither, and had mechanically obeyed. I was on my bed, staring at the door, at which I had become aware of a gentle tapping. 

'Come in, ' I said; and Charley--who, although it was his room as muchas mine, never entered when he thought I was there without knocking atthe door--appeared, with the face of a dead man. Sore as I was, Ijumped up. 

'The brute has not been thrashing _you_, Charley!' I cried, in a wraththat gave me the strength of a giant. With that terrible bruise abovehis temple from Home's fist, none but a devil could have dared to layhands upon him!

'No, Wilfrid, ' he answered; 'no such honour for me! I am disgraced forever!'

He hid his wan face in his thin hands. 

'What do you mean, Charley?' I said. 'You cannot have told a lie!'

'No, Wilfrid. But it doesn't matter now. I don't care for myself anymore. '

'Then, Charley, what _have_ you done?'

'You are always so kind, Wilfrid!' he returned, with a hopelessnesswhich seemed almost coldness. 

'Charley, ' I said, 'if you don't tell me what has happened--'

'Happened!' he cried. 'Hasn't that man been lashing at you like a dog, and I _didn't_ rush at him, and if I couldn't fight, being a milksop, then bite and kick and scratch, and take my share of it? O God!' hecried, in agony, 'if I had but a chance again! But nobody ever has morethan one chance in this world. He may damn me now when he likes: Idon't care!'

'Charley! Charley!' I cried; 'you're as bad as Mr Forest. Are you tosay such things about God, when you know nothing of him? He may be asgood a God, after all, as even we should like him to be. '

'But Mr Forest is a clergyman. '

'And God was the God of Abraham before ever there was a clergyman totake his name in vain, ' I cried; for I was half mad with the man whohad thus wounded my Charley. '_I_ am content with you, Charley. You aremy best and only friend. That is all nonsense about attacking Forest. What could you have done, you know? Don't talk such rubbish. '

'I might have taken my share with you, ' said Charley, and again buriedhis face in his hands. 

'Come, Charley, ' I said, and at the moment a fresh wave of manhoodswept through my soul; 'you and I will take our share together ahundred times yet. I have done my part now; yours will come next. '

'But to think of not sharing your disgrace, Wilfrid!'

'Disgrace!' I said, drawing myself up, 'where was that?'

'You've been beaten, ' he said. 

'Every stripe was a badge of honour, ' I said, 'for I neither deservedit nor cried out against it. I feel no disgrace. '

'Well, I've missed the honour, ' said Charley; 'but that's nothing, soyou have it. But not to share your disgrace would have been mean. Andit's all one; for I thought it was disgrace, and I did not share it. Iam a coward for ever, Wilfrid. '

'Nonsense! He never gave you a chance. _I_ never thought of strikingback: how should _you?_'

'I will be your slave, Wilfrid! You are _so_ good, and I am _so_unworthy. '

He put his arms round me, laid his head on my shoulder, and sobbed. Idid what more I could to comfort him, and gradually he grew calm. Atlength he whispered in my ear--

'After all, Wilfrid, I do believe I was horror-struck, and it _wasn't_cowardice pure and simple. '

'I haven't a doubt of it, ' I said. 'I love you more than ever. '

'Oh, Wilfrid! I should have gone mad by this time but for you. Will yoube my friend whatever happens?--Even if I should be a coward afterall?'

'Indeed I will, Charley. --What do you think Forest will do next?'

We resolved not to go down until we were sent for; and then to beperfectly quiet, not speaking to any one unless we were spoken to; andat dinner we carried out our resolution. 

When bed-time came, we went as usual to make our bow to Mr Forest. 

'Cumbermede, ' he said sternly, 'you sleep in No. 5 until furtherorders. '

'Very well, sir, ' I said, and went, but lingered long enough to hearthe fate of Charley. 

'Home, ' said Mr Forest, 'you go to No. 3. '

That was our room. 

'Home, ' I said, having lingered on the stairs until he appeared, 'youdon't bear me a grudge, do you?'

'It was my fault, ' said Home. 'I had no right to pitch into you. Onlyyou're such a cool beggar! But, by Jove! I didn't think Forest wouldhave been so unfair. If you forgive me, I'll forgive you. '

'If I hadn't stood up to you, I couldn't, ' I returned. 'I knew I hadn'ta chance. Besides, I hadn't any breakfast. '

'I was a brute, ' said Home. 

'Oh, I don't mind for myself; but there's Osborne! I wonder you couldhit _him_. '

'He shouldn't have jawed me, ' said Home. 

'But you did first. '

We had reached the door of the room which had been Home's and was nowto be mine, and went in together. 

'Didn't you now?' I insisted. 

'Well, I did; I confess I did. And it was very plucky of him. '

'Tell him that, Home, ' I said. 'For God's sake tell him that. It willcomfort him. You must be kind to him, Home. We're not so bad as Foresttakes us for. '

'I will, ' said Home. 

And he kept his word. 

We were never allowed to share the same room again, and school was notwhat it had been to either of us. 

Within a few weeks Charley's father, to our common dismay, suddenlyappeared, and the next morning took him away. What he said to Charley Ido not know. He did not take the least notice of me, and I believewould have prevented Charley from saying good-bye to me. But just asthey were going Charley left his father's side, and came up to me witha flush on his face and a flash in his eye that made him look moremanly and handsome than I had ever seen him, and shook hands with me, saying--

'It's all right--isn't it, Wilfrid?'

'It _is_ all right, Charley, come what will, ' I answered. 

'Good-bye then, Wilfrid. '

'Good-bye, Charley. '

And so we parted. 

I do not care to say one word more about the school. I continued therefor another year and a half. Partly in misery, partly in growingeagerness after knowledge, I gave myself to my studies with morediligence. Mr Forest began to be pleased with me, and I have no doubtplumed himself on the vigorous measures by which he had nipped the budof my infidelity. For my part I drew no nearer to him, for I could notrespect or trust him after his injustice. I did my work for its ownsake, uninfluenced by any desire to please him. There was, in fact, notrue relation between us any more. 

I communicated nothing of what had happened to my uncle, because MrForest's custom was to read every letter before it left the house. ButI longed for the day when I could tell the whole story to the great, simple-hearted man. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

ONLY A LINK. 

Before my return to England, I found that familiarity with the sightsand sounds of a more magnificent nature had removed my past life to agreat distance. What had interested my childhood had strangelydwindled, yet gathered a new interest from its far-off and forsakenlook. So much did my past wear to me now the look of something read ina story, that I am haunted with a doubt whether I may not havecommunicated too much of this appearance to my description of it, although I have kept as true as my recollections would enable me. Theoutlines must be correct: if the colouring be unreal, it is because ofthe haze which hangs about the memories of the time. 

The revisiting of old scenes is like walking into a mausoleum. Everything is a monument of something dead and gone. For we die daily. Happy those who daily come to life as well!

I returned with a clear conscience, for not only had I as yet escapedcorruption, but for the greater part of the time at least I had workedwell. If Mr Forest's letter which I carried to my uncle contained anyhint intended to my disadvantage, it certainly fell dead on his mind;for he treated me with a consideration and respect which at oncecharmed and humbled me. 

One day as we were walking together over the fields, I told him thewhole story of the loss of the weapon at Moldwarp Hall. Up to the timeof my leaving for Switzerland I had shrunk from any reference to thesubject, so painful was it to me, and so convinced was I that hissympathy would be confined to a compassionate smile and a few words ofcondolence. 

But glancing at his face now and then as I told the tale, I discoveredmore of interest in the play of his features than. I had expected; andwhen he learned that it was absolutely gone from me, his face flushedwith what seemed anger. For some moments after I had finished he wassilent. At length he said, 'It is a strange story, Wilfrid, my boy. There must be some explanationof it, however. '

He then questioned me about Mr Close, for suspicion pointed in hisdirection. I was in great hopes he would follow my narrative with whathe knew of the sword, but he was still silent, and I could not questionhim, for I had long suspected that its history had to do with thesecret which he wanted me to keep from myself. 

The very day of my arrival I went up to my grandmother's room, which Ifound just as she had left it. There stood her easy-chair, there herbed, there the old bureau. The room looked far less mysterious now thatshe was not there; but it looked painfully deserted. One thing alonewas still as it were enveloped in its ancient atmosphere--the bureau. Itried to open it--with some trembling, I confess; but only the drawersbelow were unlocked, and in them I found nothing but garments ofold-fashioned stuffs, which I dared not touch. 

But the day of childish romance was over, and life itself was toostrong and fresh to allow me to brood on the past for more than anoccasional half-hour. My thoughts were full of Oxford, whither my unclehad resolved I should go; and I worked hard in preparation. 

'I have not much money to spare, my boy, ' he said; 'but I have insuredmy life for a sum sufficient to provide for your aunt, if she shouldsurvive me; and after her death it will come to you. Of course the oldhouse and the park, which have been in the family for more years than Ican tell, will be yours at my death. A good part of the farm was onceours too, but not for these many years. I could not recommend you tokeep on the farm; but I confess I should be sorry if you were to partwith our own little place, although I do not doubt you might get a goodsum for it from Sir Giles, to whose park it would be a desirableaddition. I believe at one time, the refusal to part with our poorlittle vineyard of Naboth was cause of great offence, even of open feudbetween the great family at the Hall and the yeomen who were yourancestors; but poor men may be as unwilling as rich to break one strandof the cord that binds them to the past. But of course when you comeinto the property, you will do as you see fit with your own. '

'You don't think, uncle, I would sell this house, or the field itstands in, for all the Moldwarp estate? I too have my share of pride inthe family, although as yet I know nothing of its history. '

'Surely, Wilfrid, the feeling for one's own people who have gone beforeis not necessarily pride!'

'It doesn't much matter what you call it, uncle. '

'Yes, it does, my boy. Either you call it by the right name or by thewrong name. If your feeling _is_ pride, then I am not objecting to thename, but the thing. If your feeling is not pride, why call a goodthing by a bad name? But to return to our subject: my hope is that, ifI give you a good education, you will make your own way. You might, youknow, let the park, as we call it, for a term of years. '

'I shouldn't mind letting the park, ' I answered, 'for a little while;but nothing should ever make me let the dear old house. What should Ido if I wanted it to die in?'

The old man smiled, evidently not ill-pleased. 

'What do you say to the bar?' he asked. 

'I would rather not, ' I answered. 

'Would you prefer the Church?' he asked, eyeing me a little doubtfully. 

'No, certainly, uncle, ' I answered. 'I should want to be surer of agood many things before I dared teach them to other people. '

'I am glad of that, my boy. The fear did cross my mind for a momentthat you might be inclined to take to the Church as a profession, whichseems to me the worst kind of infidelity. A thousand times rather wouldI have you doubtful about what is to me the highest truth, thanregarding it with the indifference of those who see in it only theprospect of a social position and livelihood. Have you any plan of yourown?'

'I have heard, ' I answered, circuitously, 'that many barristers have tosupport themselves by literary work, for years before their ownprofession begin to show them favour. I should prefer going in for thewriting at once. '

'It must be a hard struggle either way, ' he replied; 'but I should notleave you without something to fall back upon. Tell me what makes youthink you could be an author?'

'I am afraid it is presumptuous, ' I answered, 'but as often as I thinkof what I am to do, that is the first thing that occurs to me. Isuppose, ' I added, laughing, 'that the favour with which myschool-fellows at Mr Elder's used to receive my stories is to blame forit. I used to tell them by the hour together. '

'Well, ' said my uncle, 'that proves, at least, that, if you hadanything to say, you might be able to say it; but I am afraid it provesnothing more. '

'Nothing more, I admit. I only mentioned it to account for the notion. '

'I quite understand you, my boy. Meantime, the best thing in any casewill be Oxford. I will do what I can to make it an easier life for youthan I found it. '

Having heard nothing of Charley Osborne since he left Mr Forest's, Iwent one day, very soon after my return, to call on Mr Elder, partly inthe hope of learning something about him. I found Mrs Elder unchanged, but could not help fancying a difference in Mr Elder's behaviour, which, after finding I could draw nothing from him concerning Charley, I attributed to Mr Osborne's evil report, and returned foiled andvexed. I told my uncle, with some circumstance, the whole story:explaining how, although unable to combat the doubts which occasionedCharley's unhappiness, I had yet always hung to the side of believing. 

'You did right to do no more, my boy, ' said my uncle; 'and it is clearyou have been misunderstood--and ill-used besides. But every wrong willbe set right some day. '

My aunt showed me now far more consideration--I do not say--than shehad _felt_ before. A curious kind of respect mingled with her kindness, which seemed a slighter form of the observance with which sheconstantly regarded my uncle. 

My study was pretty hard and continuous. I had no tutor to direct me ortake any of the responsibility off me. 

I walked to the Hall one morning to see Mrs Wilson. She was kind, butmore stiff even than before. From her I learned two things of interest. The first, which beyond measure delighted me, was, that Charley was atOxford--had been there for a year. The second was that Clara was atschool in London. Mrs Wilson shut her mouth very primly after answeringmy question concerning her; and I went no further in that direction. Itook no trouble to ask her concerning the relationship of which MrConingham had spoken. I knew already from my uncle that it was a fact, but Mrs Wilson did not behave in such a manner as to render me inclinedto broach the subject. If she wished it to remain a secret from me, sheshould be allowed to imagine it such. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

CHARLEY AT OXFORD. 

I have no time in this selection and combination of the parts of mystory which are more especially my history, to dwell upon that portionof it which refers to my own life at Oxford. I was so much of a studentof books while there, and had so little to do with any of the menexcept Charley, that, save as it bore upon my intellect, Oxford hadlittle special share in what life has made of me, and may in the pressof other matter be left out. Had I time, however, to set forth what Iknow of my own development more particularly, I could not pass over theinfluence of external Oxford, the architecture and general surroundingsof which I recognized as affecting me more than anything I had yet met, with the exception of the Swiss mountains, pine-woods, and rivers. Itis, however, imperative to set forth the peculiar character of myrelation to and intercourse with Charley, in order that what followsmay be properly understood. 

For no other reason than that my uncle had been there before me, I wentto Corpus Christi, while Charley was at Exeter. It was some days beforewe met, for I had twice failed in my attempts to find him. At length, one afternoon, as I entered the quadrangle to make a third essay, therehe was coming towards the gate with a companion. 

When he caught sight of me, he advanced with a quick yet hesitatingstep--a step with a question in it: he was not quite sure of me. He wasnow approaching six feet in height, and of a graceful though notexactly dignified carriage. His complexion remained as pale and hiseyes as blue as before. The pallor flushed and the blue sparkled as hemade a few final and long strides towards me. The grasp of the hand hegave me was powerful, but broken into sudden almost quiveringrelaxations and compressions. I could not help fancying also that hewas using some little effort to keep his eyes steady upon mine. Altogether, I was not quite satisfied with our first meeting, and had astrong impression that, if our friendship was to be resumed, it wasabout to begin a new course, not building itself exactly on the oldfoundations, but starting afresh. He looked almost on the way to becomea man of the world. Perhaps, however, the companionship he was in hadsomething to do with this, for he was so nervously responsive, that hewould unconsciously take on, for the moment, any appearancecharacterizing those about him. 

His companion was a little taller and stouter-built than he; with abearing and gait of conscious importance, not so marked as to be atonce offensive. The upper part of his face was fine, the noseremarkably so, while the lower part was decidedly coarse, the chin toolarge, and the mouth having little form, except in the first movementof utterance, when an unpleasant curl took possession of the upper lip, which I afterwards interpreted as a doubt disguising itself in a sneer. There was also in his manner a degree of self-assertion which favouredthe same conclusion. His hands were very large, a pair of merelyblanched plebeian fists, with thumbs much turned back--and altogetherungainly. He wore very tight gloves, and never shook hands when hecould help it. His feet were scarcely so bad in form: still by nopretence could they be held to indicate breeding. His manner, where hewished to conciliate, was pleasing; but to me it was overbearing andunpleasant. He Was the only son of Sir Giles Brotherton of MoldwarpHall. Charley and he did not belong to the same college, but, unlike asthey were, they had somehow taken to each other. I presume it was thedecision of his manner that attracted the wavering nature of Charley, who, with generally active impulses, was yet always in doubt when amoment requiring action arrived. 

Charley, having spoken to me, turned and introduced me to his friend. Geoffrey Brotherton merely nodded. 

'We were at school together in Switzerland, ' said Charley. 

'Yes, ' said Geoffrey, in a half-interrogatory, half-assenting tone. 

'Till I found your card in my box, I never heard of your coming, ' saidCharley. 

'It was not my fault, ' I answered. 'I did what I could to find outsomething about you, but all in vain. '

'Paternal precaution, I believe, ' he said, with something thatapproached a grimace. 

Now, although I had little special reason to love Mr Osborne, and knewhim to be a tyrant, I knew also that my old Charley could not have thuscoolly uttered a disrespectful word of him, and I had therefore apainful though at the same time an undefined conviction that somedegree of moral degeneracy must have taken place before he couldexpress himself as now. To many, such a remark will appear absurd, butI am confident that disrespect for the preceding generation, andespecially for those in it nearest to ourselves, is a sure sign ofrelaxing dignity, and, in any extended manifestation, an equally suresymptom of national and political decadence. My reader knows, however, that there was much to be said in excuse of Charley. 

His friend sauntered away, and we went on talking. My heart longed torest with his for a moment on the past. 

'I had a dreary time of it after you left, Charley, ' I said. 

'Not so dreary as I had, Wilfrid, I am certain. You had at least themountains to comfort you. Anywhere is better than at home, with a mealof Bible oil and vinegar twice a day for certain, and a wine-glassfulof it now and then in between. Damnation's better than a spoony heaven. To be away from home is heaven enough for me. '

'But your mother, Charley!' I ventured to say. 

'My mother is an angel. I could almost be good for her sake. But Inever could, I never can get near her. My father reads every letter shewrites before it comes to me--I know that by the style of it; and I'mequally certain he reads every letter of mine before it reaches her. '

'Is your sister at home?'

'No. She's at school at Clapham--being sand-papered into a saint, Isuppose. '

His mouth twitched and quivered. He was not pleased with himself fortalking as he did. 

'Your father means it for the best, ' I said. 

'I know that. He means _his_ best. If I thought it _was_ the best, Ishould cut my throat and have done with it. '

'But, Charley, couldn't we do something to find out, after all?'

'Find out what, Wilfrid?'

'The best thing, you know; what we are here for. '

'I'm sick of it all, Wilfrid. I've tried till I am sick of it. If youshould find out anything, you can let me know. I am busy trying not tothink. I find that quite enough. If I were to think, I should go mad. '

'Oh, Charley! I can't bear to hear you talk like that, ' I exclaimed;but there was a glitter in his eye which I did not like, and which mademe anxious to change the subject. --'Don't you like being here?' Iasked, in sore want of something to say. 

'Yes, well enough, ' he replied. 'But I don't see what's to come of it, for I can't work. Even if my father were a millionnaire, I couldn't goon living on him. The sooner that is over, the better!'

He was looking down, and gnawing at that tremulous upper lip. I feltmiserable. 

'I wish we were at the same college, Charley!' I said. 

'It's better as it is, ' he rejoined. 'I should do you no good. You goin for reading, I suppose?'

'Well, I do. I mean my uncle to have the worth of his money. '

Charley looked no less miserable than I felt. I saw that his consciencewas speaking, and I knew he was the last in the world to succeed inexcusing himself. But I understood him better than he understoodhimself, and believed that his idleness arose from the old unrest, theweariness of that never satisfied questioning which the least attemptat thought was sure to awaken. Once invaded by a question, Charley_must_ answer it, or fail and fall into a stupor. Not an ode of Horacecould he read without finding himself plunged into metaphysics. Enamoured of repose above all things, he was from every side stung toinquiry which seldom indeed afforded what seemed solution. Hence, inpart at least, it came that he had begun to study not merely how toavoid awakening the Sphinx, but by what opiates to keep her stretchedsupine with her lovely woman face betwixt her fierce lion-paws. Thisalso, no doubt, had a share in his becoming the associate of GeoffreyBrotherton, from whose company, if he had been at peace with himself, he would have recoiled upon the slightest acquaintance. I am at someloss to imagine what could have made Geoffrey take such a liking toCharley; but I presume it was the confiding air characterizing allCharley's behaviour that chiefly pleased him. He seemed to look uponhim with something of the tenderness a coarse man may show for adelicate Italian greyhound, fitted to be petted by a lady. 

That same evening Charley came to my rooms. His manner was constrained, and yet suggested a whole tide of pent-up friendship which, but forsome undeclared barrier, would have broken out and overflowed ourintercourse. After this one evening, however, it was some time before Isaw him again. When I called upon him next he was not at home, nor didhe come to see me. Again I sought him, but with like failure. After athird attempt I desisted, not a little hurt, I confess, but not in theleast inclined to quarrel with him. I gave myself the more diligentlyto my work. 

And now Oxford began to do me harm. I saw so much idleness, and so muchwrong of all kinds about me, that I began to consider myself a fineexception. Because I did my poor duty--no better than any honest ladmust do it--I became conceited; and the manner in which Charley's newfriend treated me not only increased the fault, but aided in thedevelopment of certain other stems from the same root ofself-partiality. He never saluted me with other than what I regarded asa supercilious nod of the head. When I met him in company with Charley, and the latter stopped to speak to me, he would walk on without theleast change of step. The indignation which this conduct aroused droveme to think as I had never thought before concerning my socialposition. I found it impossible to define. As I pondered, however, acertainty dawned upon me, rather than was arrived at by me, that therewas some secret connected with my descent, upon which bore the historyof the watch I carried, and of the sword I had lost. On the merepossibility of something, utterly forgetful that, if the secret existedat all, it might be of a very different nature from my hopes, I beganto build castles innumerable. Perceiving, of course, that one of adecayed yeoman family could stand no social comparison with the heir toa rich baronetcy, I fell back upon absurd imaginings; and what with theself-satisfaction of doing my duty, what with the vanity of my babymanhood, and what with the mystery I chose to believe in and interpretaccording to my desires, I was fast sliding into a moral conditioncontemptible indeed. 

But still my heart was true to Charley. When, after late hours of hardreading, I retired at last to my bed, and allowed my thoughts to wanderwhere they would, seldom was there a night on which they did not turnas of themselves towards the memory of our past happiness. I vowed, although Charley had forsaken me, to keep his chamber in my heart everempty, and closed against the entrance of another. If ever he pleasedto return, he should find he had been waited for. I believe there wasmuch of self-pity, and of self-approval as well, mingling with myregard for him; but the constancy was there notwithstanding, and Iregarded the love I thus cherished for Charley as the chief savingelement in my condition at the time. 

One night--I cannot now recall with certainty the time or season--Ionly know it was night, and I was reading alone in my room--a knockcame to the door, and Charley entered. I sprang from my seat andbounded to meet him. 

'At last, Charley!' I exclaimed. 

But he almost pushed me aside, left me to shut the door he had opened, sat down in a chair by the fire, and began gnawing the head of hiscane. I resumed my seat, moved the lamp so that I could see him, andwaited for him to speak. Then first I saw that his face was unnaturallypale and worn, almost even haggard. His eyes were weary, and his wholemanner as of one haunted by an evil presence of which he is ever aware. 

'You are an enviable fellow, Wilfrid, ' he said at length, withsomething between a groan and a laugh. 

'Why do you say that, Charley?' I returned. 'Why am I enviable?'

'Because you can work. I hate the very sight of a book. I am afraid Ishall be plucked. I see nothing else for it. And what will the old mansay? I have grace enough left to be sorry for him. But he will take itout in sour looks and silences. '

'There's time enough yet. I wish you were not so far ahead of me: wemight have worked together. '

'I can't work, I tell you. I hate it. It will console my father, Ihope, to find his prophecies concerning me come true. I've heard himabuse me to my mother. '

'I wish you wouldn't talk so of your father, Charley. It's not likeyou. I can't bear to hear it. '

'It's not like what I used to be, Wilfrid. But there's none of thatleft. What do you take me for--honestly now?'

He hung his head low, his eyes fixed on the hearth-rug, not on thefire, and kept gnawing at the head of his cane. 

'I don't like some of your companions, ' I said. 'To be sure I don'tknow much of them. '

'The less you know, the better! If there be a devil, that fellow. Brotherton will hand me over to him--bodily, before long. '

'Why don't you give him up?' said I. 

'It's no use trying. He's got such a hold of me. Never let a man youdon't know to the marrow pay even a toll-gate for you, Wilfrid. '

'I am in no danger, Charley. Such people don't take to me, ' I said, self-righteously. 'But it can't be too late to break with him. I knowmy uncle would--I could manage a five-pound note now, I think. '

'My dear boy, if I had borrowed--. But I have let him pay for me againand again, and I don't know how to rid the obligation. But it don'tsignify. It's too late anyhow. '

'What have you done, Charley? Nothing very wrong, I trust. '

The lost look deepened. 

'It's all over, Wilfrid, ' he said. 'But it don't matter. I can take tothe river when I please. '

'But then you know you might happen to go right through the river, Charley. '

'I know what you mean, ' he said, with a defiant sound like nothing Ihad ever heard. 

'Charley!' I cried, 'I can't bear to hear you. You can't have changedso much already as not to trust me. I will do all I can to help you. What have you done?'

'Oh, nothing!' he rejoined, and tried to laugh: it was a dreadfulfailure. 'But I can't bear to think of that mother of mine! I wish Icould tell you all; but I can't. How Brotherton would laugh at me now!I can't be made quite like other people, Wilfrid! _You_ would neverhave been such a fool. '

'You are more delicately made than most people, Charley--"touched tofiner issues, " as Shakspere says. '

'Who told you that?'

'I think a great deal about you. That is all you have left me. '

'I've been a brute, Wilfrid. But you'll forgive me, I know. '

'With all my heart, if you'll only put it in my power to serve you. Come, trust me, Charley, and tell me all about it. I shall not betrayyou. '

'I'm not afraid of that, ' he answered, and sunk into silence once more. 

I look to myself presumptuous and priggish in the memory. But I didmean truly by him. I began to question him, and by slow degrees, inbroken hints, and in jets of reply, drew from him the facts. When atlength he saw that I understood, he burst into tears, hid his face inhis hands, and rocked himself to and fro. 

'Charley! Charley! don't give in like that, ' I cried. 'Be as sorry asyou like; but don't go on as if there was no help. Who has not failedand been forgiven--in one way if not in another?'

'Who is there to forgive me? My father would not. And if he would, whatdifference would it make? I have done it all the same. '

'But God, Charley--' I suggested, hesitating. 

'What of him? If he should choose to pass a thing by and say nothingabout it, that doesn't undo it. It's all nonsense. God himself can'tmake it that I didn't do what I did do. '

But with what truthful yet reticent words can I convey the facts ofCharley's case? I am perfectly aware it would be to expose both myselfand him to the laughter of men of low development who behave as if nomore _self-possession_ were demanded of a man than of one of the loweranimals. Such might perhaps feel a certain involuntary movement ofpitifulness at the fate of a woman first awaking to the consciousnessthat she can no more hold up her head amongst her kind: but that ayouth should experience a similar sense of degradation and loss, theywould regard as a degree of silliness and effeminacy below contempt, ifnot beyond belief. But there is a sense of personal purity belonging tothe man as well as to the woman; and although I dare not say that inthe most refined of masculine natures it asserts itself with the awfulmajesty with which it makes its presence known in the heart of a woman, the man in whom it speaks with most authority is to be found amongstthe worthiest; and to a youth like Charley the result of actual offenceagainst it might be utter ruin. In his case, however, it was not merelya consciousness of personal defilement which followed; for, whether hiscompanions had so schemed it or not, he supposed himself more thanordinarily guilty. 

'I suppose I must marry the girl, ' said poor Charley with a groan. 

Happily I saw at once that there might be two sides to the question, and that it was desirable to know more ere I ventured a definite reply. 

I had grown up, thanks to many things, with a most real although vagueadoration of women; but I was not so ignorant as to be unable to fancyit possible that Charley had been the victim. Therefore, after havingmanaged to comfort him a little, and taken him home to his rooms, I setabout endeavouring to get further information. 

I will not linger over the affair--as unpleasant to myself as it can beto any of my readers. It had to be mentioned, however, not merely asexplaining how I got hold of Charley again, but as affording a clue tohis character, and so to his history. Not even yet can I think withouta gush of anger and shame of my visit to Brotherton. With whatstammering confusion I succeeded at last in making him understand thenature of the information I wanted, I will not attempt to describe; northe roar of laughter which at length burst bellowing--not from himselfonly, but from three or four companions as well to whom he turned andcommunicated the joke. The fire of jests, and proposals, andinterpretations of motive which I had then to endure, seems yet toscorch my very brain at the mere recollection. From their manner andspeech, I was almost convinced that they had laid a trap for Charley, whom they regarded as a simpleton, to enjoy his consequent confusion. With what I managed to find out elsewhere, I was at length satisfied, and happily succeeded in convincing Charley, that he had been the buttof his companions, and that he was far the more injured person in anypossible aspect of the affair. 

I shall never forget the look or the sigh of relief which proved thatat last his mind had opened to the facts of the case. 

'Wilfrid, ' he said, 'you have saved me. We shall never be parted more. See if I am ever false to you again!'

And yet it never was as it had been. I am sure of that now. Henceforth, however, he entirely avoided his former companions. Our old friendshipwas renewed. Our old talks arose again, And now that he was not alonein them, the perplexities under which he had broken down when left toencounter them by himself were not so overwhelming as to render himhelpless. We read a good deal together, and Charley helped me much inthe finer affairs of the classics, for his perceptions were as delicateas his feelings. He would brood over an Horatian phrase as Keats wouldbrood over a sweet pea or a violet; the very tone in which he wouldrepeat it would waft me from it an aroma unperceived before. When itwas his turn to come to my rooms, I would watch for his arrival almostas a lover for his mistress. 

For two years more our friendship grew; in which time Charley hadrecovered habits of diligence. I presume he said nothing at home of therenewal of his intimacy with me: I shrunk from questioning him. As ifhe had been an angel who who had hurt his wing and was compelled tosojourn with me for a time, I feared to bring the least shadow over hisface, and indeed fell into a restless observance of his moods. Iremember we read _Comus_ together. How his face would glow at theimpassioned praises of virtue! and how the glow would die into a greysadness at the recollection of the near past! I could read his facelike a book. 

At length the time arrived when we had to part, he to study for theBar, I to remain at Oxford another year, still looking forward to aliterary life. 

When I commenced writing my story, I fancied myself so far removed fromit that I could regard it as the story of another, capable of beingviewed on all sides, and conjectured and speculated upon. And so Ifound it as long as the regions of childhood and youth detained me. Butas I approach the middle scenes, I begin to fear the revival of the oldtorture; that, from the dispassionate reviewer, I may become once againthe suffering actor. Long ago I read a strange story of a man condemnedat periods unforeseen to act again, and yet again, in absoluteverisimilitude each of the scenes of his former life: I have a feelingas if I too might glide from the present into the past without a signto warn me of the coming transition. 

One word more ere I pass to the middle events, those for the sake ofwhich the beginning is and the end shall be recorded. It is this--thatI am under endless obligations to Charley for opening my eyes at thistime to my overweening estimate of myself. Not that he spoke--Charleycould never have reproved even a child. But I could tell almost anysudden feeling that passed through him. His face betrayed it. What hefelt about me I saw at once. From the signs of his mind, I oftenrecognized the character of what was in my own; and thus seeing myselfthrough him, I gathered reason to be ashamed; while the refinement ofhis criticism, the quickness of his perception, and the novelty andforce of his remarks, convinced me that I could not for a momentcompare with him in mental gifts. The upper hand of influence I hadover him I attribute to the greater freedom of my training, and theenlarged ideas which had led my uncle to avoid enthralling me to hisnotions. He believed the truth could afford to wait until I was capableof seeing it for myself; and that the best embodiments of truth are butbonds and fetters to him who cannot accept them as such. When I couldnot agree with him, he would say with one of his fine smiles, 'We'lldrop it, then, Willie. I don't believe you have caught my meaning. If Iam right, you will see it some day, and there's no hurry. ' How could itbe but Charlie and I should be different, seeing we had fared sodifferently! But, alas! my knowledge of his character is chiefly theresult of after-thought. 

I do not mean this manuscript to be read until after my death; and eventhen--although partly from habit, partly that I dare not trust myselfto any other form of utterance, I write as if for publication--eventhen, I say, only by one. I am about to write what I should not die inpeace if I thought she would never know; but which I dare not seek totell her now for the risk of being misunderstood. I thank God for thatblessed invention, Death, which of itself must set many things right, and gives a man a chance of justifying himself where he would not havebeen heard while alive. Lest my manuscript should fall into otherhands, I have taken care that not a single name in it should containeven a side-look or hint at the true one; but she will be able tounderstand the real person in every case. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

MY WHITE MARE. 

I passed my final examinations with credit, if not with honour. It wasnot yet clearly determined what I should do next. My goal was London, but I was unwilling to go thither empty-handed. I had been thinking aswell as reading a good deal; a late experience had stimulated myimagination; and at spare moments I had been writing a tale. It hadgrown to be a considerable mass of manuscript, and I was anxious, before going, to finish it. Hence, therefore, I returned home with theintention of remaining there quietly for a few months beforesetting-out to seek my fortune. 

Whether my uncle in his heart quite favoured the plan, I have mydoubts, but it would have been quite inconsistent with his usual grandtreatment of me to oppose anything not wrong on which I had set myheart. Finding now that I took less exercise than he thought desirable, and kept myself too much to my room, he gave me a fresh proof of hisunvarying kindness, He bought me a small grey mare of strength andspeed. Her lineage was unknown; but her small head, broad fine chest, and clean limbs indicated Arab blood at no great remove. Upon her Iused to gallop over the fields, or saunter along the lanes, dreamingand inventing. 

And now certain feelings, too deeply rooted in my nature for my memoryto recognize their beginnings, began to assume colour and condensedform, as if about to burst into some kind of blossom. Thanks to myeducation and love of study, also to a self-respect undefined yetrestraining, nothing had occurred to wrong them. In my heart of heartsI worshipped the idea of womanhood. I thank Heaven, if ever I do thankfor anything, that I still worship thus. Alas! how many have put on theacolyte's robe in the same temple, who have ere long cast dirt upon thestatue of their divinity, _then_ dragged her as defiled from her loftypedestal, and left her lying dishonoured at its foot! Instead offeeding with holy oil the lamp of the higher instinct, which wouldglorify and purify the lower, they feed the fire of the lower with vilefuel, which sends up its stinging smoke to becloud and blot the higher. 

One lovely Spring morning, the buds half out, and the wind blowingfresh and strong, the white clouds scudding across a blue gulf of sky, and the tall trees far away swinging as of old, when they churned thewind for my childish fancy, I looked up from my book and saw it all. The gladness of nature entered into me, and my heart swelled so in mybosom that I turned with distaste from all further labour. I pushed mypapers from me, and went to the window. The short grass all about wasleaning away from the wind, shivering and showing its enamel. Still, asin childhood, the wind had a special power over me. In another moment Iwas out of the house and hastening to the farm for my mare. She neighedat the sound of my step. I saddled and bridled her, sprung on her back, and galloped across the grass in the direction of the trees. 

In a few moments I was within the lodge gates, walking my mare alongthe gravelled drive, and with the reins on the white curved neck beforeme, looking up at those lofty pines, whose lonely heads were swingingin the air like floating but fettered islands. My head had begun tofeel dizzy with the ever-iterated, slow, half-circular sweep, when, just opposite the lawn stretching from a low wire fence up to the doorof the steward's house, my mare shied, darted to the other side of theroad, and flew across the grass. Caught thus lounging on my saddle, Iwas almost unseated. As soon as I had pulled her up, I turned to seewhat had startled her, for the impression of a white flash remainedupon my mental sensorium. There, leaning on the little gate, lookingmuch diverted, stood the loveliest creature, in a morning dress ofwhite, which the wind was blowing about her like a cloud. She had nohat on, and her hair, as if eager to join in the merriment of the day, was flying like the ribbons of a tattered sail. A humanized Dryad!--onethat had been caught young, but in whom the forest-sap still asserteditself in wild affinities with the wind and the swaying branches, andthe white clouds careering across! Could it be Clara? How could it beany other than Clara? I rode back. 

I was a little short-sighted, and had to get pretty near before I couldbe certain; but she knew me, and waited my approach. When I came nearenough to see them, I could not mistake those violet eyes. 

I was now in my twentieth year, and had never been in love. Whether Inow fell in love or not, I leave to my reader. 

Clara was even more beautiful than her girlish loveliness had promised. 'An exceeding fair forehead, ' to quote Sir Philip Sidney; eyes of whichI have said enough; a nose more delicate than symmetrical; a mouthrather thin-lipped, but well curved; a chin rather small, Iconfess;--but did any one ever from the most elaborated descriptionacquire even an approximate idea of the face intended? Her person waslithe and graceful; she had good hands and feet; and the fairness ofher skin gave her brown hair a duskier look than belonged to itself. 

Before I was yet near enough to be certain of her, I lifted my hat, andshe returned the salutation with an almost familiar nod and smile. 

'I am very sorry, ' she said, speaking first--in her old half-mockingway, 'that I so nearly cost you your seat. '

'It was my own carelessness, ' I returned. 'Surely I am right in takingyou for the lady who allowed me, in old times, to call her Clara? How Icould ever have had the presumption I cannot imagine. '

'Of course that is a familiarity not to be thought of betweenfull-grown people like us, Mr Cumbermede, ' she rejoined, and her smilebecame a laugh. 

'Ah, you do recognize me, then?' I said, thinking her cool, butforgetting the thought the next moment. 

'I guess at you. If you had been dressed as on one occasion, I shouldnot have got so far as that. '

Pleased at this merry reference to our meeting on the Wengern Alp, Iwas yet embarrassed to find that nothing more suggested itself to besaid. But while I was quieting my mare, which happily afforded me somepretext at the moment, another voice fell on my ear--hoarse, but breezyand pleasant. 

'So, Clara, you are no sooner back to old quarters than you give arendezvous at the garden-gate--eh, girl?'

'Rather an ill-chosen spot for the purpose, papa, ' she returned, laughing, 'especially as the gentleman has too much to do with hishorse to get off and talk to me. '

'Ah! our old friend Mr Cumbermede, I declare! Only rather more of him!'he added, laughing, as he opened the little gate in the wire fence, andcoming up to me, shook hands heartily. 'Delighted to see you, MrCumbermede. Have you left Oxford for good?'

'Yes, ' I answered--'some time ago. '

'And may I ask what you're turning your attention to now?'

'Well, I hardly like to confess it, but I mean to have a tryat--something in the literary way. '

'Plucky enough! The paths of literature are not certainly the paths ofpleasantness or of peace even--so far as ever I heard. Somebody saidyou were going in for the law. '

'I thought there were too many lawyers already. One so often hears ofbarristers with nothing to do, and glad to take to the pen, that Ithought it might be better to begin with what I should most probablycome to at last. '

'Ah! but, Mr Cumbermede, there are other departments of the law whichbring quicker returns than the bar. If you would put yourself in myhands now, you should be earning your bread at least within a couple ofyears or so. '

'You are very kind, ' I returned, heartily, for he spoke as if he meantwhat he said; 'but you see I have a leaning to the one and not to theother. I should like to have a try first, at all events. '

'Well, perhaps it's better to begin by following your bent. You mayfind the road take a turn, though. '

'Perhaps. I will go on till it does, though. '

While we talked, Clara had followed her father, and was now patting mymare's neck with a nice, plump, fair-fingered hand. The creature stoodwith her arched neck and small head turned lovingly towards her. 

'What a nice white thing you have got to ride!' she said. 'I hope it isyour own. '

'Why do you hope that?' I asked. 

'Because it's best to ride your own horse, isn't it?' she answered, looking up naïvely. 

'Would _you_ like to ride her? I believe she has carried a lady, thoughnot since she came into my possession. '

Instead of answering me, she looked round at her father, who stood bysmiling benignantly. Her look said--

'If papa would let me. '

He did not reply, but seemed waiting. I resumed. 

'Are you a good horsewoman, Miss--Clara?' I said, with a feel after therecovery of old privileges. 

'I must not sing my own praises, Mr--Wilfrid, ' she rejoined, 'but I_have_ ridden in Rotten Row, and I believe without any signaldisgrace. '

'Have you got a side-saddle?' I asked, dismounting. 

Mr Coningham spoke now. 

'Don't you think Mr Cumbermede's horse a little too frisky for you, Clara? I know so little about you, I can't tell what you're fitfor. --She used to ride pretty well as a girl, ' he added, turning to me. 

'I've not forgotten that, ' I said. 'I shall walk by her side, youknow. '

'Shall you?' she said, with a sly look. 

'Perhaps, ' I suggested, 'your grandfather would let me have his horse, and then we might have a gallop across the park. '

'The best way, ' said Mr Coningham, 'will be to let the gardener takeyour horse, while you come in and have some luncheon. We'll see aboutthe mount after that. My horse has to carry me back in the evening, else I should be happy to join you. She's a fine creature, that ofyours. '

'She's the handiest creature!' I said--'a little skittish, but veryaffectionate, and has a fine mouth. Perhaps she ought to have acurb-bit for you, though, Miss Clara. '

'We'll manage with a snaffle, ' she answered, with, I thought, anothersly glance at me, out of eyes sparkling with suppressed merriment andexpectation! Her father had gone to find the gardener, and as we stoodwaiting for him she still stroked the mare's neck. 

'Are you not afraid of taking cold, ' I said, 'without your bonnet?'

'I never had a cold in my life, ' she returned. 

'That is saying much. You would have me believe you are not made of thesame clay as other people. '

'Believe anything you like, ' she answered carelessly. 

'Then I do believe it, ' I rejoined. 

She looked me in the face, took her hand from the mare's neck, steppedback half-a-foot and looked round, saying--

'I wonder where that man can have got to. Oh, here he comes, and papawith him!'

We went across the trim little lawn, which lay waiting for the warmerweather to burst into a profusion of roses, and through a trellisedporch entered a shadowy little hall, with heads of stags and foxes, anold-fashioned glass-doored bookcase, and hunting and riding whips, whence we passed into a low-pitched drawing-room, redolent of driedrose-leaves and fresh hyacinths. A little pug-dog, which seemed to havefailed in swallowing some big dog's tongue, jumped up barking from thesheep-skin mat, where he lay before the fire. 

'Stupid pug!' said Clara. 'You never know friends from foes! I wonderwhere my aunt is. '

She left the room. Her father had not followed us. I sat down on thesofa, and began turning over a pretty book bound in red silk, one ofthe first of the _annual_ tribe, which lay on the table. I was deep inone of its eastern stories when, hearing a slight movement, I lookedup, and there sat Clara in a low chair by the window, working at adelicate bit of lace with a needle. She looked somehow as if she hadbeen there an hour at least. I laid down the book with someexclamation. 

'What is the matter, Mr Cumbermede?' she asked, with the slightestpossible glance up from the fine meshes of her work. 

'I had not the slightest idea you were in the room. '

'Of course not. How could a literary man, with a _Forget-me-not_ in hishand, be expected to know that a girl had come into the room?'

'Have you been at school all this time?' I asked, for the sake ofavoiding a silence. 

'All what time?'

'Say, since we parted in Switzerland. '

'Not quite. I have been staying with an aunt for nearly a year. Haveyou been at college all this time?'

'At school and college. When did you come home?'

'This is not my home, but I came here yesterday. '

'Don't you find the country dull after London?'

'I haven't had time yet. '

'Did they give you riding lessons at school?'

'No. But my aunt took care of my morals in that respect. A girl mightas well not be able to dance as ride now-a-days. '

'Who rode with you in the park? Not the riding-master?'

With a slight flush on her face she retorted, 'How many more questions are you going to ask me? I should like toknow, that I may make up my mind how many of them to answer. '

'Suppose we say six. '

'Very well, ' she replied. 'Now I shall answer your last question andcount that the first. About nine o'clock, one--day--'

'Morning or evening?' I asked. 

'Morning of course--I walked out of--the house--'

'Your aunt's house?'

'Yes, of course, my aunt's house. Do let me go on with my story. It wasgetting a little dark--'

'Getting dark at nine in the morning?'

'In the evening, I said. '

'I beg your pardon, I thought you said the morning. '

'No, no, the evening; and of course I was a little frightened, for Iwas not accustomed--'

'But you were never out alone at that hour, --in London?'

'Yes, I was quite alone. I had promised to meet--a friend at the cornerof----You know that part, do you?'

'I beg your pardon. What part?'

'Oh--Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don't you?'

'You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair--wereyou?' I said, getting quite bewildered. 

She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, andcrying--

'I wasn't going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions areanswered. I won't answer a single other you choose to ask, unless Iplease, which is not in the least likely. '

She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room. 

The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, whogave me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but hehoped I would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soonluncheon was announced. Miss Coningham, Clara's aunt, was in thedining-room before us. A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me withunexpected frankness. Lunch was half over before Clara entered--in aperfectly fitting habit, her hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm. 

'Soho, Clara!' cried her father; 'you want to take us bysurprise--coming out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?'

'Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?' said her aunt. 

'In my box, aunt, ' said Clara. 

'My word, child, but your father has kept you in pocket-money!'returned Miss Coningham. 

'I've got a town aunt as well as a country one, ' rejoined Clara, withan expression I could not quite understand, but out of which her laughtook only half the sting. 

Miss Coningham reddened a little. I judged afterwards that Clara hadbeen diplomatically allowing her just to feel what sharp claws she hadfor use if required. 

But the effect of the change from loose white muslin to tight darkcloth was marvellous, and I was bewitched by it. So slight, yet soround, so trim, yet so pliant--she was grace itself. It seemed as ifthe former object of my admiration had vanished, and I had foundanother with such surpassing charms that the loss could not beregretted. I may just mention that the change appeared also to bringout a certain look of determination which I now recalled as havingbelonged to her when a child. 

'Clara!' said her father, in a very marked tone; whereupon it wasClara's turn to blush and be silent. 

I started some new subject, in the airiest manner I could command. Clara recovered her composure, and I flattered myself she looked alittle grateful when our eyes met. But I caught her father's eyestwinkling now and then as if from some secret source of merriment, andcould not help fancying he was more amused than displeased with hisdaughter. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A RIDING LESSON. 

By the time luncheon was over, the horses had been standing someminutes at the lawn-gate, my mare with a side-saddle. We hastened tomount, Clara's eyes full of expectant frolic. I managed, as I thought, to get before her father, and had the pleasure of lifting her to thesaddle. She was up ere I could feel her weight on my arm. When Igathered her again with my eyes, she was seated as calmly as if at herlace-needlework, only her eyes were sparkling. With the slightest help, she had her foot in the stirrup, and with a single movement had herskirt comfortable. I left her, to mount the horse they had brought me, and when I looked from his back, the white mare was already flashingacross the boles of the trees, and Clara's dark skirt flying out behindlike the drapery of a descending goddess in an allegorical picture. With a pang of terror I fancied the mare had run away with her, and satfor a moment afraid to follow, lest the sound of my horse's feet on theturf should make her gallop the faster. But the next moment she turnedin her saddle, and I saw a face alive with pleasure and confidence. Asshe recovered her seat, she waved her hand to me, and I put my horse tohis speed. I had not gone far, however, before I perceived a freshcause of anxiety. She was making straight for a wire fence. I had heardthat horses could not see such a fence, and if Clara did not see it, orshould be careless, the result would be frightful. I shouted after her, but she took no heed. Fortunately, however, there was right in front ofthem a gate, which I had not at first observed, into the bars of whichhad been wattled some brushwood. 'The mare will see that, ' I said tomyself. But the words were hardly through my mind, before I saw themfly over it like a bird. 

On the other side, she pulled up, and waited for me. 

Now I had never jumped a fence in my life. I did not know that my marecould do such a thing, for I had never given her the chance. I was not, and never have become, what would be considered an accomplishedhorseman. I scarcely know a word of stable-slang. I have never followedthe hounds more than twice or three times in the course of my life. Notthe less am I a true lover of horses--but I have been their companionmore in work than in play. I have slept for miles on horseback, buteven now I have not a sure seat over a fence. 

I knew nothing of the animal I rode, but I was bound, at least, to makethe attempt to follow my leader. I was too inexperienced not to put himto his speed instead of going gently up to the gate; and I had a badhabit of leaning forward in my saddle, besides knowing nothing of howto incline myself backwards as the horse alighted. Hence when I foundmyself on the other side, it was not on my horse's back, but on my ownface. I rose uninjured, except in my self-esteem. I fear I was for themoment as much disconcerted as if I had been guilty of some moralfault. Nor did it help me much towards regaining my composure thatClara was shaking with suppressed laughter. Utterly stupid frommortification, I laid hold of my horse, which stood waiting for mebeside the mare, and scrambled upon his back. But Clara, who, with allher fun, was far from being ill-natured, fancied from my silence that Iwas hurt. Her merriment vanished. With quite an anxious expression onher face, she drew to my side, saying--

'I hope you are not hurt?'

'Only my pride, ' I answered. 

'Never mind that, ' she returned gaily. 'That will soon be itselfagain. '

'I'm not so sure, ' I rejoined. 'To make such a fool of myself before_you_!'

'Am I such a formidable person?' she said. 

'Yes, ' I answered. 'But I never jumped a fence in my life before. '

'If you had been afraid, ' she said, 'and had pulled up, I might havedespised you. As it was, I only laughed at you. Where was the harm? Youshirked nothing. You followed your leader. Come along, I will give youa lesson or two before we get back. '

'Thank you, ' I said, beginning to recover my spirits a little; 'I shallbe a most obedient pupil. But how did you get so clever, Clara?'

I ventured the unprotected name, and she took no notice of the liberty. 

'I told you I had had a riding-master. If you are not afraid, and mindwhat you are told, you will always come right somehow. '

'I suspect that is good advice for more than horsemanship. '

'I had not the slightest intention of moralizing. I am incapable ofit, ' she answered, in a tone of serious self-defence. 

'I had as little intention of making the accusation, ' I rejoined. 'Butwill you really teach me a little?'

'Most willingly. To begin, you must sit erect. You lean forward. '

'Thank you. Is this better?'

'Yes, better. A little more yet. You ought to have your stirrupsshorter. It is a poor affectation to ride like a trooper. Their ownofficers don't. You can tell any novice by his long leathers, his heelsdown and his toes in his stirrups. Ride home, if you want to ridecomfortably. '

The phrase was new to me, but I guessed what she meant; and withoutdismounting, pulled my stirrup-leathers a couple of holes shorter, andthrust my feet through to the instep. She watched the whole proceeding. 

'There! you look more like riding now, ' she said. 'Let us have anothercanter. I will promise not to lead you over any more fences without duewarning. '

'And due admonition as well, I trust, Clara. '

She nodded, and away we went. I had never been so proud of my mare. Sheshowed to much advantage, with the graceful figure on her back, whichshe carried like a feather. 

'Now there's a little fence, ' she said, pointing where a rail or twoprotected a clump of plantation. 'You must mind the young wood though, or we shall get into trouble. Mind you throw yourself back a little--asyou see me do. '

I watched her, and following her directions, did better this time, forI got over somehow and recovered my seat. 

'There! You improve, ' said Clara. 'Now we're pounded, unless you canjump again, and it is not quite so easy from this side. '

When we alighted, I found my saddle in the proper place. 

'Bravo!' she cried. 'I entirely forgive your first misadventure. You dosplendidly. '

'I would rather you forgot it, Clara, ' I cried, ungallantly. 

'Well, I will be generous, ' she returned. 'Besides, I owe you somethingfor such a charming ride. I _will_ forget it. '

'Thank you, ' I said, and drawing closer would have laid my left hand onher right. 

Whether she foresaw my intention, I do not know; but in a moment shewas yards away, scampering over the grass. My horse could never haveovertaken hers. 

By the time she drew rein and allowed me to get alongside of her oncemore, we were in sight: of Moldwarp Hall. It stood with one cornertowards us, giving the perspective of two sides at once. She stoppedher mare, and said, 'There, Wilfrid! What would you give to call a place like that yourown? What a thing to have a house like that to live in!'

[Illustration: "NOW THERE'S A LITTLE FENCE, " SHE SAID. ]

'I know something I should like better, ' I said. 

I assure my reader I was not so silly as to be on the point of makingher an offer already. Neither did she so misunderstand me. She was verynear the mark of my meaning when she rejoined--

'Do you? I don't. I suppose you would prefer being called a fine poet, or something of the sort. '

I was glad she did not give me time to reply, for I had not intended toexpose myself to her ridicule. She was off again at a gallop towardsthe Hall, straight for the less accessible of the two gates, and hadscrambled the mare up to the very bell-pull and rung it before I couldget near her. When the porter appeared in the wicket--

'Open the gate, Jansen, ' she said. 'I want to see Mrs Wilson, and Idon't want to get down. '

'But horses never come in here, Miss, ' said the man. 

'I mean to make an exception in favour of this mare, ' she answered. 

The man hesitated a moment, then retreated--but only to obey, as weunderstood at once by the creaking of the dry hinges, which were seldomrequired to move. 

'You won't mind holding her for me, will you?' she said, turning to me. 

I had been sitting mute with surprise both at the way in which sheordered the man, and at his obedience. But now I found my tongue. 

'Don't you think, Miss Coningham, ' I said--for the man was withinhearing, 'we had better leave them both with the porter, and then wecould go in together? I'm not sure that those flags, not to mention thesteps, are good footing for that mare. '

'Oh! you're afraid of your animal, are you?' she rejoined. 'Very well. '

'Shall I hold your stirrup for you?'

Before I could dismount, she had slipped off, and begun gathering upher skirt. The man came and took the horses. We entered by the opengate together. 

'How can you be so cruel, Clara?' I said. 'You _will_ alwaysmisinterpret me! I was quite right about the flags. Don't you see howhard they are, and how slippery therefore for iron shoes?'

'You might have seen by this time that I know quite as much abouthorses as you do, ' she returned, a little cross, I thought. 

'You can ride ever so much better, ' I answered; 'but it does not followyou know more about horses than I do. I once saw a horse have afrightful fall on just such a pavement. Besides, does one think _only_of the horse when there's an angel on his back?'

It was a silly speech, and deserved rebuke. 

'I'm not in the least fond of _such_ compliments, ' she answered. 

By this time we had reached the door of Mrs Wilson's apartment. Shereceived us rather stiffly, even for her. After some commonplace talk, in which, without departing from facts, Clara made it appear that shehad set out for the express purpose of paying Mrs Wilson a visit, Iasked if the family was at home, and finding they were not, beggedleave to walk into the library. 

'We'll go together, ' she said, apparently not caring about atête-à-tête with Clara. Evidently the old lady liked her as little asever. 

We left the house, and entering again by a side door, passed on our waythrough the little gallery, into which I had dropped from the roof. 

'Look, Clara, that is where I came down, ' I said. 

She merely nodded. But Mrs Wilson looked very sharply, first at theone, then at the other of us. When we reached the library, I found itin the same miserable condition as before, and could not helpexclaiming with some indignation, 'It _is_ a shame to see such treasures mouldering there! I am confidentthere are many valuable books among them, getting ruined from pureneglect. I wish I knew Sir Giles. I would ask him to let me come andset them right. '

'You would be choked with dust and cobwebs in an hour's time, ' saidClara. 'Besides, I don't think Mrs Wilson would like the proceeding. '

'What do you ground that remark upon, Miss Clara?' said the housekeeperin a dry tone. 

'I thought you used them for firewood occasionally, ' answered Clara, with an innocent expression both of manner and voice. 

The most prudent answer to such an absurd charge would have been alaugh; but Mrs Wilson vouchsafed no reply at all, and I pretended to betoo much occupied with its subject to have heard it. 

After lingering a little while, during which I paid attention chieflyto Mrs Wilson, drawing her notice to the state of several of the books, I proposed we should have a peep at the armoury. We went in, and, glancing over the walls I knew so well, I scarcely repressed anexclamation: I could not be mistaken in my own sword! There it hung, inthe centre of the principal space--in the same old sheath, splithalf-way up from the point! To the hilt hung an ivory label with anumber upon it. I suppose I made some inarticulate sound, for Clarafixed her eyes upon me. I busied myself at once with a gorgeously hikedscimitar, which hung near, for I did not wish to talk about it then, and so escaped further remark. From the armoury we went to thepicture-gallery, where I found a good many pictures had been added tothe collection. They were all new and mostly brilliant in colour. I wasno judge, but I could not help feeling how crude and harsh they lookedbeside the mellowed tints of the paintings, chiefly portraits, amongwhich they had been introduced. 

'Horrid!--aren't they?' said Clara, as if she divined my thoughts; butI made no direct reply, unwilling to offend Mrs Wilson. 

When we were once more on horseback, and walking across the grass, mycompanion was the first to speak. 

'Did you ever see such daubs!' she said, making a wry face as atsomething sour enough to untune her nerves. 'Those new pictures aresimply frightful. Any one of them would give me the jaundice in a week, if it were hung in our drawing-room. '

'I can't say I admire them, ' I returned. 'And at all events they oughtnot to be on the same walls with those stately old ladies andgentlemen. '

'Parvenus, ' said Clara. 'Quite in their place. Pure Manchestertaste--educated on calico-prints. '

'If that is your opinion of the family, how do you account for theirkeeping everything so much in the old style? They don't seem to changeanything. '

'All for their own honour and glory! The place is a testimony to theantiquity of the family of which they are a shoot run to seed--and veryugly seed too! It's enough to break one's heart to think of such aglorious old place in such hands. Did you ever see young Brotherton?'

'I knew him a little at college. He's a good-looking fellow!'

'Would be if it weren't for the bad blood in him. That comes outunmistakeably. He's vulgar. '

'Have you seen much of him, then?'

'Quite enough. I never heard him say anything vulgar, or saw him doanything vulgar, but vulgar he is, and vulgar is every one of thefamily. A man who is always aware of how rich he will be, and howgood-looking he is, and what a fine match he would make, would lookvulgar lying in his coffin. '

'You are positively caustic, Miss Coningham. '

'If you saw their house in Cheshire! But blessings be on theplace!--it's the safety-valve for Moldwarp Hall. The natural Manchesterpassion for novelty and luxury finds a vent there, otherwise they couldnot keep their hands off it; and what was best would be sure to gofirst. Corchester House ought to be secured to the family by Act ofParliament. '

'Have you been to Corchester, then?'

'I was there for a week once. '

'And how did you like it?'

'Not at all. I was not comfortable. I was always feeling too well-bred. You never saw such colours in your life. Their drawing-rooms are quitea happy family of the most quarrelsome tints. '

'How ever did they come into this property?'

'They're of the breed somehow--a long way off though. Shouldn't I liketo see a new claimant come up and oust them after all! They haven't hadit above five-and-twenty years or so. Wouldn't you?'

'The old man was kind to me once. '

'How was that? I thought it was only through Mrs Wilson you knewanything of them. '

I told her the story of the apple. 

'Well, I do rather like old Sir Giles, ' she said, when I had done. 'There's a good deal of the rough country gentleman about him. He's abetter man than his son anyhow. Sons will succeed their fathers, though, unfortunately. '

'I don't care who may succeed him, if only I could get back my sword. It's too bad, with an armoury like that, to take my one little ewe-lambfrom me. '

Here I had another story to tell. After many interruptions in the wayof questions from my listener, I ended it with these words--

'And--will you believe me?--I saw the sword hanging in that armourythis afternoon--close by that splendid hilt I pointed out to you. '

'How could you tell it among so many?'

'Just as you could tell that white creature from this brown one. I knowit, hilt and scabbard, as well as a human face. '

'As well as mine, for instance?'

'I am surer of it than I was of you this morning. It hasn't changedlike you. '

Our talk was interrupted by the appearance of a gentleman on horsebackapproaching us. I thought at first it was Clara's father, setting outfor home, and coming to bid us good-bye; but I soon saw I was mistaken. Not, however, until he came quite close, did I recognize GeoffreyBrotherton. He took off his hat to my companion, and reined in hishorse. 

'Are you going to give us in charge for trespassing, Mr Brotherton?'said Clara. 

'I should be happy to _take_ you in charge on any pretence, MissConingham. This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. '

Here he looked in my direction. 

'Ah!' he said, lifting his eyebrows, 'I thought I knew the old horse!What a nice cob _you_'ve got, Miss Coningham. '

He had not chosen to recognize me, of which I was glad, for I hardlyknew how to order my behaviour to him. I had forgotten nothing. But, ill as I liked him, I was forced to confess that he had greatlyimproved in appearance--and manners too, notwithstanding his behaviourwas as supercilious as ever to me. 

'Do you call her a cob, then?' said Clara. 'I should never have thoughtof calling her a cob. --She belongs to Mr Cumbermede. '

'Ah!' he said again, arching his eyebrows as before, and lookingstraight at me as if he had never seen me in his life. 

I think I succeeded in looking almost unaware of his presence. At leastso I tried to look, feeling quite thankful to Clara for defending mymare: to hear her called a cob was hateful to me. 

After listening to a few more of his remarks upon her, made without theslightest reference to her owner, who was not three yards from herside, Clara asked him, in the easiest manner--

'Shall you be at the county ball?'

'When is that?'

'Next Thursday. '

'Are you going?'

'I hope so. '

'Then will you dance the first waltz with me?'

'No, Mr Brotherton. '

'Then I am sorry to say I shall be in London. '

'When do you rejoin your regiment?'

'Oh! I've got a month's leave. '

'Then why won't you be at the ball?'

'Because you won't promise me the first waltz. '

'Well--rather than the belles of Minstercombe should--ring their sweetchanges in vain, I suppose I must indulge you. '

'A thousand thanks, ' he said, lifted his hat, and rode on. 

My blood was in a cold boil--if the phrase can convey an idea. Clararode on homewards without looking round, and I followed, keeping a fewyards behind her, hardly thinking at all, my very brain seeming coldinside my skull. 

There was small occasion as yet, some of my readers may think. I cannothelp it--so it was. When we had gone in silence a couple of hundredyards or so, she glanced round at me with a quick sly half-look, andburst out laughing. I was by her side in an instant: her laugh haddissolved the spell that bound me. But she spoke first. 

'Well, Mr Cumbermede?' she said, with a slow interrogation. 

'Well, Miss Coningham?' I rejoined, but bitterly, I suppose. 

'What's the matter?' she retorted sharply, looking up at me, full inthe face, whether in real or feigned anger I could not tell. 

'How could you talk _of_ that fellow as you did, and then talk so _to_him?'

'What right have you to put such questions to me? I am not aware of anyintimacy to justify it. '

'Then I beg your pardon. But my surprise remains the same. '

'Why, you silly boy!' she returned, laughing aloud, 'don't you know heis, or will be, my feudal lord. I am bound to be polite to him. Whatwould become of poor grandpapa if I were to give him offence? Besides, I have been in the house with him for a week. He's not a Crichton; buthe dances well. Are _you_ going to the ball?'

'I never heard of it. I have not for weeks thought of anythingbut--but--my writing, till this morning. Now I fear I shall find itdifficult to return to it. It looks ages since I saddled the mare!'

'But if you're ever to be an author, it won't do to shut yourself up. You ought to see as much of the world as you can. I should stronglyadvise you to go to the ball. '

'I would willingly obey you--but--but--I don't know how to get aticket. '

'Oh! if you would like to go, papa will have much pleasure in managingthat. I will ask him. '

'I'm much obliged to you, ' I returned. 'I should enjoy seeing MrBrotherton dance. '

She laughed again, but it was an oddly constrained laugh. 

'It's quite time I were at home, ' she said, and gave the mare the rein, increasing her speed as we approached the house. Before I reached thelittle gate she had given her up to the gardener, who had been on thelook-out for us. 

'Put on her own saddle, and bring the mare round at once, please, ' Icalled to the man, as he led her and the horse away together. 

'Won't you come in, Wilfrid?' said Clara, kindly and seriously. 

'No, thank you, ' I returned; for I was full of rage and jealousy. To domyself justice, however, mingled with these was pity that such a girlshould be so easy with such a man. But I could not tell her what I knewof him. Even if I _could_ have done so, I dared not; for the man whoshows himself jealous must be readily believed capable of lying, or atleast misrepresenting. 

'Then I must bid you good-evening, ' she said, as quietly as if we hadbeen together only five minutes. 'I am _so_ much obliged to you forletting me ride your mare!'

She gave me a half-friendly, half-stately little bow, and walked intothe house. In a few moments the gardener returned with the mare, and Imounted and rode home in anything but a pleasant mood. Having stabledher, I roamed about the fields till it was dark, thinking for the firsttime in my life I preferred woods to open grass. When I went in atlength I did my best to behave as if nothing had happened. My unclemust, however, have seen that something was amiss, but he took nonotice, for he never forced or even led up to confidences. I retiredearly to bed, and passed an hour or two of wretchedness, thinking overeverything that had happened---the one moment calling her a coquette, and the next ransacking a fresh corner of my brain to find fresh excusefor her. At length I was able to arrive at the conclusion that I didnot understand her, and having given in so far, I soon fell asleep. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I trust it will not be regarded as a sign of shallowness of nature thatI rose in the morning comparatively calm. Clara was to me as yet onlythe type of general womanhood, around which the amorphous loves of mymanhood had begun to gather, not the one woman whom the individual manin me had chosen and loved. How could I _love_ that which I did not yetknow: she was but the heroine of my objective life, as projected fromme by my imagination--not the love of my being. Therefore, when thewings of sleep had fanned the motes from my brain, I was cool enough, notwithstanding an occasional tongue of indignant flame from the ashesof last night's fire, to sit down to my books, and read with tolerableattention my morning portion of Plato. But when I turned to my novel, Ifound I was not master of the situation. My hero too was in love and introuble; and after I had written a sentence and a half, I found myselfexperiencing the fate of Heine when he roused the Sphinx of past loveby reading his own old verses:--

 Lebendig ward das Marmorbild, Der Stein begann zu ächzen. 

In a few moments I was pacing up and down the room, eager to burn mymoth-wings yet again in the old fire. And by the way, I cannot helpthinking that the moths enjoy their fate, and die in ecstasies. I was, however, too shy to venture on a call that very morning: I should bothfeel and look foolish. But there was no more work to be done then. Ihurried to the stable, saddled my mare, and set out for a gallop acrossthe farm, but towards the high road leading to Minstercombe, in theopposite direction, that is, from the Hall, which I flattered myselfwas to act in a strong-minded manner. There were several fences andhedges between, but I cleared them all without discomfiture. The lastjump was into a lane. We, that is my mare and I, had scarcely alighted, when my ears were invaded by a shout. The voice was the least welcome Icould have heard, that of Brotherton. I turned and saw him riding upthe hill, with a lady by his side. 

'Hillo!' he cried, almost angrily, 'you don't deserve to have such acob. ' (He _would_ call her a cob. ) 'You don't know-how to use her. Tojump her on to the hard like that!'

It was Clara with him!--on the steady stiff old brown horse! My firstimpulse was to jump my mare over the opposite fence, and take no heed, of them, but clearly it was not to be attempted, for the ground fellconsiderably on the other side. My next thought was to ride away andleave them. My third was one which some of my readers will judgeQuixotic, but I have a profound reverence for the Don--and that notmerely because I have so often acted as foolishly as he. This last Iproceeded to carry out, and lifting-my hat, rode to meet them. Takingno notice whatever of Brotherton, I addressed Clara--in what I fancieda distant and dignified manner, which she might, if she pleased, attribute to the presence of her companion. 

'Miss Coningham, ' I said, 'will you allow me the honour of offering youmy mare? She will carry you better. '

'You are very kind, Mr Cumbermede, ' she returned in a similar tone, butwith a sparkle in her eyes. 'I am greatly obliged to you. I cannotpretend to prefer old crossbones to the beautiful creature which gaveme so much pleasure yesterday. '

I was off and by her side in a moment, helping her to dismount. I didnot even look at Brotherton, though I felt he was staring like anequestrian statue. While I shifted the saddles Clara broke the silence, which I was in too great an inward commotion to heed, by asking--

'What is the name of your beauty, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Lilith, ' I answered. 

'What a pretty name! I never heard it before. Is it after any one--anypublic character, I mean?'

'Quite a public character, ' I returned--'Adam's first wife. '

'I never heard he had two, ' she rejoined, laughing. 

'The Jews say he had. She is a demon now, and the pest of married womenand their babies, '

'What a horrible name to give your mare!'

'The name is pretty enough. And what does it matter what the woman was, so long as she was beautiful. '

'I don't quite agree with you there, ' she returned, with what I choseto consider a forced laugh. 

By this time her saddle was firm on Lilith, and in an instant she wasmounted. Brotherton moved to ride on, and the mare followed him. Claralooked back. 

'You will catch us up in a moment, ' she said, possibly a little puzzledbetween us. 

I was busy tightening my girths, and fumbled over the job more than wasnecessary. Brotherton was several yards ahead, and she was walking themare slowly after him. I made her no answer, but mounted, and rode inthe opposite direction; It was rude of course, but I did it. I couldnot have gone with them, and was afraid, if I told her so, she woulddismount and refuse the mare. 

In a tumult of feeling I rode on without looking behind me, carelesswhither--how long I cannot tell, before I woke up to find I did notknow where I was. I must ride on till I came to some place I knew, ormet some one who could tell me. Lane led into lane, buried betwixt deepbanks and lofty hedges, or passing through small woods, until Iascended a rising ground, whence I got a view of the country. At onceits features began to dawn upon me: I was close to the village ofAldwick, where I had been at school, and in a few minutes I rode intoits wide straggling street. Not a mark of change had passed upon it. There were the same dogs about the doors, and the same cats in thewindows. The very ferns in the chinks of the old draw-well appeared thesame; and the children had not grown an inch since first I drove intothe place marvelling at its wondrous activity. 

The sun was hot, and my horse seemed rather tired. I was in no mood tosee any one, and besides had no pleasant recollections of my last visitto Mr Elder, so I drew up at the door of the little inn, and havingsent my horse to the stable for an hour's rest and a feed of oats, wentinto the sanded parlour, ordered a glass of ale, and sat staring at thechina shepherdesses on the chimney-piece. I see them now, the uglythings, as plainly as if that had been an hour of the happiestreflections. I thought I was miserable, but I know now that, although Iwas much disappointed, and everything looked dreary and uninterestingabout me, I was a long way off misery. Indeed, the passing vision of aneat unbonneted village girl on her way to the well was attractiveenough still to make me rise and go to the window. While watching, asshe wound up the long chain, for the appearance of the familiar mossybucket, dripping diamonds, as it gleamed out of the dark well into thesudden sunlight, I heard the sound of horse's hoofs, and turned to seewhat kind of apparition would come. Presently it appeared, and madestraight for the inn. The rider was Mr Coningham! I drew back to escapehis notice, but his quick eye had caught sight of me, for he came intothe room with outstretched hand. 

'We are fated to meet, Mr Cumbermede, ' he said. 'I only stopped to givemy horse some meal and water, and had no intention of dismounting. Ale?I'll have a glass of ale too, ' he added, ringing the bell. 'I thinkI'll let him have a feed, and have a mouthful of bread and cheesemyself. '

He went out, and had I suppose gone to see that his horse had hisproper allowance of oats, for when he returned he said merrily:

'What have you done with my daughter, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Why should you think me responsible for her, Mr Conningham?' I asked, attempting a smile. 

No doubt he detected the attempt in the smile, for he looked at me witha sharpened expression of the eyes, as he answered--still in a merrytone--

'When I saw her last, she was mounted on your horse, and you were onmy father's. I find you still on my father's horse, and your own--withthe lady--nowhere. Have I made out a case of suspicion?'

'It is I who have cause of complaint, ' I returned--'who have neitherlady nor mare--unless indeed you imagine I have in the case of thelatter made a good exchange. '

'Hardly that, I imagine, if yours is half so good as she looks. But, seriously, have you seen Clara to-day?'

I told him the facts as lightly as I could. When I had finished, hestared at me with an expression which for the moment I avoidedattempting to interpret. 

'On horseback with Mr Brotherton?' he said, uttering the words as ifevery syllable had been separately italicized. 

'You will find it as I say, ' I replied, feeling offended. 

'My dear boy--excuse my freedom, ' he returned--'I am nearly three timesyour age--you do not imagine I doubt a hair's breadth of yourstatement! But--the giddy goose!--how could you be so silly? Pardon meagain. Your unselfishness is positively amusing! To hand over yourhorse to her, and then ride away all by yourself on that--respectablestager!'

'Don't abuse the old horse, ' I returned. 'He _is_ respectable, and hasbeen more in his day. '

'Yes, yes. But for the life of me I cannot understand it. MrCumbermede, I am sorry for you. I should not advise you to choose thelaw for a profession. The man who does not regard his own rights willhardly do for an adviser in the affairs of others. 

'You were not going to consult me, Mr Coningham, were you?' I said, nowable at length to laugh without effort. 

'Not quite that, ' he returned, also laughing. 'But a right, you know, is one of the most serious things in the world. '

It seemed irrelevant to the trifling character of the case. I could notunderstand why he should regard the affair as of such importance. 

'I have been in the way of thinking, ' I said, 'that one of theadvantages of having rights was that you could part with them when youpleased. You're not bound to insist on your rights, are you?'

'Certainly you would not subject yourself to a criminal action byforegoing them, but you might suggest to your friends a commission oflunacy. I see how it is. That is your uncle all over! _He_ was never aman of the world. '

'You are right there, Mr Coningham. It is the last epithet any onewould give my uncle. '

'And the first any one would give _me_, you imply, Mr Cumbermede. '

'I had no such intention, ' I answered. 'That would have been rude. '

'Not in the least. _I_ should have taken it as a compliment. The manwho does not care about his rights, depend upon it, will be made a toolof by those that do. If he is not a spoon already, he will become one. I shouldn't have _iffed_ it at all if I hadn't known you. '

'And you don't want to be rude to me. '

'I don't. A little experience will set _you_ all right; and that youare in a fair chance of getting if you push your fortune as a literaryman. But I must be off. I hope we may have another chat before long. '

He finished his ale, rose, bade me good-bye, and went to the stable. Assoon as he was out of sight, I also mounted and rode homewards. 

By the time I reached the gate of the park, my depression had nearlyvanished. The comforting power of sun and shadow, of sky and field, ofwind and motion, had restored me to myself. With a side glance at thewindows of the cottage as I passed, and the glimpse of a bright figureseated in the drawing-room window, I made for the stable, and found myLilith waiting me. Once more I shifted my saddle, and rode home, without even another glance at the window as I passed. 

A day or two after, I received from Mr Coningham a ticket for thecounty ball, accompanied by a kind note. I returned it at once with theexcuse that I feared incapacitating myself for work by dissipation. 

Henceforward I avoided the park, and did not again see Clara beforeleaving for London. I had a note from her, thanking me for Lilith, andreproaching me for having left her to the company of Mr Brotherton, which I thought cool enough, seeing they had set out together withoutthe slightest expectation of meeting me. I returned a civil answer, andthere was an end of it. 

I must again say for myself that it was not mere jealousy of Brothertonthat led me to act as I did. I could not and would not get over thecontradiction between the way in which she had spoken _of_ him, and theway in which she spoke _to_ him, followed by her accompanying him inthe long ride to which the state of my mare bore witness. I concludedthat, although she might mean no harm, she was not truthful. To talk ofa man with such contempt, and then behave to him with such frankness, appeared to me altogether unjustifiable. At the same time their mutualfamiliarity pointed to some foregone intimacy, in which, had I been soinclined, I might have found some excuse for her, seeing she might havealtered her opinion of him, and might yet find it very difficult toalter the tone of their intercourse. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

IN LONDON. 

My real object being my personal history in relation to certain factsand events, I must, in order to restrain myself from thatdiscursiveness the impulse to which is an urging of the historical aswell as the artistic Satan, even run the risk of appearing to have beenblind to many things going on around me which must have claimed a largeplace had I been writing an autobiography instead of a distinct portionof one. 

I set out with my manuscript in my portmanteau, and a few pounds in mypocket, determined to cost my uncle as little as I could. 

I well remember the dreariness of London, as I entered it on the top ofa coach, in the closing darkness of a late Autumn afternoon. The shopswere not yet all lighted, and a drizzly rain was falling. But theseouter influences hardly got beyond my mental skin, for I had written toCharley, and hoped to find him waiting for me at the coach-office. Norwas I disappointed, and in a moment all discomfort was forgotten. Hetook me to his chambers in the New Inn. 

I found him looking better, and apparently, for him, in good spirits. It was soon arranged, at his entreaty, that for the present I shouldshare his sitting-room, and have a bed put up for me in a closet he didnot want. The next day I called upon certain publishers and left withthem my manuscript. Its fate is of no consequence here, and I did notthen wait to know it, but at once began to fly my feather at lowergame, writing short papers and tales for the magazines. I had a littlesuccess from the first; and although the surroundings of my new abodewere dreary enough, although, now and then, especially when the Wintersun shone bright into the court, I longed for one peep into spaceacross the field that now itself lay far in the distance, I soonsettled to my work, and found the life an enjoyable one. To work besideCharley the most of the day, and go with him in the evening to someplace of amusement, or to visit some of the men in chambers about us, was for the time a satisfactory mode of existence. 

I soon told him the story of my little passage with Clara. During thenarrative he looked uncomfortable, and indeed troubled, but as soon ashe found I had given up the affair, his countenance brightened. 

'I'm very glad you've got over it so well, ' he said. 

'I think I've had a good deliverance, ' I returned. 

He made no reply. Neither did his face reveal his thoughts, for I couldnot read the confused expression it bore. 

That he should not fall in with my judgment would never have surprisedme, for he always hung back from condemnation, partly, I presume, frombeing even morbidly conscious of his own imperfections, and partly thathis prolific suggestion supplied endless possibilities to explain orelse perplex everything. I had been often even annoyed by his use ofthe most refined invention to excuse, as I thought, behaviour the mostpalpably wrong. I believe now it was rather to account for it than toexcuse it. 

'Well, Charley, ' I would say in such a case, 'I am sure _you_ wouldnever have done such a thing. '

'I cannot guarantee my own conduct for a moment, ' he would answer; or, taking the other tack, would reply: 'Just for that reason I cannotbelieve the man would have done it. '

But the oddity in the present case was that he said nothing. I should, however, have forgotten all about it, but that after some time I beganto observe that as often as I alluded to Clara--which was not often--hecontrived to turn the remark aside, and always without saying asyllable about her. The conclusion I came to was that, while he shrunkfrom condemnation, he was at the same time unwilling to disturb thepresent serenity of my mind by defending her conduct. 

Early in the Spring, an unpleasant event occurred, of which I mighthave foreseen the possibility. One morning I was alone, working busily, when the door opened. 

'Why, Charley--back already!' I exclaimed, going on to finish mysentence. 

Receiving no answer, I looked up from my paper, and started to my feet. Mr Osborne stood before me, scrutinizing me with severe grey eyes. Ithink he knew me from the first, but I was sufficiently altered to makeit doubtful. 

'I beg your pardon, ' he said coldly--'I thought these were CharlesOsborne's chambers. ' And he turned to leave the room. 

'They _are_ his chambers, Mr Osborne, ' I replied, recovering myselfwith an effort, and looking him in the face. 

'My son had not informed me that he shared them with another. '

'We are very old friends, Mr Osborne. '

He made no answer, but stood regarding me fixedly. 

'You do not remember me, sir, ' I said. 'I am Wilfrid Cumbermede. '

'I have cause to remember you. '

'Will you not sit down, sir? Charley will be home in less than anhour--I quite expect. '

Again he turned his back as if about to leave me. 

'If my presence is disagreeable to you, ' I said, annoyed at hisrudeness, 'I will go. '

'As you please, ' he answered. 

I left my papers, caught up my hat, and went out of the room and thehouse. I said _good morning_, but he made no return. 

Not until nearly eight o'clock did I re-enter. I had of course made upmy mind that Charley and I must part. When I opened the door, I thoughtat first there was no one there. There were no lights, and the fire hadburned low. 

'Is that you, Wilfrid?' said Charley. 

He was lying on the sofa. 

'Yes, Charley, ' I returned. 

'Come in, old fellow. The avenger of blood is not behind me, ' he said, in a mocking tone, as he rose and came to meet me. 'I've been havingsuch a dose of damnation--all for your sake!'

'I'm very sorry, Charley. But I think we are both to blame. Your fatherought to have been told. You see day after day went by, and--somehow--'

'Tut, tut! never mind. What _does_ it matter--except that it's adisgrace to be dependent on such a man? I wish I had the courage tostarve. '

'He's your father, Charley. Nothing can alter that. '

'That's the misery of it. And then to tell people God is their father!If he's like mine, he's done us a mighty favour in creating us! I can'tsay I feel grateful for it. I must turn out to-morrow. '

'No, Charley. The place has no attraction for me without you, and itwas yours first. Besides, I can't afford to pay so much. I will findanother to-morrow. But we shall see each other often, and perhaps getthrough more work apart. I hope he didn't insist on your never seeingme. '

'He did try it on; but there I stuck fast, threatening to vanish andscramble for my living as I best might. I told him you were a farbetter man than I, and did me nothing but good. But that only made the. Matter worse, proving your influence over me. Let's drop it. It's nouse. Let's go to the Olympic. '

The next day I looked for a lodging in Camden Town, attracted by theprobable cheapness, and by the grass in the Regent's Park; and havingfound a decent place, took my things away while Charley was out. I hadnot got them, few as they were, in order in my new quarters before hemade his appearance; and as long as I was there few days passed onwhich we did not meet. 

One evening he walked in, accompanied by a fine-looking young fellow, whom I thought I must know, and presently recognized as Home, our oldschool-fellow, with whom I had fought in Switzerland. We had becomegood friends before we parted, and Charley and he had met repeatedlysince. 

'What are you doing now, Home?' I asked him. 

'I've just taken deacon's orders, ' he answered. 'A friend of myfather's has promised me a living. I've been hanging-about quite longenough now. A fellow ought to do something for his existence. '

'I can't think how a strong fellow like you can take to mumblingprayers and reading sermons, ' said Charley. 

'It ain't nice, ' said Home, 'but it's a very respectable profession. There are viscounts in it, and lots of honourables. '

'I dare say, ' returned Charley, with drought. 'But a nerveless creaturelike me, who can't even hit straight from the shoulder, would be goodenough for that. A giant like you, Home!'

'Ah! by-the-by, Osborne, ' said Home, not in love with the prospect, andwilling to turn the conversation, 'I thought you were a church-calfyourself. '

'Honestly, Home, I don't know whether it isn't the biggest of all bighumbugs. '

'Oh, but--Osborne!--it ain't the thing, you know, to talk like that ofa profession adopted by so many great men fit to honour anyprofession, ' returned Home, who was not one of the brightest ofmortals, and was jealous for the profession just in as much as it wasdestined for his own. 

'Either the profession honours the men, or the men dishonourthemselves, ' said Charley. 'I believe it claims to have been founded bya man called Jesus Christ, if such a man ever existed except in thefancy of his priesthood. '

'Well, really, ' expostulated Home, looking, I must say, considerablyshocked, 'I shouldn't have expected that from the son of a clergyman!'

'I couldn't help my father. I wasn't consulted, ' said Charley, with anuncomfortable grin. 'But, at any rate, my father fancies he believesall the story. I fancy I don't. '

'Then you're an infidel, Osborne. '

'Perhaps. Do you think that so very horrible?'

'Yes, I do. Tom Paine, and all the rest of them, you know!'

'Well, Home, I'll tell you one thing I think worse than being aninfidel. '

'What is that?'

'Taking to the Church for a living. '

'I don't see that. '

'Either the so-called truths it advocates are things to live and diefor, or they are the veriest old wives' fables going. Do you know whowas the first to do what you are about now?'

'No. I can't say. I'm not up in Church history yet. '

'It was Judas. '

I am not sure that Charley was right, but that is what he said. I wastaking no part in the conversation, but listening eagerly, with astrong suspicion that Charley had been leading Home to this very point. 

'A man must live, ' said Home. 

'That's precisely what I take it Judas said: for my part I don't seeit. '

'Don't see what?'

'That a man must live. It would be a far more incontrovertibleassertion that a man must die--and a more comfortable one, too. '

'Upon my word, I don't understand you, Osborne! You make a fellow feeldeuced queer with your remarks. '

'At all events, you will allow that the first of them--they call themapostles, don't they?--didn't take to preaching the gospel for the sakeof a living. What a satire on the whole kit of them that word _living_, so constantly in all their mouths, is! It seems to me that Messrs Peterand Paul and Matthew, and all the rest of them, forsook their livingsfor a good chance of something rather the contrary. '

'Then it _was_ true--what they said about you at Forest's?'

'I don't know what they said, ' returned Charley; 'but before I wouldpretend to believe what I didn't--'

'But I _do_ believe it, Osborne. '

'May I ask on what grounds?'

'Why--everybody does. '

'That would be no reason, even if it were a fact, which it is not. Youbelieve it, or rather, choose to think you believe it, because you'vebeen told it. Sooner than pretend to teach what I have never learned, and be looked up to as a pattern of godliness, I would 'list in theranks. There, at least, a man might earn an honest living. '

'By Jove! You do make a fellow feel uncomfortable!' repeated Home. 'You've got such a--such an uncompromising way of saying things--to usea mild expression. '

'I think it's a sneaking thing to do, and unworthy of a gentleman. '

'I don't see what right you've got to bully me in that way, ' said Home, getting angry. 

It was time to interfere. 

'Charley is so afraid of being dishonest, Home, ' I said, 'that he isrude. --You are rude now, Charley. '

'I beg your pardon, Home, ' exclaimed Charley at once. 

'Oh, never mind!' returned Home with gloomy good-nature. 

'You ought to make allowance, Charley, ' I pursued. 'When a man has beenaccustomed all his life to hear things spoken of in a certain way, hecannot help having certain notions to start with. '

'If I thought as Osborne does, ' said Home, 'I _would_ sooner 'list thango into the Church. '

'I confess, ' I rejoined, 'I do not see how any one can take orders, unless he not only loves God with all his heart, but receives the storyof the New Testament as a revelation of him, precious beyond utterance. To the man who accepts it so, the calling is the noblest in the world. '

The others were silent, and the conversation turned away. From whatevercause, Home did not go into the Church, but died fighting in India. 

He soon left us--Charley remaining behind. 

'What a hypocrite I am!' he exclaimed;--'following a profession inwhich I must often, if I have any practice at all, defend what I knowto be wrong, and seek to turn justice from its natural course. '

'But you can't always know that your judgment is right, even if itshould be against your client. I heard an eminent barrister say oncethat he had come out of the court convinced by the arguments of theopposite counsel. '

'And having gained the case?'

'That I don't know. '

'He went in believing his own side anyhow, and that made it all rightfor him. '

'I don't know that either. His private judgment was altered, butwhether it was for or against his client, I do not remember. The fact, however, shows that one might do a great wrong by refusing a clientwhom he judged in the wrong. '

'On the contrary, to refuse a brief on such grounds would be best forall concerned. Not believing in it, you could not do your best, andmight be preventing one who would believe in it from taking it up. '

'The man might not get anybody to take it up. '

'Then there would be little reason to expect that a jury charged underordinary circumstances would give a verdict in his favour. '

'But it would be for the barristers to constitute themselves thejudges. '

'Yes--of their own conduct--only that. There I am again! The finestideas about the right thing--and going on all the same, with open eyesrunning my head straight into the noose! Wilfrid, I'm one of theweakest animals in creation. What if you found at last that I had beendeceiving _you_! What would you say?'

'Nothing, Charley--to any one else. '

'What would you say to yourself, then?'

'I don't know. I know what I should do. '

'What?'

'Try to account for it, and find as many reasons as I could to justifyyou. That is, I would do just as you do for every one but yourself. '

He was silent--plainly from emotion, which I attributed to his pleasureat the assurance of the strength of my friendship. 

'Suppose you could find none?' he said, recovering himself a little. 

'I should still believe there _were_ such. _Tout comprendre c'est toutpardonner_, you know. '

He brightened at this. 

'You _are_ a friend, Wilfrid! What a strange condition mine is!--forever feeling I could do this and that difficult thing, were it to fallin my way, and yet constantly failing in the simplest duties--even tothat of common politeness. I behaved like a brute to Home. He's a finefellow, and only wants to see a thing to do it. _I_ see it well enough, and don't do it. Wilfrid, I shall come to a bad end. When it comes, mind I told you so, and blame nobody but myself. I mean what I say. 

'Nonsense, Charley! It's only that you haven't active work enough, andget morbid with brooding over the germs of things. '

'Oh, Wilfrid, how beautiful a life might be! Just look at that one inthe New Testament! Why shouldn't _I_ be like that? _I_ don't know why. I feel as if I could. But I'm not, you see--and never shall be. I'mselfish, and ill-tempered, and--'

'Charley! Charley! There never was a less selfish or better-temperedfellow in the world. '

'Don't make me believe that, Wilfrid, or I shall hate the world as wellas myself. It's all my hypocrisy makes you think so. Because I amashamed of what I am, and manage to hide it pretty well, you think me asaint. That is heaping damnation on me. '

'Take a pipe, Charley, and shut up. That's rubbish!' I said. I doubtmuch if it was what I ought to have said, but I was alarmed for theconsequences of such brooding. 'I wonder what the world would be likeif every one considered himself acting up to his own ideal!'

'If he was acting so, then it would do the world no harm that he knewit. '

'But his ideal must then be a low one, and that would do himself andeverybody the worst kind of harm. The greatest men have always thoughtthe least of themselves. '

'Yes, but that was because they _were_ the greatest. A man may thinklittle of himself just for the reason that he _is_ little, and can'thelp knowing it. '

'Then it's a mercy he does know it! for most small people think much ofthemselves. '

'But to know it--and to feel all the time you ought to be and could besomething very different, and yet never get a step nearer it! That isto be miserable. Still it is a mercy to know it. There is always a lasthelp. '

I mistook what he meant, and thought it well to say no more. Aftersmoking a pipe or two, he was quieter, and left me with a merry remark. One lovely evening in Spring, I looked from my bed-room window, and sawthe red sunset burning in the thin branches of the solitary poplar thatgraced the few feet of garden behind the house. It drew me out to thepark, where the trees were all in young leaf, each with its shadowstretching away from its foot, like its longing to reach its kindacross dividing space. The grass was like my own grass at home, and Iwent wandering over it in all the joy of the new Spring, which comesevery year to our hearts as well as to their picture outside. Theworkmen were at that time busy about the unfinished botanical gardens, and I wandered thitherward, lingering about, and pondering andinventing, until the sun was long withdrawn, and the shades of nighthad grown very brown. 

I was at length sauntering slowly home to put a few finishing touchesto a paper I had been at work upon all day, when something about ayoung couple in front of me attracted my attention. They were walkingarm in arm, talking eagerly, but so low that I heard only a murmur. Idid not quicken my pace, yet was gradually gaining upon them, whensuddenly the conviction started up in my mind that the gentleman wasCharley. I could not mistake his back, or the stoop of his shoulders ashe bent towards his companion. I was so certain of him that I turned atonce from the road, and wandered away across the grass: if he did notchoose to tell me about the lady, I had no right to know. But I confessto a strange trouble that he had left me out. I comforted myself, however, with the thought that perhaps when we next met he wouldexplain, or at least break, the silence. 

After about an hour, he entered, in an excited mood, merry butuncomfortable. I tried to behave as if I knew nothing, but could nothelp feeling much disappointed when he left me without a word of hishaving had a second reason for being in the neighbourhood. 

What effect the occurrence might have had, whether the cobweb veil ofwhich I was now aware between us would have thickened to opacity ornot, I cannot tell. I dare not imagine that it might. I rather hopethat by degrees my love would have got the victory, and melted it away. But now came a cloud which swallowed every other in my firmament. Thenext morning brought a letter from my aunt, telling me that my unclehad had a stroke, as she called it, and at that moment was lyinginsensible. I put my affairs in order at once, and Charley saw me awayby the afternoon coach. 

It was a dreary journey. I loved my uncle with perfect confidence andprofound veneration, a result of the faithful and open simplicity withwhich he had always behaved towards me. If he were taken away, andalready he might be gone, I should be lonely indeed, for on whombesides could I depend with anything like the trust which I reposed inhim? For, conceitedly or not, I had always felt that Charley ratherdepended on me--that I had rather to take care of him than to look forcounsel from him. 

The weary miles rolled away. Early in the morning we reachedMinstercombe. There I got a carriage, and at once continued my journey. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

CHANGES. 

I met no one at the house-door, or in the kitchen, and walked straightup the stair to my uncle's room. The blinds were down, and the curtainswere drawn, and I could but just see the figure of my aunt seatedbeside the bed. She rose, and, without a word of greeting, made way forme to approach the form which lay upon it stretched out straight andmotionless. The conviction that I was in the presence of death seizedme; but instead of the wretchedness of heart and soul which I hadexpected to follow the loss of my uncle, a something deeper than anywill of my own asserted itself, and as it were took the matter from me. It was as if my soul avoided the sorrow of separation by breaking withthe world of material things, asserting the shadowy nature of all thevisible, and choosing its part with the something which had passedaway. It was as if my deeper self said to my outer consciousness: 'Itoo am of the dead--one with them, whether they live or are no more. For a little while I am shut out from them, and surrounded with thingsthat seem: let me gaze on the picture while it lasts; dream or nodream, let me live in it according to its laws, and await what willcome next; if an awaking, it is well: if only a perfect becausedreamless sleep, I shall not be able to lament the endlessseparation--but while I know myself, I will hope for something better. 'Like this, at least, was the blossom into which, under myafter-brooding, the bud of that feeling broke. 

I laid my hand upon my uncle's forehead. It was icy cold, just like mygrannie's when my aunt had made me touch it. And I knew that my unclewas gone, that the slow tide of the eternal ocean had risen while helay motionless within the wash of its waves, and had floated him awayfrom the shore of our world. I took the hand of my aunt, who stood likea statue behind me, and led her from the room. 

'He is gone, aunt, ' I said, as calmly as I could. 

She made no reply, but gently withdrew her hand from mine, and returnedinto the chamber. I stood a few moments irresolute, but reverence forher sorrow prevailed, and I went down the stair and seated myself bythe fire. There the servant told me that my uncle had never moved sincethey laid him in his bed. Soon after the doctor arrived, and wentup-stairs; but returned in a few minutes, only to affirm the fact. Iwent again to the room, and found my aunt lying with her face on thebosom of the dead man. She allowed me to draw her away, but when Iwould have led her down, she turned aside and sought her own chamber, where she remained for the rest of the day. 

I will not linger over that miserable time. Greatly as I revered myuncle, I was not prepared to find how much he had been respected, andwas astonished at the number of faces I had never seen which followedto the churchyard. Amongst them were the Coninghams, father and son;but except by a friendly grasp of the hand, and a few words ofcondolence, neither interrupted the calm depression rather than griefin which I found myself. When I returned home, there was with my aunt amarried sister, whom I had never seen before. Up to this time she hadshown an arid despair, and been regardless of everything about her; butnow she was in tears. I left them together, and wandered for hours upand down the lonely playground of my childhood, thinking of manythings--most of all, how strange it was that, if there were a_hereafter_ for us, we should know positively nothing concerning it;that not a whisper should cross the invisible line; that the somethingwhich had looked from its windows so lovingly should have in a momentwithdrawn, by some back-way unknown either to itself or us, into aregion of which all we can tell is that thence no prayers and no tearswill entice it to lift for an instant again the fallen curtain, andlook out once more. Why should not God, I thought, if a God there be, permit one single return to each, that so the friends left behind inthe dark might be sure that death was not the end, and so live in theworld as not of the world?

[Illustration: I went again to the room, and found my aunt lying withher face on the bosom of the dead man]

When I re-entered, I found my aunt looking a little cheerful. She waseven having something to eat with her sister--an elderlycountry-looking woman, the wife of a farmer in a distant shire. Theirtalk had led them back to old times, to their parents and the friendsof their childhood; and the memory of the long dead had comforted her alittle over the recent loss; for all true hearts death is a uniting, not a dividing power. 

'I suppose you will be going back to London, Wilfrid?' said my aunt, who had already been persuaded to pay her sister a visit. 

'I think I had better, ' I answered. 'When I have a chance of publishinga book, I should like to come and write it, or at least finish it, here, if you will let me. '

'The place is your own, Wilfrid. Of course I shall be very glad to haveyou here. '

'The place is yours as much as mine, aunt, ' I replied. 'I can't bear tothink that my uncle has no right over it still. I believe he has, andtherefore it is yours just the same--not to mention my own wishes inthe matter. '

She made no reply, and I saw that both she and her sister were shockedeither at my mentioning the dead man, or at my supposing he had anyearthly rights left. The next day they set out together, leaving in thehouse the wife of the head man at the farm, to attend to me until Ishould return to town. I had purposed to set out the following morning, but I found myself enjoying so much the undisturbed possession of theplace, that I remained there for ten days; and when I went, it was withthe intention of making it my home as soon as I might: I had grownenamoured of the solitude so congenial to labour. Before I left Iarranged my uncle's papers, and in doing so found several earlysketches which satisfied me that he might have distinguished himself inliterature if his fate had led him thitherward. 

Having given the house in charge to my aunt's deputy, Mrs Herbert, I atlength returned to my lodging in Camden Town. There I found two letterswaiting me, the one announcing the serious illness of my aunt, and theother her death. The latter was two days old. I wrote to express mysorrow, and excuse my apparent neglect, and having made a long journeyto see her also laid in the earth, I returned to my old home, in orderto make fresh arrangements. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

PROPOSALS. 

Mrs Herbert attended me during the forenoon, but left me after my earlydinner. I made my tea for myself, and a tankard filled from a barrel ofale of my uncle's brewing, with a piece of bread and cheese, was myunvarying supper. The first night I felt very lonely, almost indeedwhat the Scotch call _eerie_. The place, although inseparablyinterwoven with my earliest recollections, drew back and stood apartfrom me--a thing to be thought about; and, in the ancient house, amidstthe lonely field, I felt like a ghost condemned to return and live thevanished time over again. I had had a fire lighted in my own room; for, although the air was warm outside, the thick stone walls seemed toretain the chilly breath of the last Winter. The silent rooms thatfilled the house forced the sense of their presence upon me. I seemedto see the forsaken things in them staring at each other, hopeless anduseless, across the dividing space, as if saying to themselves, 'Webelong to the dead, are mouldering to the dust after them, and in thedust alone we meet. ' From the vacant rooms my soul seemed to float outbeyond, searching still--to find nothing but loneliness and emptinessbetwixt me and the stars; and beyond the stars more loneliness and moreemptiness still--no rest for the sole of the foot of the wanderingPsyche--save--one mighty saving--an exception which, if true, must bethe one all-absorbing rule. 'But, ' I was saying to myself, 'loveunknown is not even equal to love lost, ' when my reverie was broken bythe dull noise of a horse's hoofs upon the sward. I rose and went tothe window. As I crossed the room, my brain rather than myself suddenlyrecalled the night when my pendulum drew from the churning trees theunwelcome genius of the storm. The moment I reached the window--therethrough the dim Summer twilight, once more from the trees, now as stillas sleep, came the same figure. 

Mr Coningham saw me at the fire-lighted window, and halted. 

'May I be admitted?' he asked ceremoniously. 

I made a sign to him to ride round to the door, for I could not speakaloud: it would have been rude to the memories that haunted the silenthouse. 

'May I come in for a few minutes, Mr Cumbermede?' he asked again, already at the door by the time I had opened it. 

'By all means, Mr Coningham, ' I replied. 'Only you must tie your horseto this ring, for we--I--have no stable here. '

'I've done this before, ' he answered, as he made the animal fast. 'Iknow the ways of the place well enough. But surely you're not here inabsolute solitude?'

'Yes, I am. I prefer being alone at present. '

'Very unhealthy, I must say! You will grow hypochondriacal if you mopein this fashion, ' he returned, following me up-stairs to my room. 

'A day or two of solitude now and then would, I suspect, do most peoplemore good than harm, ' I answered. 'But you must not think I intendleading a hermit's life. Have you heard that my aunt--?'

'Yes, yes. --You are left alone in the world. But relations are not aman's only friends--and certainly not always his best friends. '

I made no reply, thinking of my uncle. 

'I did not know you were down, ' he resumed. 'I was calling at myfather's, and seeing your light across the park, thought it possibleyou might be here, and rode over to see. May I take the liberty ofasking what your plans are?' he added, seating himself by the fire. 

'I have hardly had time to form new ones; but I mean to stick to mywork, anyhow. '

'You mean your profession?'

'Yes, if you will allow me to call it such. I have had success enoughalready to justify me in going on. '

'I am more pleased than surprised to hear it, ' he answered. 

'But what will you do with the old nest?'

'Let the old nest wait for the old bird, Mr Coningham--keep it to diein. '

'I don't like to hear a young fellow talking that way, ' heremonstrated. 'You've got a long life to live yet--at least I hope so. But if you leave the house untenanted till the period to which youallude, it will be quite unfit by that time even for the small serviceyou propose to require of it. Why not let it--for a term of years? Icould find you a tenant, I make no doubt. '

'I won't let it. I shall meet the world all the better if I have aplace of my own to take refuge in. '

'Well, I can't say but there's good in that fancy. To have any spot ofyour own, however small--freehold, I mean--must be a comfort. At thesame time, what's the world for, if you're to meet it in thathalf-hearted way? I don't mean that every young man--there areexceptions--must sow just so many bushels of _avena fatua_. There areplenty of enjoyments to be got without leading a wild life--which Ishould be the last to recommend to any young man of principle. Take myadvice, and let the place. But pray don't do me the injustice to fancyI came to look after a job. I shall be most happy to serve you. '

'I am exceedingly obliged to you, ' I answered. 'If you could let thefarm for me for the rest of the lease, of which there are but a fewyears to run, that would be of great consequence to me. Herbert, myuncle's foreman, who has the management now, is a very good fellow, butI doubt if he will do more than make both ends meet without my aunt, and the accounts would bother me endlessly. '

'I shall find out whether Lord Inglewold would be inclined to resumethe fag-end. In such case, as the lease has been a long one, and landhas risen much, he would doubtless pay a part of the difference. Thenthere's the stock, worth a good deal, I should think. I'll see what canbe done. And then there's the stray bit of park?'

'What do you mean by that?' I asked. 'We have been in the way ofcalling it the _park_, though why I never could tell. I confess it doeslook like a bit of Sir Giles's that had wandered beyond the gates. '

'There _is_ some old story or other about it, I believe. The possessorsof the Moldwarp estate have, from time immemorial, regarded it asproperly theirs. I know that. '

'I am much obliged to them, certainly. _I_ have been in the habit ofthinking differently. '

'Of course, of course, ' he rejoined, laughing. 'But there may have beensome--mistake somewhere. I know Sir Giles would give five times itsvalue for it. '

'He should not have it if he offered the Moldwarp estate in exchange, 'I cried indignantly; and the thought flashed across me that thistemptation was what my uncle had feared from the acquaintance of MrConingham. 

'Your sincerity will not be put to so great a test as that, ' hereturned, laughing quite merrily. 'But I am glad you have such arespect for real property. At the same time--how many acres are thereof it?'

'I don't know, ' I answered, curtly and truly. 

'It is of no consequence. Only if you don't want to be tempted, don'tlet Sir Giles or my father broach the subject. You needn't look at me. _I_ am not Sir Giles's agent. Neither do my father and I run in doubleharness. He hinted, however, this very day, that he believed the oldfool wouldn't stick at £500 an acre for this bit of grass--if hecouldn't get it for less. '

'If that is what you have come about, Mr Coningham, ' I rejoined, haughtily I dare say, for something I could not well define made mefeel as if the dignity of a thousand ancestors were perilled in myown, ' I beg you will not say another word on the subject, for sell thisland I _will not_. '

He was looking at me strangely. His eye glittered with what, underother circumstances, I might have taken for satisfaction; but he turnedhis face away and rose, saying with a curiously altered tone, as hetook up his hat, 'I'm very sorry to have offended you, Mr Cumbermede. I sincerely begyour pardon. I thought our old--friendship may I not call it?--wouldhave justified me in merely reporting what I had heard. I see now thatI was wrong. I ought to have shown more regard for your feelings atthis trying time. But again I assure you I was only reporting, and hadnot the slightest intention of making myself a go-between in thematter. One word more: I have no doubt I could _let_ the field for you--at good grazing rental. That I think you can hardly object to. '

'I should be much obliged to you, ' I replied--'for a term of not morethan seven years--but without the house, and with the stipulationexpressly made that I have right of way in every direction through it. '

'Reasonable enough, ' he answered. 

'One thing more, ' I said: 'all these affairs must be pure matters ofbusiness between us. '

'As you please, ' he returned, with, I fancied, a shadow ofdisappointment, if not of displeasure, on his countenance. 'I shouldhave been more gratified if you had accepted a friendly office; but Iwill do my best for you, notwithstanding. '

'I had no intention of being unfriendly, Mr Coningham, ' I said. 'Butwhen I think of it, I fear I may have been rude, for the bare proposalof selling this Naboth's vineyard of mine would go far to make me rudeto any man alive. It sounds like an invitation to dishonour myself inthe eyes of my ancestors. '

'Ah! you do care about your ancestors?' he said, half musingly, andlooking into his hat. 

'Of course I do. Who is there does not?'

'Only some ninety-nine hundredths of the English nation. '

'I cannot well forget, ' I returned, 'what my ancestors have done forme. '

'Whereas most people only remember that their ancestors can do no morefor them. I declare I am almost glad I offended you. It does one goodto hear a young man speak like that in these degenerate days, when abuck would rather be the son of a rich brewer than a decayed gentleman. I will call again about the end of the week--that is if you will behere--and report progress. '

His manner, as he took his leave, was at once more friendly and morerespectful than it had yet been--a change which I attributed to hishaving discovered in me more firmness than he had expected, in regard, if not of my rights, at least of my social position. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

ARRANGEMENTS. 

My custom at this time, and for long after I had finally settled downin the country, was to rise early in the morning--often, as I used whena child, before sunrise, in order to see the first burst of the sunupon the new-born world. I believed then, as I believe still, that, lovely as the sunset is, the sunrise is more full of mystery, poetry, and even, I had almost said, pathos. But often ere he was well up I hadbegun to imagine what the evening would be like, and with what softlymingled, all but imperceptible, gradations it would steal into night. Then, when the night came, I would wander about my little field, vainlyendeavouring to picture the glory with which the next day's sun wouldrise upon me. Hence the morning and evening became well known to me;and yet I shrink from saying it, for each is endless in the variety ofits change. And the longer I was alone, I became the more enamoured ofsolitude, with the labour to which, in my case, it was so helpful; andbegan, indeed, to be in some danger of losing sight of my relation to'a world of men, ' for with that world my imagination and my love forCharley were now my sole recognizable links. 

In the fore-part of the day I read and wrote; and in the after-partfound both employment and pleasure in arranging my uncle's books, amongst which I came upon a good many treasures, whereof I was now ablein some measure to appreciate the value--thinking often, amidst theirancient dust and odours, with something like indignant pity, of thesplendid collection, as I was sure it must be, mouldering away in utterneglect at the neighbouring Hall. 

I was on my knees in the midst of a pile which I had drawn from acupboard under the shelves, when Mrs Herbert showed Mr Coningham in. Iwas annoyed, for my uncle's room was sacred; but as I was about to takehim to my own, I saw such a look of interest upon his face that itturned me aside, and I asked him to take a seat. 

'If you do not mind the dust, ' I said. 

'Mind the dust!' he exclaimed, '--of old books! I count it almostsacred. I am glad you know how to value them. '

What right had he to be glad? How did he know I valued them? How couldI but value them? I rebuked my offence, however, and after a littletalk about them, in which he revealed much more knowledge than I shouldhave expected, it vanished. He then informed me of an arrangement heand Lord Inglewold's factor had been talking over in respect of thefarm; also of an offer he had had for my field. I considered bothsufficiently advantageous in my circumstances, and the result was thatI closed with both. 

A few days after this arrangement I returned to London, intending toremain for some time. I had a warm welcome from Charley, but could nothelp fancying an unacknowledged something dividing us. He appeared, notwithstanding, less oppressed, and, in a word, more like otherpeople. I proceeded at once to finish two or three papers and stories, which late events had interrupted. But within a week London had grownto me stifling and unendurable, and I longed unspeakably for the freeair of my field and the loneliness of my small castle. If my readerregard me as already a hypochondriac, the sole disproof I have to offeris, that I was then diligently writing what some years afterwardsobtained a hearty reception from the better class of the readingpublic. Whether my habits were healthy or not, whether my love ofsolitude was natural or not, I cannot but hope from this that my modesof thinking were. The end was that, after finishing the work I had onhand, I collected my few belongings, gave up my lodging, bade Charleygood-bye, receiving from him a promise to visit me at my own house ifpossible, and took my farewell of London for a season, determined notto return until I had produced a work which my now more enlargedjudgment might consider fit to see the light. I had laid out all myspare money upon books, with which, in a few heavy trunks, I now wentback to my solitary dwelling. I had no care upon my mind, for my smallfortune, along with the rent of my field, was more than sufficient formy maintenance in the almost anchoretic seclusion in which I intendedto live, and hence I had every advantage for the more definiteprojection and prosecution of a work which had been gradually shapingitself in my mind for months past. 

Before leaving for London, I had already spoken to a handy lad employedupon the farm, and he had kept himself free to enter my service when Ishould require him. He was the more necessary to me that I still had mymare Lilith, from which nothing but fate should ever part me. I had nodifficulty in arranging with the new tenant for her continuedaccommodation at the farm; while, as Herbert still managed its affairs, the services of his wife were available as often as I required them. But my man soon made himself capable of doing everything for me, andproved himself perfectly trustworthy. 

I must find a name for my place--for its own I will not write: let mecall it The Moat: there were signs, plain enough to me after my returnfrom Oxford, that there had once been a moat about it, of which thehollow I have mentioned as the spot where I used to lie and watch forthe sun's first rays, had evidently been a part. But the remains of themoat lay at a considerable distance from the house, suggesting a largearea of building at some former period, proof of which, however, hadentirely vanished, the house bearing every sign of a narrowcompleteness. 

The work I had undertaken required a constantly recurring reference tobooks of the sixteenth century; and although I had provided as many asI thought I should need, I soon found them insufficient. My uncle'slibrary was very large for a man in his position, but it was not by anymeans equally developed; and my necessities made me think often of theold library at the Hall, which might contain somewhere in its ruinsevery book I wanted. Not only, however, would it have been useless togo searching in the formless mass for this or that volume, but, unableto grant Sir Giles the desire of his heart in respect of my poor field, I did not care to ask of him the comparatively small favour of beingallowed to burrow in his dust-heap of literature. 

I was sitting, one hot noon, almost in despair over a certain littlepoint concerning which I could find no definite information, when MrConingham called. After some business matters had been discussed, Imentioned, merely for the sake of talk, the difficulty I was in--thesole disadvantage of a residence in the country as compared withLondon, where the British Museum was the unfailing resort of all whorequired such aid as I was in want of. 

'But there is the library at Moldwarp Hall, ' he said. 

'Yes, _there_ it is; but there is not _here_. '

'I have no doubt Sir Giles would make you welcome to borrow what booksyou wanted. He is a good-natured man, Sir Giles. '

I explained my reason for not troubling him. 

'Besides, ' I added, 'the library is in such absolute chaos, that Imight with less loss of time run up to London, and find any volume Ihappened to want among the old-book-shops. You have no idea what a messSir Giles's books are in--scarcely two volumes of the same book to befound even in proximity. It is one of the most painful sights I eversaw. '

He said little more, but from what followed, I suspect either he or hisfather spoke to Sir Giles on the subject; for, one day, as I waswalking past the park-gates, which I had seldom entered since myreturn, I saw him just within, talking to old Mr Coningham. I salutedhim in passing, and he not only returned the salutation in a friendlymanner, but made a step towards me as if he wished to speak to me. Iturned and approached him. He came out and shook hands with me. 

'I know who you are, Mr Cumbermede, although I have never had thepleasure of speaking to you before, ' he said frankly. 

'There you are mistaken, Sir Giles, ' I returned; 'but you could hardlybe expected to remember the little boy who, many years ago, havingstolen one of your apples, came to you to comfort him. '

He laughed heartily. 

'I remember the circumstance well, ' he said. 'And you were that unhappyculprit? Ha! ha! ha! To tell the truth, I have thought of it manytimes. It was a remarkably fine thing to do. '

'What! steal the apple, Sir Giles?'

'Make the instant reparation you did. '

'There was no reparation in asking you to box my ears. '

'It was all you could do, though. '

'To ease my own conscience, it was. There is always a satisfaction, Isuppose, in suffering for your sins. But I have thought a thousandtimes of your kindness in shaking hands with me instead. You treated meas the angels treat the repentant sinner, Sir Giles. '

'Well, I certainly never thought of it in that light, ' he said; then, as if wishing to change the subject, --'Don't you find it lonely nowyour uncle is gone?' he said. 

'I miss him more than I can tell. '

'A very worthy man he was--too good for this world, by all accounts. '

'He's not the worse off for that now, Sir Giles, I trust. ' 'No; ofcourse not, ' he returned quickly, with the usual shrinking from theslightest allusion to what is called the other world. --'Is thereanything I can do for you? You are a literary man, they tell me. Thereare a good many books of one sort and another lying at the Hall. Someof them might be of use to you. They are at your service. I am sure youare to be trusted even with mouldy books, which, from what I hear, mustbe a greater temptation to you now than red-cheeked apples, ' he addedwith another merry laugh. 

'I will tell you what, ' Sir Giles, I answered. 'It has often grieved meto think of the state of your library. It would be scarcely possiblefor me to find a book in it now. But if you would trust me, I should bedelighted, in my spare hours, of which I can command a good many, toput the whole in order for you. '

'I should be under the greatest obligation. I have always intendedhaving some capable man down from London to arrange it. I am no greatreader myself, but I have the highest respect for a good library. Itought never to have got into the condition in which I found it. '

'The books are fast going to ruin, I fear. '

'Are they indeed?' he exclaimed, with some consternation. 'I was not inthe least aware of that. I thought so long as I let no one meddle withthem, they were safe enough. '

'The law of the moth and rust holds with books as well as other unusedthings, ' I answered. 

'Then, pray, my dear sir, undertake the thing at once, ' he said, in atone to which the uneasiness of self-reproach gave a touch ofimperiousness. 'But really, ' he added, 'it seems trespassing on yourgoodness much too far. Your time is valuable. Would it be a long job?'

'It would doubtless take some months; but the pleasure of seeing orderdawn from confusion would itself repay me. And I _might_ come uponcertain books of which I am greatly in want. You will have to allow mea carpenter though, for the shelves are not half sufficient to hold thebooks; and I have no doubt those there are stand in need of repair. '

'I have a carpenter amongst my people. Old houses want constantattention. I shall put him under your orders with pleasure. Come anddine with me to-morrow, and we'll talk it all over. '

'You are very kind, ' I said. 'Is Mr Brotherton at home?'

'I am sorry to say he is not. '

'I heard the other day that he had sold his commission. '

'Yes--six months ago. His regiment was ordered to India, and--and--hismother----But he does not give us much of his company, ' added the oldman. 'I am sorry he is not at home, for he would have been glad to meetyou. '

Instead of responding, I merely made haste to accept Sir Giles'sinvitation. I confess I did not altogether relish having anything to dowith the future property of Geoffrey Brotherton; but the attraction ofthe books was great, and in any case I should be under no obligation tohim; neither was the nature of the service I was about to render himsuch as would awaken any sense of obligation in a mind like his. 

I could not help recalling the sarcastic criticisms of Clara when Ientered the drawing-room of Moldwarp Hall--a long, low-ceiled room, with its walls and stools and chairs covered with tapestry, some ofit the work of the needle, other some of the Gobelin loom; butalthough I found Lady Brotherton a common enough old lady, who showedlittle of the dignity of which she evidently thought much, and wasmore condescending to her yeoman neighbour than was agreeable, I didnot at once discover ground for the severity of those remarks. MissBrotherton, the eldest of the family, a long-necked lady, the flowerof whose youth was beginning to curl at the edges, I found well-read, but whether in books or the reviews of them, I had to leave an openquestion as yet. Nor was I sufficiently taken with her not to feelconsiderably dismayed when she proffered me her assistance in arrangingthe library. I made no objection at the time, only hinting that thedrawing up of a catalogue afterwards might be a fitter employment forher fair fingers; but I resolved to create such a fearful pother atthe very beginning, that her first visit should be her last. And so Idoubt not it would have fallen out, but for something else. The onlyother person who dined with us was a Miss Pease--at least so I willcall her--who, although the law of her existence appeared to befetching and carrying for Lady Brotherton, was yet, in virtue of apoor-relationship, allowed an uneasy seat at the table. Her obediencewas mechanically perfect. One wondered how the mere nerves of volitioncould act so instantaneously upon the slightest hint. I saw her morethan once or twice withdraw her fork when almost at her lips, and, almost before she had laid it down, rise from her seat to obey somehalf-whispered, half-nodded behest. But her look was one of injuredmeekness and self-humbled submission. Sir Giles now and then gaveher a kind or merry word, but she would reply to it with almost abjecthumility. Her face was grey and pinched, her eyes were very cold, andshe ate as if she did not know one thing from another. 

Over our wine Sir Giles introduced business. I professed myself ready, with a housemaid and carpenter at my orders when I should want them, tocommence operations the following afternoon. He begged me to ask forwhatever I might want, and after a little friendly chat, I took myleave, elated with the prospect of the work before me. About threeo'clock the next afternoon I took my way to the Hall, to assume thetemporary office of creative librarian. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

PREPARATIONS. 

It was a lovely afternoon, the air hot, and the shadows of the treesdark upon the green grass. The clear sun was shining sideways on thelittle oriel window of one of the rooms in which my labour awaited me. Never have I seen a picture of more stately repose than the huge pileof building presented, while the curious vane on the central squaretower glittered like the outburning flame of its hidden life. The onlyobjection I could find to it was that it stood isolated from its ownpark, although the portion next it was kept as trim as the smoothestlawn. There was not a door anywhere to be seen, except the two gatewayentrances, and not a window upon the ground-floor. All the doors andlow windows were either within the courts, or opened on the garden, which, with its terraced walks and avenues and one tiny lawn, surrounded the two further sides of the house, and was itself enclosedby walls. 

I knew the readiest way to the library well enough: once admitted tothe outer gate, I had no occasion to trouble the servants. The roomscontaining the books were amongst the bed-rooms, and after crossing thegreat hall, I had to turn my back on the stair which led to theball-room and drawing-room, and ascend another to the left, so that Icould come and go with little chance of meeting any of the family. 

The rooms, I have said, were six, none of them of any great size, andall ill-fitted for the purpose. In fact, there was such a sense ofconfinement about the whole arrangement as gave me the feeling that anydifficult book read there would be unintelligible. Order, however, isonly another kind of light, and would do much to destroy theimpression. Having with practical intent surveyed the situation, I sawthere was no space for action. I must have at least the temporary useof another room. 

Observing that the last of the suite of book-rooms furthest from thearmoury had still a door into the room beyond, I proceeded to try it, thinking to know at a glance whether it would suit me, and whether itwas likely to be yielded for my purpose. It opened, and, to my dismay, there stood Clara Coningham, fastening her collar. She looked sharplyround, and made a half-indignant step towards me. 'I beg your pardon athousand times, Miss Coningham, ' I exclaimed. 'Will you allow me toexplain, or must I retreat unheard?'

I was vexed indeed, for, notwithstanding a certain flutter at theheart, I had no wish to renew my acquaintance with her. 

'There must be some fatality about the place, Mr Cumbermede!' she said, almost with her old merry laugh. 'It frightens me. '

'Precisely my own feeling, Miss Coningham. I had no idea you were inthe neighbourhood. '

'I cannot say so much as that, for I had heard you were at The Moat;but I had no expectation of seeing you--least of all in this house. Isuppose you are on the scent of some musty old book or other, ' sheadded, approaching the door, where I stood with the handle in my hand. 

'My object is an invasion rather than a hunt, ' I said, drawing backthat she might enter. 

'Just as it was the last time you and I were here!' she went on, withscarcely a pause, and as easily as if there had never been anymisunderstanding between us. I had thought myself beyond any furtherinfluence from her fascinations, but when I looked in her beautifulface, and heard her allude to the past with so much friendliness, andsuch apparent unconsciousness of any reason for forgetting it, a tremorran through me from head to foot. I mastered myself sufficiently toreply, however. 

'It is the last time you will see it so, ' I said; 'for here stands theHercules of the stable--about to restore it to cleanliness, and what isof far more consequence in a library--to order. '

'You don't mean it!' she exclaimed with genuine surprise. 'I'm so gladI'm here!'

'Are you on a visit, then?'

'Indeed I am; though how it came about I don't know. I dare say myfather does. Lady Brotherton has invited me, stiffly of course, tospend a few weeks during their stay. Sir Giles must be in it: I believeI am rather a favourite with the good old man. But I have anotherfancy: my grandfather is getting old; I suspect my father has beenmaking himself useful, and this invitation is an acknowledgment. Menalways buttress their ill-built dignities by keeping poor women in thedark; by which means you drive us to infinite conjecture. That is howwe come to be so much cleverer than you at putting two and twotogether, and making five. '

'But, ' I ventured to remark, 'under such circumstances, you will hardlyenjoy your visit. '

'Oh! sha'n't I? I shall get fun enough out of it for that. Theyare--all but Sir Giles--they are great fun. Of course they don't treatme as an equal, but I take it out in amusement. You will find you haveto do the same. '

'Not I. I have nothing to do with them. I am here as a skilledworkman--one whose work is his sufficient reward. There is nothingdegrading in that--is there? If I thought there was, of course Ishouldn't come. '

'You _never_ did anything you felt degrading?'

'No. '

'Happy mortal!' she said, with a sigh--whether humorous or real, Icould not tell. 

'I have had no occasion, ' I returned. 

'And yet, as I hear, you have made your mark in literature?'

'Who says that? I should not. '

'Never mind, ' she rejoined, with, as I fancied, the look of having saidmore than she ought. 'But, ' she added, 'I wish you would tell me inwhat periodicals you write. '

'You must excuse me. I do not wish to be first known in connection withfugitive things. When first I publish a book, you may be assured myname will be on the title-page. Meantime, I must fulfil the conditionsof my _entrée_. '

'And I must go and pay my respects to Lady Brotherton. I have only justarrived. '

'Won't you find it dull? There's nobody of man-kind at home but SirGiles. '

'You are unjust. If Mr Brotherton had been here, I shouldn't have come. I find him troublesome. '

I thought she blushed, notwithstanding the air of freedom with whichshe spoke. 

'If he should come into the property to-morrow, ' she went on, 'I fearyou would have little chance of completing your work. '

'If he came into the property this day six months, I fear he would findit unfinished. Certainly what was to do should remain undone. '

'Don't be too sure of that. He might win you over. He can talk. '

'I should not be so readily pleased as another might. '

She bent towards me, and said in an almost hissing whisper--

'Wilfrid, I hate him!'

I started. She looked what she said. The blood shot to my heart, andagain rushed to my face. But suddenly she retreated into her own room, and noiselessly closed the door. The same moment I heard that of afurther room open, and presently Miss Brotherton peeped in. 

'How do you do, Mr Cumbermede?' she said. 'You are already hard atwork, I see. '

I was, in fact, doing nothing. I explained that I could not make acommencement without the use of another room. 

'I will send the housekeeper, and you can arrange with her, ' she said, and left me. 

In a few minutes Mrs Wilson entered. Her manner was more stiff andformal than ever. We shook hands in a rather limp fashion. 

'You've got your will at last, Mr Cumbermede, ' she said, 'I suppose thething's to be done!'

'It is, Mrs Wilson, I am happy to say. Sir Giles kindly offered me theuse of the library, and I took the liberty of representing to him thatthere was no library until the books were arranged. '

'Why couldn't you take a book away with you and read it in comfort athome?'

'How could I take the book home if I couldn't find it?'

'You could find something worth reading, if that were all you wanted. '

'But that is not all. I have plenty of reading. '

'Then I don't see what's the good of it. '

'Books are very much like people, Mrs Wilson. There are not so many youwant to know all about; but most could tell you things you don't know. I want certain books in order to question them about certain things. '

'Well, all I know is, it'll be more trouble than it's worth. '

'I am afraid it will--to you, Mrs Wilson; but though I am taking athousand times your trouble, I expect to be well repaid for it. '

'I have no doubt of that. Sir Giles is a liberal gentleman. '

'You don't suppose _he_ is going to pay me, Mrs Wilson?' 'Who elseshould?'

'Why, the books themselves, of course. '

Evidently she thought I was making game of her, for she was silent. 

'Will you show me which room I can have?' I said. 'It must be as nearthis one as possible. Is the next particularly wanted?' I asked, pointing to the door which led into Clara's room. 

She went to it quickly, and opened it far enough to put her hand in andtake the key from the other side, which she then inserted on my side, turned in the lock, drew out, and put in her pocket. 

'That room is otherwise engaged, ' she said. 'You must be content withone across the corridor. '

'Very well--if it is not far. I should make slow work of it, if I hadto carry the books a long way. '

'You can have one of the footmen to help you, ' she said, apparentlyrelenting. 

'No, thank you, ' I answered. 'I will have no one touch the books butmyself. '

'I will show you one which I think will suit your purpose, ' she said, leading the way. 

It was nearly opposite--a bed-room, sparely furnished. 

'Thank you. This will do--if you will order all the things to be piledin that corner. '

She stood silent for a few moments, evidently annoyed, then turned andleft the room, saying, 'I will see to it, Mr Cumbermede. '

Returning to the books and pulling off my coat, I had soon compelledsuch a cloud of very ancient and smothering dust, that when MissBrotherton again made her appearance, her figure showed dim through thethick air, as she stood--dismayed, I hoped--in the doorway. I pretendedto be unaware of her presence, and went on beating and blowing, causingyet thicker volumes of solid vapour to clothe my presence. She withdrewwithout even an attempt at parley. 

Having heaped several great piles near the door, each composed of booksof nearly the same size, the first rudimentary approach to arrangement, I crossed to the other room to see what progress had been made. To mysurprise and annoyance, I found nothing had been done. Determined notto have my work impeded by the remissness of the servants, and seeing Imust place myself at once on a proper footing in the house, I went tothe drawing-room to ascertain, if possible, where Sir Giles was. I hadof course put on my coat, but having no means of ablution at hand, Imust have presented a very unpresentable appearance when I entered. Lady Brotherton half rose, in evident surprise at my intrusion, but atonce resumed her seat, saying, as she turned her chair half towards thewindow where the other two ladies sat, 'The housekeeper will attend to you, Mr Cumbermede--or the butler. '

I could see that Clara was making some inward merriment over myappearance and reception. 

'Could you tell me, Lady Brotherton, ' I said, 'where I should be likelyto find Sir Giles?'

'I can give you no information on that point, ' she answered, withconsummate stiffness. 

'I know where he is, ' said Clara, rising. 'I will take you to him. Heis in the study. '

She took no heed of the glance broadly thrown at her, but approachedthe door. 

I opened it, and followed her out of the room. As soon as we werebeyond hearing, she burst out laughing. 'How dared you show yourworkman's face in that drawing-room?' she said. 'I am afraid you havemuch offended her ladyship. '

'I hope it is for the last time. When I am properly attended to, Ishall have no occasion to trouble her. '

She led me to Sir Giles's study. Except newspapers and reports ofcompanies, there was in it nothing printed. He rose when we entered, and came towards us. 

'Looking like your work already, Mr Cumbermede?' he said, holding outhis hand. 

'I must not shake hands with you this time, Sir Giles, ' I returned. 'But I am compelled to trouble you. I can't get on for want ofattendance. I _must_ have a little help. '

I told him how things were. His rosy face grew rosier, and he rang thebell angrily. The butler answered it. 

'Send Mrs Wilson here. And I beg, Hurst, you will see that MrCumbermede has every attention. '

Mrs Wilson presently made her appearance, and stood with a flushed facebefore her master. 

'Let Mr Cumbermede's orders be attended to _at once_, Mrs Wilson. '

'Yes, Sir Giles, ' she answered, and waited. 

'I am greatly obliged to you for letting me know, ' he added, turning tome. 'Pray insist upon proper attention. '

'Thank you, Sir Giles. I shall not scruple. '

'That will do, Mrs Wilson. You must not let Mr Cumbermede be hamperedin his kind labours for my benefit by the idleness of my servants. '

The housekeeper left the room, and after a little chat with Sir Giles, I went back to the books. Clara had followed Mrs Wilson, partly, Isuspect, for the sake of enjoying her confusion. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ASSISTANCE. 

I returned to my solitary house as soon as the evening began to growtoo dark for my work, which, from the lowness of the windows and theage of the glass, was early. All the way as I went, I was thinking ofClara. Not only had time somewhat obliterated the last impression shehad made upon me, but I had, partly from the infection of Charley'smanner, long ago stumbled upon various excuses for her conduct. Now Isaid to myself that she had certainly a look of greater sedateness thanbefore. But her expression of dislike to Geoffrey Brotherton had moreeffect upon me than anything else, inasmuch as there Vanity found roomfor both the soles of her absurdly small feet; and that evening, when Iwent wandering, after my custom, with a volume of Dante in my hand, thebook remained unopened, and from the form of Clara flowed influencesmingling with and gathering fresh power from those of Nature, whosefeminine front now brooded over me half-withdrawn in the dim, starrynight. I remember that night so well! I can recall it now with acalmness equal to its own. Indeed in my memory it seems to belong to mymind as much as to the outer world; or rather the night filled both, forming the space in which my thoughts moved, as well as the space inwhich the brilliant thread of the sun-lighted crescent hung claspingthe earth-lighted bulk of the moon. I wandered in the grass untilmidnight was long by, feeling as quietly and peacefully at home as ifmy head had been on the pillow and my soul out in a lovely dream ofcool delight. We lose much even by the good habits we form. What tenderand glorious changes pass over our sleeping heads unseen! What moonsrise and set in rippled seas of cloud, or behind hills of stormyvapour, while we are blind! What storms roll thundering across the airyvault, with no eyes for their keen lightnings to dazzle, while we dreamof the dead who will not speak to us! But ah! I little thought to whata dungeon of gloom this lovely night was the jasmine-grown porch!

The next morning I was glad to think that there was no wolf at my door, howling _work---work!_ Moldwarp Hall drew me with redoubled attraction;and instead of waiting for the afternoon, which alone I had intended tooccupy with my new undertaking, I set out to cross the park the momentI had finished my late breakfast. Nor could I conceal from myself thatit was quite as much for the chance of seeing Clara now and then asfrom pleasure in the prospect of an ordered library that I repairedthus early to the Hall. In the morning light, however, I began tosuspect, as I walked, that, although Clara's frankness was flattering, it was rather a sign that she was heart-whole towards me than that shewas careless of Brotherton. I began to doubt also whether, after ourfirst meeting, which she had carried off so well--cool even tokindness--she would care to remember that I was in the house, or derivefrom it any satisfaction beyond what came of the increased chances ofstudying the Brothertons from a humorous point of view. Then, afterall, why was she there?--and apparently on such familiar terms with afamily socially so far superior to her own? The result of mycogitations was the resolution to take care of myself. But it hadvanished utterly before the day was two hours older. A youth's wisetalk to himself will not make him a wise man, any more than theexperience of the father will serve the son's need. 

I was hard at work in my shirt-sleeves, carrying an armful of booksacross the corridor, and thinking whether I had not better bring myservant with me in the afternoon, when Clara came out of her room. 

'Here already, Wilfrid!' she exclaimed. 'Why don't you have some of theservants to help you? You're doing what any one might as well do foryou. '

'If these were handsomely bound, ' I answered, 'I should not so muchmind; but being old and tattered, no one ought to touch them who doesnot love them. '

'Then, I suppose, you wouldn't trust me with them either, for I cannotpretend to anything beyond a second-hand respect for them. '

'What do you mean by a second-hand respect?' I asked. 

'I mean such respect as comes from seeing that a scholar like yourespects them. '

'Then I think I could accord you a second-hand sort of trust--under myown eye, that is, ' I answered, laughing. 'But you can scarcely leaveyour hostess to help me. '

'I will ask Miss Brotherton to come too. She will pretend all therespect you desire. '

'I made three times the necessary dust in order to frighten her awayyesterday. '

'Ah! that's a pity. But I shall manage to overrule her objections--thatis, if you would really like two tolerably educated housemaids to helpyou. '

'I will gladly endure one of them for the sake of the other, ' Ireplied. 

'No compliments, please, ' she returned, and left the room. 

In about half an hour she re-appeared, accompanied by Miss Brotherton. They were in white wrappers, with their dresses shortened a little, andtheir hair tucked under mob caps. Miss Brotherton looked like alady's-maid, Clara like a lady acting a lady's-maid. I assumed thecommand at once, pointing out to what heaps in the other room those Ihad grouped in this were to be added, and giving strict injunctions asto carrying only a few at once, and laying them down with care inregularly ordered piles. Clara obeyed with a mock submission, MissBrotherton with a reserve which heightened the impression of her dress. I was instinctively careful how I spoke to Clara, fearing to compromiseher, but she seemed all at once to change her _rôle_, and began topropose, object, and even insist upon her own way, drawing from me thethreat of immediate dismission from my service, at which her companionlaughed with an awkwardness showing she regarded the pleasantry as apresumption. Before one o'clock, the first room was almost empty. Thenthe great bell rang, and Clara, coming from the auxiliary chamber, puther head in at the door. 

'Won't you come to luncheon?' she said, with a sly archness, lookingnone the less bewitching for a smudge or two on her lovely face, or theblackness of the delicate hands which she held up like two paws for myadmiration. 

'In the servants' hall? Workmen don't sit down with ladies andgentlemen. Did Miss Brotherton send you to ask me?'

She shook her head. 

'Then you had better come and lunch with me. '

She shrugged her shoulders. 

'I hope you will _some_ day honour my little fragment of a house. It isa curious old place, ' I said. 

'I don't like musty old places, ' she replied. 

'But I have heard you speak with no little admiration of the Hall: someparts of it are older than my sentry-box. '

'I can't say I admire it at all as a place to live in, ' she answeredcurtly. 

'But I was not asking you to live in mine, ' I said--foolishly arguing. 

She looked annoyed, whether with herself or me I could not tell, butinstantly answered, 'Some day--when I can without--But I must go and make myself tidy, orMiss Brotherton will be fancying I have been talking to you!'

'And what have you been doing, then?'

'Only asking you to come to lunch. '

'Will you tell her that?'

'Yes--if she says anything. '

'Then you _had_ better make haste, and be asked no questions. '

She glided away. I threw on my coat, and re-crossed the park. 

But I was so eager to see again the fair face in the mob cap, that, although not at all certain of its reappearance, I told my man to go atonce and bring the mare. He made haste, and by the time I had finishedmy dinner she was at the door. I gave her the rein, and two or threeminutes brought me back to the Hall, where, having stabled her, I wasat my post again, I believe, before they had finished luncheon. I had agreat heap of books ready in the second room to carry into the first, and had almost concluded they would not come, when I heard theirvoices--and presently they entered, but not in their mob caps. 

'What an unmerciful master you are!' said Clara, looking at the heap. 'I thought you had gone home to lunch. '

'I went home to dinner, ' I said. 'I get more out of the day by diningearly. '

'How is that, Mr Cumbermede?' asked Miss Brotherton, with a nearerapproach to cordiality than she had yet shown. 

'I think the evening the best part of the day--too good to spend ineating and drinking. '

'But, ' said Clara, quite gravely, 'are not those the chief ends ofexistence?' 'Your friend is satirical, Miss Brotherton, ' I remarked. 

'At least, you are not of her opinion, to judge by the time you havetaken, ' she returned. 

'I have been back nearly an hour, ' I said. 'Workmen don't take longover their meals. '

'Well, I suppose you don't want any more of us now, ' said Clara. 'Youwill arrange the books you bring from the next room upon these emptyshelves, I presume?'

'No, not yet. I must not begin that until I have cleared the very last, got it thoroughly cleaned, the shelves seen to, and others put up. '

'What a tremendous labour you have undertaken, Mr Cumbermede!' saidMiss Brotherton. 'I am quite ashamed you should do so much for us. '

'I, on the contrary, am delighted to be of any service to Sir Giles. '

'But you don't expect us to slave all day as we did in the morning?'said Clara. 

'Certainly not, Miss Coningham. I am too grateful to be exacting. '

'Thank you for that pretty speech. Come, then, Miss Brotherton, we musthave a walk. We haven't been out-of-doors to-day. '

'Really, Miss Coningham, I think the least we can do is to help MrCumbermede to our small ability. '

'Nonsense!'--(Miss Brotherton positively started at the word. ) 'Any twoof the maids or men would serve his purpose better, if he did notaffect fastidiousness. We sha'n't be allowed to come to-morrow if weoverdo it to-day. '

Miss Brotherton was evidently on the point of saying somethingindignant, but yielded notwithstanding, and I was left alone once more. Again I laboured until the shadows grew thick around the gloomy walls. As I galloped home, I caught sight of my late companions coming acrossthe park; and I trust I shall not be hardly judged if I confess that Idid sit straighter in my saddle, and mind my seat better. Thus ended mysecond day's work at the library of Moldwarp Hall. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN EXPOSTULATION. 

Neither of the ladies came to me the next morning. As far as my workwas concerned, I was in considerably less need of their assistance, forit lay only between two rooms opening into each other. Nor did I feelany great disappointment, for so long as a man has something to do, expectation is pleasure enough, and will continue such for a long time. It is those who are unemployed to whom expectation becomes an agony. Iwent home to my solitary dinner almost resolved to return to myoriginal plan of going only in the afternoons. 

I was not thoroughly in love with Clara; but it was certainly the hopeof seeing her, and not the pleasure of handling the dusty books, thatdrew me back to the library that afternoon. I had got rather tired ofthe whole affair in the morning. It was very hot, and the dust waschoking, and of the volumes I opened as they passed through my hands, not one was of the slightest interest to me. But for the chance ofseeing Clara I should have lain in the grass instead. 

No one came. I grew weary, and for a change retreated into the armoury. Evidently, not the slightest heed was paid to the weapons now, and Iwas thinking with myself that, when I had got the books in order, Imight give a few days to furbishing and oiling them, when the door fromthe gallery opened, and Clara entered. 

'What! a truant?' she said. 

'You take accusation at least by the forelock, Clara. Who is the realtruant now--if I may suggest a mistake?'

'_I_ never undertook anything. How many guesses have you made as to thecause of your desertion to-day?'

'Well, three or four. '

'Have you made one as to the cause of Miss Brotherton's graciousness toyou yesterday?'

'At least I remarked the change. '

'I will tell you. There was a short notice of some of your writings ina certain magazine which I contrived should fall in her way. '

'Impossible!' I exclaimed. 'I have never put my name to anything. '

'But you have put the same name to all your contributions. '

'How should the reviewer know it meant me?'

'Your own name was never mentioned. '

I thought she looked a little confused as she said this. 

'Then how should Miss Brotherton know it meant me?'

She hesitated a moment--then answered:

'Perhaps from internal evidence. --I suppose I must confess I told her. '

'Then how did _you_ know?

'I have been one of your readers for a long time. '

'But how did you come to know my work?'

'That has oozed out. '

'Some one must have told you, ' I said. 

'That is my secret, ' she replied, with the air of making it a mysteryin order to tease me. 

'It must be all a mistake, ' I said. 'Show me the magazine. '

'As you won't take my word for it, I won't. '

'Well, I shall soon find out. There is but one could have done it. Itis very kind of him, no doubt; but I don't like it. That kind of thingshould come of itself--not through friends. '

'Who do you fancy has done it?'

'If you have a secret, so have I. '

My answer seemed to relieve her, though I could not tell what gave methe impression. 

'You are welcome to yours, and I will keep mine, ' she said. 'I onlywanted to explain Miss Brotherton's condescension yesterday. '

'I thought you were going to explain why you didn't come to-day. '

'That is only a re-action. I have no doubt she thinks she went too faryesterday. '

'That is absurd. She was civil; that was all. '

'In reading your thermometer, you must know its zero first, ' shereplied sententiously. 'Is the sword you call yours there still?'

'Yes, and I call it mine still. '

'Why don't you take it, then? I should have carried it off long ago. '

'To steal my own would be to prejudice my right, ' I returned. 'But Ihave often thought of telling Sir Giles about it. '

'Why don't you, then?'

'I hardly know. My head has been full of other things, and any timewill do. But I should like to see it in its own place once more. '

I had taken it from the wall, and now handed it to her. 

'Is this it?' she said carelessly. 

'It is--just as it was carried off my bed that night. '

'What room were you in?' she asked, trying to draw it from the sheath. 

'I can't tell. I've never been in it since. '

'You don't seem to me to have the curiosity natural to a--'

'To a woman--no, ' I said. 

'To a man of spirit, ' she retorted, with an appearance of indignation. 'I don't believe you can tell even how it came into your possession!'

'Why shouldn't it have been in the family from time immemorial?'

'So!--And you don't care either to recover it, or to find out how youlost it!'

'How can I? Where is Mr Close?'

'Why, dead, years and years ago. '

'So I understood. I can't well apply to him, then, and I am certain noone else knows. '

'Don't be too sure of that. Perhaps Sir Giles--'

'I am positive Sir Giles knows nothing about it. '

'I have reason to think the story is not altogether unknown in thefamily. '

'Have you told it, then?'

'No, but I _have_ heard it alluded to. '

'By Sir Giles?'

'No. '

'By whom, then?'

'I will answer no more questions. '

'Geoffrey, I suppose?'

'You are not polite. Do you suppose I am bound to tell you all I know?'

'Not by any means. Only, you oughtn't to pique a curiosity you don'tmean to satisfy. '

'But if I'm not at liberty to say more?--All I meant to say was that, if I were you, I _would_ get back that sword. '

'You hint at a secret, and yet suppose I could carry off its object asI might a rusty nail, which any passer-by would be made welcome to!'

'You might take it first, and mention the thing to Sir Gilesafterwards. '

'Why not mention it first?'

'Only on the supposition you had not the courage to claim it. '

'In that case I certainly shouldn't have the courage to avow the deedafterwards. I don't understand you, Clara. '

She laughed. 

'That is always your way, ' she said. 'You take everything so seriously!Why couldn't I make a proposition without being supposed to mean it?'

[Illustration: "Glued, " she echoed, "What do you mean?"]

I was not satisfied. There was something short of uprightness in thewhole tone of her attempted persuasion--which indeed I could hardlybelieve to have been so lightly intended as she now suggested. Theeffect of my feeling for her was that of a slight frost on the Springblossoms. 

She had been examining the hilt with a look of interest, and was nowfor the third time trying to draw the blade from the sheath. 

'It's no use, Clara, ' I said. 'It has been too many years glued to thescabbard. '

'Glued!' she echoed. 'What do you mean?'

I did not reply. An expression almost of horror shadowed her face, andat the same moment, to my astonishment, she drew it half-way. 

'Why! You enchantress!' I exclaimed. 'I never saw so much of it before. It is wonderfully bright--when one thinks of the years it has been shutin darkness. '

She handed it to me as it was, saying, 'If that weapon was mine, I should never rest until I had found outeverything concerning it. '

'That is easily said, Clara; but how can I? My uncle knew nothing aboutit. My grandmother did, no doubt, but almost all I can remember hersaying was something about my great-grandfather and Sir Marmaduke. '

As I spoke, I tried to draw it entirely, but it would yield no further. I then sought to replace it, but it would not move. That it yielded toClara's touch gave it a fresh interest and value. 

'I was sure it had a history, ' said Clara. 'Have you no family papers?Your house you say is nearly as old as this: are there no papers of_any_ kind in it?'

'Yes, a few, ' I answered--'the lease of the farm--and--'

'Oh! rubbish!' she said. 'Isn't the house your own?'

'Yes. '

'And have you ever thoroughly searched it?'

'I haven't had time yet. '

'Not had time!' she repeated, in a tone of something so like theuttermost contempt that I was bewildered. 

'I mean some day or other to have a rummage in the old lumber-room, ' Isaid. 

'Well, I do think that is the least you can do--if only out of respectto your ancestors. Depend on it, they don't like to be forgotten anymore than other people. '

The intention I had just announced was, however, but just born of herwords. I had never yet searched even my grandmother's bureau, and hadbut this very moment fancied there might be papers in some old chest inthe lumber-room. That room had already begun to occupy my thoughts fromanother point of view, and hence, in part, no doubt the suggestion. Iwas anxious to have a visit from Charley. He might bring with him someof our London friends. There was absolutely no common room in the houseexcept the hall-kitchen. The room we had always called the lumber-roomwas over it, and nearly as large. It had a tall stone chimney-piece, elaborately carved, and clearly had once been a room for entertainment. The idea of restoring it to its original dignity arose in my mind; andI hoped that, furnished after as antique a fashion as I could compass, it would prove a fine room. The windows were small, to be sure, and thepitch rather low, but the whitewashed walls were pannelled, and I hadsome hopes of the ceiling. 

'Who knows, ' I said to myself, as I walked home that evening, 'but Imay come upon papers? I do remember something in the furthest cornerthat looks like a great chest. '

Little more had passed between us, but Clara left me with the oldDissatisfaction beginning to turn itself, as if about to awake oncemore. For the present I hung the half-naked blade upon the wall, for Idared not force it lest the scabbard should go to pieces. 

When I reached home, I found a letter from Charley, to the effect that, if convenient, he would pay me a visit the following week. His motherand sister, he said, had been invited to Moldwarp Hall. His father wason the continent for his health. Without having consulted them on thematter, which might involve them in after-difficulty, he would come tome, and so have an opportunity of seeing them in the sunshine of hisfather's absence. I wrote at once that I should be delighted to receivehim. 

The next morning I spent with my man in the lumber-room; and beforemid-day the rest of the house looked like an old curiosity shop--it wasso littered with odds and ends of dust-bloomed antiquity. It was hardwork, and in the afternoon I found myself disinclined for more exerciseof a similar sort. I had Lilith out, and took a leisurely ride instead. The next day, and the next also, I remained at home. The followingmorning I went again to Moldwarp Hall. I had not been busy more than anhour or so when Clara, who, I presume, had in passing heard me at work, looked in. 

'Who is a truant now?' she said. 'Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Herehas Miss Brotherton been almost curious concerning your absence, andSir Giles more than once on the point of sending to inquire after you!'

'Why didn't he, then?'

'Oh! I suppose he was afraid it might look like an assertion of--of--ofbaronial rights, or something of the sort. How _could_ you behave insuch an inconsiderate fashion!'

'You must allow me to have _some_ business of my own. '

'Certainly. But with so many anxious friends, you ought to have given ahint of your intentions. '

'I had none, however. '

'Of which? Friends or intentions?'

'Either. '

'What! No friends? I verily surprised Miss Pease in the act of studyingher "Cookery for Invalids"--in the hope of finding a patient in you, nodoubt. She wanted to come and nurse you, but daren't propose it. '

'It was very kind of her. '

'No doubt. But then you see she's ready to commit suicide any day, poorold thing, but for lack of courage!'

'It must be dreary for her!'

'Dreary! I should poison the old dragon. '

'Well, perhaps I had better tell you, for Miss Pease's sake, who isevidently the only one that cares a straw about _me_ in the matter, that possibly I shall be absent a good many days this week, and perhapsthe next too. '

'Why, then--if I may ask--Mr Absolute?'

'Because a friend of mine is going to pay me a visit. You rememberCharley Osborne, don't you? Of course you do. You remember theice-cave, I am sure. '

'Yes, I do--quite well, ' she answered. 

I fancied I saw a shadow cross her face. 

'When do you expect him?' she asked, turning away, and picking a bookfrom the floor. 

'In a week or so, I think. He tells me his mother and sister are cominghere on a visit. '

'Yes--so I believe--to-morrow, I think. I wonder if I ought to begoing. I don't think I will. I came to please them--at all events notto please myself; but as I find it pleasanter than I expected, I won'tgo without a hint and a half at least. '

'Why should you? There is plenty of room. '

'Yes; but don't you see?--so many inferiors in the house at once mightbe too much for Madame Dignity. She finds one quite enough, I suspect. '

'You do not mean that she regards the Osbornes as inferiors?'

'Not a doubt of it. Never mind. I can take care of myself. Have you anywork for me to-day?'

'Plenty, if you are in a mood for it. '

'I will fetch Miss Brotherton. '

'I can do without _her_. '

She went, however, and did not return. As I walked home to dinner, sheand Miss Brotherton passed me in the carriage, on their way, as Ilearned afterwards, to fetch the Osborne ladies from the rectory, someten miles off. I did not return to Moldwarp Hall, but helped Styles inthe lumber-room, which before night we had almost emptied. 

The next morning I was favoured with a little desultory assistance fromthe two ladies, but saw nothing of the visitors. In the afternoon, andboth the following days, I took my servant with me, who got throughmore work than the two together, and we advanced it so far that I wasable to leave the room next the armoury in the hands of the carpenterand the housemaid, with sufficient directions, and did not return thatweek. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

A TALK WITH CHARLEY. 

The following Monday, in the evening, Charley arrived, in greatspirits, more excited indeed than I liked to see him. There was arestlessness in his eye which made me especially anxious, for it raiseda doubt whether the appearance of good spirits was not the resultmerely of resistance to some anxiety. But I hoped my companionship, with the air and exercise of the country, would help to quiet himagain. In the late twilight we took a walk together up and down myfield. 

'I suppose you let your mother know you were coming, Charley?' I said. 

'I did not, ' he answered. 'My father must have nothing to lay to theircharge in case he should hear of our meeting. '

'But he has not forbidden you to go home, has he?'

'No, certainly. But he as good as told me I was not to go home while hewas away. He does not wish me to be there without his presence tocounteract my evil influences. He seems to regard my mere proximity asdangerous. I sometimes wonder whether the severity of his religion maynot have affected his mind. Almost all madness, you know, turns eitherupon love or religion. '

'So I have heard. I doubt it--with men. It may be with women. --But youwon't surprise them? It might startle your mother too much. She is notstrong, you say. Hadn't I better tell Clara Coningham? She can let themknow you are here. '

'It would be better. '

'What do you say to going there with me to-morrow? I will send my manwith a note in the morning. '

He looked a little puzzled and undetermined, but said at length, 'I dare say your plan is the best. How long has Miss Coningham beenhere?'

'About ten days, I think. '

He looked thoughtful and made no answer. 

'I see, you are afraid of my falling in love with her again, ' I said. 'I confess I like her much better than I did, but I am not quite sureabout her yet. She is very bewitching anyhow, and a little more mightmake me lose my heart to her. The evident dislike she has to Brothertonwould of itself recommend her to any friend of yours or mine. '

He turned his face away. 

'Do not be anxious about me, ' I went on. 'The first shadowy convictionof any untruthfulness in her, if not sufficient to change my feelingsat once, would at once initiate a backward movement in them. '

He kept his face turned away, and I was perplexed. After a few momentsof silence, he turned it towards me again, as if relieved by someresolution suddenly formed, and said with a smile under a still cloudedbrow, 'Well, old fellow, we'll see. It'll all come right, I dare say. Writeyour note early, and we'll follow it. How glad I _shall_ be to have aglimpse of that blessed mother of mine without her attendant dragon!'

'For God's sake don't talk of your father so! Surely, after all, he isa good man!'

'Then I want a new reading of the word. '

'He loves God, at least. '

'I won't stop to inquire--' said Charley, plunging at once intoargument--'what influence for good it might or might not have to love anon-existence: I will only ask--Is it a good God he loves or a bad one?If the latter, he can hardly be called good for loving him. '

'But if there be a God at all, he must be a good God. '

'Suppose the true God to be the good God, it does not follow that myfather worships _him_. There is such a thing as worshipping a falseGod. At least the Bible recognizes it. For my part, I find myselfcompelled to say--either that the true God is not a good God, or thatmy father does not worship the true God. If you say he worships the Godof the Bible, I either admit or dispute the assertion, but set it asideas altering nothing; for if I admit it, the argument lies thus: myfather worships a bad God; my father worships the God of the Bible:therefore the God of the Bible is a bad God; and if I admit theauthority of the Bible, then the true God is a bad God. If, however, Idispute the assertion that he worships the God of the Bible, I am leftto show, if I can, that the God of the Bible is a good God, and, if Iadmit the authority of the Bible, to worship another than my father'sGod. If I do not admit the authority of the Bible, there may, for allthat, be a good God, or, which is next best to a perfectly good God, there may be no God at all. '

'Put like a lawyer, Charley: and yet I would venture to join issue withyour first assertion--on which the whole argument is founded--that yourfather worships a bad God. '

'Assuredly what he asserts concerning his God is bad. '

'Admitted; but does he assert _only_ bad things of his God?'

'I daren't say that. But God is one. You will hardly dare theproposition that an infinite being may be partly good and partly bad. '

'No. I heartily hold that God must be _one_--a proposition far moreessential than that there is one God--so far, at least, as myunderstanding can judge. It is only in the limited human nature thatgood and evil can co-exist. But there is just the point: we are notspeaking of the absolute God, but of the idea of a man concerning thatGod. You could suppose yourself utterly convinced of a good God longbefore your ideas of goodness were so correct as to render youincapable of attributing anything wrong to that God. Supposing such tobe the case, and that you came afterwards to find that you had beenthinking something wrong about him, do you think you would thereforegrant that you had been believing either in a wicked or in a falseGod?'

'Certainly not. '

'Then you must give your father the same scope. He attributes what weare absolutely certain are bad things to his God--and yet he maybelieve in a good God, for the good in his idea of God is that alone invirtue of which he is able to believe in him. No mortal can believe inthe bad. '

'He puts the evil foremost in his creed and exhortations. '

'That may be. Few people know their own deeper minds. The more potent apower in us, I suspect it is the more hidden from our scrutiny. '

'If there be a God, then, Wilfrid, he is very indifferent to what hiscreatures think of him. '

'Perhaps very patient and hopeful, Charley--who knows? Perhaps he willnot force himself upon them, but help them to grow into the trueknowledge of him. Your father may worship the true God, and yet haveonly a little of that knowledge. '

A silence followed. At length--'Thank you for my father, ' said Charley. 

'Thank my uncle, ' I said. 

'For not being like my father?--I do, ' he returned. 

It was the loveliest evening that brooded round us as we walked. Themoon had emerged from a rippled sea of grey cloud, over which she casther dull opaline halo. Great masses and banks of cloud lay about therest of the heavens, and, in the dark rifts between, a star or two werevisible, gazing from the awful distance. 

'I wish I could let it into me, Wilfrid, ' said Charley, after we hadbeen walking in silence for some time along the grass. 

'Let what into you, Charley?'

'The night and the blue and the stars. '

'Why don't you, then?'

'I hate being taken in. The more pleasant a self-deception, the less Ichoose to submit to it. '

'That is reasonable. But where lies the deception?'

'I don't say it's a deception. I only don't know that it isn't. '

'Please explain. '

'I mean what you call the beauty of the night. '

'Surely there can be little question of that?'

'Ever so little is enough. Suppose I asked you wherein its beautyconsisted: would you be satisfied if I said--In the arrangement of theblue and the white, with the sparkles of yellow, and the colours aboutthe scarce visible moon?'

'Certainly not. I should reply that it lay in the gracious peace of thewhole--troubled only with the sense of some lovely secret behind, ofwhich itself was but the half-modelled representation, and thereforethe reluctant outcome. '

'Suppose I rejected the latter half of what you say, admitting theformer, but judging it only the fortuitous result of thehalf-necessary, half-fortuitous concurrences of nature. Suppose Isaid:--The air which is necessary to our life, happens to be blue; thestars can't help shining through it and making it look deep; and theclouds are just there because they must be somewhere till they fallagain; all which is more agreeable to us than fog because we feel morecomfortable in weather of the sort, whence, through complacency andhabit, we have got to call it beautiful:--suppose I said this, wouldyou accept it?'

'Such a theory would destroy my delight in nature altogether. '

'Well, isn't it the truth?'

'It would be easy to show that the sense of beauty does not spring fromany amount of comfort; but I do not care to pursue the argument fromthat starting-point. --I confess when you have once waked thequestioning spirit, and I look up at the clouds and the stars with whatI may call sharpened eyes--eyes, that is, which assert their seeing, and so render themselves incapable for the time of submitting toimpressions, I am as blind as any Sadducee could desire. I see blue, and white, and gold, and, in short, a tent-roof somewhat ornate. I daresay if I were in a miserable mood, having been deceived anddisappointed like Hamlet, I should with him see there nothing but afoul and pestilent congregation of vapours. But I know that when I ampassive to its powers, I am aware of a presence altogetherdifferent--of a something at once soothing and elevating, powerful tomove shame--even contrition and the desire of amendment. '

'Yes, yes, ' said Charley hastily. 'But let me suppose further--and, perhaps you will allow, better--that this blueness--I take a part forthe whole--belongs essentially and of necessity to the atmosphere, itself so essential to our physical life; suppose also that this bluehas essential relation to our spiritual nature--taking for the momentour spiritual nature for granted--suppose, in a word, all nature sorelated, not only to our physical but to our spiritual nature, that itand we form an organic whole full of action and reaction between theparts--would that satisfy you? Would it enable you to look on the skythis night with absolute pleasure? would you want nothing more?'

I thought for a little before I answered. 

'No, Charley, ' I said at last--'it would not satisfy me. For it wouldindicate that beauty might be, after all, but the projection of my ownmind--the name I gave to a harmony between that around me and thatwithin me. There would then be nothing absolute in beauty. There wouldbe no such thing in itself. It would exist only as a phase of me when Iwas in a certain mood; and when I was earthly-minded, passionate, ortroubled, it would be _no_where. But in my best moods I feel that innature lies the form and fashion of a peace and grandeur so much beyondanything in me, that they rouse the sense of poverty and incompletenessand blame in the want of them. '

'Do you perceive whither you are leading yourself?'

'I would rather hear you say. '

'To this then--that the peace and grandeur of which you speak must be amere accident, therefore an unreality and pure _appearance_, or theoutcome and representation of a peace and grandeur which, not to befound in us, yet exist, and make use of this frame of things to setforth and manifest themselves in order that we may recognize and desirethem. '

'Granted--heartily. '

'In other words--you lead yourself inevitably to a God manifest innature--not as a powerful being--that is a theme absolutely withoutinterest to me--but as possessed in himself of the originalpre-existent beauty, the counterpart of which in us we call art, andwho has fashioned us so that we must fall down and worship the image ofhimself which he has set up. '

'That's good, Charley. I'm so glad you've worked that out!'

'It doesn't in the least follow that I believe it. I cannot even say Iwish I did:--for what I know, that might be to wish to be deceived. Ofall miseries--to believe in a lovely thing and find it not true--thatmust be the worst. '

'You might never find it out, though, ' I said. 'You might be able tocomfort yourself with it all your life. '

'I was wrong, ' he cried fiercely. 'Never to find it out would be thehell of all hells. Wilfrid, I am ashamed of you!'

'So should I be, Charley, if I had meant it. I only wanted to make youspeak. I agree with you entirely. But I _do_ wish we could be _quite_sure of it; for I don't believe any man can ever be sure of a thingthat is not true. '

'My father is sure that the love of nature is not only a delusion, buta snare. I should have no right to object, were he not equally sure ofthe existence of a God who created and rules it. By the way, if Ibelieved in a God, I should say _create_s not _create_d. I told himonce, not long ago, when he fell out upon nature--he had laid hands ona copy of _Endymion_ belonging to me--I don't know how the devil he gotit--I asked him whether he thought the devil made the world. You shouldhave seen the white wrath he went into at the question! I told him itwas generally believed one or the other did make the world. He told meGod made the world, but sin had unmade it. I asked him if it was sinthat made it so beautiful. He said it was sin that made me think it sobeautiful. I remarked how very ugly it must have looked when God hadjust finished it! He called me a blasphemer, and walked to the door. Istopped him for a moment by saying that I thought, after all, he mustbe right, for according to geologists the world must have been ahorrible place, and full of the most hideous creatures, before sin cameand made it lovely. When he saw my drift, he strode up to melike--well, very like his own God, I should think--and was going tostrike me. I looked him in the eyes without moving, as if he had been amadman. He turned and left the room. I left the house, and went back toLondon the same night. '

'Oh! Charley, Charley, that was too bad!'

'I knew it, Wilfrid, and yet I did it! But if your father had made adownright coward of you, afraid to speak the truth, or show what youwere thinking, you also might find that, when anger gave you afictitious courage, you could not help breaking out. It's only anotherform of cowardice, I know; and I am as much ashamed of it as you couldwish me to be. '

'Have you made it up with him since?'

'I've never seen him since. '

'Haven't you written, then?'

'No. Where's the use? He never would understand me. He knows no more ofthe condition of my mind than he does of the other side of the moon. IfI offered such, he would put aside all apology for my behaviour tohim--repudiating himself, and telling me it was the wrath of anoffended God, not of an earthly parent, I had to deprecate. If I toldhim I had only spoken against his false God--how far would that go tomend the matter, do you think?'

'Not far, I must allow. But I am very sorry. '

'I wouldn't care if I could be sure of anything--or even sure that, ifI were sure, I shouldn't be mistaken. '

'I'm afraid you're very morbid, Charley. '

'Perhaps. But you cannot deny that my father is sure of things that youbelieve utterly false. '

'I suspect, however, that, if we were able to get a bird's-eye view ofhis mind and all its workings, we should discover that what he calledassurance was not the condition you would call such. You would find itwas not the certainty you covet. '

'I _have_ thought of that, and it is my only comfort. But I am sick ofthe whole subject. See that cloud! Isn't it like Death on the palehorse? What fun it must be for the cherubs, on such a night as this, togo blowing the clouds into fantastic shapes with their trumpet cheeks!'

Assurance was ever what Charley wanted, and unhappily the sense ofintellectual insecurity weakened his moral action. 

Once more I reveal a haunting uneasiness in the expression of a hopethat the ordered character of the conversation I have just set down maynot render it incredible to my reader. I record the result alone. Thetalk itself was far more desultory, and in consequence of questions, objections, and explanations, divaricated much from the comparativelydirect line I have endeavoured to give it here. In the hope of makingmy reader understand both Charley and myself, I have sought to make thewinding and rough path straight and smooth. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

TAPESTRY. 

Having heard what I was about at the Hall, Charley expressed a desireto take a share in my labours, especially as thereby he would be ableto see more of his mother and sister. I took him straight to thebook-rooms, and we were hard at work when Clara entered. 

'Here is your old friend Charley Osborne, ' I said. 'You remember MissConingham, Charley, I know. '

He advanced in what seemed a strangely embarrassed--indeed, rathersheepish manner, altogether unlike his usual bearing. I attributed itto a doubt whether Clara would acknowledge their old acquaintance. Onher part, she met him with some frankness, but I thought also a ratherembarrassed look, which was the more surprising as I had let her knowhe was coming. But they shook hands, and in a little while we were allchatting comfortably. 

'Shall I go and tell Mrs Osborne you are here?' she asked. 

'Yes, if you please, ' said Charley, and she went. 

In a few minutes Mrs Osborne and Mary entered. The meeting was full ofaffection, but to my eye looked like a meeting of the living and thedead in a dream--there was such an evident sadness in it, as if eachwas dimly aware that they met but in appearance, and were in realityfar asunder. I could not doubt that however much they loved him, andhowever little they sympathized with his father's treatment of him, hismother and sister yet regarded him as separated from them by a greatgulf--that of culpable unbelief. But they seemed therefore only themore anxious to please and serve him--their anxiety revealing itself inan eagerness painfully like the service offered to one whom the doctorshad given up, and who may now have any indulgence he happens to fancy. 

'I say, mother, ' said Charley, who seemed to strive after an airiermanner even than usual--'couldn't you come and help us? It would be sojolly!'

'No, my dear; I mustn't leave Lady Brotherton. That would be rude, youknow. But I dare say Mary might. '

'Oh, please, mamma! I should like it so much--especially if Clara wouldstop! But perhaps Mr Cumbermede--we ought to have asked him first. '

'Yes--to be sure--he's the foreman, ' said Charley. 'But he's not a badfellow, and won't be disobliging. Only you must do as he tells you, orit'll be the worse for us all. _I_ know him. '

'I shall be delighted, ' I said. 'I can give both the ladies plenty todo. Indeed I regard Miss Coningham as one of my hands already. Won'tMiss Brotherton honour us to-day, Miss Coningham?'

'I will go and ask her, ' said Clara. 

They all withdrew. In a little while I had four assistants, and we goton famously. The carpenter had been hard at work, and the room next thearmoury, the oak-panelling of which had shown considerable signs ofdecay, had been repaired, and the shelves, which were in tolerablecondition, were now ready to receive their burden, and reflect thefirst rays of a dawning order. 

Plenty of talk went on during the dusting and arranging of the books bytheir size, which was the first step towards a cosmos. There was acertain playful naïveté about Charley's manner and speech, when he washappy, which gave him an instant advantage with women, and even madethe impression of wit where there was only grace. Although he wasperfectly capable, however, of engaging to any extent in the _badinage_which has ever been in place between young men and women since dawninghumanity was first aware of a lovely difference, there was always acertain indescribable dignity about what he said which I now see couldhave come only from a _believing_ heart. I use the word advisedly, butwould rather my reader should find what I mean than require me toexplain it fully. Belief, to my mind, lies chiefly in the practicalrecognition of the high and pure. 

Miss Brotherton looked considerably puzzled sometimes, and indeed outof her element. But her dignity had no chance with so many youngpeople, and was compelled to thaw visibly; and while growing morefriendly with the others, she could not avoid unbending towards mealso, notwithstanding I was a neighbour and the son of a dairy-farmer. 

Mary Osborne took little part in the fun beyond a smile, or in the moresolid conversation beyond an assent or an ordinary remark. I did notfind her very interesting. An onlooker would probably have said shelacked expression. But the stillness upon her face bore to me theshadow of a reproof. Perhaps it was only a want of sympathy with whatwas going on around her. Perhaps her soul was either far withdrawn fromits present circumstances, or not yet awake to the general interests oflife. There was little in the form or hue of her countenance to moveadmiration, beyond a complexion without spot. It was very fair anddelicate, with little more colour in it than in the white rose, whichbut the faintest warmth redeems from dead whiteness. Her features weregood in form, but in no way remarkable; her eyes were of the so-calledhazel, which consists of a mingling of brown and green; her figure wasgood, but seemed unelastic, and she had nothing of her brother's gaietyor grace of movement or expression. I do not mean that either hermotions or her speech was clumsy--there was simply nothing to remark inthem beyond the absence of anything special. In a word, I did not findher interesting, save as the sister of my delightful Charley, and thesharer of his mother's griefs concerning him. 

'If I had as good help in the afternoon, ' I said, 'we should have allthe books on the shelves to-night, and be able to set about assortingthem to-morrow. '

'I am sorry I cannot come this afternoon, ' said Miss Brotherton. 'Ishould have been most happy if I could. It is really very pleasantnotwithstanding the dust. But Mrs Osborne and mamma want me to go withthem to Minstercombe. You will lunch with us to-day, won't you?' sheadded, turning to Charley. 

'Thank you, Miss Brotherton, ' he replied; 'I should have beendelighted, but I am not my own master--I am Cumbermede's slave atpresent, and can eat and drink only when and where he chooses. '

'You _must_ stay with your mother, Charley, ' I said. 'You cannot refuseMiss Brotherton. '

She could thereupon scarcely avoid extending the invitation to me, butI declined it on some pretext or other, and I was again, thanks toLilith, back from my dinner before they had finished luncheon. Thecarriage was at the door when I rode up, and the moment I heard itdrive away, I went to the dining-room to find my coadjutors. The onlyperson there was Miss Pease. A thought struck me. 

'Won't you come and help us, Miss Pease?' I said. 'I have lost one ofmy assistants, and I am very anxious to get the room we are at now sofar finished to-night. '

A smile found its way to her cold eyes, and set the blue sparkling forone briefest moment. 

'It is very kind of you, Mr Cumbermede, but--'

'Kind!' I exclaimed--'I want your help, Miss Pease. '

'I'm afraid--'

'Lady Brotherton can't want you now. Do oblige me. You will find itfun. '

She smiled outright--evidently at the fancy of any relation between herand fun. 

'Do go and put a cap on, and a cotton dress, and come, ' I persisted. 

Without another word she left the room. I was still alone in thelibrary when she came to me, and having shown her what I wanted, wewere already busy when the rest arrived. 

'Oh, Peasey! Are you there?' said Clara, as she entered--not unkindly. 

'I have got a substitute for Miss Brotherton, you see, Clara--MissConingham--I beg your pardon. '

'There's no occasion to beg my pardon. Why shouldn't you call me Claraif you like? It _is_ my name. '

'Charley might be taking the same liberty, ' I returned, extemporizing areason. 

'And why _shouldn't_ Charley take the same liberty?' she retorted. 

'For no reason that I know, ' I answered, a trifle hurt, 'if it beagreeable to the lady. '

'And the gentleman, ' she amended. 

'And the gentleman, ' I added. 

'Very well. Then we are all good boys and girls. Now, Peasey, I'm veryglad you're come. Only mind you get back to your place before theogress returns, or you'll have your head snapped off. '

Was I right, or was it the result of the slight offence I had taken?Was the gracious, graceful, naïve, playful, daring woman--or could shebe--or had she been just the least little bit vulgar? I am afraid I wasthen more sensitive to vulgarity in a woman, real or fancied, than evento wickedness--at least I thought I was. At all events, the first_conviction_ of anything common or unrefined in a woman would at oncehave placed me beyond the sphere of her attraction. But I had no timeto think the suggestion over now; and in a few minutes--whether she sawthe cloud on my face I cannot tell--Clara had given me a look and asmile which banished the possibility of my thinking about it for thepresent. 

Miss Pease worked more diligently than any of the party. She seldomspoke, and when she did, it was in a gentle, subdued, almost mournfultone; but the company of the young people, without the restraint of hermistress, was evidently grateful to what of youth yet remained in heroppressed being. 

Before it was dark we had got the books all upon the shelves, andleaving Charley with the ladies, I walked home. 

I found Styles had got everything out of the lumber-room except a heavyoak chest in the corner, which, our united strength being insufficientto displace it, I concluded was fixed to the floor. I collected all thekeys my aunt had left behind her, but sought the key of this chest invain. For my uncle, I never saw a key in his possession. Even whatlittle money he might have in the house, was only put away at the backof an open drawer. For the present, therefore, we had to leave itundisturbed. 

When Charley came home we went to look at it together. It was of oak, and somewhat elaborately carved. 

I was very restless in bed that night. The air was close and hot, andas often as I dropped half asleep I woke again with a start. Mythoughts kept stupidly running on the old chest. It had mechanicallypossessed me. I felt no disturbing curiosity concerning its contents; Iwas not annoyed at the want of the key; it was only that, like anursery rhyme that keeps repeating itself over and over in thehalf-sleeping brain, this chest kept rising before me till I was out ofpatience with its intrusiveness. It brought me wide awake at last; andI thought, as I could not sleep, I would have a search for the key. Igot out of bed, put on my dressing-gown and slippers, lighted mychamber-candle, and made an inroad upon the contents of the closet inmy room, which had apparently remained undisturbed since the morningwhen I missed my watch. I believe I had never entered it since. Almostthe first thing I came upon was the pendulum, which woke a strangesensation for which I could not account, until by slow degrees thetwilight memory of the incidents connected with it half dawned upon me. I searched the whole place, but not a key could I find. 

I started violently at the sound of something like a groan, and for thebriefest imaginable moment forgot that my grannie was dead, and thoughtit must come from her room. It may be remembered that such a sound hadled me to her in the middle of the night on which she died. Whether Ireally heard the sound, or only fancied I heard it--by somehalf-mechanical action of the brain, roused by the association ofideas--I do not even yet know. It may have been changed or expandedinto a groan, from one of those innumerable sounds heard in every oldhouse in the stillness of the night; for such, in the absence of thecorrection given by other sounds, assume place and proportion as itwere at their pleasure. What lady has not at midnight mistaken thetrail of her own dress on the carpet, in a silent house, for sometumult in a distant room? Curious to say, however, it now led to thesame action as the groan I had heard so many years before; for I caughtup my candle at once, and took my way down to the kitchen, and up thewinding stair behind the chimney to grannie's room. Strange as it mayseem, I had not been in it since my return; for my thoughts had been soentirely occupied with other things, that, although I now and thenlooked forward with considerable expectation to a thorough search ofthe place, especially of the bureau, I kept it up as a _bonne bouche_, the anticipation of which was consolation enough for the postponement. 

I confess it was with no little quavering of the spirit that I soughtthis chamber in the middle of the night. For, by its association withone who had from my earliest recollection seemed like somethingforgotten and left behind in the onward rush of life, it was, far morethan anything else in the house, like a piece of the past embedded inthe present--a fragment that had been, by some eddy in the stream oftime, prevented from gliding away down its course, and left to lie forever in a cranny of the solid shore of unmoving space. But althoughsubject to more than the ordinary tremor at the thought of unknown andinvisible presences, I must say for myself that I had never yielded sofar as to allow such tremor to govern my actions. Even in my dreams Ihave resisted ghostly terrors, and can recall one in which I so farconquered a lady-ghost who took every means of overcoming me withterror, that at length she fell in love with me, whereupon my fearvanished utterly--a conceited fancy, and as such let it fare. 

I opened the door then with some trembling, half expecting to see firstthe white of my grannie's cap against the tall back of her dark chair. But my senses were sound, and no such illusion seized me. All wasempty, cheerless, and musty. Grannie's bed, with its white curtains, looked as if it were mouldering away after her. The dust lay thick onthe counterpane of patchwork silk. The bureau stood silent with all itssecrets. In the fire-place was the same brushwood and coals whichNannie laid the morning of grannie's death: interrupted by thediscovery of my presence, she had left it, and that fire had never beenlighted. Half for the sake of companionship, half because the air feltsepulchral and I was thinly clad, I put my candle to it and it blazedup. My courage revived, and after a little more gazing about the room, I ventured to sit down in my grannie's chair and watch the growingfire. Warned, however, by the shortness of my candle, I soon rose toproceed with my search, and turned towards the bureau. 

Here, however, the same difficulty occurred. The top of the bureau waslocked as when I had last tried it, and not one of my keys would fitit. At a loss what to do or where to search, I dropped again into thechair by the fire, and my eyes went roving about the room. They fellupon a black dress which hung against the wall. At the same moment Iremembered that, when she gave me the watch, she took the keys of thebureau from her pocket. I went to the dress and found a pocket, notindeed in the dress, but hanging under it from the same peg. There herkeys were! It would have been a marvel to me how my aunt came to leavethem undisturbed all those years, but for the instant suggestion thatmy uncle must have expressed a wish to that effect. With eager hand Iopened the bureau. Besides many trinkets in the drawers, some of themof exceedingly antique form, and, I fancied, of considerable value, Ifound in the pigeon-holes what I was far more pleased to discover--agood many letters, carefully tied in small bundles, with ribbon whichhad lost all determinable colour. These I reserved to take an earlyopportunity of reading, but replaced for the present, and, having comeat last upon one hopeful-looking key, I made haste to return before mycandle, which was already flickering in the socket, should go outaltogether, and leave me darkling. When I reached the kitchen, however, I found the grey dawn already breaking. I retired once more to mychamber, and was soon fast asleep. 

In the morning, my first care was to try the key. It fitted. I oiled itwell, and then tried the lock. I had to use considerable force, but atlast there came a great clang that echoed through the empty room. WhenI raised the lid, I knew by the weight it was of iron. In fact, thewhole chest was iron with a casing of oak. The lock threw eight bolts, which laid hold of a rim that ran all round the lip of the chest. Itwas full of 'very ancient and fish-like' papers and parchments. I donot know whether my father or grandfather had ever disturbed them, butI am certain my uncle never had, for, as far back as I can remember, the part of the room where it stood was filled with what had been, atone time and another, condemned as lumber. 

Charley was intensely interested in the discovery, and would have satdown at once to examine the contents of the chest, had I not persuadedhim to leave them till the afternoon, that we might get on with ourwork at the Hall. 

The second room was now ready for the carpenter, but, having had a peepof tapestry behind the shelves, a new thought had struck me. If it wasin good preservation, it would be out of the question to hide it behindbooks. 

I fear I am getting tedious. My apology for diffuseness in this part ofmy narrative is that some threads of the fringe of my own fate showevery now and then in the record of these proceedings. I confess alsothat I hang back from certain things which are pressing nearer withtheir claim for record. 

When we reached the Hall, I took the carpenter with me, and had thebookshelves taken down. To my disappointment we found that an oblongpiece of some size was missing from the centre of the tapestry on oneof the walls. That which covered the rest of the room was entire. Itwas all of good Gobelins work--somewhat tame in colour. The damagedportion represented a wooded landscape with water and reedy flowers andaquatic fowl, towards which in the distance came a hunter with acrossbow in his hand, and a queer, lurcher-looking dog boundinguncouthly at his heel; the edge of the vacant space cut off the dog'stail and the top of the man's crossbow. 

I went to find Sir Giles. He was in the dining-room, where they hadjust finished breakfast. 

'Ah, Mr Cumbermede!' he said, rising as I entered, and holding out hishand--'here already?'

'We have uncovered some tapestry, Sir Giles, and I want you to come andlook at it, if you please. '

'I will, ' he answered. 'Would any of you ladies like to go and see it?'

His daughter and Clara rose. Lady Brotherton and Mrs Osborne sat still. Mary, glancing at her mother, remained seated also. 

'Won't you come, Miss Pease?' I said. 

She looked almost alarmed at the audacity of the proposal, andmurmured, 'No, thank you, ' with a glance at Lady Brotherton, whichappeared as involuntary as it was timid. 

'Is my son with you?' asked Mrs Osborne. 

I told her he was. 

'I shall look in upon you before the morning is over, ' she saidquietly. 

They were all pleased with the tapestry, and the ladies offered severalconjectures as to the cause of the mutilation. 

'It would be a shame to cover it up again--would it not, Sir Giles?' Iremarked. 

'Indeed it would, ' he assented. 

'If it weren't for that broken piece, ' said Clara. 'That spoils italtogether. _I_ should have the books up again as soon as possible. '

'It does look shabby, ' said Charley. 'I can't say I should enjoy havinganything so defective always before my eyes. '

'We must have it taken down very carefully, Hobbes, ' said Sir Giles, turning to the carpenter. 

'_Must_ it come down, Sir Giles?' I interposed. 'I think it would berisky. No one knows how long it has been there, and though it mighthang where it is for a century yet, and look nothing the worse, itcan't be strong, and at best we could not get it down without someinjury, while it is a great chance if it would fit any other place halfas well. '

'What do you propose, then?'

'This is the largest room of the six, and the best lighted--with thatlovely oriel window: I would venture to propose, Sir Giles, that itshould be left clear of books and fitted up as a reading-room. '

'But how would you deal with that frightful _lacuna_ in the tapestry?'said Charley. 

'Yes, ' said Sir Giles; 'it won't look handsome, I fear--do what youwill. '

'I think I know how to manage it, ' I said. 'If I succeed to yoursatisfaction, will you allow me to carry out the project?'

'But what are we to do with the books, then? We shan't have room forthem. '

'Couldn't you let me have the next room beyond?'

'You mean to turn me out, I suppose, ' said Clara. 

'Is there tapestry on your walls?' I asked. 

'Not a thread--all wainscot--painted. '

'Then your room would be the very thing. '

'It is much larger than any of these, ' she said. 

'Then do let us have it for the library, Sir Giles, ' I entreated. 

'I will see what Lady Brotherton says, ' he replied, and left the room. 

In a few minutes we heard his step returning. 

'Lady Brotherton has no particular objection to giving up the room youwant, ' he said. 'Will you see Mrs Wilson, Clara, and arrange with herfor your accommodation?'

'With pleasure. I don't mind where I'm put--unless it be in LordEdward's room--where the ghost is. '

'You mean the one next to ours? There is no ghost there, I assure you, 'said Sir Giles, laughing, as he again left the room with short, heavysteps. 'Manage it all to your own mind, Mr Cumbermede. I shall besatisfied, ' he called back as he went. 

'Until further notice, ' I said, with grandiloquence, 'I request that noone may come into this room. If you are kind enough to assort the bookswe put up yesterday, oblige me by going through the armoury. I mustfind Mrs Wilson. '

'I will go with you, ' said Clara. 'I wonder where the old thing willwant to put me. I'm not going where I don't like, I can tell her, ' sheadded, following me down the stair and across the hall and the court. 

We found the housekeeper in her room. I accosted her in a friendly way. She made but a bare response. 

'Would you kindly show me where I slept that night I lost my sword, MrsWilson?' I said. 

'I know nothing about your sword, Mr Cumbermede, ' she answered, shakingher head and pursing up her mouth. 

'I don't ask you anything about it, Mrs Wilson; I only ask you where Islept the night I lost it. '

'Really, Mr Cumbermede, you can hardly expect me to remember in whatroom a visitor slept--let me see--it must be twelve or fifteen yearsago! I do not take it upon me. '

'Oh! never mind, then. I referred to the circumstances of that night, thinking they might help you to remember the room; but it is of noconsequence; I shall find it for myself. Miss Coningham will, I hope, help me in the search. She knows the house better than I do. '

'I must attend to my own business first, if you please, sir, ' saidClara. 'Mrs Wilson, I am ordered out of my room by Mr Cumbermede. Youmust find me fresh quarters, if you please. '

Mrs Wilson stared. 

'Do you mean, miss, that you want your things moved to anotherbed-room?'

'That _is_ what I mean, Mrs Wilson. '

'I must see what Lady Brotherton says to it, miss. '

'Do, by all means. '

I saw that Clara was bent on annoying her old enemy, and interposed. 

'Sir Giles and Lady Brotherton have agreed to let me have MissConingham's room for an addition to the library, Mrs Wilson, ' I said. 

She looked very grim, but made no answer. We turned and left her. Shestood for a moment as if thinking, and then, taking down her bunch ofkeys, followed us. 

'If you will come this way, ' she said, stopping just behind us atanother door in the court, 'I think I can show you the room you want. But really, Mr Cumbermede, you are turning the place upside down. If Ihad thought it would come to this--'

'I hope to do so a little more yet, Mrs Wilson, ' I interrupted. 'But Iam sure you will be pleased with the result. '

She did not reply, but led the way up a stair, across the little opengallery, and by passages I did not remember, to the room I wanted. Itwas in precisely the same condition as when I occupied it. 

'This is the room, I believe, ' she said, as she unlocked and threw openthe door. 'Perhaps it would suit you, Miss Coningham?'

'Not in the least, ' answered Clara. 'Who knows which of my smallpossessions might vanish before the morning!'

The housekeeper's face grew turkey-red with indignation. 

'Mr Cumbermede has been filling your head with some of his romances, Isee, Miss Clara!'

I laughed, for I did not care to show myself offended with herrudeness. 

'Never you mind, ' said Clara; 'I am _not_ going to sleep there. '

'Very good, ' said Mrs Wilson, in a tone of offence severely restrained. 

'Will you show me the way to the library?' I requested. 

'I will, ' said Clara; 'I know it as well as Mrs Wilson--every bit. '

'Then that is all I want at present, Mrs Wilson, ' I said, as we cameout of the room. 'Don't lock the door, though, please, ' I added. 'Or, if you do, give me the key. '

She left the door open, and us in the passage. Clara led me to thelibrary. There we found Charley waiting our return. 

'Will you take that little boy to his mother, Clara?' I said. 'I don'twant him here to-day. We'll have a look over those papers in theevening, Charley. '

'That's right, ' said Clara. 'I hope Charley will help you to a littlerational interest in your own affairs. I am quite bewildered to thinkthat an author, not to say a young man, the sole remnant of an ancientfamily, however humble, shouldn't even know whether he had any papersin the house or not. '

'We've come upon a glorious nest of such addled eggs, Clara. Charleyand I are going to blow them to-night, ' I said. 

'You never know when such eggs are addled, ' retorted Clara. 'You'dbetter put them under some sensible fowl or other first, ' she added, looking back from the door as they went. 

I turned to the carpenter's tool-basket, and taking from it an oldchisel, a screw-driver, and a pair of pincers, went back to the room wehad just left. 

There could be no doubt about it. There was the tip of the dog's tail, and the top of the hunter's crossbow. 

But my reader may not have retained in her memory the facts to which Iimplicitly refer. I would therefore, to spare repetition, beg her tolook back to chapter xiv. , containing the account of the loss of mysword. 

In the consternation caused me by the discovery that this loss was nodream of the night, I had never thought of examining the wall of thechamber, to see whether there was in it a door or not; but I saw now atonce plainly enough that the inserted patch did cover a small door. Opening it, I found within, a creaking wooden stair, leading up toanother low door, which, fashioned like the door of a companion, openedupon the roof:--nowhere, except in the towers, had the Hall more thantwo stories. As soon as I had drawn back the bolt and stepped out, Ifound myself standing at the foot of an ornate stack of chimneys, andremembered quite well having tried the door that night Clara and I wereshut out on the leads--the same night on which my sword was stolen. 

For the first time the question now rose in my mind whether Mrs Wilsoncould have been in league with Mr Close. Was it likely I should havebeen placed in a room so entirely fitted to his purposes by accident?But I could not imagine any respectable woman running such a risk ofterrifying a child out of his senses, even if she could have connivedat his being robbed of what she might well judge unsuitable for hispossession. 

Descending again to the bed-room, I set to work with my tools. Theutmost care was necessary, for the threads were weak with old age. Ihad only one or two slight mishaps, however, succeeding on the wholebetter than I had expected. Leaving the door denuded of its covering, Itook the patch on my arm, and again sought the library. Hobbes'ssurprise, and indeed pleasure, when he saw that my plunder not onlyfitted the gap, but completed the design, was great. I directed him toget the whole piece down as carefully as he could, and went to extract, if possible, a favour from Lady Brotherton. 

She was of course very stiff--no doubt she would have called itdignified; but I did all I could to please her, and perhaps in somesmall measure succeeded. After representing, amongst other advantages, what an addition a suite of rooms filled with a valuable library mustbe to the capacity of the house for the reception and entertainment ofguests, I ventured at last to beg the services of Miss Pease for therepair of the bit of the tapestry. 

She rang the bell, sent for Miss Pease, and ordered her, in a style ofthe coldest arrogance, to put herself under my direction. She followedme to the door in the meekest manner, but declined the arm I offered. As we went I explained what I wanted, saying I could not trust it toany hands but those of a lady, expressing a hope that she would notthink I had taken too great a liberty, and begging her to say nothingabout the work itself, as I wished to surprise Sir Giles and myassistants. She said she would be most happy to help me, but when shesaw how much was wanted, she did look a little dismayed. She went andfetched her work-basket at once, however, and set about it, tacking theedges to a strip of canvas, in preparation for some kind of darning, which would not, she hoped, be unsightly. 

For a whole week she and the carpenter were the only persons Iadmitted, and while she gave to her darning every moment she couldredeem from her attendance on Lady Brotherton, the carpenter and I werebusy--he cleaning and polishing, and I ranging the more deserted partsof the house to find furniture suitable for our purpose. In Clara'sroom was an old Turkey-carpet which we appropriated, and when we hadthe tapestry up again, which Miss Pease had at length restored in amarvellous manner--surpassing my best hopes, and more like healing thanrepairing--the place was to my eyes a very nest of dusky harmonies. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE OLD CHEST. 

I cannot help dwelling for a moment on the scene, although it is not ofthe slightest consequence to my story, when Sir Giles and LadyBrotherton entered the reading-room of the resuscitated library ofMoldwarp Hall. It was a bright day of Autumn. Outside all wasbrilliant. The latticed oriel looked over the lawn and the park, wherethe trees had begun to gather those rich hues which could hardly be theheralds of death if it were the ugly thing it appears. Beyond thefading woods rose a line of blue heights meeting the more ethereal blueof the sky, now faded to a colder and paler tint. The dappled skins ofthe fallow deer glimmered through the trees, and the whiter ones amongthem cast a light round them in the shadows. Through the trees that onone side descended to the meadow below, came the shine of the waterwhere the little brook had spread into still pools. All without wasbright with sunshine and clear air. But when you turned, all was dark, sombre, and rich, like an Autumn ten times faded. Through the open doorof the next room on one side, you saw the shelves full of books, andfrom beyond, through the narrow uplifted door, came the glimmer of theweapons on the wall of the little armoury. Two ancient tapestry-coveredsettees, in which the ravages of moth and worm had been met by askilful repair of chisel and needle, a heavy table of oak, with carvedsides as black as ebony, and a few old, straight-backed chairs, werethe sole furniture. 

Sir Giles expressed much pleasure, and Lady Brotherton, beginning toenter a little into my plans, was more gracious than hitherto. 

'We must give a party as soon as you have finished, Mr Cumbermede, ' shesaid; 'and--'

'That will be some time yet, ' I interrupted, not desiring theinvitation she seemed about to force herself to utter; 'and I fearthere are not many in this neighbourhood who will appreciate the rarityand value of the library--if the other rooms should turn out as rich asthat one. '

'I believe old books _are_ expensive now-a-days, ' she returned. 'Theyare more sought after, I understand. '

We resumed our work with fresh vigour, and got on faster. Both Claraand Mary were assiduous in their help. 

To go back for a little to my own old chest--we found it, as I said, full of musty papers. After turning over a few, seeming, to myuneducated eye, deeds and wills and such like, out of which it wasevident I could gather no barest meaning without a labour I was notinclined to expend on them--for I had no pleasure in such details asinvolved nothing of the picturesque--I threw the one in my hand uponthe heap already taken from the box, and to the indignation of Charley, who was absorbed in one of them, and had not spoken a word for at leasta quarter of an hour, exclaimed--

'Come, Charley; I'm sick of the rubbish. Let's go and have a walkbefore supper. '

'Rubbish!' he repeated; 'I am ashamed of you!'

'I see Clara has been setting you on. I wonder what she's got in herhead. I am sure I have quite a sufficient regard for family history andall that. '

'Very like it!' said Charley--'calling such a chestful as thisrubbish!'

'I am pleased enough to possess it, ' I said; 'but if they had been suchbooks as some of those at the Hall--'

'Look here, then, ' he said, stooping over the chest, and with somedifficulty hauling out a great folio which he had discovered below, buthad not yet examined--'just see what you can make of that. '

I opened the title-page rather eagerly. I stared. Could I believe myeyes? First of all on the top of it, in the neatest old hand, waswritten--'Guilfrid Combremead His Boke. 1630. ' Then followed what Iwill not write, lest this MS. Should by any accident fall into thehands of book-hunters before my death. I jumped to my feet, gave ashout that brought Charley to his feet also, and danced about the emptyroom hugging the folio. 'Have you lost your senses?' said Charley; butwhen he had a peep at the title-page, he became as much excited asmyself, and it was some time before he could settle down to the papersagain. Like a bee over a flower-bed, I went dipping and sipping at mytreasure. Every word of the well-known lines bore a flavour of ancientverity such as I had never before perceived in them. At length I lookedup, and finding him as much absorbed as I had been myself--

'Well, Charley, what are you finding there?' I asked. 

'Proof perhaps that you come of an older family than you think, ' heanswered; 'proof certainly that some part at least of the Moldwarpproperty was at one time joined to the Moat, and that you are of thesame stock, a branch of which was afterwards raised to the presentbaronetage. At least I have little doubt such is the case, though I canhardly say I am yet prepared to prove it. '

'You don't mean I'm of the same blood as--as Geoffrey Brotherton!' Isaid. 'I would rather not, if it's the same to you, Charley. '

'I can't help it: that's the way things point, ' he answered, throwingdown the parchment. 'But I can't read more now. Let's go and have awalk. I'll stop at home to-morrow and take a look over the whole set. '

'I'll stop with you. '

[Illustration: "Well. Charley. What are you finding there?" I asked. ]

'No, you won't. You'll go and get on with your library. I shall dobetter alone. If I could only get a peep at the Moldwarp chest aswell!'

'But the place may have been bought and sold many times. Just lookhere, though, ' I said, as I showed him the crest on my watch and seal. 'Mind you look at the top of your spoon the next time you eat soup atthe Hall. '

'That is unnecessary, quite. I recognise the crest at once. Howstrangely these cryptographs come drifting along the tide, like thegilded ornaments of a wreck after the hull has gone down!'

'Or, like the mole or squint that re-appears in successive generations, the legacy of some long-forgotten ancestor, ' I said--and severalthings unexplained occurred to me as possibly having a common solution. 

'I find, however, ' said Charley, 'that the name of Cumbermede is notmentioned in your papers more than about a hundred years back--as faras I have yet made out. '

'That is odd, ' I returned, 'seeing that in the same chest we find thatbook with my name, surname and Christian, and the date 1630. '

'It is strange, ' he acquiesced, 'and will perhaps require a somewhatcomplicated theory to meet it. '

We began to talk of other matters, and, naturally enough, soon came toClara. 

Charley was never ready to talk of her--indeed, avoided the subject ina way that continued to perplex me. 

'I confess to you, Charley, ' I said, 'there is something about her I donot and cannot understand. It seems to me always as if she were--I willnot say underhand--but as if she had some object in view--some designupon you--'

'Upon me!' exclaimed Charley, looking at me suddenly and with a facefrom which all the colour had fled. 

'No, no, Charley, not that, ' I answered, laughing. 'I used the wordimpersonally. I will be more cautious. One would think we had beentalking about a witch--or a demon-lady--you are so frightened at thenotion of her having you in her eye. '

He did not seem altogether relieved, and I caught an uneasy glanceseeking my countenance. 

'But isn't she charming?' I went on. 'It is only to you I could talkabout her so. And after all it may be only a fancy. '

He kept his face downwards and aside, as if he were pondering andcoming to no conclusion. The silence grew and grew until expectationceased, and when I spoke again it was of something different. 

My reader may be certain from all this that I was not in love withClara. Her beauty and liveliness, with a gaiety which not seldomassumed the form of grace, attracted me much, it is true; but nothinginterferes more with the growth of any passion than a spirit ofquestioning, and, that once roused, love begins to cease and pass intopain. Few, perhaps, could have arrived at the point of admiration I hadreached without falling instantly therefrom into an abyss of absorbingpassion; but with me, inasmuch as I searched every feeling in the hopeof finding in it the everlasting, there was in the present case areiterated check, if not indeed recoil; for I was not and could notmake myself sure that Clara was upright;--perhaps the more commonplaceword _straightforward_ would express my meaning better. 

Anxious to get the books arranged before they all left me, for I knew Ishould have but little heart for it after they were gone, I grudgedCharley the forenoon he wanted amongst my papers, and prevailed uponhim to go with me the next day as usual. Another fortnight, which wasalmost the limit of their stay, would, I thought, suffice; and givingup everything else, Charley and I worked from morning till night, withmuch though desultory assistance from the ladies. I contrived to keepthe carpenter and housemaid in work, and by the end of the week beganto see the inroads of order 'scattering the rear of darkness thin. '

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

MARY OSBORNE. 

All this time the acquaintance between Mary Osborne and myself had notimproved. Save as the sister of my friend I had not, I repeat, foundher interesting. She did not seem at all to fulfil the promise of herchildhood. Hardly once did she address me; and, when I spoke to her, would reply with a simple, dull directness which indicated nothingbeyond the fact of the passing occasion. Rightly or wrongly, Iconcluded that the more indulgence she cherished for Charley, the lessshe felt for his friend--that to him she attributed the endlessly saddeclension of her darling brother. Once on her face I surprised a lookof unutterable sorrow resting on Charley's; but the moment she saw thatI observed her, the look died out, and her face stiffened into itsusual dulness and negation. On me she turned only the unenlighteneddisc of her soul. Mrs Osborne, whom I seldom saw, behaved with muchmore kindness, though hardly more cordiality. It was only that sheallowed her bright indulgence for Charley to cast the shadow of hisimage over the faults of his friend; and except by the sadness thatdwelt in every line of her sweet face, she did not attract me. I wasever aware of an inward judgment which I did not believe I deserved, and I would turn from her look with a sense of injury which greaterlove would have changed into keen pain. 

Once, however, I did meet a look of sympathy from Mary. On the secondMonday of the fortnight I was more anxious than ever to reach the endof my labours, and was in the court, accompanied by Charley, as earlyas eight o'clock. From the hall a dark passage led past the door of thedining-room to the garden. Through the dark tube of the passage we sawthe bright green of a lovely bit of sward, and upon it Mary and Clara, radiant in white morning dresses. We joined them. 

'Here come the slave-drivers!' remarked Clara. 

'Already!' said Mary, in a low voice, which I thought had a tinge ofdismay in its tone. 

'Never mind, Polly, ' said her companion--'we're not going to bow totheir will and pleasure. We'll have our walk in spite of them. '

As she spoke she threw a glance at us which seemed to say--'You maycome if you like;' then turned to Mary with another which said--'Weshall see whether they prefer old books or young ladies. '

Charley looked at me--interrogatively. 

'Do as you like, Charley, ' I said. 

'I will do as you do, ' he answered. 

'Well, ' I said, 'I have no right--'

'Oh! bother!' said Clara. 'You're so magnificent always with yourrights and wrongs! Are you coming, or are you not?'

'Yes, I'm coming, ' I replied, convicted by Clara's directness, for Iwas quite ready to go. 

We crossed the court, and strolled through the park, which was of greatextent, in the direction of a thick wood, covering a rise towards theeast. The morning air was perfectly still; there was a little dew onthe grass, which shone rather than sparkled; the sun was burningthrough a light fog, which grew deeper as we approached the wood; thedecaying leaves filled the air with their sweet, mournful scent. Through the wood went a wide opening or glade, stretching straight andfar towards the east, and along this we walked, with that exhilarationwhich the fading Autumn so strangely bestows. For some distance theground ascended softly, but the view was finally closed in by a moreabrupt swell, over the brow of which the mist hung in dazzlingbrightness. 

Notwithstanding the gaiety of animal spirits produced by the season, Ifelt unusually depressed that morning. Already, I believe, I wasbeginning to feel the home-born sadness of the soul whose wings areweary and whose foot can find no firm soil on which to rest. SometimesI think the wonder is that so many men are never sad. I doubt ifCharley would have suffered so but for the wrongs his father's selfishreligion had done him; which perhaps were therefore so far well, inasmuch as otherwise he might not have cared enough about religioneven to doubt concerning it. But in my case now, it may have been onlythe unsatisfying presence of Clara, haunted by a dim regret that Icould not love her more than I did. For with regard to her my soul waslike one who in a dream of delight sees outspread before him a wideriver, wherein he makes haste to plunge that he may disport himself inthe fine element; but, wading eagerly, alas! finds not a single pooldeeper than his knees. 

'What's the matter with you, Wilfrid?' said Charley, who, in the midstof some gay talk, suddenly perceived my silence. 'You seem to lose allyour spirits away from your precious library. I do believe you grudgeevery moment not spent upon those ragged old books. '

'I wasn't thinking of that, Charley; I was wondering what lies beyondthat mist. '

'I see!--A chapter of the _Pilgrim's Progress_! Here we are--Mary, you're Christiana, and, Clara, you're Mercy. Wilfrid, you're--what?--Ishould have said Hopeful any other day, but this morning you looklike--let me see--like Mr Ready-to-Halt. The celestial city lies behindthat fog--doesn't it, Christiana?'

'I don't like to hear you talk so, Charley, ' said his sister, smilingin his face. 

'They ain't in the Bible, ' he returned. 

'No--and I shouldn't mind if you were only merry, but you know you arescoffing at the story, and I love it--so I can't be pleased to hearyou. '

'I beg your pardon, Mary--but your celestial city lies behind such afog that not one crystal turret, one pearly gate of it was ever seen. At least _we_ have never caught a glimmer of it, and must go tramp, tramp--we don't know whither, any more than the blind puppy that hascrawled too far from his mother's side. '

'I do see the light of it, Charley dear, ' said Mary, sadly--not as ifthe light were any great comfort to her at the moment. 

'If you do see something--how can you tell what it's the light of? Itmay come from the city of Dis, for anything you know. '

'I don't know what that is. '

'Oh! the red-hot city--down below. You will find all about it inDante. '

'It doesn't look like that--the light I see, ' said Mary, quietly. 

'How very ill-bred you are--to say such wicked things, Charley!' saidClara. 

'Am I? They _are_ better unmentioned. Let us eat and drink, forto-morrow we die! Only don't allude to the unpleasant subject. '

He burst out singing: the verses were poor, but I will give them. 

 'Let the sun shimmer! Let the wind blow! All is a notion--What do we know? Let the moon glimmer! Let the stream flow! All is but motion To and fro!

 'Let the rose wither! Let the stars glow! Let the rain batter-- Drift sleet and snow! Bring the tears hither! Let the smiles go! What does it matter? To and fro!

 'To and fro ever, Motion and show! Nothing goes onward-- Hurry or no! All is one river-- Seaward and so Up again sunward-- To and fro!

 'Pendulum sweeping High, and now low! That star--_tic_, blot it! _Tac_, let it go! Time he is reaping Hay for his mow; That flower--he's got it! To and fro!

 'Such a scythe swinging, Mighty and slow! Ripping and slaying-- Hey nonny no! Black Ribs is singing-- Chorus--Hey, ho! What is he saying-- To and fro?

 'Singing and saying "Grass is hay--ho! Love is a longing; Water is snow. " Swinging and swaying, Toll the bells go! Dinging and donging To and fro!'

'Oh, Charley!' said his sister, with suppressed agony, 'what a wickedsong!'

'It _is_ a wicked song, ' I said. 'But I meant----it only represents anunbelieving, hopeless mood. '

'_You_ wrote it, then!' she said, giving me--as it seemed, involuntarily--a look of reproach. 

'Yes, I did; but--'

'Then I think you are very horrid, ' said Clara, interrupting. 

'Charley!' I said, 'you must not leave your sister to think so badly ofme! You know why I wrote it--and what I meant. '

'I wish I had written it myself, ' he returned. 'I think it splendid. Anybody might envy you that song. '

'But you know I didn't mean it for a true one. '

'Who knows whether it is true or false?'

'_I_ know, ' said Mary: 'I know it is false. '

'And _I_ hope it, ' I adjoined. 

'Whatever put such horrid things into your head, Wilfrid?' asked Clara. 

'Probably the fear lest they should be true. The verses came as I satin a country church once, not long ago. '

'In a church!' exclaimed Mary. 

'Oh! he does go to church sometimes, ' said Charley, with a laugh. 

'How could you think of it in church?' persisted Mary. 

'It's more like the churchyard, ' said Clara. 

'It was in an old church in a certain desolate sea-forsaken town, ' Isaid. 'The pendulum of the clock--a huge, long, heavy, slowthing--hangs far down into the church, and goes swing, swang over yourhead, three or four seconds to every swing. When you have heard the_tic_, your heart grows faint every time between--waiting for the_tac_, which seems as if it would never come. '

We were ascending the acclivity, and no one spoke again before wereached the top. There a wide landscape lay stretched before us. Themist was rapidly melting away before the gathering strength of the sun:as we stood and gazed we could see it vanishing. By slow degrees thecolours of the Autumn woods dawned out of it. Close under us lay agreat wave of gorgeous red--beeches, I think--in the midst of which, here and there, stood up, tall and straight and dark, the unchanginggreen of a fir-tree. The glow of a hectic death was over the landscape, melting away into the misty fringe of the far horizon. Overhead the skywas blue, with a clear thin blue that told of withdrawing suns andcoming frosts. 

'For my part, ' I said, 'I cannot believe that beyond this lovelinessthere lies no greater. Who knows, Charley, but death may be the firstrecognizable step of the progress of which you despair?'

It was then I caught the look from Mary's eye, for the sake of which Ihave recorded the little incidents of the morning. But the same momentthe look faded, and the veil or the mask fell over her face. 

'I am afraid, ' she said, 'if there has been no progress before, therewill be little indeed after. '

Now of all things, I hated the dogmatic theology of the party in whichshe had been brought up, and I turned from her with silent dislike. 

'Really, ' said Clara, 'you gentlemen have been very entertaining thismorning. One would think Polly and I had come out for a stroll with acouple of undertaker's-men. There's surely time enough to think of suchthings yet! None of us are at death's door exactly. '

'"Sweet remembrancer!"--Who knows?' said Charley. 

'"Now I, to comfort him, "' I followed, quoting Mrs Quickly concerningSir John Falstaff, '"bid him, 'a should not think of God: I hoped therewas no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. "'

'I beg your pardon, ' said Mary--'there was no word of Him in thematter. '

'I see, ' said Clara: 'you meant that at me, Wilfrid. But I assure you Iam no heathen. I go to church regularly--once a Sunday when I can, andtwice when I can't help it. That's more than you do, Mr Cumbermede, Isuspect. '

'What makes you think so?' I asked. 

'I can't imagine you enjoying anything but the burial service. '

'It is to my mind the most consoling of them all, ' I answered. 

'Well, I haven't reached the point of wanting that consolation yet, thank heaven. '

'Perhaps some of us would rather have the consolation than give thanksthat we didn't need it, ' I said. 

'I can't say I understand you, but I know you mean somethingdisagreeable. Polly, I think we had better go home to breakfast. '

Mary turned, and we all followed. Little was said on the way home. Wedivided in the hall--the ladies to breakfast, and we to our work. 

We had not spoken for an hour, when Charley broke the silence. 

'What a brute I am, Wilfrid!' he said. 'Why shouldn't I be as good asJesus Christ? It seems always as if a man might. But just look at me!Because I was miserable myself, I went and made my poor little sistertwice as miserable as she was before. She'll never get over what I saidthis morning. '

'It _was_ foolish of you, Charley. '

'It was brutal. I am the most selfish creature in the world--alwaystaken up with myself. I do believe there is a devil, after all. _I_ am_a_ devil. And the universal self is _the_ devil. If there were such athing as a self always giving itself away--that self would be God. '

'Something very like the God of Christianity, I think. '

'If it were so, there would be a chance for us. We might then one daygive the finishing blow to the devil in us. But no: _he_ does all forhis own glory. '

'It depends on what his glory is. If what the self-seeking self wouldcall glory, then I agree with you--that is not the God we need. But ifhis glory should be just the opposite--the perfect giving of himselfaway--then--Of course I know nothing about it. My uncle used to saythings like that. '

He did not reply, and we went on with our work. Neither of the ladiescame near us again that day. 

Before the end of the week the library was in tolerable order to theeye, though it could not be perfectly arranged until the commencementof a catalogue should be as the dawn of a consciousness in thehalf-restored mass. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A STORM. 

So many books of rarity and value had revealed themselves, that it wasnot difficult to make Sir Giles comprehend in some degree theimportance of such a possession. He had grown more and more interestedas the work went on; and even Lady Brotherton, although she muchdesired to have, at least, the oldest and most valuable of the booksre-bound in red morocco first, was so far satisfied with what she wastold concerning the worth of the library, that she determined to invitesome of the neighbours to dinner, for the sake of showing it. The mainaccess to it was to be by the armoury; and she had that side of thegallery round the hall which led thither covered with a thick carpet. 

Meantime Charley had looked over all the papers in my chest, but, beyond what I have already stated, no fact of special interest had beenbrought to light. 

In sending an invitation to Charley, Lady Brotherton could hardly avoidsending me one as well: I doubt whether I should otherwise have beenallowed to enjoy the admiration bestowed on the result of my labours. 

The dinner was formal and dreary enough: the geniality of one of theheads of a household is seldom sufficient to give character to anentertainment. 

'They tell me you are a buyer of books, Mr Alderforge, ' said Mr Mellonto the clergyman of a neighbouring parish, as we sat over our wine. 

'Quite a mistake, ' returned Mr Alderforge. 'I am a reader of books. '

'That of course! But you buy them first--don't you?'

'Not always. I sometimes borrow them. '

'That I never do. If a book is worth borrowing, it is worth buying. '

'Perhaps--if you can afford it. But many books that book-buyers value Icount worthless--for all their wide margins and uncut leaves. '

'Will you come-and have a look at Sir Giles's library?' I ventured tosay. 

'I never heard of a library at Moldwarp Hall, Sir Giles, ' said MrMellon. 

'I am given to understand there is a very valuable one, ' said MrAlderforge. 'I shall be glad to accompany you, sir, ' he added, turningto me, '--if Sir Giles will allow us. '

'You cannot have a better guide than Mr Cumbermede, ' said Sir Giles. 'Iam indebted to him almost for the discovery--altogether for therestoration of the library. '

'Assisted by Miss Brotherton and her friends, Sir Giles, ' I said. 

'A son of Mr Cumbermede of Lowdon Farm, I presume?' said Alderforge, bowing interrogatively. 

'A nephew, ' I answered. 

'He was a most worthy man. --By the way, Sir Giles, your young friendhere must be a distant connection of your own. I found in some book orother lately, I forget where at the moment, that there were Cumbermedesat one time in Moldwarp Hall. '

'Yes--about two hundred years ago, I believe. It passed to our branchof the family some time during the troubles of the seventeenthcentury--I hardly know how--I am not much of an historian. '

I thought of my precious volume, and the name on the title-page. Thatbook might have been in the library of Moldwarp Hall. If so, how had itstrayed into my possession--alone, yet more to me than all that wasleft behind?

We betook ourselves to the library. The visitors expressed themselvesastonished at its extent, and the wealth which even a glancerevealed--for I took care to guide their notice to its richest veins. 

'When it is once arranged, ' I said, 'I fancy there will be few privatelibraries to stand a comparison with it--I am thinking of old Englishliterature, and old editions: there is not a single volume of thepresent century in it, so far as I know. '

I had had a few old sconces fixed here and there, but as yet there wereno means of really lighting the rooms. Hence, when a great flash oflightning broke from a cloud that hung over the park right in front ofthe windows, it flooded them with a dazzling splendour. I went to findCharley, for the library was the best place to see the lightning from. As I entered the drawing-room, a tremendous peal of thunder burst overthe house, causing so much consternation amongst the ladies, that, forthe sake of company, they all followed to the library. Clara seemedmore frightened than any. Mary was perfectly calm. Charley was muchexcited. The storm grew in violence. We saw the lightning strike a treewhich stood alone a few hundred yards from the house. When the nextflash came, half of one side seemed torn away. The wind rose, first infierce gusts, then into a tempest, and the rain poured in torrents. 

'None of you can go home to-night, ladies, ' said Sir Giles. 'You mustmake up your minds to stop where you are. Few horses would face such astorm as that. '

'It would be to tax your hospitality too grievously, Sir Giles, ' saidMr Alderforge. 'I dare say it will clear up by-and-by, or at leastmoderate sufficiently to let us get home. '

'I don't think there's much chance of that, ' returned Sir Giles. 'Thebarometer has been steadily falling for the last three days. My dear, you had better give your orders at once. '

'You had better stop, Charley, ' I said. 

'I won't if you go, ' he returned. 

Clara was beside. 

'You must not think of going, ' she said. 

Whether she spoke to him or me I did not know, but as Charley made noanswer--

'I cannot stop without being asked, ' I said, 'and it is not likely thatany one will take the trouble to ask me. '

The storm increased. At the request of the ladies, the gentlemen leftthe library and accompanied them to the drawing-room for tea. Ourhostess asked Clara to sing, but she was too frightened to comply. 

'You will sing, Mary, if Lady Brotherton asks you, I know, ' said MrsOsborne. 

'Do, my dear, ' said Lady Brotherton; and Mary at once complied. 

I had never heard her sing, and did not expect much. But although shehad little execution, there was, I found, a wonderful charm both in hervoice and the simplicity of her mode. I did not feel this at first, norcould I tell when the song began to lay hold upon me, but when itceased, I found that I had been listening intently. I have often sincetried to recall it, but as yet it has eluded all my efforts. I stillcherish the hope that it may return some night in a dream, or in somewaking moment of quiescent thought, when what we call the brain worksas it were of itself, and the spirit allows it play. 

The close was lost in a louder peal of thunder than had yet burst. Charley and I went again to the library to look out on the night. Itwas dark as pitch, except when the lightning broke and revealedeverything for one intense moment. 

'I think sometimes, ' said Charley, 'that death will be like one ofthose flashes, revealing everything in hideous fact--for justone-moment and no more. '

'How for one moment and no more, Charley?' I asked. 

'Because the sight of the truth concerning itself must kill the soul, if there be one, with disgust at its own vileness, and the miserablecontrast between its aspirations and attainments, its pretences and itsefforts. At least, that would be the death fit for a life like mine--adeath of disgust at itself. We claim immortality; we cringe and cowerwith the fear that immortality may _not_ be the destiny of man; and yetwe--_I_--do things unworthy not merely of immortality, but unworthy ofthe butterfly existence of a single day in such a world as thissometimes seems to be. Just think how I stabbed at my sister's faiththis morning--careless of making her as miserable as myself! Because myfather has put into her mind his fancies, and I hate them, I woundagain the heart which they wound, and which cannot help theirpresence!'

'But the heart that can be sorry for an action is far above the action, just as her heart is better than the notions that haunt it. '

'Sometimes I hope so. But action determines character. And it is allsuch a muddle! I don't care much about what they call immortality. Idoubt if it is worth the having. I would a thousand times rather haveone day of conscious purity of heart and mind and soul and body, thanan eternity of such life as I have now. --What am I saying?' he added, with a despairing laugh. 'It is a fool's comparison; for an eternity ofthe former would be bliss--one moment of the latter is misery. '

I could but admire and pity my poor friend both at once. 

Miss Pease had entered unheard. 

'Mr Cumbermede, ' she said, 'I have been looking for you to show youyour room. It is not the one I should like to have got for you, but MrsWilson says you have occupied it before, and I dare say you will findit comfortable enough. '

'Thank you, Miss Pease. I am sorry you should have taken the trouble. Ican go home well enough. I am not afraid of a little rain. '

'A little rain!' said Charley, trying to speak lightly. 

'Well, any amount of rain, ' I said. 

'But the lightning!' expostulated Miss Pease in a timid voice. 

'I am something of a fatalist, Miss Pease, ' I said. '"Every bullet hasits billet, " you know. Besides, if I had a choice, I think I wouldrather die by lightning than any other way. '

'Don't talk like that, Mr Cumbermede. --Oh! what a flash!'

'I was not speaking irreverently, I assure you, ' I replied. --'I thinkI had better set out at once, for there seems no chance of itsclearing. '

'I am sure Sir Giles would be distressed if you did. '

'He will never know, and I dislike giving trouble. '

'The room is ready. I will show you where it is, that you may go whenyou like. '

'If Mrs Wilson says it is a room I have occupied before, I know the wayquite well. '

'There are two ways to it, ' she said. 'But of course one of them isenough, ' she added with a smile. 'Mr Osborne, your room is in anotherpart quite. '

'I know where my sister's room is, ' said Charley. 'Is it anywhere nearhers?'

'That is the room you are to have. Miss Osborne is to be with yourmamma, I think. There is plenty of accommodation, only the notice wasshort. '

I began to button my coat. 

'Don't go, Wilfrid, ' said Charley. 'You might give offence. Besides, you will have the advantage of getting to work as early as you pleasein the morning. '

It was late and I was tired--consequently less inclined than usual toencounter a storm, for in general I enjoyed being in any commotion ofthe elements. Also I felt I should like to pass another night in thatroom, and have besides the opportunity of once more examining at myleisure the gap in the tapestry. 

'Will you meet me early in the library, Charley?' I said. 

'Yes--to be sure I will--as early as you like. '

'Let us go to the drawing-room, then. '

'Why should you, if you are tired, and want to go to bed?'

'Because Lady Brotherton will not like my being included in theinvitation. She will think it absurd of me not to go home. '

'There is no occasion to go near her, then. '

'I do not choose to sleep in the house without knowing that she knowsit. '

We went. I made my way to Lady Brotherton. Clara was standing near her. 

'I am much obliged by your hospitality, Lady Brotherton, ' I said. 'Itis rather a rough night to encounter in evening dress. '

She bowed. 

'The distance is not great, however, ' I said, 'and perhaps--'

'Out of the question!' said Sir Giles, who came up at the moment. 

 Will you see, then, Sir Giles, that a room is prepared for yourguest?' she said. 

'I trust that is unnecessary, ' he replied. 'I gave orders. '--But as hespoke he went towards the bell. 

'It is all arranged, I believe, Sir Giles, ' I said. 'Mrs Wilson hasalready informed me which is my room. Good-night, Sir Giles. '

He shook hands with me kindly. I bowed to Lady Brotherton and retired. 

It may seem foolish to record such mere froth of conversation, but Iwant my reader to understand how a part, at least, of the family ofMoldwarp Hall regarded me. 

CHAPTER XL. 

A DREAM. 

My room looked dreary enough. There was no fire, and the loss of thepatch of tapestry from the wall gave the whole an air of dilapidation. The wind howled fearfully in the chimney and about the door on theroof, and the rain came down on the leads like the distant trampling ofmany horses. But I was not in an imaginative mood. Charley was again mytrouble. I could not bear him to be so miserable. Why was I not asmiserable as he? I asked myself. Perhaps I ought to be, for althoughcertainly I hoped more, I could not say I believed more than he. Iwished more than ever that I did believe, for then I should be able tohelp him--I was sure of that; but I saw no possible way of arriving atbelief. Where was the proof? Where even the hope of a growingprobability?

With these thoughts drifting about in my brain, like waifs which thetide will not let go, I was poring over the mutilated forms of thetapestry round the denuded door, with an expectation, almost aconviction, that I should find the fragment still hanging on the wallof the kitchen at the Moat, the very piece wanted to complete thebroken figures. When I had them well fixed in my memory, I went to bed, and lay pondering over the several broken links which indicated someformer connection between the Moat and the Hall, until I fell asleep, and began to dream strange wild dreams, of which the following was thelast. 

I was in a great palace, wandering hither and thither, and meeting noone. A weight of silence brooded in the place. From hall to hall Iwent, along corridor and gallery, and up and down endless stairs. Iknew that in some room near me was one whose name was Athanasia, --amaiden, I thought in my dream, whom I had known and loved for years, but had lately lost--I knew not how. Somewhere here she was, if only Icould find her! From room to room I went seeking her. Every room Ientered bore some proof that she had just been there--but there she wasnot. In one lay a veil, in another a handkerchief, in a third a glove;and all were scented with a strange entrancing odour, which I had neverknown before, but which in certain moods I can to this day imperfectlyrecall. I followed and followed until hope failed me utterly, and I satdown and wept. But while I wept, hope dawned afresh, and I rose andagain followed the quest, until I found myself in a little chapel likethat of Moldwarp Hall. It was filled with the sound of an organ, distance-faint, and the thin music was the same as the odour of thehandkerchief which I carried in my bosom. I tried to follow the sound, but the chapel grew and grew as I wandered, and I came no nearer to itssource. At last the altar rose before me on my left, and through thebowed end of the aisle I passed behind it into the lady-chapel. Thereagainst the outer wall stood a dusky ill-defined shape. Its head roseabove the sill of the eastern window, and I saw it against the risingmoon. But that and the whole figure were covered with a thick drapery;I could see nothing of the face, and distinguish little of the form. 

'What art thou?' I asked trembling. 

'I am Death--dost thou not know me?' answered the figure, in a sweetthough worn and weary voice. 'Thou hast been following me all thy life, and hast followed me hither. '

Then I saw through the lower folds of the cloudy garment, which grewthin and gauze-like as I gazed, a huge iron door, with folding leaves, and a great iron bar across them. 

'Art thou at thine own door?' I asked. 'Surely thy house cannot openunder the eastern window of the church?'

'Follow and see, ' answered the figure. 

Turning, it drew back the bolt, threw wide the portals, andlow-stooping entered. I followed, not into the moonlit night, butthrough a cavernous opening into darkness. If my Athanasia were downwith Death, I would go with Death, that I might at least end with her. Down and down I followed the veiled figure, down flight after flight ofstony stairs, through passages like those of the catacombs, and againdown steep straight stairs. At length it stopped at another gate, andwith beating heart I heard what I took for bony fingers fumbling with achain and a bolt. But ere the fastenings had yielded, once more I heardthe sweet odour-like music of the distant organ. The same moment thedoor opened, but I could see nothing for some time for the mightyinburst of a lovely light. A fair river, brimming full, its littlewaves flashing in the sun and wind, washed the threshold of the door, and over its surface, hither and thither, sped the white sails ofshining boats, while from somewhere, clear now, but still afar, camethe sound of a great organ psalm. Beyond the river the sun wasrising--over blue Summer hills that melted into blue Summer sky. On thethreshold stood my guide, bending towards me, as if waiting for me topass out also. I lifted my eyes: the veil had fallen--it was my lostAthanasia! Not one beam touched her face, for her back was to the sun, yet her face was radiant. Trembling, I would have kneeled at her feet, but she stepped out upon the flowing river, and with the sweetest ofsad smiles, drew the door to, and left me alone in the dark hollow ofthe earth. I broke into a convulsive weeping, and awoke. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

A WAKING. 

I suppose I awoke tossing in my misery, for my hand fell upon somethingcold. I started up and tried to see. The light of a clear morning oflate Autumn had stolen into the room while I slept, and glimmered onsomething that lay upon the bed. It was some time before I couldbelieve that my troubled eyes were not the sport of one of those oddillusions that come of mingled sleep and waking. But by the golden hiltand rusted blade I was at length convinced, although the scabbard wasgone, that I saw my own sword. It lay by my left side, with the hilttowards my hand. But the moment I turned a little to take it in myright hand, I forgot all about it in a far more bewildering discovery, which fixed me staring half in terror, half in amazement, so that againfor a moment I disbelieved in my waking condition. On the other pillowlay the face of a lovely girl. I felt as if I had seen itbefore--whether only in the just vanished dream, I could not tell. Butthe maiden of my dream never comes back to me with any other featuresor with any other expression than those which I now beheld. There wasan ineffable mingling of love and sorrow on the sweet countenance. Thegirl was dead asleep, but evidently dreaming, for tears were flowingfrom under her closed lids. For a time I was unable even to think;when thought returned, I was afraid to move. All at once the face ofMary Osborne dawned out of the vision before me--how different, how glorified from its waking condition! It was perfectlylovely--transfigured by the unchecked outflow of feeling. Therecognition brought me to my senses at once. I did not waste a singlethought in speculating how the mistake had occurred, for there was nota moment to be lost. I must be wise to shield her, and chiefly, as muchas might be, from the miserable confusion which her own discovery ofthe untoward fact would occasion her. At first I thought it would bebest to lie perfectly still, in order that she, at length awaking anddiscovering where she was, but finding me fast asleep, might escapewith the conviction that the whole occurrence remained her own secret. I made the attempt, but I need hardly say that never before or sincehave I found myself in a situation half so perplexing; and in a fewmoments I was seized with such a trembling that I was compelled to turnmy thoughts to the only other possible plan. As I reflected, theabsolute necessity of attempting it became more and more apparent. Inthe first place, when she woke and saw me, she might scream and beheard; in the next, she might be seen as she left the room, or, unableto find her way, might be involved in great consequent embarrassment. But, if I could gather all my belongings, and, without awaking her, escape by the stair to the roof, she would be left to suppose that shehad but mistaken her chamber, and would, I hoped, remain in ignorancethat she had not passed the night in it alone. I dared one more peepinto her face. The light and the loveliness of her dream had passed; Ishould not now have had to look twice to know that it was Mary Osborne;but never more could I see in hers a common face. She was still fastasleep, and, stealthy as a beast of prey, I began to make my escape. Atthe first movement, however, my perplexity was redoubled, for again myhand fell on the sword which I had forgotten, and question afterquestion as to how they were together, and together there, dartedthrough my bewildered brain. Could a third person have come and laidthe sword between us? I had no time, however, to answer one of my ownquestions. Hardly knowing which was better, or if there was _a better_, I concluded to take the weapon with me, moved in part by the fact thatI had found it where I had lost it, but influenced far more by itsassociation with this night of marvel. 

Having gathered my garments together, and twice glanced around me--onceto see that I left nothing behind, and once to take farewell of thepeaceful face, which had never moved, I opened the little door in thewall, and made my strange retreat up the stair. My heart was beating soviolently from the fear of her waking, that, when the door was drawn tobehind me, I had to stand for what seemed minutes before I was able toascend the steep stair, and step from its darkness into the clearfrosty shine of the Autumn sun, brilliant upon the leads wet with thetorrents of the preceding night. 

I found a sheltered spot by the chimney-stack, where no one could seeme from below, and proceeded to dress myself--assisted in my veryimperfect toilet by the welcome discovery of a pool of rain in adepression of the lead-covered roof. But alas, before I had finished, Ifound that I had brought only one of my shoes away with me! Thissettled the question I was at the moment debating--whether, namely, itwould be better to go home, or to find some way of reaching thelibrary. I put my remaining shoe in my pocket, and set out to discovera descent. It would have been easy to get down into the little gallery, but it communicated on both sides immediately with bed-rooms, which foranything I knew might be occupied; and besides I was unwilling to enterthe house for fear of encountering some of the domestics. But I knewmore of the place now, and had often speculated concerning the oddposition and construction of an outside stair in the first court, closeto the chapel, with its landing at the door of a room _en suite_ withthose of Sir Giles and Lady Brotherton. It was for a man an easy dropto this landing. Quiet as a cat, I crept over the roof, let myselfdown, crossed the court swiftly, drew back the bolt which alone securedthe wicket, and, with no greater mishap than the unavoidable wetting ofshoeless feet, was soon safe in my own room, exchanging my evening fora morning dress. When I looked at my watch, I found it nearly seveno'clock. 

I was so excited and bewildered by the adventures I had gone through, that, from very commonness, all the things about me looked alien andstrange. I had no feeling of relation to the world of ordinary life. The first thing I did was to hang my sword in its own old place, andthe next to take down the bit of tapestry from the opposite wall, whichI proceeded to examine in the light of my recollection of that roundthe denuded door. Room was left for not even a single doubt as to therelation between this and that: they had been wrought in one and thesame piece by fair fingers of some long vanished time. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

A TALK ABOUT SUICIDE. 

In the same excited mood, but repressing it with all the energy I couldgather, I returned to the Hall and made my way to the library. ThereCharley soon joined me. 

'Why didn't you come to breakfast?' he asked. 

'I've been home, and changed my clothes, ' I answered. 'I couldn't wellappear in a tail-coat. It's bad enough to have to wear such an uglything by candle-light. '

'What's the matter with you?' he asked again, after an interval ofsilence, which I judge from the question must have been rather a longone. 

'What is the matter with me, Charley?'

'I can't tell. You don't seem yourself somehow. '

I do not know what answer I gave him, but I knew myself what was thematter with me well enough. The form and face of the maiden of mydream, the Athanasia lost that she might be found, blending with theface and form of Mary Osborne, filled my imagination so that I couldthink of nothing else. Gladly would I have been rid of even Charley'scompany, that, while my hands were busy with the books, my heart mightbrood at will now upon the lovely dream, now upon the lovely vision towhich I awoke from it, and which, had it not glided into the forms ofthe foregone dream, and possessed it with itself, would have banishedit altogether. At length I was aware of light steps and sweet voices inthe next room, and Mary and Clara presently entered. 

How came it that the face of the one had lost the half of its radiance, and the face of the other had gathered all that the former had lost. Mary's countenance was as still as ever; there was not in it a singleray of light beyond its usual expression; but I had become more capableof reading it, for the coalescence of the face of my dream with herdreaming face had given me its key; and I was now so far fromindifferent, that I was afraid to look for fear of betraying theattraction I now found it exercise over me. Seldom surely has a manbeen so long familiar with and careless of any countenance to find itall at once an object of absorbing interest! The very fact of its wantof revelation added immensely to its power over me now--for was I notin its secret? Did I not know what a lovely soul hid behind thatunexpressive countenance? Did I not know that it was as the veil of theholy of holies, at times reflecting only the light of the seven goldenlamps in the holy place; at others almost melted away in the rush ofthe radiance unspeakable from the hidden and holier side--the regionwhence come the revelations. To draw through it, if but once, thefeeblest glimmer of the light I had but once beheld, seemed an ambitionworthy of a life. Knowing her power of reticence, however, and ofwithdrawing from the outer courts into the penetralia of her sanctuary, guessing also at something of the aspect in which she regarded me, Idared not now make any such attempt. But I resolved to seize whatopportunity might offer of convincing her that I was not so far out ofsympathy with her as to be unworthy of holding closer converse; and Inow began to feel distressed at what had given me little troublebefore, namely, that she should suppose me the misleader of herbrother, while I knew that, however far I might be from an absolutebelief in things which she seemed never to have doubted, I was yet insome measure the means of keeping him from flinging aside the lastcords which held him to the faith of his fathers. But I would not leadin any such direction, partly from the fear of hypocrisy, partly fromhorror at the idea of making capital of what little faith I had. ButCharley himself afforded me an opportunity which I could not, whatevermy scrupulosity, well avoid. 

'Have you ever looked into that little book, Charley?' I said, findingin my hands an early edition of the _Christian Morals_ of Sir ThomasBrowne. --I wanted to say something, that I might not appear distraught. 

'No, ' he answered, with indifference, as he glanced at the title-page. 'Is it anything particular?'

'Everything he writes, however whimsical in parts, is well worth morethan mere reading, ' I answered. 'It is a strangely latinized style, buthas its charm notwithstanding. '

He was turning over the leaves as I spoke. Receiving no response, Ilooked up. He seemed to have come upon something which had attractedhim. 

'What have you found?' I asked. 

'Here's a chapter on the easiest way of putting a stop to it all, ' heanswered. 

'What do you mean?'

'He was a medical man--wasn't he? I'm ashamed to say I know nothingabout him. '

'Yes, certainly he was. '

'Then he knew what he was about. '

'As well probably as any man of his profession at the time. '

'He recommends drowning, ' said Charley, without raising his eyes fromthe book. 

'What do you mean?'

'I mean for suicide. '

'Nonsense, He was the last man to favour that. You must make a mistake. He was a thoroughly Christian man. '

'I know nothing about that. Hear this. '

He read the following passages from the beginning of the thirteenthsection of the second part. 

'With what shifts and pains we come into the world, we remember not;but 'tis commonly found no easy matter to get out of it. Many havestudied to exasperate the ways of death, but fewer hours have beenspent to soften that necessity. '--'Ovid, the old heroes, and theStoicks, who were so afraid of drowning, as dreading thereby theextinction of their soul, which they conceived to be a fire, stoodprobably in fear of an easier way of death; wherein the water, enteringthe possessions of air, makes a temporary suffocation, and kills as itwere without a fever. Surely many, who have had the spirit to destroythemselves, have not been ingenious in the contrivance thereof. '--'Catois much to be pitied, who mangled himself with poniards; and Hannibalseems more subtle, who carried his delivery, not in the point but thepummel of his sword. '

'Poison. I suppose, ' he said, as he ended the extract. 

'Yes, that's the story, if you remember, ' I answered; 'but I don't seethat Sir Thomas is favouring suicide. Not at all. What he writes thereis merely a speculation on the comparative ease of different modes ofdying. Let me see it. '

I took the book from his hands, and, glancing over the essay, read theclosing passage. 

'But to learn to die, is better than to study the ways of dying. Deathwill find some ways to untie or cut the most gordian knots of life, andmake men's miseries as mortal as themselves: whereas evil spirits, asundying substances, are unseparable from their calamities; and, therefore, they everlastingly struggle under their angustias, and, bound up with immortality, can never get out of themselves. '

'There! I told you so!' cried Charley. Don't you see? He is the mostcunning arguer--beats Despair in the _Fairy Queen_ hollow!'

By this time, either attracted by the stately flow of Sir Thomas'sspeech, or by the tone of our disputation, the two girls had drawnnearer, and were listening. 

'What _do_ you mean, Charley?' I said, perceiving, however, the hold Ihad by my further quotation given him. 

'First of all, he tells you the easiest way of dying, and then informsyou that it ends all your troubles. He is too cunning to say in so manywords that there is no hereafter, but what else can he wish you tounderstand when he says that in dying we have the advantage over theevil spirits, who cannot by death get rid of their sufferings? I willread this book, ' he added, closing it and putting it in his pocket. 

'I wish you would, ' I said: 'for although I confess you are logicallyright in your conclusions, I know Sir Thomas did not mean anything ofthe sort. He was only misled by his love of antithesis into a hasty andillogical remark. The whole tone of his book is against such aconclusion. Besides, I do not doubt he was thinking only of goodpeople, for whom he believed all suffering over at their death. '

'But I don't see, supposing he does believe in immortality, why youshould be so anxious about his orthodoxy on the other point. Didn't DrDonne, as good a man as any, I presume, argue on the part of thesuicide?'

'I have not read Dr Donne's essay, but I suspect the obliquity of ithas been much exaggerated. '

'Why should you? I never saw any argument worth the name on the otherside. We have plenty of expressions of horror--but those are notargument. Indeed, the mass of the vulgar are so afraid of dying that, apparently in terror lest suicide should prove infectious, they treatin a brutal manner the remains of the man who has only had the courageto free himself from a burden too hard for him to bear. It is allselfishness--nothing else. They love their paltry selves so much thatthey count it a greater sin to kill oneself than to kill anotherman--which seems to me absolutely devilish. Therefore, the _voxpopuli_, whether it be the _vox Dei_ or not, is not nonsense merely, but absolute wickedness. Why shouldn't a man kill himself?'

Clara was looking on rather than listening, and her interest seemedthat of amusement only. Mary's eyes were wide-fixed on the face ofCharley, evidently tortured to find that to the other enormities of hisunbelief was to be added the justification of suicide. His habit ofarguing was doubtless well enough known to her to leave room for themitigating possibility that he might be arguing only for argument'ssake, but what he said could not but be shocking to her upon anysupposition. 

I was not ready with an answer. Clara was the first to speak. 

'It's a cowardly thing, anyhow, ' she said. 

'How do you make that out, Miss Clara?' asked Charley. 'I'm aware it'sthe general opinion, but I don't see it myself. '

'It's surely cowardly to run away in that fashion. '

'For my part, ' returned Charley, 'I feel that it requires more couragethan _I_'ve got, and hence it comes, I suppose, that I admire any onewho has the pluck. '

'What vulgar words you use, Mr Charles!' said Clara. 

'Besides, ' he went on, heedless of her remark, 'a man may want toescape--not from his duties--he mayn't know what they are--but from hisown weakness and shame. '

'But, Charley dear, ' said Mary, with a great light in her eyes, and therest of her face as still as a sunless pond, 'you don't think of thesin of it. I know you are only talking, but some things oughtn't to betalked of lightly. '

'What makes it a sin? It's not mentioned in the ten commandments, ' saidCharley. 

'Surely it's against the will of God, Charley dear. '

'He hasn't said anything about it, anyhow. And why should I have athing forced upon me whether I will or not, and then be pulled up forthrowing it away when I found it troublesome?'

'Surely I don't quite understand you, Charley. '

'Well, if I must be more explicit--I was never asked whether I chose tobe made or not. I never had the conditions laid before me. Here I am, and I can't help myself--so far, I mean, as that here I am. '

'But life is a good thing, ' said Mary, evidently struggling with analmost overpowering horror. 

'I don't know that. My impression is that if I had been asked--'

'But that couldn't be, you know. '

'Then it wasn't fair. Bat why couldn't I be made for a moment or two, long enough to have the thing laid before me, and be asked whether Iwould accept it or not? My impression is that I would have said--No, thank you; that is, if it was fairly put. '

I hastened to offer a remark, in the hope of softening the pain suchflippancy must cause her. 

'And my impression is, Charley, ' I said, 'that if such had beenpossible--'

'Of course, ' he interrupted, 'the God you believe in could have made mefor a minute or two. He can, I suppose, unmake me now when he likes. '

'Yes; but could he have made you all at once capable of understandinghis plans, and your own future? Perhaps that is what he is doingnow--making you, by all you are going through, capable of understandingthem. Certainly the question could not have been put to you before youwere able to comprehend it, and this may be the only way to make youable. Surely a being who _could_ make you had a right to risk thechance, if I may be allowed such an expression, of your being satisfiedin the end with what he saw to be good--so good indeed that, if weaccept the New Testament story, he would have been willing to gothrough the same troubles himself for the same end. '

'No, no; not the same troubles, ' he objected. 'According to the storyto which you refer, Jesus Christ was free from all that alone makeslife unendurable--the bad inside you, that will come outside whetheryou will or not. '

'I admit your objection. As to the evil coming out, I suspect it isbetter it should come out, so long as it is there. But the end is notyet; and still I insist the probability is that, if you could know itall now, you would say with submission, if not with heartyconcurrence--"Thy will be done. "'

'I have known people who could say that without knowing it all now, MrCumbermede, ' said Mary. 

I had often called her by her Christian name, but she had neveraccepted the familiarity. 

'No doubt, ' said Charley, 'but _I_'m not one of those. '

'If you would but give in, ' said his sister, 'you would--in the end, Imean--say, "It is well. " I am sure of that. '

'Yes--perhaps I might--after all the suffering had been forced upon me, and was over at last--when I had been thoroughly exhausted and cowed, that is. '

'Which wouldn't satisfy any thinking soul, Charley--much less God, ' Isaid. 'But if there be a God at all--'

Mary gave a slight inarticulate cry. 

'Dear Miss Osborne, ' I said, 'I beg you will not misunderstand me. Icannot be sure about it, as you are--I wish I could--but I am notdisputing it in the least; I am only trying to make my argument asstrong as I can. --I was going to say to Charley--not to you--that, ifthere be a God, he would not have compelled us to be, except with theabsolute fore-knowledge that, when we knew all about it, we wouldcertainly declare ourselves ready to go through it all again if needshould be, in order to attain the known end of his high calling. '

'But isn't it very presumptuous to assert anything about God which hehas not revealed in his Word?' said Mary, in a gentle, subdued voice, and looking at me with a sweet doubtfulness in her eyes. 

'I am only insisting on the perfection of God--as far as I canunderstand perfection, ' I answered. 

'But may not the perfection of God be something very different fromanything we _can_ understand?'

'I will go further, ' I returned. 'It _must_ be something that we cannotunderstand--but different from what we can understand by being greater, not by being less. '

'Mayn't it be such that we can't understand it at all?' she insisted. 

'Then how should we ever worship him? How should we ever rejoice inhim? Surely it is because you see God to be good--'

'Or fancy you do, ' interposed Charley. 

'Or fancy you do, ' I assented, 'that you love him--not merely becauseyou are told he is good. The Fejee islander might assert his God to begood, but would that make you love him? If you heard that a greatpower, away somewhere, who had nothing to do with you at all, was verygood, would that make you able to love him?'

'Yes, it would, ' said Mary, decidedly. 'It is only a good man who wouldsee that God was good. '

'There you argue entirely on my side. It must be because you supposedhis goodness what you call goodness--not something else--that you couldlove him on testimony. But even then your love could not be of thatmighty absorbing kind which alone you would think fit between you andyour God. It would not be loving him with all your heart and soul andstrength and mind--would it? It would be loving him second-hand--notbecause of himself, seen and known by yourself. '

'But Charley does not even love God second-hand, ' she said, with adespairing mournfulness. 

'Perhaps because he is very anxious to love him first-hand, and whatyou tell him about God does not seem to him to be good. Surely neitherman nor woman can love because of what seems not good! I confess onemay love in spite of what is bad, but it must be because of otherthings that are good. '

She was silent. 

'However goodness may change its forms, ' I went on, 'it must still begoodness; only if we are to adore it, we must see something of what itis--of itself. And the goodness we cannot see, the eternal goodness, high above us as the heavens are above the earth, must still be agoodness that includes, absorbs, elevates, purifies all our goodness, not tramples upon it and calls it wickedness. For if not such, then wehave nothing in common with God, and what we call goodness is not ofGod. He has not even ordered it; or, if he has, he has ordered it onlyto order the contrary afterwards; and there is, in reality, no realgoodness--at least in him; and, if not in him, of whom we spring--wherethen?--and what becomes of ours, poor as it is?'

My reader will see that I had already thought much about these things;although, I suspect, I have now not only expressed them far better thanI could have expressed them in conversation, but with a degree ofclearness which must be owing to the further continuance of the habitof reflecting on these and cognate subjects. Deep in my mind, however, something like this lay; and in some manner like this I tried toexpress it. 

Finding that she continued silent, and that Charley did not appearinclined to renew the contest, anxious also to leave no embarrassingsilence to choke the channel now open between us--I mean Mary andmyself--I returned to the original question. 

'It seems to me, Charley--and it follows from all we have beensaying--that the sin of suicide lies just in this, that it is an utterwant of faith in God. I confess I do not see any Other ground on whichto condemn it--provided, always, that the man has no other dependentupon him, none for whom he ought to live and work. '

'But does a man owe nothing to himself?' said Clara. 

'Nothing that I know of, ' I replied. 'I am under no obligation tomyself. How can I divide myself, and say that the one-half of me isindebted to the other? To my mind, it is a mere fiction of speech. '

'But whence, then, should such a fiction arise?' objected Charley, willing, perhaps, to defend Clara. 

'From the dim sense of a real obligation, I suspect--the object ofwhich is mistaken. I suspect it really springs from our relation to theunknown God, so vaguely felt that a false form is readily accepted forits embodiment by a being who, in ignorance of its nature, is yet awareof its presence. I mean that what seems an obligation to self is inreality a dimly apprehended duty--an obligation to the unknown God, andnot to self, in which lies no causing, therefore no obligating power. '

'But why say _the unknown God_, Mr Cumbermede?' asked Mary. 

'Because I do not believe that any one who knew him could possiblyattribute to himself what belonged to Him--could, I mean, talk of anobligation to himself, when that obligation was to God. '

How far Mary Osborne followed the argument or agreed with it I cannottell, but she gave me a look of something like gratitude, and my heartfelt too big for its closed chamber. 

At this moment the housemaid who had, along with the carpenter, assisted me in the library, entered the room. She was rather a forwardgirl, and I suppose presumed on our acquaintance to communicatedirectly with myself instead of going to the housekeeper. Seeing herapproach as if she wanted to speak to me, I went to meet her. Shehanded me a small ring, saying, in a low voice, 'I found this in your room, sir, and thought it better to bring it toyou. '

'Thank you, ' I said, putting it at once on my little finger; 'I am gladyou found it. '

Charley and Clara had begun talking. I believe Clara was trying to makeCharley give her the book he had pocketed, imagining it really of thecharacter he had, half in sport, professed to believe it. But Mary hadcaught sight of the ring, and, with a bewildered expression on hercountenance, was making a step towards me. I put a finger to my lips, and gave her a look by which I succeeded in arresting her. Utterlyperplexed, I believe, she turned away towards the bookshelves behindher. I went into the next room, and called Charley. 

'I think we had better not go on with this talk, ' I said. 'You are veryimprudent indeed, Charley, to be always bringing up subjects that tendto widen the gulf between you and your sister. When I have a chance, Ido what I can to make her doubt whether you are so far wrong as theythink you, but you must give her time. All your kind of thought is sonew to her that your words cannot possibly convey to her what is inyour mind. If only she were not so afraid of me! But I think she beginsto trust me a little. '

'It's no use, ' he returned. Her head is so full of rubbish!'

'But her heart is so full of goodness!'

'I wish you could make anything of her! But she looks up to my fatherwith such a blind adoration that it isn't of the slightest useattempting to put an atom of sense into her. '

'I should indeed despair if I might only set about it after yourfashion. You always seem to shut your eyes to the mental condition ofthose that differ from you. Instead of trying to understand them first, which gives the sole possible chance of your ever making themunderstand what you mean, you care only to present your opinions; andthat you do in such a fashion that they must appear to them false. Youeven make yourself seem to hold these for very love of their untruth;and thus make it all but impossible for them to shake off theirfetters: every truth in advance of what they have already learned, willhenceforth come to them associated with your presumed backsliding andimpenitence. '

'Goodness! where did you learn their slang?' cried Charley. 'Butimpenitence, if you like, --not backsliding. I never made any_profession_. After all, however, their opinions don't seem to hurtthem--I mean my mother and sister. '

'They must hurt them if only by hindering their growth. In time, ofcourse, the angels of the heart will expel the demons of the brain; butit is a pity the process should be retarded by your behaviour. '

'I know I am a brute, Wilfrid. I _will_ try to hold my tongue. '

'Depend upon it, ' I went on, 'whatever such hearts can believe, is, asbelieved by them, to be treated with respect. It is because of thetruth in it, not because of the falsehood, that they hold it; and whenyou speak against the false in it, you appear to them to speak againstthe true; for the dogma seems to them an unanalyzable unit. You assailthe false with the recklessness of falsehood itself, careless of theinjury you may inflict on the true. '

I was interrupted by the entrance of Clara. 

'If you gentlemen don't want us any more, we had better go, ' she said. 

I left Charley to answer her, and went back into the next room. Marystood where I had left her, mechanically shifting and arranging thevolumes on a shelf at the height of her eyes. 

'I think this is your ring, Miss Osborne, ' I said, in a low and hurriedtone, offering it. 

Her expression at first was only of questioning surprise, when suddenlysomething seemed to cross her mind; she turned pale as death, and puther hand on the bookshelves as if to support her; as suddenly flushedcrimson for a moment, and again turned deadly pale--all before I couldspeak. 

'Don't ask me any questions, dear Miss Osborne, ' I said. 'And, please, trust me this far; don't mention the loss of your ring to any one, unless it be your mother. Allow me to put it on your finger. '

[Illustration: "I THINK THIS IS YOUR RING, MISS OSBORNE. "]

She gave me a glance I cannot and would not describe. It liestreasured--for ever, God grant!--in the secret jewel-house of my heart. She lifted a trembling left hand, and doubtingly held--half held ittowards me. To this day I know nothing of the stones of that ring--noteven their colour; but I know I should know it at once if I saw it. Myhand trembled more than hers as I put it on the third finger. 

What followed, I do not know. I think I left her there and went intothe other room. When I returned a little after, I know she was gone. From that hour, not one word has ever passed between us in reference tothe matter. The best of my conjectures remains but a conjecture; I knowhow the sword got there--nothing more. 

I did not see her again that day, and did not seem to want to see her, but worked on amongst the books in a quiet exultation. My being seemedtenfold awake and alive. My thoughts dwelt on the rarely revealedloveliness of my _Athanasia_; and, although I should have scornedunspeakably to take the smallest advantage of having come to share asecret with her, I could not help rejoicing in the sense of nearness toand _alone-ness_ with her which the possession of that secret gave me;while one of the most precious results of the new love which had thusall at once laid hold upon me, was the feeling--almost aconviction--that the dream was not a web self-wove in the loom of mybrain, but that from somewhere, beyond my soul even, an influence hadmingled with its longings to in-form the vision of that night--to be asit were a creative soul to what would otherwise have been but loose, chaotic, and shapeless vagaries of the unguided imagination. The eventsof that night were as the sudden opening of a door through which Icaught a glimpse of that region of the supernal in which, whatevermight be her theories concerning her experiences therein, Mary Osbornecertainly lived, if ever any one lived. The degree of God's presencewith a creature is not to be measured by that creature's interpretationof the manner in which he is revealed. The great question is whether heis revealed or not; and a strong truth can carry many parasiticalerrors. 

I felt that now I could talk freely to her of what most perplexedme--not so much, I confess, with any hope that she might cast light onmy difficulties, as in the assurance that she would not only influenceme to think purely and nobly, but would urge me in the search afterGod. In such a relation of love to religion the vulgar mind will everimagine ground for ridicule; but those who have most regarded humannature know well enough that the two have constantly manifestedthemselves in the closest relation; while even the poorest love is theenemy of selfishness unto the death, for the one or the other must giveup the ghost. Not only must God be in all that is human, but of it hemust be the root. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE SWORD IN THE SCALE. 

The next morning Charley and I went as usual to the library, where, later in the day, we were joined by the two ladies. It was long beforeour eyes once met, but when at last they did, Mary allowed hers to reston mine for just one moment with an expression of dove-like beseeching, which I dared to interpret as meaning--'Be just to me. ' If she readmine, surely she read there that she was safe with my thoughts as withthose of her mother. 

Charley and I worked late in the afternoon, and went away in the lastof the twilight. As we approached the gate of the park, however, Iremembered I had left behind me a book I had intended to carry home forcomparison with a copy in my possession, of which the title-page wasgone. I asked Charley, therefore, to walk on and give my man somedirections about Lilith, seeing I had it in my mind to propose a rideon the morrow, while I went back to fetch it. 

Finding the door at the foot of the stair leading to the open galleryajar, and knowing that none of the rooms at either end of it wereoccupied, I went the nearest way, and thus entered the library at thepoint furthest from the more public parts of the house. The book Isought was, however, at the other end of the suite, for I had laid iton the window-sill of the room next the armoury. 

As I entered that room, and while I crossed it towards the glimmeringwindow, I heard voices in the armoury, and soon distinguished Clara's. It never entered my mind that possibly I ought not to hear what mightbe said. Just as I reached the window I was arrested, and stood stockstill: the other voice was that of Geoffrey Brotherton. Before myself-possession returned, I had heard what follows. 

'I am certain _he_ took it, ' said Clara. 'I didn't see him, of course;but if you call at the Moat to-morrow, ten to one you will find ithanging on the wall. '

'I knew him for a sneak, but never took him for a thief. I would havelost anything out of the house rather than that sword!'

'Don't you mention my name in it. If you do, I shall think you--well, Iwill never speak to you again. '

'And if I don't, what then?'

Before I heard her answer, I had come to myself. I had no time forindignation yet. I must meet Geoffrey at once. I would not, however, have him know I had overheard any of their talk. It would have beenmore straightforward to allow the fact to be understood, but I shrunkfrom giving him occasion for accusing me of an eavesdropping of which Iwas innocent. Besides, I had no wish to encounter Clara before Iunderstood her game, which I need not say was a mystery to me. What endcould she have in such duplicity? I had had unpleasant suspicions ofthe truth of her nature before, but could never have suspected her ofbaseness. 

I stepped quietly into the further room, whence I returned, making anoise with the door-handle, and saying, 'Are you there, Miss Coningham? Could you help me to find a book I lefthere?'

There was silence; but after the briefest pause I heard the sound ofher dress as she swept hurriedly out into the gallery. I advanced. Onthe top of the steps, filling the doorway of the armoury in the faintlight from the window, appeared the dim form of Brotherton. 

'I beg your pardon, ' I said. 'I heard a lady's voice, and thought itwas Miss Coningham's. '

'I cannot compliment your ear, ' he answered. 'It was one of the maids. I had just rung for a light. I presume you are Mr Cumbermede?'

'Yes, ' I answered. 'I returned to fetch a book I forgot to take withme. I suppose you have heard what we've been about in the libraryhere?'

'I have been partially informed of it, ' he answered, stiffly. 'But Ihave heard also that you contemplate a raid upon the armoury. I beg youwill let the weapons alone. '

I had said something of the sort to Clara that very morning. 

'I have a special regard for them, ' he went on; 'and I don't want themmeddled with. It's not every one knows how to handle them. Some amongstthem I would not have injured for their weight in diamonds. One inparticular I should like to give you the history of--just to show youthat I am right in being careful over them. --Here comes the light. '

I presume it had been hurriedly arranged between them as Clara left himthat she should send one of the maids, who in consequence now made herappearance with a candle. Brotherton took it from her and approachedthe wall. 

'Why! What the devil! Some one has been meddling already, I find! Thevery sword I speak of is gone! There's the sheath hanging empty! What_can_ it mean? Do you know anything of this, Mr Cumbermede?'

'I do, Mr Brotherton. The sword to which that sheath belongs is _mine_. I have it. '

'_Yours!_' he shouted; then restraining himself, added in a tone ofutter contempt--'This is rather too much. Pray, sir, on what grounds doyou lay claim to the smallest atom of property within these walls? Myfather ought to have known what he was about when he let you have therun of the house! And the old books, too! By heaven, it's too much! Ialways thought--'

'It matters little to me what you think, Mr Brotherton--so little thatI do not care to take any notice of your insolence--'

'Insolence!' he roared, striding towards me, as if he would haveknocked me down. 

I was not his match in strength, for he was at least two inches tallerthan I, and of a coarse-built, powerful frame. I caught a light rapierfrom the wall, and stood on my defence. 

'Coward!' he cried. 

'There are more where this came from, ' I answered, pointing to thewall. 

He made no move towards arming himself, but stood glaring at me in awhite rage. 

'I am prepared to prove, ' I answered as calmly as I could, 'that thesword to which you allude is mine. But I will give _you_ noexplanation. If you will oblige me by asking your father to join us, Iwill tell him the whole story. '

'I will have a warrant out against you. '

'As you please. I am obliged to you for mentioning it. I shall beready. I have the sword, and intend to keep it. And by the way, I hadbetter secure the scabbard as well, ' I added, as with a sudden spring Icaught it also from the wall, and again stood prepared. 

He ground his teeth with rage. He was one of those who, trusting totheir superior strength, are not much afraid of a row, but cannot facecold steel: soldier as he had been, it made him nervous. 

'Insulted in my own house!' he snarled from between his teeth. 

'Your father's house, ' I corrected. 'Call him, and I will giveexplanations. '

'Damn your explanations! Get out of the house, you puppy; or I'll havethe servants up, and have you ducked in the horse-pond. '

'Bah!' I said. 'There's not one of them would lay hands on me at yourbidding. Call your father, I say, or I will go and find him myself. '

He broke out in a succession of oaths, using language I had heard inthe streets of London, but nowhere else. I stood perfectly still, andwatchful. All at once he turned and went into the gallery, over thebalustrade of which he shouted, 'Martin! Go and tell my father to come here--to the armoury--at once. Tell him there's a fellow here out of his mind. '

I remained quiet, with my scabbard in one hand, and the rapier in theother--a dangerous weapon enough, for it was, though slight, as sharpas a needle, and I knew it for a bit of excellent temper. Brothertonstood outside waiting for his father. In a few moments I heard thevoice of the old man. 

'Boys! boys!' he cried; 'what is all this to do?'

'Why, sir, ' answered Geoffrey, trying to be calm, 'here's that fellowCumbermede confesses to have stolen the most valuable of the swords outof the armoury--one that's been in the family for two hundred years, and says he means to keep it. '

I just caught the word _liar_ ere it escaped my lips: I would spare theson in his father's presence. 

'Tut! tut!' said Sir Giles. 'What does it all mean? You're at your oldquarrelsome tricks, my boy! Really you ought to be wiser by this time!'

As he spoke, he entered panting, and with the rubicund glow beginningto return upon a face from which the message had evidently banished it. 

'Tut! tut!' he said again, half starting back as he caught sight of mewith the weapon in my hand--'What is it all about, Mr Cumbermede? Ithought _you_ had more sense!'

'Sir Giles, ' I said, 'I have not confessed to having stolen thesword--only to having taken it. '

'A very different thing, ' he returned, trying to laugh. 'But come now;tell me all about it. We can't have quarrelling like this, you know. Wecan't have pot-house work here. '

'That is just why I sent for you, Sir Giles, ' I answered, replacing therapier on the wall. 'I want to tell you the whole story. '

'Let's have it, then. '

'Mind, I don't believe a word of it, ' said Geoffrey. 

'Hold your tongue, sir, ' said his father, sharply. 

'Mr Brotherton, ' I said, 'I offered to tell the story to Sir Giles--notto you. '

'You offered!' he sneered. 'You may be compelled--under differentcircumstances by-and-by, if you don't mind what you're about. '

'Come now--no more of this!' said Sir Giles. 

Thereupon I began at the beginning, and told him the story of thesword, as I have already given it to my reader. He fidgeted a little, but Geoffrey kept himself stock-still during the whole of thenarrative. As soon as I had ended Sir Giles said, 'And you think poor old Close actually carried off your sword!--Well, he was an odd creature, and had a passion for everything that couldkill. The poor little atomy used to carry a poniard in thebreast-pocket of his black coat--as if anybody would ever have thoughtof attacking his small carcass! Ha! ha! ha! He was simply a monomaniacin regard of swords and daggers. There, Geoffrey! The sword is plainlyhis. _He_ is the wronged party in the matter, and we owe him anapology. '

'I believe the whole to be a pure invention, ' said Geoffrey, who nowappeared perfectly calm. 

'Mr Brotherton!' I began, but Sir Giles interposed. 

'Hush! hush!' he said, and turned to his son. 'My boy, you insult yourfather's guest. '

'I will at once prove to you, sir, how unworthy he is of anyforbearance, not to say protection from you. Excuse me for one moment. '

He took up the candle, and opening the little door at the foot of thewinding stair, disappeared. Sir Giles and I sat in silence and darknessuntil he returned, carrying in his hand an old vellum-bound book. 

'I dare say you don't know this manuscript, sir, ' he said, turning tohis father. 

'I know nothing about it, ' answered Sir Giles. 'What is it? Or what hasit to do with the matter in hand?'

'Mr Close found it in some corner or other, and used to read it to mewhen I was a little fellow. It is a description, and in most cases ahistory as well, of every weapon in the armoury. They had been muchneglected, and a great many of the labels were gone, but those whichwere left referred to numbers in the book-heading descriptions whichcorresponded exactly to the weapons on which they were found. With alittle trouble he had succeeded in supplying the numbers where theywere missing, for the descriptions are very minute. '

He spoke in a tone of perfect self-possession. 

'Well, Geoffrey, I ask again, what has all this to do with it?' saidhis father. 

'If Mr Cumbermede will allow you to look at the label attached to thesheath in his hand--for fortunately it was a rule with Mr Close to puta label on both sword and sheath--and if you will read me the number, Iwill read you the description in the book. '

I handed the sheath to Sir Giles, who began to decipher the number onthe ivory ticket. 

'The label is quite a new one, ' I said. 

'I have already accounted for that, ' said Brotherton. 'I will leave itto yourself to decide whether the description corresponds. '

Sir Giles read out the number figure by figure, adding--

'But how are we to test the description? I don't know the thing, andit's not here. '

'It is at the Moat, ' I replied; 'but its future place is at Sir Giles'sdecision. '

'Part of the description belongs to the scabbard you have in your hand, sir, ' said Brotherton. 'The description of the sword itself I submit toMr Cumbermede. '

'Till the other day I never saw the blade, ' I said. 

'Likely enough, ' he retorted dryly, and proceeding, read thedescription of the half-basket hilt, inlaid with gold, and the broadblade, channeled near the hilt, and inlaid with ornaments and initialsin gold. 

'There is nothing in all that about the scabbard, ' said his father. 

'Stop till we come to the history, ' he replied, and read on, as nearlyas I can recall, to the following effect. I have never had anopportunity of copying the words themselves. 

'"This sword seems to have been expressly forged for Sir [----][----], "' (He read it _Sir So and So_. ) '"whose initials are to befound on the blade. According to tradition, it was worn by him, for thefirst and only time, at the battle of Naseby, where he fought in thecavalry led by Sir Marmaduke Langdale. From some accident or other, Sir[----] [----] found, just as the order to charge was given, that hecould not draw his sword, and had to charge with only a pistol in hishand. In the flight which followed he pulled up, and unbuckled hissword, but while attempting to ease it, a rush of the enemy startledhim, and, looking about, he saw a Roundhead riding straight at SirMarmaduke, who that moment passed in the rear of his retiringtroops--giving some directions to an officer by his side, and unawareof the nearness of danger. Sir [----] [----] put spurs to his charger, rode at the trooper, and dealt him a downright blow on the pot-helmetwith his sheathed weapon. The fellow tumbled from his horse, and Sir[----] [----] found his scabbard split halfway up, but the edge of hisweapon unturned. It is said he vowed it should remain sheathed forever. "--The person who has now unsheathed it has done a great wrong tothe memory of a loyal cavalier. '

'The sheath halfway split was as familiar to my eyes as the face of myuncle, ' I said, turning to Sir Giles. 'And in the only reference I everheard my great-grandmother make to it, she mentioned the name of SirMarmaduke. I recollect that much perfectly. '

'But how could the sword be there and here at one and the same time?'said Sir Giles. 

'_That_ I do not pretend to explain, ' I said. 

'Here at least is written testimony to our possession of it, ' saidBrotherton in a conclusive tone. 

'How, then, are we to explain Mr Cumbermede's story?' said Sir Giles, evidently in good faith. 

'With that I cannot consent to allow myself concerned. --Mr Cumbermedeis, I am told, a writer of fiction. '

'Geoffrey, ' said Sir Giles, 'behave yourself like a gentleman. '

'I endeavour to do so, ' he returned with a sneer. 

I kept silence. 

'How can you suppose, ' the old man went on, 'that Mr Cumbermede wouldinvent such a story? What object could he have?'

'He may have a mania for weapons, like old Close--as well as for oldbooks, ' he replied. 

I thought of my precious folio. But I did not yet know how muchadditional force his insinuation with regard to the motive of mylabours in the library would gain if it should be discovered that sucha volume was in my possession. 

'You may have remarked, sir, ' he went on, 'that I did not read the nameof the owner of the sword in any place where it occurred in themanuscript. '

'I did. And I beg to know why you kept it back, ' answered Sir Giles. 

'What do you think the name might be, sir?'

'How should I know? I am not an antiquarian. '

'Sir _Wilfrid Cumbermede_. You will find the initials on theblade. --Does that throw any light on the matter, do you think, sir?'

'Why, that is your very own name!' cried Sir Giles, turning to me. 

I bowed. 

'It is a pity the sword shouldn't be yours. '

'It is mine, Sir Giles--though, as I said, I am prepared to abide byyour decision. '

'And now I remember;--the old man resumed, after a moment'sthought--'the other evening Mr Alderforge--a man of great learning, MrCumbermede--told us that the name of Cumbermede had at one timebelonged to our family. It is all very strange. I confess I am utterlybewildered. '

'At least you can understand, sir, how a man of imagination, like MrCumbermede here, might desire to possess himself of a weapon whichbears his initials, and belonged two hundred years ago to a baronet ofthe same name as himself--a circumstance which, notwithstanding it isby no means a common name, is not _quite_ so strange as at first sightappears--that is, if all reports are true. '

I did not in the least understand his drift; neither did I care toinquire into it now. 

'Were you aware of this, Mr Cumbermede?' asked his father. 

'No, Sir Giles, ' I answered. 

'Mr Cumbermede has had the run of the place for weeks. I am sorry I wasnot at home. This book was lying all the time on the table in the roomabove, where poor old Close's work-bench and polishing-wheel are stillstanding. '

'Mr Brotherton, this gets beyond bearing, ' I cried. 'Nothing but thepresence of your father, to whom I am indebted for much kindness, protects you. '

'Tut! tut!' said Sir Giles. 

'Protects me, indeed!' exclaimed Brotherton. 'Do you dream I should beby any code bound to accept a challenge from you?--Not, at least, Ipresume to think, before a jury had decided on the merits of the case. '

My blood was boiling, but what could I do or say? Sir Giles rose, andwas about to leave the room, remarking only--

'I don't know what to make of it. '

'At all events, Sir Giles, ' I said hurriedly, 'you will allow me toprove the truth of what I have asserted. I cannot, unfortunately, callmy uncle or aunt, for they are gone; and I do not know where theservant who was with us when I took the sword away is now. But, if youwill allow me, I will call Mrs Wilson--to prove that I had the swordwhen I came to visit her on that occasion, and that on the morningafter sleeping here I complained of its loss to her, and went awaywithout it. '

'It would but serve to show the hallucination was early developed. Weshould probably find that even then you were much attracted by thearmoury, ' said Brotherton, with a judicial air, as if I were a culpritbefore a magistrate. 

I had begun to see that, although the old man was desirous of beingjust, he was a little afraid of his son. He rose as the latter spoke, however, and going into the gallery, shouted over the balustrade--

'Some one send Mrs Wilson to the library!'

We removed to the reading-room, I carrying the scabbard which Sir Gileshad returned to me as soon as he had read the label. Brothertonfollowed, having first gone up the little turn-pike stair, doubtless toreplace the manuscript. 

Mrs Wilson came, looking more pinched than ever, and stood before SirGiles with her arms straight by her sides, like one of the ladies ofNoah's ark. I will not weary my reader with a full report of theexamination. She had seen me _with_ a sword, but had taken no notice ofits appearance. I _might_ have taken it from the armoury, for I _was_in the library all the afternoon. She had left me there thinking I wasa 'gentlemany' boy. I had _said_ I had lost it, but she was sure _she_did not know how that could be. She was _very_ sorry she had caused anytrouble by asking me to the house, but Sir Giles would be pleased toremember that he had himself introduced the boy to her notice. Littleshe thought, &c. , &c. 

In fact, the spiteful creature, propitiating her natural sense ofjustice by hinting instead of plainly suggesting injurious conclusions, was paying me back for my imagined participation in the impertinencesof Clara. She had besides, as I learned afterwards, greatly resentedthe trouble I had caused of late. 

Brotherton struck in as soon as his father had ceased questioning her. 

'At all events, if he believed the sword was his, why did he not go andrepresent the case to you, sir, and request justice from you? Sincethen he has had opportunity enough. His tale has taken too long tohatch. '

'This is all very paltry, ' I said. 

'Not so paltry as your contriving to sleep in the house in order tocarry off your host's property in the morning--after studying the placeto discover which room would suit your purpose best!'

Here I lost my presence of mind. A horror shook me lest something mightcome out to injure Mary, and I shivered at the thought of her namebeing once mentioned along with mine. If I had taken a moment toreflect, I must have seen that I should only add to the danger by whatI was about to say. But her form was so inextricably associated in mymind with all that had happened then, that it seemed as if theslightest allusion to any event of that night would inevitably betrayher; and in the tremor which, like an electric shock, passed through mefrom head to foot, I blurted out words importing that I had never sleptin the house in my life. 

'Your room was got ready for you, anyhow, Master Cumbermede, ' said MrsWilson. 

'It does not follow that I occupied it, ' I returned. 

'I can prove that false, ' said Brotherton; but, probably lest he shouldbe required to produce his witness, only added, --'At all events, he wasseen in the morning, carrying the sword across the court before any onehad been admitted. '

I was silent; for I now saw too clearly that I had made a dreadfulblunder, and that any attempt to carry assertion further, or even toexplain away my words, might be to challenge the very discovery I wouldhave given my life to ward off. 

As I continued silent, steeling myself to endure, and saying to myselfthat disgrace was not dishonour, Sir Giles again rose, and turned toleave the room. Evidently he was now satisfied that I was unworthy ofconfidence. 

'One moment, if you please, Sir Giles, ' I said. 'It is plain to methere is some mystery about this affair, and it does not seem as if Ishould be able to clear it up. The time may come, however, when I can. I did wrong, I see now, in attempting to right myself, instead ofrepresenting my case to you. But that does not alter the fact that thesword was and is mine, however appearances may be to the contrary. Inthe mean time, I restore you the scabbard, and as soon as I reach home, I shall send my man with the disputed weapon. '

'It will be your better way, ' he said, as he took the sheath from myhand. 

Without another word, he left the room. Mrs Wilson also retired. Brotherton alone remained. I took no further notice of him, butfollowed Sir Giles through the armoury. He came after me, step forstep, at a little distance, and as I stepped out into the gallery, said, in a tone of insulting politeness:

'You will send the sword as soon as may be quite convenient, MrCumbermede? Or shall I send and fetch it?'

I turned and faced him in the dim light which came up from the hall. 

'Mr Brotherton, if you knew that book and those weapons as early as youhave just said, you cannot help knowing that at that time the sword was_not_ there. '

'I decline to re-open the question, ' he said. 

A fierce word leaped to my lips, but repressing it I turned away oncemore, and walked slowly down the stair, across the hall, and out of thehouse. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

I PART WITH MY SWORD

I made haste out of the park, but wandered up and down my own field forhalf an hour, thinking in what shape to put what had occurred beforeCharley. My perplexity arose not so much from the difficulty involvedin the matter itself as from my inability to fix my thoughts. My brainwas for the time like an ever-revolving kaleidoscope, in which, however, there was but one fair colour--the thought of Mary. Having atlength succeeded in arriving at some conclusion, I went home, and wouldhave despatched Styles at once with the sword, had not Charley alreadysent him off to the stable, so that I must wait. 

'What _has_ kept you so long, Wilfrid?' Charley asked, as I entered. 

'I've had a tremendous row with Brotherton, ' I answered. 

'The brute! Is he there? I'm glad I was gone. What was it all about?'

'About that sword. It was very foolish of me to take it without sayinga word to Sir Giles. '

'So it was, ' he returned. 'I can't think how _you_ could be sofoolish!'

I could, well enough. What with the dream and the waking, I could thinklittle about anything else; and only since the consequences hadovertaken me, saw how unwisely I had acted. I now told Charley thegreater part of the affair--omitting the false step I had made insaying I had not slept in the house; and also, still with the vaguedread of leading to some discovery, omitting to report the treachery ofClara; for, if Charley should talk to her or Mary about it, which waspossible enough, I saw several points where the danger would lie veryclose. I simply told him that I had found Brotherton in the armoury, and reported what followed between us. I did not at all relish havingnow in my turn secrets from Charley, but my conscience did not troubleme about it, seeing it was for his sister's sake; and when I saw therage of indignation into which he flew, I was, if possible, yet morecertain I was right. I told him I must go and find Styles, that hemight take the sword at once; but he started up, saying he would carryit back himself, and at the same time take his leave of Sir Giles, whose house, of course, he could never enter again after the way I hadbeen treated in it. I saw this would lead to a rupture with the wholefamily, but I should not regret that, for there could be no advantageto Mary either in continuing her intimacy, such as it was, with Clara, or in making further acquaintance with Brotherton. The time of theirdeparture was also close at hand, and might be hastened withoutnecessarily involving much of the unpleasant. Also, if Charley brokewith them at once, there would be the less danger of his coming to knowthat I had not given him all the particulars of my discomfiture. If hewere to find I had told a falsehood, how could I explain to him why Ihad done so? This arguing on probabilities made me feel like a culpritwho has to protect himself by concealment; but I will not dwell upon mydiscomfort in the half-duplicity thus forced upon me. I could not helpit. I got down the sword, and together we looked at it for the firstand last time. I found the description contained in the book perfectlycorrect. The upper part was inlaid with gold in a Greekish pattern, crossed by the initials W. C. I gave it up to Charley with a sigh ofsubmission to the inevitable, and having accompanied him to thepark-gate, roamed my field again until his return. 

He rejoined me in a far quieter mood, and for a moment or two I wassilent with the terror of learning that he had become acquainted withmy unhappy blunder. After a little pause, he said, 'I'm very sorry I didn't see Brotherton. I should have liked just aword or two with him. '

'It's just as well not, ' I said. 'You would only have made another row. Didn't you see any of them?'

'I saw the old man. He seemed really cut up about it, and professedgreat concern. He didn't even refer to you by name--and spoke only ingeneral terms. I told him you were incapable of what was laid to yourcharge; that I had not the slightest doubt of your claim to thesword, --your word being enough for me, --and that I trusted time wouldright you. I went too far there, however, for I haven't the slightesthope of anything of the sort. '

'How did he take all that?'

'He only smiled--incredulously and sadly, --so that I couldn't find itin my heart to tell him all my mind. I only insisted on my own perfectconfidence in you. --I'm afraid I made a poor advocate, Wilfrid. Whyshould I mind his grey hairs where justice is concerned? I am afraid Iwas false to you, Wilfrid. '

'Nonsense; you did just the right thing, old boy. Nobody could havedone better. '

'_Do_ you think so? I am _so_ glad! I have been feeling ever since asif I ought to have gone into a rage, and shaken the dust of the placefrom my feet for a witness against the whole nest of them! But somehowI couldn't--what with the honest face and the sorrowful look of the oldman. '

'You are always too much of a partisan, Charley; I don't mean so muchin your actions--for this very one disproves that--but in your notionsof obligation. You forget that you had to be just to Sir Giles as wellas to me, and that he must be judged--not by the absolute facts of thecase, but by what appeared to him to be the facts. He could not helpmisjudging me. But you ought to help misjudging him. So you see yourbehaviour was guided by an instinct or a soul, or what you will, deeperthan your judgment. '

'That may be--but he ought to have known you better than believe youcapable of misconduct. '

'I don't know that. He had seen very little of me. But I dare say heputs it down to cleptomania. I think he will be kind enough to give theugly thing a fine name for my sake. Besides, he must hold either by hisson or by me. '

'That's the worst that can be said on my side of the question. He mustby this time be aware that that son of his is nothing better than a lowscoundrel. '

'It takes much to convince a father of such an unpleasant truth asthat, Charley. '

'Not much, if my experience goes for anything. '

'I trust it is not typical, Charley. '

'I suppose you're going to stand up for Geoffrey next?'

'I have no such intention. But if I did, it would be but to follow yourexample. We seem to change sides every now and then. You remember howyou used to defend Clara when I expressed my doubts about her. '

'And wasn't I right? Didn't you come over to my side?'

'Yes, I did, ' I said, and hastened to change the subject; adding, 'Asfor Geoffrey, there is room enough to doubt whether he believes what hesays, and that makes a serious difference. In thinking over the affairsince you left me, I have discovered further grounds for questioninghis truthfulness. '

'As if that were necessary!' he exclaimed, with an accent of scorn. 'But tell me what you mean?' he added. 

'In turning the thing over in my mind, this question has occurred tome. --He read from the manuscript that oh the blade of the sword, nearthe hilt, were the initials of Wilfrid Cumbermede. Now, if the swordhad never been drawn from the scabbard, how was that to be known to thewriter?'

'Perhaps it was written about that time, ' said Charley. 

'No; the manuscript was evidently written some considerable time after. It refers to tradition concerning it. '

'Then the writer knew it by tradition. '

The moment Charley's logical faculty was excited his perception wasimpartial. 

'Besides, ' he went on, ' it does not follow that the sword had reallynever been drawn before. Mr Close even may have done so, for hisadmiration was apparently quite as much for weapons themselves as fortheir history. Clara could hardly have drawn it as she did if it hadnot been meddled with before. '

The terror lest he should ask me how I came to carry it home withoutthe scabbard hurried my objection. 

'That supposition, however, would only imply that Brotherton might havelearned the fact from the sword itself, not from the book. I shouldjust like to have one peep of the manuscript to see whether what heread was all there!'

'Or any of it, for that matter, ' said Charley. 'Only it would have beena more tremendous risk than I think he would have run. '

'I wish I had thought of it sooner, though. '

My suspicion was that Clara had examined the blade thoroughly, andgiven him a full description of it. He _might_, however, have been atthe Hall on some previous occasion, without my knowledge, and mighthave seen the half-drawn blade on the wall, examined it, and pushed itback into the sheath; which might have so far loosened the blade thatClara was afterwards able to draw it herself. I was all but certain bythis time that it was no other than she that had laid it on my bed. Butthen why had she drawn it? Perhaps that I might leave proof of itsidentity behind me--for the carrying out of her treachery, whatever theobject of it might be. But this opened a hundred questions not to bediscussed, even in silent thought, in the presence of another. 

'Did you see your mother, Charley?' I asked. 

'No, I thought it better not to trouble her. They are going to-morrow. Mary had persuaded her--why, I don't know--to return a day or twosooner than they had intended. '

'I hope Brotherton will not succeed in prejudicing them against me. '

'I wish that were possible, ' he answered. 'But the time for prejudiceis long gone by. '

I could not believe this to be the case in respect of Mary; for I couldnot but think her favourably inclined to me. 

'Still, ' I said, 'I should not like their bad opinion of me to beenlarged as well as strengthened by the belief that I had attempted tosteal Sir Giles's property. You _must_ stand my friend there, Charley. '

'Then you _do_ doubt me, Wilfrid?'

'Not a bit, you foolish fellow. '

'You know, I can't enter that house again, and I don't care aboutwriting to my mother, for my father is sure to see it; but I willfollow my mother and Mary the moment they are out of the groundsto-morrow, and soon see whether they've got the story by the rightend. '

The evening passed with me in alternate fits of fierce indignation andprofound depression, for, while I was clear to my own conscience inregard of my enemies, I had yet thrown myself bound at their feet by myfoolish lie; and I all but made up my mind to leave the country, andonly return after having achieved such a position--of what sort I hadno more idea than the school-boy before he sets himself to build a newcastle in the air--as would buttress any assertion of the facts I mightsee fit to make in after-years. 

When we had parted for the night, my brains began to go about, and thecentre of their gyrations was not Mary now, but Clara. What could haveinduced her to play me false? All my vanity, of which I had enough, wasinsufficient to persuade me that it could be out of revenge for thegradual diminution of my attentions to her. She had seen me pay none toMary, I thought, unless she had caught a glimpse from the next room ofthe little passage of the ring, and that I did not believe. Neither didI believe she had ever cared enough about me to be jealous of whateverattentions I might pay to another. But in all my conjectures, I had toconfess myself utterly foiled. I could imagine no motive. Twopossibilities alone, both equally improbable, suggested themselves--theone, that she did it for pure love of mischief, which, false as she wasto me, I could not believe; the other, which likewise I rejected, thatshe wanted to ingratiate herself with Brotherton. I had still, however, scarcely a doubt that she had laid the sword on my bed. Trying toimagine a connection between this possible action and Mary's mistake, Ibuilt up a conjectural form of conjectural facts to this effect--thatMary had seen her go into my room, had taken it for the room she was toshare with her, and had followed her either at once--in which case Isupposed Clara to have gone out by the stair to the roof to avoid beingseen--or afterwards, from some accident, without a light in her hand. But I do not care to set down more of my speculations, for noneconcerning this either were satisfactory to myself, and I remain almostas much in the dark to this day. In any case the fear remained thatClara must be ever on the borders of the discovery of Mary's secret, ifindeed she did not know it already, which was a dreadful thought--moreespecially as I could place no confidence in her. I was glad to think, however, that they were to be parted so soon, and I had little fear ofany correspondence between them. 

The next morning Charley set out to waylay them at a certain point ontheir homeward journey. I did not propose to accompany him. I preferredhaving him speak for me first, not knowing how much they might haveheard to my discredit, for it was far from probable the matter had beenkept from them. After he had started, however, I could not rest, andfor pure restlessness sent Styles to fetch my mare. The loss of mysword was a trifle to me now, but the proximity of the place where Ishould henceforth be regarded as what I hardly dared to realize, wasalmost unendurable. As if I had actually been guilty of what was laidto my charge, I longed to hide myself in some impenetrable depth, andkept looking out impatiently for Styles's return. At length I caughtsight of my Lilith's head rising white from the hollow in which thefarm lay, and ran up to my room to make a little change in my attire. Just as I snatched my riding-whip from a hook by the window, I spied ahorseman approaching from the direction of the park gates. Once more itwas Mr Coningham, riding hitherward from the windy trees. In no degreeinclined to meet him, I hurried down the stair, and arriving at thevery moment Styles drew up, sprung into the saddle, and would havegalloped off in the opposite direction, confident that no horse of MrConingham's could overtake my Lilith. But the moment I was in thesaddle, I remembered there was a pile of books on the window-sill of myuncle's room, belonging to the library at the Hall, and I stopped amoment to give Styles the direction to take them home at once, and, having asked a word of Miss Pease, to request her, with my kindregards, to see them safely deposited amongst the rest. In consequenceof this delay, just as I set off at full speed from the door, MrConingham rode round the corner of the house. 

'What a devil of a hurry you are in, Mr Cumbermede!' he cried. 'I wasjust coming to see you. Can't you spare me a word?'

I was forced to pull up, and reply as civilly as might be. 

'I am only going for a ride, ' I said, 'and will go part of your waywith you if you like. '

'Thank you. That will suit me admirably, I am going Gastford way. Haveyou ever been there?'

'No, ' I answered. 'I have only just heard the name of the village. '

'It is a pretty place. But there's the oddest old church you ever saw, within a couple of miles of it--alone in the middle of a forest--or atleast it was a forest not long ago. It is mostly young trees now. Thereisn't a house within a mile of it, and the nearest stands as lonely asthe church--quite a place to suit the fancy of a poet like you! Comealong and see it. You may as well go one way as another, if you onlywant a ride. '

'How far is it?' I asked. 

'Only seven or eight miles across country. I can take you all the waythrough lanes and fields. '

Perplexed or angry I was always disinclined for speech; and it was onlyafter things had arranged themselves in my mind, or I had mastered myindignation, that I would begin to feel communicative. But somethingprudential inside warned me that I could not afford to lose any friendI had; and although I was not prepared to confide my wrongs to MrConingham, I felt I might some day be glad of his counsel. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

UMBERDEN CHURCH. 

My companion chatted away, lauded my mare, asked if I had seen Claralately, and how the library was getting on. I answered him carelessly, without even a hint at my troubles. 

'You seem out of spirits, Mr Cumbermede?' he said. 'You've been takingtoo little exercise. Let's have a canter. It will do you good. Here's anice bit of sward. '

I was only too ready to embrace the excuse for dropping a conversationtowards which I was unable to contribute my share. 

Having reached a small roadside inn, we gave our horses a littlerefreshment; after which, crossing a field or two by jumping thestiles, we entered the loveliest lane I had ever seen. It was so narrowthat there was just room for horses to pass each other, and coveredwith the greenest sward rarely trodden. It ran through the midst of awilderness of tall hazels. They stood up on both sides of it, straightand trim as walls, high above our heads as we sat on our horses; andthe lane was so serpentine that we could never see further than a fewyards ahead; while, towards the end, it kept turning so much in onedirection that we seemed to be following the circumference of a littlecircle. It ceased at length at a small double-leaved gate of iron, towhich we tied our horses before entering the churchyard. But instead ofa neat burial-place, which the whole approach would have given us toexpect, we found a desert. The grass was of extraordinary coarseness, and mingled with quantities of vile-looking weeds. Several of thegraves had not even a spot of green upon them, but were mere heaps ofyellow earth in huge lumps, mixed with large stones. There was notabove a score of graves in the whole place, two or three of which onlyhad gravestones on them. One lay open, with the rough yellow lumps allabout it, and completed the desolation. The church was nearlysquare--small, but shapeless, with but four latticed windows, two onone side, one in the other, and the fourth in the east end. It wasbuilt partly of bricks and partly of flint stones, the walls bowed andbent, and the roof waved and broken. Its old age had gathered none ofthe graces of age to soften its natural ugliness, or elevate itsinsignificance. Except a few lichens, there was not a mark ofvegetation about it. Not a single ivy leaf grew on its spotted andwasted walls. It gave a hopeless, pagan expression to the wholelandscape--for it stood on a rising ground, from which we had anextensive prospect of height and hollow, cornfield and pasture andwood, away to the dim blue horizon. 

'You don't find it enlivening, do you--eh?' said my companion. 

'I never saw such a frightfully desolate spot, ' I said, 'to have yetthe appearance of a place of Christian worship. It looks as if therewere a curse upon it. Are all those the graves of suicides andmurderers? It cannot surely be consecrated ground?'

'It's not nice, ' he said. 'I didn't expect you to like it. I only saidit was odd. '

'Is there any service held in it?' I asked. 

'Yes--once a fortnight or so. The rector has another living a few milesoff. '

'Where can the congregation come from?'

'Hardly from anywhere. There ain't generally more than five or six, Ibelieve. Let's have a look at the inside of it. '

'The windows are much too high, and no foothold. '

'We'll go in. '

'Where can you get the key? It must be a mile off at least, by your ownaccount. There's no house nearer than that, you say. '

He made me no reply, but going to the only flat gravestone, which stoodon short thick pillars, he put his hand beneath it, and drew out agreat rusty key. 

'Country lawyers know a secret or two, ' he said. 

'Not always much worth knowing, ' I rejoined, --'if the inside be nobetter than the outside. '

'We'll have a look, anyhow, ' he said, as he turned the key in the drylock. 

The door snarled on its hinges, and disclosed a space dreariercertainly, and if possible uglier, than its promise. 

'Really, Mr Coningham, ' I said, 'I don't see why you should havebrought me to look at this place. '

'It answered for a bait, at all events. You've had a good long ride, which was the best thing for you. Look what a wretched little vestrythat is!'

It was but a corner of the east end, divided off by a faded redcurtain. 

'I suppose they keep a parish register here, ' he said. 'Let us have alook. '

Behind the curtain hung a dirty surplice and a gown. In the cornerstood a desk like the schoolmaster's in a village school. There was ashelf with a few vellum-bound books on it, and nothing else, not even achair in the place. 

'Yes; there they are!' he said, as he took down one of the volumes fromthe shelf. 'This one comes to a close in the middle of the lastcentury. I dare say there is something in this, now, that would beinteresting enough to somebody. Who knows how many properties it mightmake change hands?'

'Not many, I should think. Those matters are pretty well seen to now. '

 [Illustration: "COUNTRY LAWYERS KNOW A SECRET OR TWO, " HE SAID. ]

'By some one or other--not always the rightful heirs. Life is full ofthe strangest facts, Mr Cumbermede. If I were a novelist, now, likeyou, my experience would make me dare a good deal more in the way ofinvention than any novelist I happen to have read. Look there, forinstance. '

He pointed to the top of the last page, or rather the last half of thecover. I read as follows:

'MARRIAGES, 1748. 

'Mr Wilfrid Cumbermede Daryll, of the Parish of [----] second son ofSir Richard Daryll of Moldwarp Hall in the County of [----] andMistress Elizabeth Woodruffe were married by a license Jan. 15. '

'I don't know the name of Daryll, ' I said. 

'It was your own great-grandfather's name, ' he returned. 'I happen toknow that much. '

'You knew this was here, Mr Coningham, ' I said. 'That is why youbrought me here. '

'You are right. I did know it. Was I wrong in thinking it wouldinterest you?'

'Certainly not. I am obliged to you. But why this mystery? Why not havetold me what you wanted me to go for?'

'I will why you in turn. Why should I have wanted to show you now morethan any other time what I have known for as many years almost as youhave lived? You spoke of a ride--why shouldn't I give a direction to itthat might pay you for your trouble? And why shouldn't I have a littleamusement out of it if I pleased? Why shouldn't I enjoy your surpriseat finding in a place you had hardly heard of, and would certainlycount most uninteresting, the record of a fact that concerned your ownexistence so nearly? There!'

'I confess it interests me more than you will easily think--inasmuch asit seems to offer to account for things that have greatly puzzled mefor some time. I have of late met with several hints of a connection atone time or other between the Moat and the Hall, but these hints wereso isolated that I could weave no theory to connect them. Now I daresay they will clear themselves up. '

'Not a doubt of-that, if you set about it in earnest. '

'How did he come to drop his surname?'

'That has to be accounted for. '

'It follows--does it not?--that I am of the same blood as the presentpossessors of Moldwarp Hall?'

'You are--but the relation is not a close one, ' said Mr Coningham. 

'Sir Giles was but distantly related to the stock of which you come. '

'Then--but I must turn it over in my mind. I am rather in a maze. '

'You have got some papers at the Moat?' he said--interrogatively. 

'Yes; my friend Osborne has been looking over them. He found out thismuch--that there was once some connection between the Moat and theHall, but at a far earlier date than this points to, or any of thehints to which I just now referred. The other day, when I dined at SirGiles's, Mr Alderforge said that Cumbermede was a name belonging to SirGiles's ancestry--or something to that effect; but that again couldhave had nothing to do with those papers, or with the Moat at all. '

Here I stopped, for I could not bring myself to refer to the sword. Itwas not merely that the subject was too painful: of all things I didnot want to be cross-questioned by my lawyer-companion. 

'It is not amongst those you will find anything of importance, Isuspect. Did your great-grandmother--the same, no doubt, whose marriageis here registered--leave no letters or papers behind her?'

'I've come upon a few letters. I don't know if there is anything more. '

'You haven't read them, apparently. '

'I have not. I've been always going to read them, but I haven't openedone of them yet. '

'Then I recommend you--that is, if you care for an interesting piece offamily history--to read those letters carefully, that isconstructively. '

'What do you mean?'

'I mean--putting two and two together, and seeing what comes of it;trying to make everything fit into one, you know. '

'Yes. I understand you. But how do you happen to know that thoseletters contain a history, or that it will prove interesting when Ihave found it?'

'All family history ought to be interesting--at least to the last ofhis race, ' he returned, replying only to the latter half of myquestion. ' It must, for one thing, make him feel his duty to hisancestors more strongly. '

'His duty to marry, I suppose you mean?' I said with some inwardbitterness. 'But to tell the truth, I don't think the inheritance worthit in my case. '

'It might be better, ' he said, with an expression which seemed oddbeside the simplicity of the words. 

'Ah! you think then to urge me to make money; and for the sake of mydead ancestors increase the inheritance of those that may come afterme? But I believe I am already as diligent as is good for me--that is, in the main, for I have been losing time of late. '

'I meant no such thing, Mr Cumbermede. I should be very doubtfulwhether any amount of success in literature would enable you to restorethe fortunes of your family. '

'Were they so very ponderous, do you think? But in truth I have littleambition of that sort. All I will readily confess to is a strong desirenot to shirk what work falls to my share in the world. '

'Yes, ' he said, in a thoughtful manner--'if one only knew what hisshare of the work was. '

The remark was unexpected, and I began to feel a little more interestin him. 

'Hadn't you better take a copy of that entry?' he said. 

'Yes--perhaps I had. But I have no materials. '

It did not strike me that attorneys do not usually, like excise-men, carry about an ink-bottle, when he drew one from the breast-pocket ofhis coat, along with a folded sheet of writing-paper, which he openedand spread out on the desk. I took the pen he offered me, and copiedthe entry. 

When I had finished, he said--

'Leave room under it for the attestation of the parson. We can get thatanother time, if necessary. Then write, "Copied by me"--and then yourname and the date. It may be useful some time. Take it home and lay itwith your grandmother's papers. '

'There can be no harm in that, ' I said, as I folded it up, and put itin my pocket. 'I am greatly obliged to you for bringing me here, MrConingham. Though I am not ambitious of restoring the family to agrandeur of which every record has departed, I am quite sufficientlyinterested in its history, and shall consequently take care of thisdocument. '

'Mind you read your grandmother's papers, though, ' he said. 

'I will, ' I answered. 

He replaced the volume on the shelf, and we left the church; he lockedthe door and replaced the key under the gravestone; we mounted ourhorses, and after riding with me about half the way to the Moat, hetook his leave at a point where our roads, diverged. I resolved todevote that very evening, partly in the hope of distracting mythoughts, to the reading of my grandmother's letters. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

MY FOLIO. 

When I reached home I found Charley there, as I had expected. 

But a change had again come over him. He was nervous, restless, apparently anxious. I questioned him about his mother and sister. Hehad met them as planned, and had, he assured me, done his utmost toimpress them with the truth concerning me. But he had found his motherincredulous, and had been unable to discover from her how much she hadheard; while Mary maintained an obstinate silence, and, as he said, looked more stupid than usual. He did not tell me that Clara hadaccompanied them so far, and that he had walked with her back to theentrance of the park. This I heard afterwards. When we had talked awhile over the sword-business--for we could not well keep off itlong--Charley seeming all the time more uncomfortable than ever, hesaid, perhaps merely to turn the talk into a more pleasant channel--

By the way, where have you put your folio? I've been looking for itever since I came in, but I can't find it. A new reading started up inmy head the other day, and I want to try it both with the print and thecontext. '

'It's in my room, ' I answered, 'I will go and fetch it. '

'We will go together, ' he said. 

I looked where I thought I had laid it, but there it was not. A pang offoreboding terror invaded me. Charley told me afterwards that I turnedas white as a sheet. I looked everywhere, but in vain; ran and searchedmy uncle's room, and then Charley's, but still in vain; and at last, all at once, remembered with certainty that two nights before I hadlaid it on the window-sill in my uncle's room. I shouted for Styles, but he was gone home with the mare, and I had to wait, in little shortof agony, until he returned. The moment he entered I began to questionhim. 

'You took those books home, Styles?' I said, as quietly as I could, anxious not to startle him, lest it should interfere with the justaction of his memory. 

'Yes, sir. I took them at once, and gave them into Miss Pease's ownhands;--at least I suppose it was Miss Pease. She wasn't a young lady, sir. '

'All right, I dare say. How many were there of them?'

'Six, sir. '

'I told you five, ' I said, trembling with apprehension and wrath. 

'You said four or five, and I never thought but the six were to go. They were all together on the window-sill. '

I stood speechless. Charley took up the questioning. 

'What sized books were they?' he asked. 

'Pretty biggish--one of them quite a large one--the same I've seen you, gentlemen, more than once, putting your heads together over. At leastit looked like it. '

'Charley started up and began pacing about the room. Styles saw he hadcommitted some dreadful mistake, and began a blundering expression ofregret, but neither of us took any notice of him, and he crept out indismay. 

It was some time before either of us could utter a word. The loss ofthe sword was a trifle to this. Beyond a doubt the precious tome wasnow lying in the library of Moldwarp Hall--amongst old friends andcompanions, possibly--where years on years might elapse before oneloving hand would open it, or any eyes gaze on it with reverence. 

'Lost, Charley!' I said at last. --'Irrecoverably lost!'

'I will go and fetch it, ' he cried, starting up. 'I will tell Clara tobring it out to me. It is beyond endurance this. Why should you not goand claim what both of us can take our oath to as yours?'

'You forget, Charley, how the sword-affair cripples us--and how theclaiming of this volume would only render their belief with regard tothe other the more probable. You forget, too, that I _might_ haveplaced it in the chest first, and, above all, that the name on thetitle-page is the same as the initials on the blade of the sword, --thesame as my own. '

'Yes--I see it won't do. And yet if I were to represent the thing toSir Giles?--He doesn't care for old books----'

'You forget again, Charley, that the volume is of great money-value. Perhaps my late slip has made me fastidious; but though the book bemine--and if I had it, the proof of the contrary would lie with them--Icould not take advantage of Sir Giles's ignorance to recover it. '

'I might, however, get Clara--she is a favourite with him, you know--'

'I will not hear of it, ' I said, interrupting him, and he was forced toyield. 

'No, Charley, ' I said again; 'I must just bear it. Harder things _have_been borne, and men have got through the world and out of itnotwithstanding. If there isn't another world, why should we care muchfor the loss of what _must_ go with the rest?--and if there is, whyshould we care at all?'

'Very fine, Wilfrid! but when you come to the practice--why, the lesssaid the better. '

'But that is the very point: we don't come to the practice. If we did, then the ground of it would be proved unobjectionable. '

'True;--but if the practice be unattainable--'

'It would take much proving to prove that to my--dissatisfaction Ishould say; and more failure besides, I can tell you, than there willbe time for in this world. If it were proved, however--don't you see itwould disprove both suppositions equally? If such a philosophicalspirit be unattainable, it discredits both sides of the alternative oneither of which it would have been reasonable. '

'There is a sophism there of course, but I am not in the mood forpulling your logic to pieces, ' returned Charley, still pacing up anddown the room. 

In sum, nothing would come of all our talk but the assurance that thevolume was equally irrecoverable with the sword, and indeed with mypoor character--at least, in the eyes of my immediate neighbours. 

[Illustration: I SAT DOWN AGAIN BY THE FIRE TO READ, IN MYGREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S CHAIR. ]

CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE LETTERS AND THEIR STORY. 

As soon as Charley went to bed, I betook myself to my grandmother'sroom, in which, before discovering my loss, I had told Styles to kindlea fire. I had said nothing to Charley about my ride, and the oldchurch, and the marriage-register. For the time, indeed, I had almostlost what small interest I had taken in the matter--my new bereavementwas so absorbing and painful; but feeling certain, when he left me, that I should not be able to sleep, but would be tormented all night byinnumerable mental mosquitoes if I made the attempt, and bethinking meof my former resolution, I proceeded to carry it out. 

The fire was burning brightly, and my reading lamp was on the table, ready to be lighted. But I sat down first in my grandmother's chair andmused for I know not how long. At length my wandering thoughtsrehearsed again the excursion with Mr Coningham. I pulled the copy ofthe marriage-entry from my pocket, and in reading it over again, mycuriosity was sufficiently roused to send me to the bureau. I lightedmy lamp at last, unlocked what had seemed to my childhood a treasury ofunknown marvels, took from it the packet of yellow withered letters, and sat down again by the fire to read, in my great-grandmother'schair, the letters of Wilfrid Cumbermede Daryll--for so he signedhimself in all of them--my great-grandfather. There were amongst them afew of her own in reply to his--badly written and badly spelt, butperfectly intelligible. I will not transcribe any of them--I have themto show if needful--but not at my command at the present moment;--for Iam writing neither where I commenced my story--on the outskirts of anancient city, nor at the Moat, but in a dreary old square in London;and those letters lie locked again in the old bureau, and have lainunvisited through thousands of desolate days and slow creeping nights, in that room which I cannot help feeling sometimes as if the ghost ofthat high-spirited, restless-hearted grandmother of mine must now andthen revisit, sitting in the same old chair, and wondering to find howfar it was all receded from her--wondering, also, to think what a workshe made, through her long and weary life, about things that look toher now such trifles. 

I do not then transcribe any of the letters, but give, in a connectedform, what seem to me the facts I gathered from them; not hesitating topresent, where they are required, self-evident conclusions as if theywere facts mentioned in them. I repeat that none of my names are real, although they all point at the real names. 

Wilfrid Cumbermede was the second son of Richard and Mary Daryll ofMoldwarp Hall. He was baptized Cumbermede from the desire to keep inmemory the name of a celebrated ancestor, the owner, in fact, of thedisputed sword--itself alluded to in the letters, --who had been moremindful of the supposed rights of his king than the next king was ofthe privations undergone for his sake, for Moldwarp Hall at least wasnever recovered from the Roundhead branch of the family into whosepossession it had drifted. In the change, however, which creeps on withnew generations, there had been in the family a re-action of sentimentin favour of the more distinguished of its progenitors; and RichardDaryll, a man of fierce temper and overbearing disposition, had namedhis son after the cavalier. A tyrant in his family, at least in thejudgment of the writers of those letters, he apparently found notrouble either with his wife or his eldest or youngest son; while, whether his own fault or not, it was very evident that from Wilfrid hisannoyances had been numerous. 

A legal feud had for some time existed between the Ahab of MoldwarpHall and the Naboth of the Moat, the descendant of an ancient yeomanfamily of good blood, and indeed related to the Darylls themselves, ofthe name of Woodruffe. Sir Richard had cast covetous eyes upon thefield surrounding Stephen's comparatively humble abode, which had atone time formed a part of the Moldwarp property. In searching throughsome old parchments, he had found, or rather, I suppose, persuadedhimself he had found, sufficient evidence that this part of theproperty of the Moat, then of considerable size, had been willed awayin contempt of the entail which covered it, and belonged by right tohimself and his heirs. He had therefore instituted proceedings torecover possession, during the progress of which their usual bickeringsand disputes augmented in fierceness. A decision having at length beengiven in favour of the weaker party, the mortification of Sir Richardwas unendurable to himself, and his wrath and unreasonableness, inconsequence, equally unendurable to his family. One may then imaginethe paroxysm of rage with which he was seized when he discovered that, during the whole of the legal process, his son Wilfrid had been makinglove to Elizabeth Woodruffe, the only child of his enemy. In Wilfrid'sletters, the part of the story which follows is fully detailed forElizabeth's information, of which the reason is also plain--that thewriter had spent such a brief period afterwards in Elizabeth's societythat he had not been able for very shame to recount the particulars. 

No sooner had Sir Richard come to a knowledge of the hateful fact, evidently through one of his servants, than, suppressing the outburstof his rage for the moment, he sent for his son Wilfrid, and informedhim, his lips quivering with suppressed passion, of the discovery hehad made; accused him of having brought disgrace on the family, and ofhaving been guilty of falsehood and treachery; and ordered him to godown on his knees and abjure the girl before heaven, or expect afather's vengeance. 

But evidently Wilfrid was as little likely as any man to obey such acommand. He boldly avowed his love for Elizabeth, and declared hisintention of marrying her. His father, foaming with rage, ordered hisservants to seize him. Overmastered in spite of his struggles, he boundhim to a pillar, and taking a horse-whip, lashed him furiously; then, after his rage was thus in a measure appeased, ordered them to carryhim to his bed. There he remained, hardly able to move, the whole ofthat night and the next day. On the following night, he made his escapefrom the Hall, and took refuge with a farmer-friend a few miles off--inthe neighbourhood, probably, of Umberden Church. 

Here I would suggest a conjecture of my own--namely, that my ancestor'sroom was the same I had occupied, so--fatally, shall I say?--to myself, on the only two occasions on which I had slept at the Hall; that heescaped by the stair to the roof, having first removed the tapestryfrom the door, as a memorial to himself and a sign to those he left;that he carried with him the sword and the volume--both probably lyingin his room at the time, and the latter little valued by any other. Butall this, I repeat, is pure conjecture. 

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he communicated withElizabeth, prevailed upon her to marry him at once at Umberden Church, and within a few days, as near as I could judge; left her to join, as avolunteer, the army of the Duke of Cumberland, then fighting the Frenchin the Netherlands. Probably from a morbid fear lest the disgrace hisfather's brutality had inflicted should become known in his regiment, he dropped the surname of Daryll when he joined it; and--for whatprecise reasons I cannot be certain--his wife evidently never calledherself by any other name than Cumbermede. Very likely she kept hermarriage a secret, save from her own family, until the birth of mygrandfather, which certainly took place before her husband's return. Indeed I am almost sure that he never returned from that campaign, butdied fighting, not unlikely, at the battle of Laffeldt; and that mygrannie's letters, which I found in the same packet, had been, by thekindness of some comrade, restored to the young widow. 

When I had finished reading the letters, and had again thrown myselfback in the old chair, I began to wonder why nothing of all this shouldever have been told me. That the whole history should have dropped outof the knowledge of the family, would have been natural enough, had mygreat-grandmother, as well as my great-grandfather, died in youth; butthat she should have outlived her son, dying only after I, therepresentative of the fourth generation, was a boy at school, and yetno whisper have reached me of these facts, appeared strange. A moment'sreflection showed me that the causes and the reasons of the fact musthave lain with my uncle. I could not but remember how both he and myaunt had sought to prevent me from seeing my grannie alone, and how thelast had complained of this in terms far more comprehensible to me nowthan they were then. But what could have been the reasons for thistheir obstruction of the natural flow of tradition? They remainedwrapped in a mystery which the outburst from it of an occasional gleamof conjectural light only served to deepen. 

The letters lying open on the table before me, my eyes rested upon oneof the dates--the third day of March, 1747. It struck me that this dateinvolved a discrepancy with that of the copy I had made from theregister. I referred to it, and found my suspicion correct. Accordingto the copy, my ancestors were not married until the 15th of January, 1748. I must have made a blunder--and yet I could hardly believe I had, for I had reason to consider myself accurate. If there _was_ nomistake, I should have to reconstruct my facts, and draw freshconclusions. 

By this time, however, I was getting tired and sleepy and cold; my lampwas nearly out; my fire was quite gone; and the first of a frosty dawnwas beginning to break in the east. I rose and replaced the papers, reserving all further thought on the matter for a condition ofcircumstances more favourable to a correct judgment. I blew out thelamp, groped my way to bed in the dark, and was soon fast asleep, indespite of insult, mortification, perplexity, and loss. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

ONLY A LINK. 

It may be said of the body in regard of sleep as well as in regard ofdeath, 'It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. ' For me, thenext morning, I could almost have said, 'I was sown in dishonour andraised in glory. ' No one can deny the power of the wearied body toparalyze the soul; but I have a correlate theory which I love, andwhich I expect to find true--that, while the body wearies the mind, itis the mind that restores vigour to the body, and then, like the manwho has built him a stately palace, rejoices to dwell in it. I believethat, if there be a living, conscious love at the heart of theuniverse, the mind, in the quiescence of its consciousness in sleep, comes into a less disturbed contact with its origin, the heart of thecreation; whence gifted with calmness and strength for itself, it growsable to impart comfort and restoration to the weary frame. Thecessation of labour affords but the necessary occasion; makes itpossible, as it were, for the occupant of an outlying station in thewilderness to return to his father's house for fresh supplies of allthat is needful for life and energy. The child-soul goes home at night, and returns in the morning to the labours of the school. Mere physicalrest could never of its own negative self build up the frame in suchlight and vigour as come through sleep. 

It was from no blessed vision that I woke the next morning, but from adeep and dreamless sleep. Yet the moment I became aware of myself andthe world, I felt strong and courageous, and I began at once to look myaffairs in the face. Concerning that which was first in consequence, Isoon satisfied myself: I could not see that I had committed any seriousfault in the whole affair. I was not at all sure that a lie in defenceof the innocent, and to prevent the knowledge of what no one had anyright to know, was wrong--seeing such involves no injustice on the oneside, and does justice on the other. I have seen reason since to changemy mind, and count my liberty restricted to silence--not extending, that is, to the denial or assertion of what the will of God, inasmuchas it exists or does not exist, may have declared to be or not to bethe fact. I now think that to lie is, as it were, to snatch the reinsout of God's hand. 

At all events, however, I had done the Brothertons no wrong. 'Whatmatter, then, ' I said to myself, 'of what they believe me guilty, solong as before God and my own conscience I am clear and clean?'

Next came the practical part:--What was I to do? To right myself eitherin respect of their opinion, or in respect of my lost property, wasmore hopeless than important, and I hardly wasted two thoughts uponthat. But I could not remain where I was, and soon came to theresolution to go with Charley to London at once, and taking lodgings insome obscure recess near the Inns of Court, there to give myself towork, and work alone, in the foolish hope that one day fame mightbuttress reputation. In this resolution I was more influenced by thedesire to be near the brother of Mary Osborne than the desire to benear my friend Charley, strong as that was. I expected thus to hear ofher oftener, and even cherished the hope of coming to hear from her--ofinducing her to honour me with a word or two of immediatecommunication. For I could see no reason why her opinions shouldprevent her from corresponding with one who, whatever might or mightnot seem to him true, yet cared for the truth, and must treat withrespect every form in which he could descry its predominating presence. 

I would have asked Charley to set out with me that very day, but forthe desire to clear up the discrepancy between the date of myancestor's letters, all written within the same year, and that of thecopy I had made of the registration of their marriage--with whichobject I would compare the copy and the original. I wished also to havesome talk with Mr Coningham concerning the contents of the letterswhich at his urgency I had now read. I got up and wrote to himtherefore, asking him to ride with me again to Umberden Church, as soonas he could make it convenient, and sent Styles off at once on the mareto carry the note to Minstercombe, and bring me back an answer. 

As we sat over our breakfast, Charley said suddenly, 'Clara wasregretting yesterday that she had not seen the Moat. She said you hadasked her once, but had never spoken of it again. '

'And now I suppose she thinks, because I'm in disgrace with her friendsat the Hall, that she mustn't come near me, ' I said, with anotherbitterness than belonged to the words. 

'Wilfrid!' he said reproachfully; 'she didn't say anything of the sort. I will write and ask her if she couldn't contrive to come over. Shemight meet us at the park gates. '

'No, ' I returned; 'there isn't time. I mean to go back toLondon--perhaps to-morrow evening. It is like turning you out, Charley, but we shall be nearer each other in town than we were last time. '

'I am delighted to hear it, ' he said. 'I had been thinking myself thatI had better go back this evening. My father is expected home in a dayor two, and it would be just like him to steal a march on my chambers. Yes, I think I shall go to-night. '

'Very well, old boy, ' I answered. 'That will make it all right. It's apity we couldn't take the journey together, but it doesn't matter much. I shall follow you as soon as I can. '

'Why can't you go with me?' he asked. 

Thereupon I gave him a full report of my excursion with Mr Coningham, and the after reading of the letters, with my reason for wishing toexamine the register again; telling him that I had asked Mr Coninghamto ride with me once more to Umberden Church. 

When Styles returned, he informed me that Mr Coningham at firstproposed to ride back with him, but probably bethinking himself thatanother sixteen miles would be too much for my mare, had changed hismind and sent me the message that he would be with me early the nextday. 

After Charley was gone, I spent the evening in a thorough search of theold bureau. I found in it several quaint ornaments besides thosealready mentioned, but only one thing which any relation to my storywould justify specific mention of--namely, an ivory label, discolouredwith age, on which was traceable the very number Sir Giles had readfrom the scabbard of Sir Wilfrid's sword. Clearly, then, my sword wasthe one mentioned in the book, and as clearly it had not been atMoldwarp Hall for a long time before I lost it there. If I were in anyfear as to my reader's acceptance of my story, I should rejoice in thepossession of that label more than in the restoration of sword or book;but amidst all my troubles, I have as yet been able to rely upon herjustice and her knowledge of myself. Yes--I must mention one thing moreI found--a long, sharp-pointed, straight-backed, snake-edged Indiandagger, inlaid with silver--a fierce, dangerous, almostvenomous-looking weapon, in a curious case of old green morocco. Italso may have once belonged to the armoury of Moldwarp Hall. I took itwith me when I left my grannie's room, and laid it in the portmanteau Iwas going to take to London. 

My only difficulty was what to do with Lilith; but I resolved for themean time to leave her, as before, in the care of Styles, who seemedalmost as fond of her as I was myself. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

A DISCLOSURE. 

Mr Coningham was at my door by ten o'clock, and we set out together forUmberden Church. It was a cold clear morning. The dying Autumn wasturning a bright thin defiant face upon the conquering Winter. I was ingreat spirits, my mind being full of Mary Osborne. At one moment I sawbut her own ordinary face, only what I had used to regard as dulness Inow interpreted as the possession of her soul in patience; at another Isaw the glorified countenance of my Athanasia, knowing that, beneaththe veil of the other, this, the real, the true face ever lay. Once inmy sight the frost-clung flower had blossomed; in full ideal of gloryit had shone for a moment, and then folding itself again away, hadretired into the regions of faith. And while I knew that such coulddawn out of such, how could I help hoping that from the face of theuniverse, however to my eyes it might sometimes seem to stare like theseven-days dead, one morn might dawn the unspeakable face which evenMoses might not behold lest he should die of the great sight? The keenair, the bright sunshine, the swift motion--all combined to raise myspirits to an unwonted pitch; but it was a silent ecstasy, and I almostforgot the presence of Mr Coningham. When he spoke at last, I started. 

'I thought from your letter you had something to tell me, MrCumbermede, ' he said, coming alongside of me. 

'Yes, to be sure. I have been reading my grannie's papers, as I toldyou. '

I recounted the substance of what I had found in them. 

'Does it not strike you as rather strange that all this should havebeen kept a secret from you?' he asked. 

'Very few know anything about their grandfathers, ' I said; 'so Isuppose very few fathers care to tell their children about them. '

'That is because there are so few concerning whom there is anythingworth telling. '

'For my part, ' I returned, 'I should think any fact concerning one ofthose who link me with the infinite past out of which I have come, invaluable. Even a fact which is not to the credit of an ancestor maybe a precious discovery to the man who has in himself to fight the evilderived from it. '

'That, however, is a point of view rarely taken. What the ordinary manvalues is also rare; hence few regard their ancestry, or transmit anyknowledge they may have of those who have gone before them to thosethat come after them. '

'My uncle, however, I suppose, told _me_ nothing because, unlike themany, he prized neither wealth nor rank, nor what are commonlyconsidered great deeds. '

'You are not far from the truth there, ' said Mr Coningham in asignificant tone. 

'Then _you_ know why he never told me anything!' I exclaimed. 

'I do--from the best authority. '

'His own, you mean, I suppose. '

'I do. '

'But--but--I didn't know you were ever--at all--intimate with myuncle, ' I said. 

He laughed knowingly. 

'You would say, if you didn't mind speaking the truth, that you thoughtyour uncle disliked me--disapproved of me. Come, now--did he not try tomake you avoid me? You needn't mind acknowledging the fact, for, when Ihave explained the reason of it, you will see that it involves nodiscredit to either of us. '

'I have no fear for my uncle. '

'You are honest, if not over-polite, ' he rejoined. '--You do not feelso sure about my share. Well, I don't mind who knows it, for my part. Iroused the repugnance, to the knowledge of which your silenceconfesses, merely by acting as any professional man ought to haveacted--and with the best intentions. At the same time, all the blame Ishould ever think of casting upon him is that he allowed hishigh-strung, saintly, I had almost said superhuman ideas to stand inthe way of his nephew's prosperity. '

'Perhaps he was afraid of that prosperity standing in the way of abetter. '

'Precisely so. You understand him perfectly. He was one of the best andsimplest-minded men in the world. '

'I am glad you do him that justice. '

'At the same time I do not think he intended you to remain in absoluteignorance of what I am going to tell you. But, you see, he died verysuddenly. Besides, he could hardly expect I should hold my tongue afterhe was gone. '

'Perhaps, however, he might expect me not to cultivate youracquaintance, ' I said, laughing to take the sting out of the words. 

'You cannot accuse yourself of having taken any trouble in thatdirection, ' he returned, laughing also. 

'I believe, however, ' I resumed, 'from what I can recall of things hesaid, especially on one occasion, on which he acknowledged theexistence of a secret in which I was interested, he did not intend thatI should always remain in ignorance of everything he thought proper toconceal from me then. '

'I presume you are right. I think his conduct in this respect arosechiefly from anxiety that the formation of your character should not beinfluenced by the knowledge of certain facts which might unsettle you, and prevent you from reaping the due advantages of study andself-dependence in youth. I cannot, however, believe that by being openwith you I shall now be in any danger of thwarting his plans, for youhave already proved yourself a wise, moderate, conscientious man, diligent and painstaking. Forgive me for appearing to praise you. I hadno such intention. I was only uttering as a fact to be considered inthe question, what upon my honour I thoroughly believe. '

'I should be happy in your good opinion, if I were able to appropriateit, ' I said. 'But a man knows his own faults better than his neighbourknows his virtues. '

'Spoken like the man I took you for, Mr Cumbermede, ' he rejoinedgravely. 

'But to return to the matter in hand, ' I resumed; 'what can there be sodangerous in the few facts I have just come to the knowledge of, thatmy uncle should have cared to conceal them from me? That a man born inhumble circumstances should come to know that he had distinguishedancestors, could hardly so fill him with false notions as to endangerhis relation to the laws of his existence. '

'Of course--but you are too hasty. Those facts are of more importancethan you are aware--involve other facts. Moldwarp Hall is _your_property, and not Sir Giles Brotherton's. '

'Then the apple was my own, after all!' I said to myself exultingly. Itwas a strange fantastic birth of conscience and memory--forgotten thesame moment, and followed by an electric flash--not of hope, not ofdelight, not of pride, but of pure revenge. My whole frame quiveredwith the shock; yet for a moment I seemed to have the strength of aHercules. In front of me was a stile through a high hedge: I turnedLilith's head to the hedge, struck my spurs into her, and over orthrough it, I know not which, she bounded. Already, with all thestrength of will I could summon, I struggled to rid myself of thewicked feeling; and although I cannot pretend to have succeeded forlong after, yet by the time Mr Coningham had popped over the stile, Iwas waiting for him, to all appearance, I believe, perfectly calm. He, on the other hand, from whatever cause, was actually trembling. Hisface was pale, and his eye flashing. Was it that he had roused me moreeffectually than he had hoped?

'Take care, take care, my boy, ' he said, 'or you won't live to enjoyyour own. Permit me the honour of shaking hands with Sir WilfridCumbermede Daryll. '

After this ceremonial of prophetic investiture, we jogged away quietly, and he told me a long story about the death of the last proprietor, thedegree in which Sir Giles was related to him, and his undisputedaccession to the property. At that time, he said, my father was in verybad health, and indeed died within six months of it. 

'I knew your father well, Mr Cumbermede, ' he went on, '--one of thebest of men, with more spirit, more ambition than your uncle. It was_his_ wish that his child, if a boy, should be called Wilfrid, --forthough they had been married five or six years, their only child wasborn after his death. Your uncle did not like the name, your mothertold me, but made no objection to it. So you were named after yourgrandfather, and great-grandfather, and I don't know how many of therace besides. --When the last of the Darylls died--'

'Then, ' I interrupted, 'my father was the heir. '

'No; you mistake: your uncle was the elder--Sir David CumbermedeDaryll, of Moldwarp Hall and The Moat, ' said Mr Coningham, evidentlybent on making the most of my rights. 

'He never even told me he was the eldest, ' I said. 'I always thought, from his coming home to manage the farm when my father was ill, that hewas the second of the two sons. '

'On the contrary, he was several years older than your father, buttaking more kindly to reading than farming, was sent by his father toOxford to study for the Church, leaving the farm, as was tacitlyunderstood, to descend to your father at your grandfather's death. After the idea of the Church was abandoned he took a situation, refusing altogether to subvert the order of things already establishedat the Moat. So you see you are not to suppose that he kept you backfrom any of your rights. They were his, not yours, while he lived. '

'I will not ask, ' I said, 'why he did not enforce them. That is plainenough from what I know of his character. The more I think of that, theloftier and simpler it seems to grow. He could not bring himself tospend the energies of a soul meant for higher things on the assertionand recovery of earthly rights. '

'I rather differ from you there; and I do not know, ' returned mycompanion, whose tone was far more serious than I had ever heard itbefore, 'whether the explanation I am going to offer will raise youruncle as much in your estimation as it does in mine. I confess I do notrank such self-denial as you attribute to him so highly as you do. Onthe contrary I count it a fault. How could the world go on if everybodywas like your uncle?'

'If everybody was like my uncle, he would have been forced to acceptthe position, ' I said; 'for there would have been no one to take itfrom him. '

'Perhaps. But you must not think Sir Giles knew anything of youruncle's claim. He knows nothing of it now. '

I had not thought of Sir Giles in connection with the matter--only ofGeoffrey; and my heart recoiled from the notion of dispossessing theold man who, however misled with regard to me at last, had up till thenshown me uniform kindness. In that moment I had almost resolved ontaking no steps till after his death. But Mr Coningham soon made meforget Sir Giles in a fresh revelation of my uncle. 

'Although, ' he resumed, 'all you say of your uncle's indifference tothis world and its affairs is indubitably correct, I do not believe, had there not been a prospect of your making your appearance, that hewould have shirked the duty of occupying the property which was hisboth by law and by nature. But he knew it might be an expensivesuit--for no one can tell by what tricks of the law such may beprolonged--in which case all the money he could command would soon bespent, and nothing left either to provide for your so-called aunt, forwhom he had a great regard, or to give you that education, which, whether you were to succeed to the property or not, he countedindispensable. He cared far more, he said, about your having such aproperty in yourself as was at once personal and real, than for yourhaving any amount of property out of yourself. Expostulation was of nouse. I had previously learned--from the old lady herself--the truestate of the case, and, upon the death of Sir Geoffrey Daryll, had atonce communicated with him--which placed me in a position for urginghim, as I did again and again, considerably to his irritation, toassert and prosecute his claim to the title and estates. I offered totake the whole risk upon myself; but he said that would be tantamountto giving up his personal liberty until the matter was settled, whichmight not be in his lifetime. I may just mention, however, that, besides his religious absorption, I strongly suspect there was anothercause of his indifference to worldly affairs: I have grounds forthinking that he was disappointed in a more than ordinary attachment toa lady he met at Oxford--in station considerably above any prospects hehad then. To return: he was resolved that, whatever might be your fate, you should not have to meet it without such preparation as he couldafford you. As you have divined, he was most anxious that yourcharacter should have acquired some degree of firmness before you knewanything of the possibility of your inheriting a large property andhistorical name; and I may appropriate the credit of a negative sharein the carrying out of his plans, for you will bear me witness howoften I might have upset them by informing you of the facts of thecase. '

'I am heartily obliged to you, ' I said, 'for not interfering with myuncle's wishes, for I am very glad indeed that I have been kept inignorance of my rights until now. The knowledge would at one time havegone far to render me useless for personal effort in any directionworthy of it. It would have made me conceited, ambitious, boastful: Idon't know how many bad adjectives would have been necessary todescribe me. '

'It is all very well to be modest, but I venture to think differently. '

'I should like to ask you one question, Mr Coningham, ' I said. 

'As many as you please. '

'How is it that you have so long delayed giving me the informationwhich on my uncle's death you no doubt felt at liberty to communicate?'

'I did not know how far you might partake of your uncle's disposition, and judged that the wider your knowledge of the world, and the justeryour estimate of the value of money and position, the more willing youwould be to listen to the proposals I had to make. '

'Do you remember, ' I asked, after a canter, led off by my companion, 'one very stormy night on which you suddenly appeared at the Moat, andhad a long talk with my uncle on the subject?'

'Perfectly, ' he answered. 'But how did you come to know? _He_ did nottell you of my visit!'

'Certainly not. But, listening in my night-gown on the stair, which isopen to the kitchen, I heard enough of your talk to learn the object ofyour visit--namely, to carry off my skin to make bagpipes with. '

He laughed so heartily that I told him the whole story of the pendulum. 

'On that occasion, ' he said, 'I made the offer to your uncle, oncondition of his sanctioning the commencement of legal proceedings, topledge myself to meet every expense of those, and of your education aswell, and to claim nothing whatever in return, except in case ofsuccess. '

This quite corresponded with my own childish recollections of theinterview between them. Indeed there was such an air of simplestraightforwardness about his whole communication, while at the sametime it accounted so thoroughly for the warning my uncle had given meagainst him, that I felt I might trust him entirely, and so would havetold him all that had taken place at the Hall, but for the share hisdaughter had borne in it, and the danger of discovery to Mary. 

CHAPTER L. 

THE DATES. 

I have given, of course, only an epitome of our conversation, and bythe time we had arrived at this point we had also reached the gate ofthe churchyard. Again we fastened up our horses; again he took the keyfrom under the tombstone; and once more we entered the dreary littlechurch, and drew aside the curtain of the vestry. I took down thevolume of the register. The place was easy to find, seeing, as I havesaid, it was at the very end of the volume. 

The copy I had taken was correct: the date of the marriage in theregister was January 15, and it was the first under the 1748, writtenat the top of the page. I stood for a moment gazing at it; then my eyeturned to the entry before it, the last on the preceding page. It borethe date December 13--under the general date at the top of the page, 1747. The next entry after it was dated March 29. At the bottom of thepage, or cover rather, was the attestation of the clergyman to thenumber of marriages in that year; but there was no such attestation atthe bottom of the preceding page. I turned to Mr Coningham, who hadstood regarding me, and, pointing to the book, said:

'Look here, Mr Coningham. I cannot understand it. Here the date of themarriage is 1748; and that of all their letters, evidently writtenafter the marriage, is 1747. '

He looked, and stood looking, but made me no reply. In my turn I lookedat him. His face expressed something not far from consternation; butthe moment he became aware that I was observing him, he pulled out hishandkerchief, and wiping his forehead with an attempt at a laugh, said:

'How hot it is! Yes; there's something awkward there. I hadn't observedit before. I must inquire into that. I confess I cannot explain it allat once. It does certainly seem queer. I must look into those dateswhen I go home. '

He was evidently much more discomposed than he was willing I shouldperceive. He always spoke rather hurriedly, but I had never heard himstammer before. I was certain that he saw or at least dreaded somethingfatal in the discrepancy I had pointed out. As to looking into it whenhe got home, that sounded very like nonsense. He pulled out anote-book, however, and said:

'I may just as well make a note of the blunder--for blunder it mustbe--a very awkward one indeed, I am afraid. I should think so--Icannot--but then--'

He went on uttering disjointed and unfinished expressions, while hemade several notes. His manner was of one who regards the action he isabout as useless, yet would have it supposed the right thing to do. 

'There!' he said, shutting up his note-book with a slam; and turningaway he strode out of the place--much, it seemed to me, as if hisbusiness there was over for ever. I gave one more glance at the volume, and replaced it on the shelf. When I rejoined him, he was alreadymounted and turning to move off. 

'Wait a moment, Mr Coningham, ' I said. 'I don't exactly know where toput the key. '

'Fling it under the gravestone, and come along, ' he said, mutteringsomething more, in which, perhaps, I only fancied I heard certainwell-known maledictions. 

By this time my spirits had sunk as much below their natural level as, a little before, they had risen above it. But I felt that I must bemyself, and that no evil any more than good fortune ought for a momentto perturb the tenor of my being. Therefore, having locked the doordeliberately and carefully, I felt about along the underside of thegravestone until I found the ledge where the key had lain. I then madewhat haste I could to mount and follow Mr Coningham, but Lilith delayedthe operation by her eagerness. I gave her the rein, and it was well noone happened to be coming in the opposite direction through that narrowand tortuous passage, for she flew round the corners--'turning close tothe ground, like a cat when scratchingly she wheels about after amouse, ' as my old favourite, Sir Philip Sidney, says. Notwithstandingher speed, however, when I reached the mouth of the lane, there was MrConingham half across the first field, with his coat-tails flying outbehind him. I would not allow myself to be left in such a discourteousfashion, and gave chase. Before he had measured the other half of thefield, I was up with him. 

'That mare of yours is a clever one, ' he said, as I ranged alongside ofhim. 'I thought I would give her a breather. She hasn't enough to do. '

'She's not breathing so _very_ fast, ' I returned. 'Her wind is as goodas her legs. '

'Let's get along then, for I've lost a great deal of time this morning. I ought to have been at Squire Strode's an hour ago. How hot the sunis, to be sure, for this time of the year!'

As he spoke, he urged his horse, but I took and kept the lead, feeling, I confess, a little angry, for I could not help suspecting he hadreally wanted to run away from me. I did what I could, however, tobehave as if nothing had happened. But he was very silent, and hismanner towards me was quite altered. Neither could I help thinking itscarcely worthy of a man of the world, not to say a lawyer, to showhimself so much chagrined. For my part, having simply concluded thatthe new-blown bubble hope had burst, I found myself just where I wasbefore-with a bend sinister on my scutcheon, it might be, but with agood conscience, a tolerably clear brain, and the dream of myAthanasia. 

The moment we reached the road, Mr Coningham announced that his way wasin the opposite direction to mine, said his good morning, shook handswith me, and jogged slowly away. I knew that was not the nearest way toSquire Strode's. 

I could not help laughing--he had so much the look of a dog with histail between his legs, or a beast of prey that had made his spring andmissed his game. I watched him for some time, for Lilith being pulledboth ways--towards home, and after her late companion--was tolerablyquiescent, but he never cast a glance behind him. When at length acurve in the road hid him from my sight, I turned and went quietlyhome, thinking what the significance of the unwelcome discovery mightbe. If the entry of the marriage under that date could not be proved amere blunder, of which I could see no hope, then certainly mygrandfather must be regarded as born out of wedlock, a suppositionwhich, if correct, would account for the dropping of the _Daryll_. 

On the way home I jumped no hedges. 

Having taken my farewell of Lilith, I packed my 'bag of needments, 'locked the door of my uncle's room, which I would have no one enter inmy absence, and set out to meet the night mail. 

CHAPTER LI. 

CHARLEY AND CLARA. 

On my arrival in London, I found Charley waiting for me, as I hadexpected, and with his help soon succeeded in finding, in one of thestreets leading from the Strand to the river, the accommodation Iwanted. There I settled and resumed the labour so long and thanklesslyinterrupted. 

When I recounted the circumstances of my last interview with MrConingham, Charley did not seem so much surprised at the prospect whichhad opened before me as disappointed at its sudden close, and would notadmit that the matter could be allowed to rest where it was. 

'Do you think the change of style could possibly have anything to dowith it?' he asked, after a meditative silence. 

'I don't know, ' I replied. 'Which change of style do you mean?'

'I mean the change of the beginning of the year from March to January, 'he answered. 

'When did that take place?' I asked. 

'Some time about the middle of the last century, ' he replied; 'but Iwill find out exactly. '

The next night he brought me the information that the January which, according to the old style, would have been that of 1752 was promotedto be the first month of the year 1753. 

My dates then were, by several years, antecedent to the change, and itwas an indisputable anachronism that the January between the Decemberof 1747 and the March of 1748, should be entered as belonging to thelatter year. This seemed to throw a little dubious light upon theperplexity; the January thus entered belonging clearly to 1747, and, therefore, was the same January with that of my ancestor's letters. Plainly, however, the entry could not stand in evidence, itsinterpolation at least appeared indubitable, for how otherwise could itstand at the beginning of the new year instead of towards the end ofthe old, five, years before the change of style? Also, now I clearlyremember that it did look a little crushed between the heading of theyear and the next entry. It must be a forgery--and a stupid one aswell, seeing the bottom of the preceding page, where there was a smallblank, would have been the proper place to choose for it--that is, under the heading 1747. Could the 1748 have been inserted afterwards?That did not appear likely, seeing it belonged to all the rest of theentries on the page, there being none between the date in question andMarch 29, on the 25th of which month the new year began. The conclusionlying at the door was that some one had inserted the marriage so longafter the change of style that he knew nothing of the trap there lyingfor his forgery. It seemed probable that, blindly following theletters, he had sought to place it in the beginning of the previousyear, but, getting bewildered in the apparent eccentricities of thearrangement of month and year, had at last drawn his bow at a venture. Neither this nor any other theory I could fashion did I, however, findin the least satisfactory. All I could be sure of was that here was noevidence of the marriage--on the contrary, a strong presumption againstit. 

For my part, the dream in which I had indulged had been so short that Ivery soon recovered from the disappointment of the waking therefrom. Neither did the blot with which the birth of my grandfather was menacedaffect me much. My chief annoyance in regard of that aspect of theaffair was in being _so_ related to Geoffrey Brotherton. 

I cannot say how it came about, but I could not help observing that, bydegrees, a manifest softening appeared in Charley's mode of speaking ofhis father, although I knew that there was not the least approach to amore cordial intercourse between them. I attributed the change to theletters of his sister, which he always gave me to read. From them Ihave since classed her with a few others I have since known, chieflywomen, the best of their kind, so good and so large-minded that theyseem ever on the point of casting aside the unworthy opinions they havebeen taught, and showing themselves the true followers of Him who caredonly for the truth, and yet holding by the doctrines of men, andbelieving them to be the mind of God. 

In one or two of Charley's letters to her I ventured to insert aquestion or two, and her reference to these in her replies to Charleygave me an opportunity of venturing to write to her more immediately, in part defending what I thought the truth, in part expressing all thesympathy I honestly could with her opinions. She replied very kindly, very earnestly, and with a dignity of expression as well as of thoughtwhich harmonized entirely with my vision of her deeper and grandernature. 

The chief bent of my energies was now to vindicate for myself a worthyposition in the world of letters; but my cherished hope lay in thegrowth of such an intimacy with Mary Osborne as might afford ground forthe cultivation of far higher and more precious ambitions. 

It was not, however, with the design of furthering these that I was nowguilty of what will seem to most men a Quixotic action enough. 

'Your sister is fond of riding--is she not?' I asked Charley one day, as we sauntered with our cigars on the terrace of the Adelphi. 

'As fond as one can possibly be who has had so little opportunity, ' hesaid. 

'I was hoping to have a ride with her and Clara the very evening whenthat miserable affair occurred. The loss of that ride was at least asgreat a disappointment to me as the loss of the sword. '

'You seem to like my sister, Wilfrid, ' he said. 

'At least I care more for her good opinion than I do for anywoman's--or man's either, Charley. '

'I am so glad!' he responded. 'You like her better than Clara, then?'

'Ever so much, ' I said. 

He looked more pleased than annoyed, I thought--certainly neither theone nor the other entirely. His eyes sparkled, but there was a flickerof darkness about his forehead. 

'I am very glad, ' he said again, after a moment's pause. 'I thought--Iwas afraid--I had fancied sometimes--you were still a little in lovewith Clara. '

'Not one atom, ' I returned. 'She cured me of that quite. There is nodanger of that any more, ' I added--foolishly, seeing I intended noexplanation. 

'How do you mean?' he asked, a little uneasily. 

I had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. The subject wasnot resumed. 

It may well seem strange to my reader that I had never yet informed himof the part Clara had had in the matter of the sword. But, as I havealready said, when anything moved me very deeply I was never ready totalk about it. Somehow, perhaps from something of the cat-nature in me, I never liked to let go my hold of it without good reason. Especially Ishrank from imparting what I only half comprehended; and besides, inthe present case, the thought of Clara's behaviour was so painful to mestill that I recoiled from any talk about it--the more that Charley hada kind and good opinion of her, and would, I knew, only startobjections and explanations defensive, as he had done before on asimilar occasion, and this I should have no patience with. I had, therefore, hitherto held my tongue. There was, of course, likewise thefear of betraying his sister, only the danger of that was small, nowthat the communication between the two girls seemed at an end for thetime; and if it had not been that a certain amount of mutual reticencehad arisen between us, first on Charley's part and afterwards on mine, I doubt much whether, after all, I should not by this time have toldhim the whole story. But the moment I had spoken as above, thestrangeness of his look, which seemed to indicate that he would gladlyrequest me to explain myself but for some hidden reason, flashed uponme the suspicion that he was himself in love with Clara. The moment thesuspicion entered, a host of circumstances crystallized around it. Factafter fact flashed out of my memory, from the first meeting of the twoin Switzerland down to this last time I had seen them together, and inthe same moment I was convinced that the lady I saw him with in theRegent's Park was no other than Clara. But, if it were so, why had heshut me out from his confidence? Of the possible reasons whichsuggested themselves, the only one which approached the satisfactorywas that he had dreaded hurting me by the confession of his love forher, and preferred leaving it to Clara to cure me of a passion to whichmy doubtful opinion of her gave a probability of weakness and ultimateevanescence. 

A great conflict awoke in me. What ought I to do? How could I leave himin ignorance of the falsehood of the woman he loved? But I could notmake the disclosure now. I must think about the how and the how much totell him. I returned to the subject which had led up to the discovery. 

'Does your father keep horses, Charley?'

'He has a horse for his parish work, and my mother has an old pony forher carriage. '

'Is the rectory a nice place?'

'I believe it is, but I have such painful associations with it that Ihardly know. '

The Arab loves the desert sand where he was born; the thief loves thecourt where he used to play in the gutter. How miserable Charley'schildhood must have been! How _could_ I tell him of Clara's falsehood?

'Why doesn't he give Mary a pony to ride?' I asked. 'But I suppose hehasn't room for another?'

'Oh! yes, there's plenty of room. His predecessor was rather a bigfellow. In fact, the stables are on much too large a scale for aclergyman. I dare say he never thought of it. I must do my father thejustice to say there's nothing stingy about him, and I believe he lovesmy sister even more than my mother. It certainly would be the bestthing he could do for her to give her a pony. But she will die ofreligion--young, and be sainted in a twopenny tract, and that is betterthan a pony. Her hair doesn't curl--that's the only objection. Some onehas remarked that all the good children who die have curly hair. '

Poor Charley! Was his mind more healthy, then? Was he less likely tocome to an early death? Was his want of faith more life-giving thanwhat he considered her false faith?

'I see no reason to fear it, ' I said, with a tremor at my heart as Ithought of my dream. 

That night I was sleepless--but about Charley--not about Mary. Whatcould I do?--what ought I to do? Might there be some mistake in myjudgment of Clara? I searched, and I believe searched honestly, for anypossible mode of accounting for her conduct that might save heruprightness, or mitigate the severity of the condemnation I had passedupon her. I could find none. At the same time, what I was reallyseeking was an excuse for saying nothing to Charley. I suspect nowthat, had I searched after justification or excuse for her from love toherself, I might have succeeded in constructing a theory capable ofsheltering her; but, as it was, I failed utterly, and, turning at lastfrom the effort, I brooded instead upon the Quixotic idea alreadyadverted to, grown the more attractive as offering a good excuse forleaving Charley for a little. 

CHAPTER LII. 

LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE. 

The next day, leaving a note to inform Charley that I had run home fora week, I set out for the Moat, carrying with me the best side-saddle Icould find in London. 

As I left the inn at Minstercombe in a gig, I saw Clara coming out of ashop. I could not stop and speak to her, for, not to mention theopinion I had of her, and the treachery of which I accused her, was Inot at that very moment meditating how best to let her lover know thatshe was not to be depended upon? I touched the horse with the whip, anddrove rapidly past. Involuntarily, however, I glanced behind, and saw awhite face staring after me. Our looks encountering thus, I lifted myhat, but held on my course. 

I could not help feeling very sorry for her. The more falsely she hadbehaved, she was the more to be pitied. She looked very beautiful withthat white face. But how different was her beauty from that of myAthanasia!

Having tried the side-saddle upon Lilith, and found all it wanted was alittle change in the stuffing about the withers, I told Styles to takeit and the mare to Minstercombe the next morning, and have it properlyfitted. 

What trifles I am lingering upon! Lilith is gone to the worms--no, thatI _do not_ believe: amongst the things most people believe, and Icannot, that is one; but at all events she is dead, and the saddle goneto worms; and yet, for reasons which will want no explanation to my onereader, I care to linger even on the fringes of this part of the web ofmy story. 

I wandered about the field and house, building and demolishing many anairy abode, until Styles came back. I had told him to get the job doneat once, and not return without the saddle. 

'Can I trust you, Styles?' I said abruptly. 

'I hope so, sir. If I may make so bold, I don't think I was altogetherto blame about that book--'

'Of course not. I told you so. Never think of it again. Can you keep asecret?'

'I can try, sir. You've been a good master to me, I'm sure, sir. '

'That I mean to be still, if I can. Do you know the parish ofSpurdene?'

'I was born there, sir. '

'Ah! that's not so convenient. Do you know the rectory?'

'Every stone of it, I may say, sir. '

'And do they know you?'

'Well, it's some years since I left--a mere boy, sir. '

'I want you, then--if it be possible--you can tell best--to set outwith Lilith to-morrow night--I hope it will be a warm night. You mustgroom her thoroughly, put on the side-saddle and her new bridle, andlead her--you're not to ride her, mind--I don't want her to gethot--lead her to the rectory of Spurdene--and-now here is the point--ifit be possible, take her up to the stable, and fasten her by thissilver chain to the ring at the door of it--as near morning as yousafely can to avoid discovery, for she mustn't stand longer at thisseason of the year than can be helped. I will tell you all. --I mean herfor a present to Miss Osborne; but I do not want any one to know whereshe comes from. None of them, I believe, have ever seen her. I willwrite something on a card, which you will fasten to one of the pommels, throwing over all this horsecloth. '

I gave him a fine bear-skin I had bought for the purpose. He smiled, and, with evident enjoyment of the spirit of the thing, promised to dohis best. 

Lilith looked lovely as he set out with her late the following night. When he returned the next morning, he reported that everything hadsucceeded admirably. He had carried out my instructions to the letter;and my white Lilith had by that time, I hoped, been caressed, possiblyfed, by the hands of Mary Osborne herself. 

I may just mention that on the card I had written, or rather printed, the words: 'To Mary Osborne, from a friend. '

In a day or two I went back to London, but said nothing to Charley ofwhat I had done--waiting to hear from him first what they said aboutit. 

'I say, Wilfrid!' he cried, as he came into my room with his usualhurried step, the next morning but one, carrying an open letter in hishand, 'what's this you've been doing--you sly old fellow? You ought tohave been a prince, by Jove!'

'What do you accuse me of? I must know that first, else I might confessto more than necessary. One must be on one's guard with such as you. '

'Read that, ' he said, putting the letter into my hand. 

It was from his sister. One passage was as follows:

'A strange thing has happened. A few mornings ago the loveliest whitehorse was found tied to the stable door, with a side-saddle, and a cardon it directed to _me_. I went to look at the creature. It was like thewitch-lady in Christabel, 'beautiful exceedingly. ' I ran to my father, and told him. He asked me who had sent it, but I knew no more than hedid. He said I couldn't keep it unless we found out who had sent it, and probably not then, for the proceeding was as suspicious as absurd. To-day he has put an advertisement in the paper to the effect that, ifthe animal is not claimed before, it will be sold at the horse-fairnext week, and the money given to the new school fund. I feel as if Icouldn't bear parting with it, but of course I can't accept a presentwithout knowing where it comes from. Have you any idea who sent it? Iam sure papa is right about it, as indeed, dear Charley, he always is. '

I laid down the letter, and, full of mortification, went walking aboutthe room. 

'Why didn't you tell me, Wilfrid?'

'I thought it better, if you were questioned, that you should not know. But it was a foolish thing to do--very. I see it now. Of course yourfather is right. It doesn't matter though. I will go down and buy her. '

'You had better not appear in it. Go to the Moat, and send Styles. '

'Yes--that will be best. Of course it will. When is the fair, do youknow?'

'I will find out for you. I hope some rascal mayn't in the mean timetake my father in, and persuade him to give her up. Why shouldn't I rundown and tell him, and get back poor Lilith without making you pay foryour own?'

'Indeed you shan't. The mare is your sister's, and I shall lay no claimto her. I have money enough to redeem her. '

Charley got me information about the fair, and the day before it, I setout for the Moat. 

When I reached Minstercombe, having more time on my hands than I knewwhat to do with, I resolved to walk round by Spurdene. It would not bemore than ten or twelve miles, and so I should get a peep of therectory. On the way I met a few farmer-looking men on horseback, andjust before entering the village saw at a little distance a whitecreature--very like my Lilith--with a man on its back, coming towardsme. 

As they drew nearer, I was certain of the mare, and, thinking itpossible the rider might be Mr Osborne, withdrew into a thicket on theroad-side. But what was my dismay to discover that it was indeed myLilith, but ridden by Geoffrey Brotherton! As soon as he was past, Irushed into the village, and found that the people I had met were goingfrom the fair. Charley had been misinformed. I was too late: Brothertonhad bought my Lilith. Half distracted with rage and vexation, I walkedon and on, never halting till I reached the Moat. Was this man destinedto swallow up everything I cared for? Had he suspected me as thefoolish donor, and bought the mare to spite me? A thousand times ratherwould I have had her dead. Nothing on earth would have tempted me tosell my Lilith but inability to feed her, and then I would rather haveshot her. I felt poorer than even when my precious folio was taken fromme, for the lowest animal life is a greater thing than a rare edition. I did not go to bed at all that night, but sat by my fire or pacedabout the room till dawn, when I set out for Minstercombe, and reachedit in time for the morning coach to London. The whole affair was afolly, and I said to-myself that I deserved to suffer. Before I left, Itold Styles, and begged him to keep an eye on the mare, and, if ever helearned that her owner wanted to part with her, to come off at once andlet me know. He was greatly concerned at my ill-luck, as he called it, and promised to watch her carefully. He knew one of the grooms, hesaid, a little, and would cultivate his acquaintance. 

I could not help wishing now that Charley would let his sister knowwhat I had tried to do for her, but of course I would not say so. Ithink he did tell her, but I never could be quite certain whether ornot she knew it. I wonder if she ever suspected me. I think not. I havetoo good reason to fear that she attributed to another the would-begift; I believe that, from Brotherton's buying her, they thought he hadsent her--a present certainly far more befitting his means than mine. But I came to care very little about it, for my correspondence with herthrough Charley, went on. I wondered sometimes how she could keep fromletting her father know: that he did not know I was certain, for hewould have put a stop to it at once. I conjectured that she had toldher mother, and that she, fearing to widen the breach between herhusband and Charley, had advised her not to mention it to him; whilebelieving it would do both Charley and me good, she did not counsel herto give up the correspondence. It must be considered, also, that it waslong before I said a word implying any personal interest. Before Iventured that, I had some ground for thinking that my ideas had begunto tell upon hers, for, even in her letters to Charley, she had begunto drop the common religious phrases, while all she said seemed toindicate a widening and deepening and simplifying of her faith. I donot for a moment imply that she had consciously given up one of thedogmas of the party to which she belonged, but there was theperceptible softening of growth in her utterances, and after that wasplain to me, I began to let out my heart to her a little more. 

About this time also I began to read once more the history of Jesus, asking myself as if on a first acquaintance with it, 'Could itbe--might it not be that, if there were a God, he would visit hischildren after some fashion? If so, is this a likely fashion? May itnot even be the only right fashion?' In the story I found at least aperfection surpassing everything to be found elsewhere; and I was atleast sure that whatever this man said must be true. If one could onlybe as sure of the record! But if ever a dawn was to rise upon me, herecertainly the sky would break; here I thought I already saw the firsttinge of the returning life-blood of the swooning world. The gatheringof the waters of conviction at length one morning broke out in thefollowing verses, which seemed more than half given to me, the onlyeffort required being to fit them rightly together:--

Come to me, come to me, O my God; Come to me everywhere! Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod, And the water and the air. 

For thou art so far that I often doubt, As on every side I stare, Searching within, and looking without, If thou art anywhere. 

How did men find thee in days of old? How did they grow so sure? They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold, They suffered, and kept themselves pure. 

But now they say--neither above the sphere, Nor down in the heart of man, But only in fancy, ambition, or fear, The thought of thee began. 

If only that perfect tale were true Which, with touch of sunny gold, Of the ancient many makes one anew, And simplicity manifold. 

But _he_ said that they who did his word The truth of it should know: I will try to do it--if he be Lord, Perhaps the old spring will flow;

Perhaps the old spirit-wind will blow That he promised to their prayer; And doing thy will, I yet shall know Thee, Father, everywhere!

These lines found their way without my concurrence into a certainreligious magazine, and I was considerably astonished, and yet morepleased, one evening when Charley handed me, with the kind regards ofhis sister, my own lines, copied by herself. I speedily let her knowthey were mine, explaining that they had found their way into printwithout my cognizance. She testified so much pleasure at the fact, andthe little scraps I could claim as my peculiar share of the contents ofCharley's envelopes grew so much more confiding that I soon ventured towrite more warmly than hitherto. A period longer than usual passedbefore she wrote again, and when she did she took no express notice ofmy last letter. Foolishly or not, I regarded this as a favourable sign, and wrote several letters, in which I allowed the true state of myfeelings towards her to appear. At length I wrote a long letter inwhich, without a word of direct love-making, I thought yet to revealthat I loved her with all my heart. It was chiefly occupied with mydream on that memorable night--of course without the slightest allusionto the waking, or anything that followed. I ended abruptly, telling herthat the dream often recurred, but as often as it drew to its lovelyclose, the lifted veil of Athanasia revealed ever and only thecountenance of Mary Osborne. 

The answer to this came soon and in few words. 

'I dare not take to myself what you write. That would be presumptionindeed, not to say wilful self-deception. It will be honour enough forme if in any way I serve to remind you of the lady in your dream. Wilfrid, if you love me, take care of my Charley. I must not writemore. --M. O. '

It was not much, but enough to make me happy. I write it frommemory--every word as it lies where any moment I could read it--shut ina golden coffin whose lid I dare not open. 

CHAPTER LIII. 

TOO LATE. 

I must now go back a little. After my suspicions had been aroused as tothe state of Charley's feelings, I hesitated for a long time before Ifinally made up my mind to tell him the part Clara had had in the lossof my sword. But while I was thus restrained by dread of the effect thedisclosure would have upon him if my suspicions were correct, thosevery suspicions formed the strongest reason for acquainting him withher duplicity; and, although I was always too ready to put off the evilday so long as doubt supplied excuse for procrastination, I could nothave let so much time slip by and nothing said but for my absorption inMary. 

At length, however, I had now resolved, and one evening, as we sattogether, I took my pipe from my mouth, and, shivering bodily, thusbegan:

'Charley, ' I said, 'I have had for a good while something on my mind, which I cannot keep from you longer. '

He looked alarmed instantly. I went on. 

'I have not been quite open with you about that affair of the sword. '

He looked yet more dismayed; but I must go on, though it tore my veryheart. When I came to the point of my overhearing Clara talking toBrotherton, he started up, and, without waiting to know the subject oftheir conversation, came close up to me, and, his face distorted withthe effort to keep himself quiet, said, in a voice hollow and still andfar-off, like what one fancies of the voice of the dead:

'Wilfrid, you said Brotherton, I think?'

'I did, Charley. '

'She never told me that!'

'How could she when she was betraying your friend?'

'No no!' he cried, with a strange mixture of command and entreaty;'don't say that. There is some explanation. There _must_ be. '

'She told _me_ she hated him, ' I said. 

'_I know_ she hates him. What was she saying to him?'

'I tell you she was betraying me, your friend, who had never done herany wrong, to the man she had told me she hated, and whom I had heardher ridicule. '

'What do you mean by betraying you?'

I recounted what I had overheard. He listened with clenched teeth andtrembling white lips; then burst into a forced laugh. 'What a fool Iam! Distrust _her!_ I will _not_. There is some explanation! There_must_ be!'

The dew of agony lay thick on his forehead. I was greatly alarmed atwhat I had done, but I could not blame myself. 

'Do be calm, Charley, ' I entreated. 

'I am as calm as death, ' he replied, striding up and down the room withlong strides. 

He stopped and came up to me again. 

'Wilfrid, ' he said, 'I am a damned fool. I am going now. Don't befrightened--I am perfectly calm. I will come and explain it all to youto-morrow--no--the next day--or the next at latest. She had some reasonfor hiding it from me, but I shall have it all the moment I ask her. She is not what you think her. I don't for a moment blame you--but--areyou sure it was--Clara's--voice you heard?' he added with forcedcalmness and slow utterance. 

'A man is not likely to mistake the voice of a woman he ever fanciedhimself in love with. '

'Don't talk like that, Wilfrid. You'll drive me mad. How should sheknow you had taken the sword?'

'She was always urging me to take it. There lies the main sting of thetreachery. But I never told you where I found the sword. '

'What can that have to do with it?'

'I found it on my bed that same morning when I woke. It could not havebeen there when I lay down. '

'Well?'

'Charley, I believe _she_ laid it there. '

He leaped at me like a tiger. Startled, I jumped to my feet. He laidhold of me by the throat, and griped me with a quivering grasp. Recovering my self-possession, I stood perfectly still, making noeffort even to remove his hand, although it was all but choking me. Ina moment or two he relaxed his hold, burst into tears, took up his hat, and walked to the door. 

'Charley! Charley! you must _not_ leave me so, ' I cried, startingforwards. 

'To-morrow, Wilfrid; to-morrow, ' he said, and was gone. 

He was back before I could think what to do next. Opening the door halfway, he said--as if a griping hand had been on _his_ throat--

'I--I--I--don't believe it, Wilfrid. You only said you believed it. _I_don't. Good night. I'm all right now. _Mind, I don't believe it. _'

He, shut the door. Why did I not follow him?

But if I had followed him, what could I have said or done? In everyman's life come awful moments when he must meet his fate--dree hisweird--alone. Alone, I say, if he have no God--for man or woman cannotaid him, cannot touch him, cannot come near him. Charley was now in oneof those crises, and I could not help him. Death is counted an awfulthing: it seems to me that life is an infinitely more awful thing. 

In the morning I received the following letter:--

'Dear Mr Cumbermede, 'You will be surprised at receiving a note from me--still more at itscontents. I am most anxious to see you--so much so that I venture toask you to meet me where we can have a little quiet talk. I am inLondon, and for a day or two sufficiently my own mistress to leave thechoice of time and place with you--only let it be when and where weshall not be interrupted. I presume on old friendship in making thisextraordinary request, but I do not presume in my confidence that youwill not misunderstand my motives. One thing only I _beg_--that youwill not inform C. O. Of the petition I make. 

'Your old friend, 'C. C. '

What was I to do? To go, of course. She _might_ have something toreveal which would cast light on her mysterious conduct. I cannot say Iexpected a disclosure capable of removing Charley's misery, but I didvaguely hope to learn something that might alleviate it. Anyhow, Iwould meet her, for I dared not refuse to hear her. To her request ofconcealing it from Charley, I would grant nothing beyond giving itquarter until I should see whither the affair tended. I wrote atonce--making an appointment for the same evening. But was it from asuggestion of Satan, from an evil impulse of human spite, or by thedecree of fate, that I fixed on that part of the Regent's Park in whichI had seen him and the lady I now believed to have been Clara walkingtogether in the dusk? I cannot now tell. The events which followed havedestroyed all certainty, but I fear it was a flutter of the wings ofrevenge, a shove at the spokes of the wheel of time to hasten thecoming of its circle. 

Anxious to keep out of Charley's way--for the secret would make mewretched in his presence--I went into the City, and, after an earlydinner, sauntered out to the Zoological Gardens, to spend the time tillthe hour of meeting. But there, strange to say, whether from insight orfancy, in every animal face I saw such gleams of a troubled humanitythat at last I could bear it no longer, and betook myself to PrimroseHill. 

It was a bright afternoon, wonderfully clear, with a crisp frosty feelin the air. But the sun went down, and one by one, here and there, above and below, the lights came out and the stars appeared, until atlength sky and earth were full of flaming spots, and it was time toseek our rendezvous. 

I had hardly reached it when the graceful form of Clara glided towardsme. She perceived in a moment that I did not mean to shake hands withher. It was not so dark but that I saw her bosom heave and a flushoverspread her countenance. 

'You wished to see me, Miss Coningham, ' I said. 'I am at your service. '

'What is wrong, Mr Cumbermede? You never used to speak to me in such atone. '

'There is nothing wrong if you are not more able than I to tell what itis. '

'Why did you come if you were going to treat me so?'

'Because you requested it. '

'Have I offended you, then, by asking you to meet me? I trusted you. Ithought _you_ would never misjudge me. '

'I should be but too happy to find I had been unjust to you, MissConingham. I would gladly go on my knees to you to confess that fault, if I could only be satisfied of its existence. Assure me of it, and Iwill bless you. '

'How strangely you talk! Some one has been maligning me. '

'No one. But I have come to the knowledge of what only one besidesyourself could have told me. '

'You mean--'

'Geoffrey Brotherton. '

'_He!_ He has been telling you--'

'No--thank heaven! I have not yet sunk to the slightest communicationwith _him_. '

She turned her face aside. Veiled as it was by the gathering gloom, sheyet could not keep it towards me. But after a brief pause she looked atme and said, 'You know more than--I do not know what you mean. '

'I do know more than you think I know. I will tell you under whatcircumstances I came to such knowledge. '

She stood motionless. 

'One evening, ' I went on, 'after leaving Moldwarp Hall with CharlesOsborne, I returned to the library to fetch a book. As I entered theroom where it lay, I heard voices in the armoury. One was the voice ofGeoffrey Brotherton--a man you told me you hated. The other was yours. '

She drew herself up, and stood stately before me. 

'Is that your accusation?' she said. 'Is a woman never to speak to aman because she detests him?'

She laughed--I thought drearily. 

'Apparently not--for then I presume you would not have asked me to meetyou. '

'Why should you think I hate _you_?'

'Because you have been treacherous to me. '

'In talking to Geoffrey Brotherton? I do hate him. I hate him more thanever. I spoke the truth when I told you that. '

'Then you do not hate me?'

'No. '

'And yet you delivered me over to my enemy bound hand and foot, asDelilah did Samson. --I heard what you said to Brotherton. '

She seemed to waver, but stood--speechless, as if waiting for more. 

'I heard you tell him that I had taken that sword--the sword you hadalways been urging me to take--the sword you unsheathed and laid on mybed that I might be tempted to take it--why I cannot understand, for Inever did you a wrong to my poor knowledge. I fell into your snare, andyou made use of the fact you had achieved to ruin my character, anddrive me from the house in which I was foolish enough to regard myselfas conferring favours rather than receiving them. You have caused me tobe branded as a thief for taking--at your suggestion--that which wasand still is my own!'

'Does Charley know this?' she asked, in a strangely altered voice. 

'He does. He learned it yesterday. '

'O my God!' she cried, and fell kneeling on the grass at my feet. 'Wilfrid! Wilfrid! I will tell you all. It was to tell you all aboutthis very thing that I asked you to come. I could not bear it longer. Only your tone made me angry. I did not know you knew so much. '

The very fancy of such submission from such a creature would havethrilled me with a wild compassion once; but now I thought of Charleyand felt cold to her sorrow as well as her loveliness. When she liftedher eyes to mine, however--it was not so dark but I could see theirsadness--I began to hope a little for my friend. I took her hand andraised her. She was now weeping with down-bent head. 

'Clara, you shall tell me all. God forbid I should be hard upon you!But you know I cannot understand it. I have no clue to it. How couldyou serve me so?'

'It is very hard for me--but there is no help now: I must confessdisgrace, in order to escape infamy. Listen to me, then--as kindly asyou can, Wilfrid. I beg your pardon; I have no right to use any oldfamiliarity with you. Had my father's plans succeeded, I should stillhave had to make an apology to you, but under what differentcircumstances! I will be as brief as I can. My father believed you therightful heir to Moldwarp Hall. Your own father believed it, and mademy father believe it--that was in case your uncle should leave no heirbehind him. But your uncle was a strange man, and would neither layclaim to the property himself, nor allow you to be told of yourprospects. He did all he could to make you, like himself, indifferentto worldly things; and my father feared you would pride yourself onrefusing to claim your rights, unless some counter-influence wereused. '

'But why should your father have taken any trouble in the matter?' Iasked. 

'Well, you know--one in his profession likes to see justice done; and, besides, to conduct such a case must, of course, be of professionaladvantage to him. You must not think him under obligation to thepresent family: my grandfather held the position he still occupiesbefore they came into the property. --I am too unhappy to mind what Isay now. My father was pleased when you and I--indeed I fancy he had ahand in our first meeting. But while your uncle lived he had to becautious. Chance, however, seemed to favour his wishes. We met morethan once, and you liked me, and my father thought I might wake you upto care about your rights, and--and--but--'

'I see. And it might have been, Clara, but for--'

'Only, you see, Mr Cumbermede, ' she interrupted with a half-smile, anda little return of her playful manner--'_I_ didn't wish it. '

'No. You preferred the man who _had_ the property. '

It was a speech both cruel and rude. She stepped a pace back, andlooked me proudly in the face. 

Prefer that man to _you_, Wilfrid! No. I could never have fallen so lowas that. But I confess I didn't mind letting papa understand that MrBrotherton was polite to me--just to keep him from urging meto--to--You _will_ do me the justice that I did not try to make you--tomake you--care for me, Wilfrid?'

'I admit it heartily. I will be as honest as you, and confess that youmight have done so--easily enough at one time. Indeed I am only halfhonest after all: I loved you once--after a boyish fashion. '

She half smiled again. 'I am glad you are believing me now, ' she said. 

'Thoroughly, ' I answered. 'When you speak the truth, I must believeyou. '

'I was afraid to let papa know the real state of things. I was alwaysafraid of him, though I love him dearly, and he is very good to me. Idared not disappoint him by telling him that I loved Charley Osborne. That time--you remember--when we met in Switzerland, his strange waysinterested me so much! I was only a girl--but--'

'I understand well enough. I don't wonder at any woman falling in lovewith my Charley. '

'Thank you, ' she said, with a sigh which seemed to come from the bottomof her heart. 'You were always generous. You will do what you can toright me with Charley--won't you? He is very strange sometimes. '

'I will indeed. But, Clara, why didn't Charley let _me_ know that youand he loved each other?'

'Ah! there my shame comes in again! I wanted--for my father's sake, notfor my own--I need not tell you that--I wanted to keep my influenceover you a little while--that is, until I could gain my father's end. If I should succeed in rousing you to enter an action for the recoveryof your rights, I thought my father might then be reconciled to mymarrying Charley instead--'

'Instead of me, Clara. Yes--I see. I begin to understand the wholething. It's not so bad as I thought--not by any means. '

'Oh, Wilfrid! how good of you! I shall love you next to Charley all mylife. '

She caught hold of my hand, and for a moment seemed on the point ofraising it to her lips. 

'But I can't easily get over the disgrace you have done me, Clara. Neither, I confess, can I get over your degrading yourself to a privateinterview with such a beast as I know--and can't help suspecting youknew--Brotherton to be. '

She dropped my hand, and hid her face in both her own. 

'I did know what he was; but the thought of Charley made me able to gothrough with it. '

'With the sacrifice of his friend to his enemy?'

'It was bad. It was horridly wicked. I hate myself for it. But you knowI thought it would do you no harm in the end. '

'How much did Charley know of it all?' I asked. 

'Nothing whatever. How could I trust his innocence? He's the simplestcreature in the world, Wilfrid. '

'I know that well enough. '

'I could not confess one atom of it to him. He would have blown up thewhole scheme at once. It was all I could do to keep him from tellingyou of our engagement; and that made him miserable. '

'Did you tell him I was in love with you? You knew I was, well enough. '

'I dared not do that, ' she said, with a sad smile. 'He would havevanished--would have killed himself to make way for you. '

'I see you understand him, Clara. '

'That will give me some feeble merit in your eyes--won't it, Wilfrid?'

'Still I don't see quite why you betrayed me to Brotherton. I dare sayI should if I had time to think it over. '

'I wanted to put you in such a position with regard to the Brothertonsthat you could have no scruples in respect of them such as my fatherfeared from what he called the over-refinement of your ideas of honour. The treatment you must receive would, I thought, rouse every feelingagainst them. But it was not _all_ for my father's sake, Wilfrid. Itwas, however mistaken, yet a good deal for the sake of Charley's friendthat I thus disgraced myself. Can you believe me?'

'I do. But nothing can wipe out the disgrace to me. '

'The sword was your own. Of course I never for a moment doubted that. '

'But they believed I was lying. '

'I can't persuade myself it signifies greatly what such people thinkabout you. I except Sir Giles. The rest are--'

'Yet you consented to visit them. '

'I was in reality Sir Giles's guest. Not one of the others would haveasked me. '

'Not Geoffrey?'

'I owe _him_ nothing but undying revenge for Charley. ' Her eyes flashedthrough the darkness; and she looked as if she could have killed him. 

'But you were plotting against Sir Giles all the time you were hisguest?'

'Not unjustly, though. The property was not his, but yours--that is, aswe then believed. As far as I knew, the result would have been a realservice to him, in delivering him from unjust possession--a thing hewould himself have scorned. It was all very wrong--very low, if youlike--but somehow it then seemed simple enough--a lawful stratagem forthe right. '

'Your heart was so full of Charley!'

'Then you do forgive me, Wilfrid?'

'With all my soul. I hardly feel now as if I had anything to forgive. '

I drew her towards me and kissed her on the forehead. She threw herarms round me, and clung to me, sobbing like a child. 

'You will explain it all to Charley--won't you?' she said, as soon asshe could speak, withdrawing herself from the arm which hadinvoluntarily crept around her, seeking to comfort her. 

'I will, ' I said. 

We were startled by a sound in the clump of trees behind us. Then overtheir tops passed a wailful gust of wind, through which we thought camethe fall of receding footsteps. 

'I hope we haven't been overheard, ' I said. 'I shall go at once andtell Charley all about it. I will just see you home first. '

'There's no occasion for that, Wilfrid; and I'm sure I don't deserveit. '

'You deserve a thousand thanks. You have lifted a mountain off me. Isee it all now. When your father found it was no use--'

'Then I saw I had wronged you, and I couldn't bear myself till I hadconfessed all. '

'Your father is satisfied, then, that the register would not stand inevidence?'

'Yes. He told me all about it. '

'He has never said a word to me on the matter; but just dropped me inthe dirt, and let me lie there. '

'You must forgive him too, Wilfrid. It was a dreadful blow to him, andit was weeks before he told me. We couldn't think what was the matterwith him. You see he had been cherishing the scheme ever since yourfather's death, and it was a great humiliation to find he had beensitting so many years on an addled egg, ' she said, with a laugh inwhich her natural merriment once more peeped out. 

I walked home with her, and we parted like old friends. On my way tothe Temple I was anxiously occupied as to how Charley would receive theexplanation I had to give him. That Clara's confession would be arelief I could not doubt; but it must cause him great painnotwithstanding. His sense of honour was so keen, and his ideal ofwomankind so lofty, that I could not but dread the consequences of therevelation. At the same time I saw how it might benefit him. I hadbegun to see that it is more divine to love the erring than to love thegood, and to understand how there is more joy over the one than overthe ninety and nine. If Charley, understanding that he is no divinelover, who loves only so long as he is able to flatter himself that theobject of his love is immaculate, should find that he must love Clarain spite of her faults and wrong-doings, he might thus grow to be lessdespairful over his own failures; he might, through his love for Clara, learn to hope for himself, notwithstanding the awful distance at whichperfection lay removed. 

But as I went I was conscious of a strange oppression. It was notproperly mental, for my interview with Clara had raised my spirits. Itwas a kind of physical oppression I felt, as if the air, which was inreality clear and cold, had been damp and close and heavy. 

I went straight to Charley's chambers. The moment I opened the door, Iknew that something was awfully wrong. The room was dark--but he wouldoften sit in the dark. I called him, but received no answer. Trembling, I struck a light, for I feared to move lest I should touch somethingdreadful. But when I had succeeded in lighting the lamp, I found theroom just as it always was. His hat was on the table. He must be in hisbed-room. And yet I did not feel as if anything alive was near me. Whywas everything so frightfully still? I opened the door as slowly andfearfully as if I had dreaded arousing a sufferer whose life dependedon his repose. There he lay on his bed, in his clothes--fast asleep, asI thought, for he often slept so, and at any hour of the day--thenatural relief of his much-perturbed mind. His eyes were closed, andhis face was very white. As I looked, I heard a sound--a drop--another!There was a slow drip somewhere. God in heaven! Could it be? I rushedto him, calling him aloud. There was no response. It was too true! Hewas dead. The long snake-like Indian dagger was in his heart, and theblood was oozing slowly from around it. 

I dare not linger over that horrible night, or the horrible days thatfollowed. Such days! such nights! The letters to write!--The friends totell!--Clara!--His father!--The police!--The inquest!

 * * * * *

Mr Osborne took no notice of my letter, but came up at once. Enteringwhere I sat with my head on my arms on the table, the firstannouncement I had of his presence was a hoarse deep broken voiceordering me out of the room. I obeyed mechanically, took up Charley'shat instead of my own, and walked away with it. But the neighbours werekind, and although I did not attempt to approach again all that wasleft of my friend, I watched from a neighbouring window, and followingat a little distance, was present when they laid his form, late atnight, in the unconsecrated ground of a cemetery. 

I may just mention here what I had not the heart to dwell upon in thecourse of my narrative--that since the talk about suicide occasioned bythe remarks of Sir Thomas Browne, he had often brought up thesubject--chiefly, however, in a half-humorous tone, and from what maybe called an aesthetic point of view as to the best mode ofaccomplishing it. For some of the usual modes he expressed abhorrence, as being so ugly; and on the whole considered--I well remember thephrase, for he used it more than once--that a dagger--and on one ofthose occasions he took up the Indian weapon already described andsaid--'such as this now, '--was 'the most gentleman-like usher into thepresence of the Great Nothing. ' As I had, however, often heard thatthose who contemplated suicide never spoke of it, and as his manner onthe occasions to which I refer was always merry, such talk awoke littleuneasiness; and I believe that he never had at the moment any consciousattraction to the subject stronger than a speculative one. At the sametime, however, I believe that the speculative attraction itself had itsroots in the misery with which in other and prevailing moods he was sofamiliar. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

ISOLATION. 

After writing to Mr Osborne to acquaint him with the terrible event, the first thing I did was to go to Clara. I will not attempt todescribe what followed. The moment she saw me, her face revealed, as ina mirror, the fact legible on my own, and I had scarcely opened mymouth when she cried 'He is dead!' and fell fainting on the floor. Heraunt came, and we succeeded in recovering her a little. But she laystill as death on the couch where we had laid her, and the motion ofher eyes hither and thither, as if following the movements of some oneabout the room, was the only sign of life in her. We spoke to her, butevidently she heard nothing; and at last, leaving her when the doctorarrived, I waited for her aunt in another room, and told her what hadhappened. 

Some days after, Clara sent for me, and I had to tell her the wholestory. Then, with agony in every word she uttered, she managed toinform me that, when she went in after I had left her at the door thatnight, she found waiting her a note from Charley; and this she now gaveme to read. It contained a request to meet him that evening at the veryplace which I had appointed. It was their customary rendezvous when shewas in town. In all probability he was there when we were, and heardand saw--heard too little and saw too much, and concluded that bothClara and I were false to him. The frightful perturbation which aconviction such as that must cause in a mind like his could be nothingshort of madness. For, ever tortured by a sense of his own impotence, of the gulf to all appearance eternally fixed between his actions andhis aspirations, and unable to lay hold of the Essential, the CausingGoodness, he had clung, with the despair of a perishing man, to the dimreflex of good he saw in her and me. If his faith in that was indeeddestroyed, the last barrier must have given way, and the sea of madnessever breaking against it must have broken in and overwhelmed him. Butoh, my friend! surely long ere now thou knowest that we were not false;surely the hour will yet dawn when I shall again hold thee to my heart;yea, surely, even if still thou countest me guilty, thou hast alreadyfound for me endless excuse and forgiveness. 

I can hardly doubt, however, that he inherited a strain of madness fromhis father, a madness which that father had developed by forcing uponhim the false forms of a true religion. 

It is not then strange that I should have thought and speculated muchabout madness. --What does its frequent impulse to suicide indicate? Mayit not be its main instinct to destroy itself as an evil thing? May notthe impulse arise from some unconscious conviction that there is for itno remedy but the shuffling off of this mortal coil--nature herselfdimly urging through the fumes of the madness to the one blow whichlets in the light and air? Doubtless, if in the mind so sadly unhinged, the sense of a holy presence could be developed--the sense of a lovethat loves through all vagaries--of a hiding-place from forms of evilthe most fantastic--of a fatherly care that not merely holds its insanechild in its arms, but enters into the chaos of his imagination, andsees every wildest horror with which it swarms; if, I say, theconviction of such a love dawned on the disordered mind, the man wouldlive in spite of his imaginary foes, for he would pray against them assure of being heard as St Paul when he prayed concerning the thorn fromwhich he was not delivered, but against which he was sustained. And whocan tell how often this may be the fact--how often the lunatic alsolives by faith? Are not the forms of madness most frequently those oflove and religion? Certainly, if there be a God, he does not forget hisfrenzied offspring; certainly he is more tender over them than anymother over her idiot darling; certainly he sees in them what the eyeof brother or sister cannot see. But some of them, at least, have notenough of such support to be able to go on living; and, for my part, Iconfess I rejoice as often as I hear that one has succeeded in breakinghis prison bars. When the crystal shrine has grown dim, and the fairforms of nature are in their entrance contorted hideously; when thesunlight itself is as blue lightning, and the wind in the summer treesis as 'a terrible sound of stones cast down, or a rebounding echo fromthe hollow mountains;' when the body is no longer a mediator betweenthe soul and the world, but the prison-house of a lying gaoler andtorturer--how can I but rejoice to hear that the tormented captive hasat length forced his way out into freedom?

When I look behind me, I can see but little through the surging luridsmoke of that awful time. The first sense of relief came when I saw thebody of Charley laid in the holy earth. For the earth _is_ theLord's--and none the less holy that the voice of the priest may haveleft it without his consecration. Surely if ever the Lord laughs inderision, as the Psalmist says, it must be when the voice of a manwould in _his_ name exclude his fellows from their birthright. O Lord, gather thou the outcasts of thy Israel, whom the priests and the rulersof thy people have cast out to perish. 

I remember for the most part only a dull agony, interchanging withapathy. For days and days I could not rest, but walked hither andthither, careless whither. When at length I would lie down weary andfall asleep, suddenly I would start up, hearing the voice of Charleycrying for help, and rush in the middle of the Winter night into thewretched streets there to wander till daybreak. But I was not utterlymiserable. In my most wretched dreams I never dreamed of Mary, andthrough all my waking distress I never forgot her. I was sure in myvery soul that she did me no injustice. I had laid open the deepest inme to her honest gaze, and she had read it, and could not but know me. Neither did what had occurred quench my growing faith. I had never beenable to hope much for Charley in this world; for something was out ofjoint with him, and only in the region of the unknown was I able tolook for the setting right of it. Nor had many weeks passed before Iwas fully aware of relief when I remembered that he was dead. Andwhenever the thought arose that God might have given him a fairerchance in this world, I was able to reflect that apparently God doesnot care for this world save as a part of the whole; and on that wholeI had yet to discover that he could have given him a fairer chance. 

CHAPTER LV. 

ATTEMPTS AND COINCIDENCES. 

It was months before I could resume my work. Not until Charley'sabsence was, as it were, so far established and accepted that hope hadbegun to assert itself against memory; that is, not until the form ofCharley ceased to wander with despairful visage behind me and began torise amongst the silvery mists before me, was I able to invent oncemore, or even to guide the pen with certainty over the paper. Themoment, however, that I took the pen in my hand another necessityseized me. 

Although Mary had hardly been out of my thoughts, I had heard no wordof her since her brother's death. I dared not write to her father ormother after the way the former had behaved to me, and I shrunk fromapproaching Mary with a word that might suggest a desire to intrude thethoughts of myself upon the sacredness of her grief. Why should shethink of me? Sorrow has ever something of a divine majesty, beforewhich one must draw nigh with bowed head and bated breath:

 Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne: bid kings come bow to it. 

But the moment I took the pen in my hand to write, an almost agonizingdesire to speak to her laid hold of me. I dared not yet write to her, but, after reflection, resolved to send her some verses which shouldmake her think of both Charley and myself, through the pages of amagazine which I knew she read. 

 Oh, look not on the heart I bring-- It is too low and poor; I would not have thee love a thing Which I can ill endure. 

 Nor love me for the sake of what I would be if I could; O'er peaks as o'er the marshy flat, Still soars the sky of good. 

 See, love, afar, the heavenly man The will of God would make; The thing I must be when I can, Love now, for faith's dear sake. 

But when I had finished the lines, I found the expression had fallen sofar short of what I had in my feeling, that I could not rest satisfiedwith such an attempt at communication. I walked up and down the room, thinking of the awful theories regarding the state of mind at death inwhich Mary had been trained. As to the mere suicide, love ever findsrefuge in presumed madness; but all of her school believed that at themoment of dissolution the fate is eternally fixed either for bliss orwoe, determined by the one or the other of two vaguely definedattitudes of the mental being towards certain propositions; concerningwhich attitudes they were at least right in asserting that no man couldof himself assume the safe one. The thought became unendurable thatMary should believe that Charley was damned--and that for ever andever. I must and would write to her, come of it what might. That myCharley, whose suicide came of misery that the painful flutterings ofhis half-born wings would not bear him aloft into the empyrean, shouldappear to my Athanasia lost in an abyss of irrecoverable woe; that sheshould think of God as sending forth his spirit to sustain endlesswickedness for endless torture;--it was too frightful. As I wrote, thefire burned and burned, and I ended only from despair of utterance. Nota word can I now recall of what I wrote:--the strength of my feelingsmust have paralyzed the grasp of my memory. All I can recollect is thatI closed with the expression of a passionate hope that the God who hadmade me and my Charley to love each other, would somewhere, some day, somehow, when each was grown stronger and purer, give us once more toeach other. In that hope alone, I said, was it possible for me to live. By return of post I received the following:--

SIR, After having everlastingly ruined one of my children, body and soul, for _your_ sophisms will hardly alter the decrees of divine justice, once more you lay your snares--now to drag my sole remaining child intothe same abyss of perdition. Such wickedness--wickedness even to thepitch of blasphemy against the Holy Ghost--I have never in the courseof a large experience of impenitence found paralleled. It almost drivesme to the belief that the enemy of souls is still occasionallypermitted to take up his personal abode in the heart of him whowilfully turns aside from revealed truth. I forgive you for the ruinyou have brought upon our fondest hopes, and the agony with which youhave torn the hearts of those who more than life loved him of whom youfalsely called yourself the friend. But I fear you have already gonetoo far ever to feel your need of that forgiveness which alone canavail you. Yet I say--Repent, for the mercy of the Lord is infinite. Though my boy is lost to me for ever, I should yet rejoice to see theinstrument of his ruin plucked as a brand from the burning. 

Your obedient well-wisher, CHARLES OSBORNE. 

'P. S. --I retain your letter for the sake of my less experiencedbrethren, that I may be able to afford an instance of how far theunregenerate mind can go in its antagonism to the God of Revelation. '

I breathed a deep breath, and laid the letter down, mainly concerned asto whether Mary had had the chance of reading mine. I could believe anyamount of tyranny in her father--even to perusing and withholding herletters; but in this I may do him injustice, for there is no commonground known to me from which to start in speculating upon his probableactions. I wrote in answer something nearly as follows:--

SIR, That you should do me injustice can by this time be no matter ofsurprise to me. Had I the slightest hope of convincing you of the fact, I should strain every mental nerve to that end. But no one can labourwithout hope, and as in respect of _your_ justice I have none, I willbe silent. May the God in whom I trust convince you of the cruelty ofwhich you have been guilty: the God in whom you profess to believe, must be too like yourself to give any ground of such hope from him. 

Your obedient servant, 'WILFRID CUMBERMEDE. '

If Mary had read my letter, I felt assured her reading had been verydifferent from her father's. Anyhow she could not judge me as he did, for she knew me better. She knew that for Charley's sake I had triedthe harder to believe myself. 

But the reproaches of one who had been so unjust to his own son couldnot weigh very heavily on me, and I now resumed my work with atolerable degree of calmness. But I wrote badly. I should have donebetter to go down to the Moat, and be silent. If my reader has everseen what I wrote at that time, I should like her to know that I nowwish it all unwritten--not for any utterance contained in it, butsimply for its general inferiority. 

Certainly work is not always required of a man. There is such a thingas a sacred idleness, the cultivation of which is now fearfullyneglected. Abraham, seated in his tent door in the heat of the day, would be to the philosophers of the nineteenth century an object foruplifted hands and pointed fingers. They would see in him only theindolent Arab, whom nothing but the foolish fancy that he saw his Makerin the distance, could rouse to run. 

It was clearly better to attempt no further communication with Mary atpresent; and I could think but of one person from whom, without givingpain, I might hope for some information concerning her. 

 * * * * *

Here I had written a detailed account of how I contrived to meet MissPease, but it is not of consequence enough to my story to be allowed toremain. Suffice it to mention that one morning at length I caught sightof her in a street in Mayfair, where the family was then staying forthe season, and overtaking addressed her. 

She started, stared at me for a moment, and held out her hand. 

'I didn't know you, Mr Cumbermede. How much older you look! I beg yourpardon. Have you been ill?'

She spoke hurriedly, and kept looking over her shoulder now and then, as if afraid of being seen talking to me. 

'I have had a good deal to make me older since we met last, MissPease, ' I said. 'I have hardly a friend left in the world but you--thatis, if you will allow me to call you one. '

'Certainly, certainly, ' she answered, but hurriedly, and with one ofthose uneasy glances. 'Only you must allow, Mr Cumbermede, that--that--that--'

The poor lady was evidently unprepared to meet me on the old footing, and, at the same time, equally unwilling to hurt my feelings. 

'I should be sorry to make you run a risk for my sake, ' I said. 'Pleasejust answer me one question. Do you know what it is to bemisunderstood--to be despised without deserving it?'

She smiled sadly, and nodded her head gently two or three times. 

'Then have pity on me, and let me have a little talk with you. '

Again she glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. 

'You are afraid of being seen with me, and I don't wonder, ' I said. 

'Mr Geoffrey came up with us, ' she answered. 'I left him at breakfast. He will be going across the park to his club directly. '

'Then come with me the other way--into Hyde Park, ' I said. 

With evident reluctance, she yielded and accompanied me. 

As soon as we got within Stanhope Gate, I spoke. 

'A certain sad event, of which you have no doubt heard, Miss Pease, hasshut me out from all communication with the family of my friend CharleyOsborne. I am very anxious for some news of his sister. She is all thatis left of him to me now. Can you tell me anything about her?'

'She has been very ill, ' she replied. 

'I hope that means that she is better, ' I said. 

'She is better, and, I hear, going on the Continent, as soon as theseason will permit. But, Mr Cumbermede, you must be aware that I amunder considerable restraint in talking to you. The position I hold inSir Giles's family, although neither a comfortable nor a dignifiedone--'

'I understand you perfectly, Miss Pease, ' I returned, 'and fullyappreciate the sense of propriety which causes your embarrassment. Butthe request I am about to make has nothing to do with them or theiraffairs whatever. I only want your promise to let me know if you hearanything of Miss Osborne. '

'I cannot tell--what--'

'What use I may be going to make of the information you give me. In aword, you do not trust me. '

'I neither trust nor distrust you, Mr Cumbermede. But I am afraid ofbeing drawn into a correspondence with you. '

'Then I will ask no promise. I will hope in your generosity. Here is myaddress. I pray you, as you would have helped him who fell amongthieves, to let me know anything you hear about Mary Osborne. '

She took my card, and turned at once, saying, 'Mind, I make no promise. '

'I imagine none, ' I answered. 'I will trust in your kindness. '

And so we parted. 

Unsatisfactory as the interview was, it yet gave me a little hope. Iwas glad to hear that Mary was going abroad, for it must do her good. For me, I would endure and labour and hope. I gave her to God, asShakspere says somewhere, and set myself to my work. When her mind wasquieter about Charley, somehow or other I might come near her again. --Icould not see how. 

I took my way across the Green Park. 

I do not believe we notice the half of the coincidences that float pastus on the stream of events. Things which would fill us withastonishment, and probably with foreboding, look us in the face andpass us by, and we know nothing of them. 

As I walked along in the direction of the Mall, I became aware of atall man coming towards me, stooping, as if with age, while the lengthof his stride indicated a more vigorous period. He passed withoutlifting his head, but, in the partial view of the wan and furrowedcountenance, I could not fail to recognize Charley's father. Such aworn unhappiness was there depicted that the indignation which stilllingered in my bosom went out in compassion. If his sufferings mightbut teach him that to brand the truth of the kingdom with the privatemark of opinion must result in persecution and cruelty! He mounted theslope with strides at once eager and aimless, and I wondered whetherany of the sure-coming compunctions had yet begun to overshadow thecomplacency of his faith; whether he had yet begun to doubt if itpleased the Son of Man that a youth should be driven from the gates oftruth because he failed to recognize her image in the faces of thejanitors. 

Aimless also, I turned into the Mall, and again I started at the sightof a known figure. Was it possible?--could it be my Lilith betwixt theshafts of a public cabriolet? Fortunately it was empty. I hailed it, and jumped up, telling the driver to take me to my chambers. 

My poor Lilith! She was working like one who had never been loved! Sofar as I knew she had never been in harness before. She was badlygroomed and thin, but much of her old spirit remained. I soon enteredinto negotiations with the driver, whose property she was, and made hermy own once more, with a delight I could ill express in plainprose--for my friends were indeed few. I wish I could draw a picture ofthe lovely creature, when at length, having concluded my bargain, Iapproached her, and called her by her name! She turned her headsideways towards me with a low whinny of pleasure, and when I walked alittle away, walked wearily after me. I took her myself to liverystables near me, and wrote for Styles. His astonishment when he saw herwas amusing. 

'Good Lord! Miss Lilith!' was all he could say--for some moments. 

In a few days she had begun to look like herself, and I sent her homewith Styles. I should hardly like to say how much the recovery of herdid to restore my spirits; I could not help regarding it as a goodomen. 

And now, the first bitterness of my misery having died a natural death, I sought again some of the friends I had made through Charley, andexperienced from them great kindness. I began also to go into society alittle, for I had found that invention is ever ready to lose the formsof life, if it be not kept under the ordinary pressure of itsatmosphere. As it is, I doubt much if any of my books are more thanpartially true to those forms, for I have ever heeded them too little;but I believe I have been true to the heart of man. At the same time, Ihave ever regarded that heart more as the fountain of aspiration thanthe grave of fruition. The discomfiture of enemies and a happy marriagenever seemed to me ends of sufficient value to close a historywithal--I mean a fictitious history, wherein one may set forth joys andsorrows which in a real history must walk shadowed under the veil ofmodesty; for the soul, still less than the body, will consent to berevealed to all eyes. Hence, although most of my books have seemed trueto some, they have all seemed visionary to most. 

A year passed away, during which I never left London. I heard from MissPease--that Miss Osborne, although much better, was not going to returnuntil after another Winter. I wrote and thanked her, and heard no more. It may seem I accepted such ignorance with strange indifference; but, even to the reader for whom alone I am writing, I cannot, as thingsare, attempt to lay open all my heart. I have not written and cannotwrite how I thought, projected, brooded, and dreamed--all about _her_;how I hoped when I wrote that she might read; how I questioned what Ihad written, to find whether it would look to her what I had intendedit to appear. 

CHAPTER LVI. 

THE LAST VISION. 

I had engaged to accompany one of Charley's barrister-friends, in whosesociety I had found considerable satisfaction, to his father'shouse--to spend the evening with some friends of the family. Thegathering was chiefly for talk, and was a kind of thing I disliked, finding its aimlessness and flicker depressing. Indeed, partly from thepeculiar circumstances of my childhood, partly from what I hadsuffered, I always found my spirits highest when alone. Still, thestudy of humanity apart, I felt that I ought not to shut myself outfrom my kind, but endure some little irksomeness, if only for the sakeof keeping alive that surface friendliness which has its value in thenourishment of the deeper affections. On this particular occasion, however, I yielded the more willingly that, in the revival of variousmemories of Charley, it had occurred to me that I once heard him saythat his sister had a regard for one of the ladies of the family. 

There were not many people in the drawing-room when we arrived, and myfriend's mother alone was there to entertain them. With her I waschatting when one of her daughters entered, accompanied by a lady inmourning. For one moment I felt as if on the borders of insanity. Mybrain seemed to surge like the waves of a wind-tormented tide, so thatI dared not make a single step forward lest my limbs should disobey me. It was indeed Mary Osborne; but oh, how changed! The rather full facehad grown delicate and thin, and the fine pure complexion if possiblefiner and purer, but certainly more ethereal and evanescent. It was asif suffering had removed some substance unapt, [Footnote: Spenser's'Hymne in Honour of Beautie. '] and rendered her body a better-fittinggarment for her soul. Her face, which had before required the softeninginfluences of sleep and dreams to give it the plasticity necessary forcomplete expression, was now full of a repressed expression, if I maybe allowed the phrase--a latent something ever on the tremble, ever onthe point of breaking forth. It was as if the nerves had grown finer, more tremulous, or, rather, more vibrative. Touched to finer issuesthey could never have been, but suffering had given them a moreresponsive thrill. In a word, she was the Athanasia of my dream, notthe Mary Osborne of the Moldwarp library. 

Conquering myself at last, and seeing a favourable opportunity, Iapproached her. I think the fear lest her father should enter gave methe final impulse; otherwise I could have been contented to gaze on herfor hours in motionless silence. 

'May I speak to you, Mary?' I said. 

She lifted her eyes and her whole face towards mine, without a smile, without a word. Her features remained perfectly still, but, like theoutbreak of a fountain, the tears rushed into her eyes and overflowedin silent weeping. Not a sob, not a convulsive movement, accompaniedtheir flow. 

'Is your father here?' I asked. 

She shook her head. 

'I thought you were abroad somewhere--I did not know where. '

Again she shook her head. She dared not speak, knowing that if she madethe attempt she must break down. 

'I will go away till you can bear the sight of me, ' I said. Shehalf-stretched out a thin white hand, but whether to detain me or bidme farewell I do not know, for it dropped again on her knee. 

[Illustration: "I will come to you by and by, " I said. ]

'I will come to you by-and-by, ' I said, and moved away. The roomsrapidly filled, and in a few minutes I could not see the corner where Ihad left her. I endured everything for awhile, and then made my wayback to it; but she was gone, and I could find her nowhere. A ladybegan to sing. When the applause which followed her performance wasover, my friend, who happened to be near me, turned abruptly and said, 'Now, Cumbermede, _you_ sing. '

The truth was that, since I had loved Mary Osborne, I had attempted tocultivate a certain small gift of song which I thought I possessed. Idared not touch any existent music, for I was certain I should breakdown; but having a faculty--somewhat thin, I fear--for writing songs, and finding that a shadowy air always accompanied the birth of thewords, I had presumed to study music a little, in the hope of becomingable to fix the melody--the twin sister of the song. I had made someprogress, and had grown able to write down a simple thought. There waslittle presumption, then, in venturing my voice, limited as was itsscope, upon a trifle of my own. Tempted by the opportunity of realizinghopes consciously wild, I obeyed my friend, and, sitting down to theinstrument in some trepidation, sang the following verses--

 I dreamed that I woke from a dream, And the house was full of light; At the window two angel Sorrows Held back the curtains of night. 

 The door was wide, and the house Was full of the morning wind; At the door two armed warders Stood silent, with faces blind. 

 I ran to the open door, For the wind of the world was sweet; The warders with crossing weapons Turned back my issuing feet. 

 I ran to the shining windows-- There the winged Sorrows stood; Silent they held the curtains, And the light fell through in a flood. 

 I clomb to the highest window-- Ah! there, with shadowed brow, Stood one lonely radiant Sorrow, And that, my love, was thou. 

I could not have sung this in public, but that no one would suspect itwas my own, or was in the least likely to understand a word ofit--except her for whose ears and heart it was intended. 

As soon as I had finished, I rose, and once more went searching forMary. But as I looked, sadly fearing she was gone, I heard her voiceclose behind me. 

'Are those verses your own, Mr Cumbermede?' she asked, almost in awhisper. 

I turned trembling. Her lovely face was looking up at me. 

'Yes, ' I answered--'as much my own as that I believe they are not to befound anywhere. But they were given to me rather than made by me. '

'Would you let me have them? I am not sure that I understand them. '

'I am not sure that I understand them myself. They are for the heartrather than the mind. Of course you shall have them. They were writtenfor you. All I have, all I am, is yours. '

Her face flushed, and grew pale again instantly. 

'You must not talk so, ' she said. 'Remember. '

'I can never forget. I do not know why you say _remember_. '

'On second thoughts, I must not have the verses. I beg your pardon. '

'Mary, you bewilder me. I have no right to ask you to explain, exceptthat you speak as if I must understand. What have they been telling youabout me?'

'Nothing--at least nothing that--'

She paused. 

'I try to live innocently, and were it only for your sake, shall neverstop searching for the thread of life in its ravelled skein. '

'Do not say for _my_ sake, Mr Cumbermede. That means nothing. Say foryour own sake, if not for God's. '

'If _you_ are going to turn away from me, I don't mind how soon Ifollow Charley. '

All this was said in a half-whisper, I bending towards her where shesat, a little sheltered by one of a pair of folding doors. My heart waslike to break--or rather it seemed to have vanished out of mealtogether, lost in a gulf of emptiness. Was this all? Was this the endof my dreaming? To be thus pushed aside by the angel of myresurrection?

'Hush! hush!' she said kindly. 'You must have many friends. But--'

'But you will be my friend no more? Is that it, Mary? Oh, if you knewall! And you are never, never to know it!'

Her still face was once more streaming with tears. I choked mine back, terrified at the thought of being observed; and without even offeringmy hand, left her and made my way through the crowd to the stair. Onthe landing I met Geoffrey Brotherton. We stared each other in the faceand passed. 

I did not sleep much that night, and when I did sleep, woke from onewretched dream after another, now crying aloud, and now weeping. Whatcould I have done? or rather, what could any one have told her I haddone to make her behave thus to me? She did not look angry--or evendispleased--only sorrowful, very sorrowful; and she seemed to take itfor granted I knew what it meant. When at length I finally woke afteran hour of less troubled sleep, I found some difficulty in convincingmyself that the real occurrences of the night before had not been oneof the many troubled dreams that had scared my repose. Even after thedreams had all vanished, and the facts remained, they still appearedmore like a dim dream of the dead--the vision of Mary was so wan andhopeless, memory alone looking out from her worn countenance. There hadbeen no warmth in her greeting, no resentment in her aspect; we met asif we had parted but an hour before, only that an open grave wasbetween us, across which we talked in the voice of dreamers. She hadsought to raise no barrier between us, just because we _could_ notmeet, save as one of the dead and one of the living. What could itmean? But with the growing day awoke a little courage. I would at leasttry to find out what it meant. Surely _all_ my dreams were not tovanish like the mist of the morning! To lose my dreams would be farworse than to lose the so-called realities of life. What were these tome? What value lay in such reality? Even God was as yet so dim and faroff as to seem rather in the region of dreams--of those true dreams, Ihoped, that shadowed forth the real--than in the actual visiblepresent. 'Still, ' I said to myself, 'she had not cast me off; she didnot refuse to know me; she did ask for my song, and I will send it. '

I wrote it out, adding a stanza to the verses:--

 I bowed my head before her, And stood trembling in the light; She dropped the heavy curtain, And the house was full of night. 

I then sought my friend's chambers. 

'I was not aware you knew the Osbornes, ' I said. 'I wonder you nevertold me, seeing Charley and you were such friends. '

'I never saw one of them till last night. My sister and she knew eachother some time ago, and have met again of late. What a lovely creatureshe is! But what became of you last night? You must have left beforeany one else. '

'I didn't feel well. '

'You don't look the thing. '

'I confess meeting Miss Osborne rather upset me. '

'It had the same effect on her. She was quite ill, my sister said, thismorning. No wonder! Poor Charley! I always had a painful feeling thathe would come to grief somehow. '

'Let's hope he's come to something else by this time, Marston, ' I said. 

'Amen, ' he returned. 

'Is her father or mother with her?'

'No. They are to fetch her away--next week, I think it is. ' I had nowno fear of my communication falling into other hands, and thereforesent the song by post, with a note, in which I begged her to let meknow if I had done anything to offend her. Next morning I received thefollowing reply:

'No, Wilfrid--for Charley's sake, I must call you by your name--youhave done nothing to offend me. Thank you for the song. I did not wantyou to send it, but I will keep it. You must not write to me again. Donot forget what we used to write about. God's ways are not ours. Yourfriend, Mary Osborne. '

I rose and went out, not knowing whither. Half-stunned, I roamed thestreets. I ate nothing that day, and when towards night I found myselfnear my chambers, I walked in as I had come out, having no intent, nofuture. I felt very sick, and threw myself on my bed. There I passedthe night, half in sleep, half in helpless prostration. When I lookback, it seems as if some spiritual narcotic must have been given me, else how should the terrible time have passed and left me alive? When Icame to myself, I found I was ill, and I longed to hide my head in thenest of my childhood. I had always looked on the Moat as my refuge atthe last; now it seemed the only desirable thing--a lonely nook, inwhich to lie down and end the dream there begun--either, as it nowseemed, in an eternal sleep, or the inburst of a dreary light. Afterthe last refuge it could afford me it must pass from my hold; but I wasyet able to determine whither. I rose and went to Marston. 

'Marston, ' I said, 'I want to make my will. '

'All right!' he returned; 'but you look as if you meant to register itas well. You've got a feverish cold; I see it in your eyes. Come along. I'll go home with you, and fetch a friend of mine, who will give yousomething to do you good. '

'I can't rest till I have made my will, ' I persisted. 

'Well, there's no harm in that, ' he rejoined. 'It won't take long, Idare say. '

'It needn't anyhow. I only want to leave the small real property I haveto Miss Osborne, and the still smaller-personal property to yourself. '

He laughed. 

'All right, old boy! I haven't the slightest objection to your willingyour traps to me, but every objection in the world to your _leaving_them. To be sure, every, man, with anything to leave, ought to make hiswill betimes;--so fire away. '

In a little while the draught was finished. 

'I shall have it ready for your signature by to-morrow, ' he said. 

I insisted it should be done at once. I was going home, I said. Heyielded. The will was engrossed, signed, and witnessed that samemorning; and in the afternoon I set out, the first part of the journeyby rail, for the Moat. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

ANOTHER DREAM. 

The excitement of having something to do had helped me over themorning, and the pleasure of thinking of what I had done helped methrough half the journey; but before I reached home I was utterlyexhausted. Then I had to drive round by the farm, and knock up MrsHerbert and Styles. 

I could not bear the thought of my own room, and ordered a fire in mygrandmother's, where they soon got me into bed. All I remember of thatnight is the following dream. 

I found myself at the entrance of the ice-cave. A burning sun beat onmy head, and at my feet flowed the brook which gathered its life fromthe decay of the ice. I stooped to drink; but, cool to the eye and handand lips, it yet burned me within like fire. I would seek shelter fromthe sun inside the cave. I entered, and knew that the cold was allaround me; I even felt it; but somehow it did not enter into me. Mybrain, my very bones, burned with fire. I went in and in. The blueatmosphere closed around me, and the colour entered into my soul tillit seemed dyed with the potent blue. My very being swam and floated ina blue atmosphere of its own. My intention--I can recall itperfectly--was but to walk to the end, a few yards, then turn and againbrave the sun; for I had a dim feeling of forsaking my work, of playingtruant, or of being cowardly in thus avoiding the heat. Something elsetoo was wrong, but I could not clearly tell what. As I went on, I beganto wonder that I had not come to the end. The gray walls yet rose aboutme, and ever the film of dissolution flowed along their glassy faces tothe runnel below; still before me opened the depth of blue atmosphere, deepening as I went. After many windings, the path began to branch, andsoon I was lost in a labyrinth of passages, of which I knew not why Ishould choose one rather than another. It was useless now to think ofreturning. Arbitrarily I chose the narrowest way, and still went on. 

A discoloration of the ice attracted my attention, and as I looked itseemed to retreat into the solid mass. There was something not icewithin it, which grew more and more distinct as I gazed, until at lastI plainly distinguished the form of my grandmother lying as then whenmy aunt made me touch her face. A few yards further on lay the body ofmy uncle, as I saw him in his coffin. His face was dead white in themidst of the cold clear ice, his eyes closed, and his arms straight byhis side. He lay like an alabaster king upon his tomb. It _was_ he, Ithought, but he would never speak to me more--never look at me---nevermore awake. There lay all that was left of him--the cold frozen memoryof what he had been, and would never be again. I did not weep. I onlyknew somehow in my dream that life was all a wandering in a frozencave, where the faces of the living were dark with the comingcorruption, and the memories of the dead, cold and clear and hopelessevermore, alone were lovely. 

I walked further; for the ice might possess yet more of the past--allthat was left me of life. And again I stood and gazed, for, deepwithin, I saw the form of Charley--at rest now, his face bloodless, butnot so death-like as my uncle's. His hands were laid palm to palm overhis bosom, and pointed upwards, as if praying for comfort where comfortwas none: here at least were no flickerings of the rainbow fancies offaith and hope and charity! I gazed in comfortless content for a timeon the repose of my weary friend, and then went on, inly moved to seewhat further the ice of the godless region might hold. Nor had Iwandered far when I saw the form of Mary, lying like the rest, onlythat her hands were crossed on her bosom. I stood, wondering to findmyself so little moved. But when the ice drew nigh me, and would haveclosed around me, my heart leaped for joy; and when the heat of mylingering life repelled it, my heart sunk within me, and I said tomyself: 'Death will not have me. I may not join her even in the land ofcold forgetfulness: I may not even be nothing _with_ her. ' The tearsbegan to flow down my face, like the thin veil of water that kept everflowing down the face of the ice; and as I wept, the water before meflowed faster and faster, till it rippled in a sheet down the icy wall. Faster and yet faster it flowed, falling, with the sound as of manyshowers, into the runnel below, which rushed splashing and gurglingaway from the foot of the vanishing wall. Faster and faster it flowed, until the solid mass fell in a foaming cataract, and swept in a torrentacross the cave. I followed the retreating wall through the seethingwater at its foot. Thinner and thinner grew the dividing mass; nearerand nearer came the form of my Mary. 'I shall yet clasp her, ' I cried;'her dead form will kill me, and I too shall be inclosed in thefriendly ice. I shall not be with her, alas! but neither shall I bewithout her, for I shall depart into the lovely nothingness. ' Thinnerand thinner grew the dividing wall. The skirt of her shroud hung like awet weed in the falling torrent. I kneeled in the river, and creptnearer with outstretched arms: when the vanishing ice set the dead formfree, it should rest in those arms--the last gift of thelife-dream--for then, surely, I _must_ die. 'Let me pass in the agonyof a lonely embrace!' I cried. As I spoke she moved. I started to myfeet, stung into life by the agony of a new hope. Slowly the icereleased her, and gently she rose to her feet. The torrents of waterceased--they had flowed but to set her free. Her eyes were stillclosed, but she made one blind step towards me, and laid her left handon my head, her right hand on my heart. Instantly, body and soul, I wascool as a Summer eve after a thunder-shower. For a moment, precious asan aeon, she held her hands upon me--then slowly opened her eyes. Outof them flashed the living soul of my Athanasia. She closed the lidsagain slowly over the lovely splendour; the water in which we stoodrose around us; and on its last billow she floated away through thewinding passage of the cave. I sought to follow her, but could not. Icried aloud and awoke. 

But the burning heat had left me; I felt that I had passed a crisis, and had begun to recover--a conviction which would have been altogetherunwelcome, but for the poor shadow of a reviving hope which accompaniedit. Such a dream, come whence it might, could not but bring comfortwith it. The hope grew, and was my sole medicine. 

Before the evening I felt better, and, though still very feeble, managed to write to Marston, letting him know I was safe, andrequesting him to forward any letters that might arrive. 

The next day, I rose, but was unable to work. The very thought ofwriting sickened me. Neither could I bear the thought of returning toLondon. I tried to read, but threw aside book after book, without beingable to tell what one of them was about. If for a moment I seemed toenter into the subject, before I reached the bottom of the page, Ifound I had not an idea as to what the words meant or whither theytended. After many failures, unwilling to give myself up to idlebrooding, I fortunately tried some of the mystical poetry of theseventeenth century. The difficulties of that I found rather stimulatethan repel me; while, much as there was in the form to displease thetaste, there was more in the matter to rouse the intellect. I foundalso some relief in resuming my mathematical studies: the abstractionof them acted as an anodyne. But the days dragged wearily. 

As soon as I was able to get on horseback, the tone of mind and bodybegan to return. I felt as if into me some sort of animal healingpassed from Lilith; and who can tell in how many ways the lower animalsmay not minister to the higher?

One night I had a strange experience. I give it without argument, perfectly aware that the fact may be set down to the disordered stateof my physical nature, and that without injustice. 

I had not for a long time thought about one of the questions which hadso much occupied Charley and myself--that of immortality. As to anycommunication between the parted, I had never, during his life, pondered the possibility of it, although I had always had aninclination to believe that such intercourse had in rare instancestaken place. Former periods of the world's history, when that blindingself-consciousness which is the bane of ours was yet undeveloped, must, I thought, have been far more favourable to its occurrence. Anyhow Iwas convinced that it was not to be gained by effort. I confess that, in the unthinking agony of grief after Charley's death, many a timewhen I woke in the middle of the night and could sleep no more, I satup in bed and prayed him, if he heard me, to come to me, and let metell him the truth--for my sake to let me know, at least, that helived, for then I should be sure that one day all would be well. But ifthere was any hearing, there was no answer. Charley did not come; theprayer seemed to vanish in the darkness; and my more self-possessedmeditations never justified the hope of any such being heard. 

One night I was sitting in my grannie's room, which, except my uncle's, was now the only one I could bear to enter. I had been reading for sometime very quietly, but had leaned back in my chair, and let my thoughtsgo wandering whither they would, when all at once I was possessed bythe conviction that Charley was near me. I saw nothing, heard nothing;of the recognized senses of humanity not one gave me a hint of apresence; and yet my whole body was aware--so, at least, it seemed--ofthe proximity of another _I_. It was as if some nervous regioncommensurate with my frame, were now for the first time revealed bycontact with an object suitable for its apprehension. Like Eliphaz, Ifelt the hair of my head stand up--not from terror, but simply, as itseemed, from the presence and its strangeness. Like others also of whomI have read, who believed themselves in the presence of thedisembodied, I could not speak. I tried, but as if the medium for soundhad been withdrawn, and an empty gulf lay around me, no word followed, although my very soul was full of the cry--_Charley! Charley!_ Andalas! in a few moments, like the faint vanishing of an unrealizedthought, leaving only the assurance that something half-born from outthe unknown had been there, the influence faded and died. It passedfrom me like the shadow of a cloud, and once more I knew but my poorlonely self, returning to its candles, its open book, its burning fire. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

THE DARKEST HOUR. 

Suffering is perhaps the only preparation for suffering: still I wasbut poorly prepared for what followed. 

Having gathered strength, and a certain quietness which I could notmistake for peace, I returned to London towards the close of theSpring. I had in the interval heard nothing of Mary. The few lettersMarston had sent on had been almost exclusively from my publishers. Butthe very hour I reached my lodging, came a note, which I openedtrembling, for it was in the handwriting of Miss Pease. 

DEAR SIR, --I cannot, I think, be wrong in giving you a piece ofinformation which will be in the newspapers to-morrow morning. Your oldacquaintance, and my young relative, Mr Brotherton, was married thismorning, at St George's, Hanover Square, to your late friend's sister, Miss Mary Osborne. They have just left for Dover on their way toSwitzerland. Your sincere well-wisher, 'JANE PEASE. '

Even at this distance of time, I should have to exhort myself to writewith calmness, were it not that the utter despair of conveying myfeelings, if indeed my soul had not for the time passed beyond feelinginto some abyss unknown to human consciousness, renders it unnecessary. This despair of communication has two sources--the one simply theconviction of the impossibility of expressing _any_ feeling, much moresuch feeling as mine then was--and is; the other the conviction thatonly to the heart of love can the sufferings of love speak. The attemptof a lover to move, by the presentation of his own suffering, the heartof her who loves him not, is as unavailing as it is unmanly. The poetwho sings most wailfully of the torments of the lover's hell, is but asounding brass and a tinkling cymbal in the ears of her who has at bestonly a general compassion to meet the song withal--possibly only anindividual vanity which crowns her with his woes as with the trophiesof a conquest. True, he is understood and worshipped by all the otherwailful souls in the first infernal circle, as one of the great men oftheir order--able to put into words full of sweet torment the direhopelessness of their misery; but for such the singer, singing only forears eternally deaf to his song, cares nothing; or if for a moment hereceives consolation from their sympathy, it is but a passing weaknesswhich the breath of an indignant self-condemnation--even contempt, thenext moment sweeps away. In God alone there must be sympathy and cure;but I had not then--have I indeed yet found what that cure is? I am atall events now able to write with calmness. If suffering destroyeditself, as some say, mine ought to have disappeared long ago; but tothat I can neither pretend nor confess. 

For the first time, after all I had encountered, I knew what sufferingcould be. It is still at moments an agony as of hell to recall this andthe other thought that then stung me like a white-hot arrow: the shaftshave long been drawn out, but the barbed heads are still there. Ineither stormed nor maddened. I only felt a freezing hand lay hold ofmy heart, and gripe it closer and closer till I should have sickened, but that the pain ever stung me into fresh life; and ever since I havegone about the world with that hard lump somewhere in my bosom intowhich the griping hand and the griped heart have grown and stiffened. 

I fled at once back to my solitary house, looking for no relief in itssolitude, only the negative comfort of escaping the eyes of men. Icould not bear the sight of my fellow-creatures. To say that the worldhad grown black to me, is as nothing: I ceased---I will not say _tobelieve_ in God, for I never dared say that mighty thing--but I ceasedto hope in God. The universe had grown a negation which yet forced itspresence upon me--death that bred worms. If there were a God anywhere, this universe could be nothing more than his forsaken moth-eatengarment. He was a God who did not care. Order was all an invention ofphosphorescent human brains; light itself the mocking smile of aJupiter over his writhing sacrifices. At times I laughed at thetortures of my own heart, saying to it, 'Writhe on, worm; thoudeservest thy writhing in that thou writhest. Godless creature, whydost thou not laugh with me? Am I not merry over thee and the world--inthat ye are both rottenness to the core?' The next moment my heart andI would come together with a shock, and I knew it was myself thatscorned myself. 

Such being my mood, it will cause no surprise if I say that I too wastempted to suicide; the wonder would have been if it had beenotherwise. The soft keen curves of that fatal dagger, which had notonly slain Charley but all my hopes--for had he lived this horror couldnot have been--grew almost lovely in my eyes. Until now it had lookedcruel, fiendish, hateful; but now I would lay it before me andcontemplate it. In some griefs there is a wonderful power ofself-contemplation, which indeed forms their only solace; the moment itcan set the sorrow away from itself sufficiently to regard it, thetortured heart begins to repose; but suddenly, like a waking tiger, thesorrow leaps again into its lair, and the agony commences anew. Thedagger was the type of my grief and its torture: might it not, like thebrazen serpent, be the cure for the sting of its living counterpart?But alas! where was the certainty? Could I slay _myself?_ This outerbreathing form I could dismiss--but the pain was not _there_. I was notmad, and I knew that a deeper death than that could give, at least. Than I had any assurance that could give, alone could bring repose. For, impossible as I had always found it actually to believe inimmortality, I now found it equally impossible to believe inannihilation. And even if annihilation should be the final result, whocould tell but it might require ages of a horrible slow-decayingdream-consciousness to kill the living thing which felt itself otherthan its body?

Until now, I had always accepted what seemed the natural and universalrepugnance to absolute dissolution as the strongest argument on theside of immortality;--for why should a man shrink from that whichbelonged to his nature? But now annihilation seemed the one lovelything, the one sole only lonely thought in which lay no blackness ofburning darkness. Oh, for one eternal unconscious sleep!--the nearestlikeness we can cherish of that inconceivable nothingness--ever deniedby the very thinking of it--by the vain attempt to realize that whosevery existence is the knowing nothing of itself! Could that dagger haveinsured me such repose, or had there been any draught of Lethe, utterLethe, whose blessed poison would have assuredly dissipated like a fumethis conscious self-tormenting _me_, I should not now be writhing anew, as in the clutches of an old grief, clasping me like a corpse, stung tosimulated life by the galvanic battery of recollection. Vivid as itseems--all I suffer as I write is but a faint phantasm of what I thenendured. 

I learned, therefore, that to some minds the argument for immortalitydrawn from the apparently universal shrinking from annihilation must beineffectual, seeing they themselves do not shrink from it. Convince aman that there is no God--or, for I doubt if that be altogetherpossible--make it, I will say, impossible for him to hope in God--andit cannot be that annihilation should seem an evil. If there is no God, annihilation is the one thing to be longed for, with all that might oflonging which is the mainspring of human action. In a word, it is notimmortality the human heart cries out after, but that immortal eternalthought whose life is its life, whose wisdom is its wisdom, whose waysand whose thoughts shall--must one day--become its ways and itsthoughts. Dissociate immortality from the living Immortality, and it isnot a thing to be desired--not a thing that can on those terms, or evenon the fancy of those terms, be desired. 

But such thoughts as these were far from me then. I lived because Idespaired of death. I ate by a sort of blind animal instinct, and solived. The time had been when I would despise myself for being able toeat in the midst of emotion; but now I cared so little for the emotioneven, that eating or not eating had nothing to do with the matter. Iate because meat was set before me; I slept because sleep came upon me. It was a horrible time. My life seemed only a vermiculate one, acrawling about of half-thoughts-half-feelings through the corpse of adecaying existence. The heart of being was withdrawn from me, and mylife was but the vacant pericardium in which it had once throbbed outand sucked in the red fountains of life and gladness. 

I would not be thought to have fallen to this all but bottomless depthonly because I had lost Mary. Still less was it because of the factthat in her, around whom had gathered all the devotion with which theman in me could regard woman, I had lost all womankind. It was _theloss_ of Mary, as I then judged it, not, I repeat, the fact that _I_had lost her. It was that she had lost herself. Thence it was, I say, that I lost my hope in God. For, if there were a God, how could he letpurity be clasped in the arms of defilement? how could he marry myAthanasia--not to a corpse, but to a Plague? Here was the man who haddone more to ruin her brother than any but her father, and God hadgiven her to _him!_ I had had--with the commonest of men--some notionof womanly purity--how was it that hers had not instinctively shudderedand shrunk? how was it that the life of it had not taken refuge withdeath to shun bare contact with the coarse impurity of such a nature asthat of Geoffrey Brotherton? My dreams had been dreams indeed! Was myAthanasia dead, or had she never been? In my thought, she had 'said toCorruption, Thou art my father; to the worm, Thou art my mother and mysister. ' Who should henceforth say of any woman that she was impure?She _might_ love him--true; but what was she then who was able to lovesuch a man? It was this that stormed the citadel of my hope, and droveme from even thinking of a God. 

Gladly would I now have welcomed any bodily suffering that could hideme from myself; but no illness came. I was a living pain, a consciousill-being. In a thousand forms those questions would ever recur, butwithout hope of answer. When I fell asleep from exhaustion, hideousvisions of her with Geoffrey would start me up with a great cry, sometimes with a curse on my lips. Nor were they the most horrible ofthose dreams in which she would help him to mock me. Once, and onlyonce, I found myself dreaming the dream of _that_ night, and I knewthat I had dreamed it before. Through palace and chapel andcharnel-house, I followed her, ever with a dim sense of awful result;and when at the last she lifted the shining veil, instead of the faceof Athanasia, the bare teeth of a skull grinned at me from under aspotted shroud, through which the sunlight shone from behind, revealingall its horrors. I was not mad--my reason had not given way: _how_remains a marvel. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

THE DAWN. 

All places were alike to me now--for the universe was but one drearychasm whence I could not escape. One evening I sat by the open windowof my chamber, which looked towards those trees and that fatal MoldwarpHall. My suffering had now grown dull by its own excess, and I hadmoments of restless vacuity, the nearest approach to peace I had yetexperienced. It was a fair evening of early summer--but I was utterlycareless of nature as of all beyond it. The sky was nothing to me--andthe earth was all unlovely. There I sat, heavy, but free from torture;a kind of quiet had stolen over me. I was roused by the tiniest breathof wind on my cheek, as if the passing wing of some butterfly hadfanned me; and on that faintest motion came a scent as fromlong-forgotten fields, a scent like as of sweet-peas or wild roses, butof neither: flowers were none nearer me than the gardens of the Hall. Istarted with a cry. It was the scent of the garments of my Athanasia, as I had dreamed it in my dream! Whence that wind had borne it, whocould tell? but in the husk that had overgrown my being it had found acranny, and through that cranny, with the scent, Nature entered. Ilooked up to the blue sky, wept, and for the first time fell on myknees. 'O God!' I cried, and that was all. But what are the prayers ofthe whole universe more than expansions of that one cry? It is not whatGod can give us, but God that we want. Call the whole thing fancy ifyou will; it was at least no fancy that the next feeling of which I wasconscious was compassion: from that moment I began to search heaven andearth and the soul of man and woman for excuses wherewith to clothe theidea of Mary Osborne. For weeks and weeks I pondered, and by degreesthe following conclusions wrought themselves out in my brain:--

That she had never seen life as a whole; that her religious theorieshad ever been eating away and absorbing her life, so preventing herreligion from interpenetrating and glorifying it; that in regard tocertain facts and consequences she had been left to an ignorance whichher innocence rendered profound; that, attracted by the worldlysplendour of the offer, her father and mother had urged her compliance, and broken in spirit by the fate of Charley, and having always beentaught that self-denial was in itself a virtue, she had taken theworldly desires of her parents for the will of God, and blindlyyielded; that Brotherton was capable, for his ends, of representinghimself as possessed of religion enough to satisfy the scruples of herparents, and, such being satisfied, she had resisted her own as evilthings. 

Whether his hatred of me had had any share in his desire to possessher, I hardly thought of inquiring. 

Of course I did not for a single moment believe that Mary had had theslightest notion of the bitterness, the torture, the temptation ofSatan it would be to me. Doubtless the feeling of her father concerningthe death of Charley had seemed to hollow an impassable gulf betweenus. Worn and weak, and not knowing what she did, my dearest friend hadyielded herself to the embrace of my deadliest foe. If he was such as Ihad too good reason for believing him, she was far more to be pitiedthan I. Lonely she must be--lonely as I--for who was there tounderstand and love her? Bitterly too by this time she must havesuffered, for the dove can never be at peace in the bosom of thevulture, or cease to hate the carrion of which he must ever carry aboutwith him at least the disgusting memorials. Alas! I too had been herenemy, and had cried out against her; but now I would love her more andbetter than ever! Oh! if I knew but something I could do for her, someservice which on the bended knees of my spirit I might offer her! Iclomb the heights of my grief, and looked around, but alas! I was sucha poor creature! A dabbler in the ways of the world, a writer of taleswhich even those who cared to read them counted fantastic and Utopian, who was I to weave a single silken thread into the web of her life? Howcould I bear her one poorest service? Never in this world could Iapproach her near enough to touch yet once again the hem of hergarment. All I could do was to love her. No--I could and did suffer forher. Alas! that suffering was only for myself, and could do nothing, for her! It was indeed some consolation to me that my misery came fromher hand; but if she knew it, it would but add to her pain. In my heartI could only pray her pardon for my wicked and selfish thoughtsconcerning her, and vow again and ever to regard her as myAthanasia. --But yes! there was one thing I _could_ do for her: I wouldbe a true man for her sake; she should have some satisfaction in me; Iwould once more arise and go to my Father. 

The instant the thought arose in my mind, I fell down before thepossible God in an agony of weeping. All complaint of my own doom hadvanished, now that I began to do her the justice of love. Why should_I_ be blessed--here and now at least--according to my notions ofblessedness? Let the great heart of the universe do with me as itpleased! Let the Supreme take his own time to justify himself to theheart that sought to love him! I gave up myself, was willing to suffer, to be a living pain, so long as he pleased; and the moment I yieldedhalf the pain was gone; I gave my Athanasia yet again to God, and all_might_ yet, in some nigh, far-off, better-world-way, be well. I couldwait and endure. If only God was, and was God, then it was, or wouldbe, well with Mary--well with me!

But, as I still sat, a flow of sweet sad repentant thought passinggently through my bosom, all at once the self to which, unable toconfide it to the care of its own very life, the God conscious ofhimself and in himself conscious of it, I had been for months offeringthe sacrifices of despair and indignation, arose in spectralhideousness before me. I saw that I, a child of the infinite, had beenworshipping the finite--and therein dragging down the infinite towardsthe fate of the finite. I do not mean that in Mary Osborne I had beenworshipping the finite. It was the eternal, the lovely, the true thatin her I had been worshipping: in myself I had been worshipping themean, the selfish, the finite, the god of spiritual greed. Only inhimself _can_ a man find the finite to worship; only in turning backupon himself does he create the finite for and by his worship. All theworks of God are everlasting; the only perishable are some of the worksof man. All love is a worship of the infinite: what is called a man'slove for himself, is not love; it is but a phantastic resemblance oflove; it is a creating of the finite, a creation of death. A man_cannot_ love himself. If all love be not creation--as I think itis--it is at least the only thing in harmony with creation, and thelove of oneself is its absolute opposite. I sickened at the sight ofmyself: how should I ever get rid of the demon? The same instant I sawthe one escape: I must offer it back to its source--commit it to himwho had made it. I must live no more from it, but from the source ofit; seek to know nothing more of it than he gave me to know by hispresence therein. Thus might I become one with the Eternal in such anabsorption as Buddha had never dreamed; thus might I draw life everfresh from its fountain. And in that fountain alone would I contemplateits reflex. What flashes of self-consciousness might cross me, shouldbe God's gift, not of my seeking, and offered again to him in ever newself-sacrifice. Alas! alas! this I saw then, and this I yet see; butoh, how far am I still from that divine annihilation! The only comfortis, God is, and I am his, else I should not be at all. 

I saw too that thus God also lives--in his higher way. I saw, shadowedout in the absolute devotion of Jesus to men, that the very life of Godby which we live is an everlasting eternal giving of himself away. Heasserts himself, only, solely, altogether, in an infinite sacrifice ofdevotion. So must we live; the child must be as the father; live hecannot on any other plan, struggle as he may. The father requires ofhim nothing that he is not or does not himself, who is the one primeunconditioned sacrificer and sacrifice. I threw myself on the ground, and offered back my poor wretched self to its owner, to be taken andkept, purified and made divine. 

The same moment a sense of reviving health began to possess me. Withmany fluctuations, it has possessed me, has grown, and is now, if nota persistent cheerfulness, yet an unyielding hope. The world bloomedagain around me. The sunrise again grew gloriously dear; and thesadness of the moon was lighted from a higher sun than that whichreturns with the morning. 

My relation to Mary resolved and re-formed itself in my mind intosomething I can explain only by the following--call it dream: it wasnot a dream; call it vision: it was not a vision; and yet I will tellit as if it were either, being far truer than either. 

I lay like a child on one of God's arms. I could not see his face, andthe arm that held me was a great cloudy arm. I knew that on his otherarm lay Mary. But between us were forests and plains, mountains andgreat seas; and, unspeakably worse than all, a gulf with which wordshad nothing to do, a gulf of pure separation, of impassablenothingness, across which no device, I say not of human skill, but ofhuman imagination, could cast a single connecting cord. There lay Mary, and here lay I--both in God's arms--utterly parted. As in a swoon Ilay, through which suddenly came the words: 'What God hath joined, mancannot sunder. ' I lay thinking what they could mean. All at once Ithought I knew. Straightway I rose on the cloudy arm, looked down on ameasureless darkness beneath me, and up on a great, dreary, world-filled eternity above me, and crept along the arm towards thebosom of God. 

In telling my--neither vision nor dream nor ecstasy, I cannot help itthat the forms grow so much plainer and more definite in the words thanthey were in the revelation. Words always give either too much or toolittle shape: when you want to be definite, you find your words clumsyand blunt; when you want them for a vague shadowy image, youstraightway find them give a sharp and impertinent outline, refusing tolend themselves to your undefined though vivid thought. Formsthemselves are hard enough to manage, but words are unmanageable. Imust therefore trust to the heart of my reader. 

I crept into the bosom of God, and along a great cloudy peace, which Icould not understand, for it did not yet enter into me. At length Icame to the heart of God, and through that my journey lay. The moment Ientered it, the great peace appeared to enter mine, and I began tounderstand it. Something melted in my heart, and for a moment I thoughtI was dying, but I found I was being born again. My heart was empty ofits old selfishness, and I loved Mary tenfold--no longer in the leastfor my own sake, but all for her loveliness. The same moment I knewthat the heart of God was a bridge, along which I was crossing theunspeakable eternal gulf that divided Mary and me. At length, somehow, I know not how, somewhere, I know not where, I was where she was. Sheknew nothing of my presence, turned neither face nor eye to meet me, stretched out no hand to give me the welcome of even a friend, and yetI not only knew, but felt that she was mine. I wanted nothing from her;desired the presence of her loveliness only that I might know it; hungabout her life as a butterfly over the flower he loves; was satisfiedthat she could _be_. I had left my self behind in the heart of God, andnow I was a pure essence, fit to rejoice in the essential. But alas! mywhole being was not yet subject to its best. I began to long to be ableto do something for her besides--I foolishly said _beyond_ loving her. Back rushed my old self in the selfish thought: Some day--will she notknow--and at least--? That moment the vision vanished. I wastossed--ah! let me hope, only to the other arm of God--but I lay intorture yet again. For a man may see visions manifold, and believe themall; and yet his faith shall not save him; something more is needed--hemust have that presence of God in his soul, of which the Son of Manspoke, saying: 'If a man love me, he will keep my words: and my Fatherwill love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him. 'God in him, he will be able to love for very love's sake; God not inhim, his best love will die into selfishness. 

CHAPTER LX. 

MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. 

The morning then which had thus dawned upon me, was often over-cloudedheavily. Yet it was the morning and not the night; and one of thestrongest proofs that it was the morning lay in this, that again Icould think in verse. 

One day, after an hour or two of bitterness, I wrote the following. Aman's trouble must have receded from him a little for the moment, if hedescries any shape in it, so as to be able to give it form in words. Iset it down with no hope of better than the vaguest sympathy. Therecame no music with this one. 

 If it be that a man and a woman Are made for no mutual grief; That each gives the pain to some other, And neither can give the relief;

 If thus the chain of the world Is tied round the holy feet, I scorn to shrink from facing What my brothers and sisters meet. 

 But I cry when the wolf is tearing At the core of my heart as now: When I was the man to be tortured, Why should the woman be _thou?_

I am not so ready to sink from the lofty in to the abject now. If attimes I yet feel that the whole creation is groaning and travailing, Iknow what it is for--its redemption from the dominion of its own deathinto that sole liberty which comes only of being filled and eternallypossessed by God himself, its source and its life. 

And now I found also that my heart began to be moved with a compassiontowards my fellows such as I had never before experienced. I shall bestconvey what I mean by transcribing another little poem I wrote aboutthe same time. 

 Once I sat on a crimson throne, And I held the world in fee; Below me I heard my brothers moan, And I bent me down to see;--

 Lovingly bent and looked on them, But _I_ had no inward pain; I sat in the heart of my ruby gem, Like a rainbow without the rain. 

 My throne is vanished; helpless I lie At the foot of its broken stair; And the sorrows of all humanity Through my heart make a thoroughfare. 

Let such things rest for a while: I have now to relate anotherincident--strange enough, but by no means solitary in the records ofhuman experience. My reader will probably think that of dreams andvisions there has already been more than enough: but perhaps she willkindly remember that at this time I had no outer life at all. Whateverbore to me the look of existence was within me. All my days thetendency had been to an undue predominance of thought over action, andnow that the springs of action were for a time dried up, what wonderwas it if thought, lording it alone, should assume a reality beyond itsright? Hence the life of the day was prolonged into the night; nor wasthere other than a small difference in their conditions, beyond thefact that the contrast of outer things was removed in sleep; whence theshapes which the waking thought had assumed had space and opportunity, as it were, to thicken before the mental eye until they became dreamsand visions. 

But concerning what I am about to relate I shall offer no theory. Suchmere operation of my own thoughts may be sufficient to account for it:I would only ask--does any one know what the _mere_ operation of hisown thoughts signifies? I cannot isolate myself, especially in thosemoments when the individual will is less awake, from the ocean of lifeand thought which not only surrounds me, but on which I am in a senseone of the floating bubbles. 

I was asleep, but I thought I lay awake in bed--in the room where Istill slept--that which had been my grannie's. --It was dark midnight, and the wind was howling about the gable and in the chimneys. The dooropened, and some one entered. By the lamp she carried I knew mygreat-grandmother, --just as she looked in life, only that now shewalked upright and with ease. That I was dreaming is plain from thefact that I felt no surprise at seeing her. 

'Wilfrid, come with me, ' she said, approaching the bedside. 'Rise. '

I obeyed like a child. 

'Put your cloak on, ' she continued. 'It is a stormy midnight, but wehave not so far to go as you may think. '

'I think nothing, grannie, ' I said. 'I do not know where you want totake me. '

'Come and see then, my son. You must at last learn what has been keptfrom you far too long. '

As she spoke she led the way down the stair, through the kitchen, andout into the dark night. I remember the wind blowing my cloak about, but I remember nothing more until I found myself in the windinghazel-walled lane, leading to Umberden Church. My grannie was leadingme by one withered hand; in the other she held the lamp, over the flameof which the wind had no power. She led me into the churchyard, tookthe key from under the tombstone, unlocked the door of the church, putthe lamp into my hand, pushed me gently in, and shut the door behindme. I walked to the vestry, and set the lamp on the desk, with a vaguefeeling that I had been there before, and that I had now to dosomething at this desk. Above it I caught sight of the row ofvellum-bound books, and remembered that one of them contained somethingof importance to me. I took it down. The moment I opened it Iremembered with distinctness the fatal discrepancy in the entry of mygrannie's marriage. I found the place: to my astonishment the date ofthe year was now the same as that on the preceding page--1747. Thatinstant I awoke in the first gush of the sunrise. 

I could not help feeling even a little excited by my dream, and theimpression of it grew upon me: I wanted to see the book again. I couldnot rest. Something seemed constantly urging me to go and look at it. Half to get the thing out of my head, I sent Styles to fetch Lilith, and for the first time since the final assurance of my loss, mountedher. I rode for Umberden Church. 

It was long after noon before I had made up my mind, and when, havingtied Lilith to the gate, I entered the church, one red ray from thesetting sun was nestling in the very roof. Knowing what I should find, yet wishing to see it again, I walked across to the vestry, feelingrather uncomfortable at the thought of prying thus alone into theparish register. 

I could almost have persuaded myself that I was dreaming still; and inlooking back, I can hardly in my mind separate the dreaming from thewaking visit. 

Of course I found just what I had expected--1748, not 1747--at the topof the page, and was about to replace the register, when the thoughtoccurred to me that, if the dream had been potent enough to bring mehither, it might yet mean something. I lifted the cover again. Therethe entry stood undeniably plain. This time, however, I noted two otherlittle facts concerning it. 

I will just remind my reader that the entry was crushed in between thedate of the year and the next entry--plainly enough to the eye; andthat there was no attestation to the entries of 1747. The firstadditional fact--and clearly an important one--was that, in the summingup of 1748, before the signature, which stood near the bottom of thecover, a figure had been altered. Originally it stood: 'In all sixcouple, ' but the six had been altered to a seven--corresponding withthe actual number. This appeared proof positive that the first entry onthe cover was a forged insertion. And how clumsily it had been managed!

'What could my grannie be about?' I said to myself. It never occurredto me then that it might have been intended to _look like_ a forgery. 

Still I kept staring at it, as if by very force of staring I could findout something. There was not the slightest sign of erasure oralteration beyond the instance I have mentioned. Yet--and here was mysecond note--when I compared the whole of the writing on the cover withthe writing on the preceding page, though it seemed the same hand, itseemed to have got stiffer and shakier, as if the writer had grown oldbetween. Finding nothing very suggestive in this, however, I fell intoa dreamy mood, watching the red light, as it faded, up in the old, dark, distorted roof of the desolate church--with my hand lying on thebook. 

I have always had a bad habit of pulling and scratching at any knot orroughness in the paper of the book I happen to be reading; and now, almost unconsciously, with my forefinger I was pulling at an edge ofparchment which projected from the joint of the cover. When I came tomyself and proceeded to close the book, I found it would not shutproperly because of a piece which I had curled up. Seeking to restoreit to its former position, I fancied I saw a line or edge running alldown the joint, and looking closer, saw that these last entries, inplace of being upon a leaf of the book pasted to the cover in order tostrengthen the binding, as I had supposed, were indeed upon a leafwhich was pasted to the cover, but one which was not otherwiseconnected with the volume. 

I now began to feel a more lively interest in the behaviour of mydream-grannie. Here might lie something to explain the hithertoinexplicable. I proceeded to pull the leaf gently away. It was ofparchment, much thinner than the others, which were of vellum. I hadwithdrawn only a small portion when I saw there was writing under it. My heart began to beat faster. But I would not be rash. My oldexperience with parchment in the mending of my uncle's books came to myaid. If I pulled at the dry skin as I had been doing, I might not onlydamage it, but destroy the writing under it. I could do nothing withoutwater, and I did not know where to find any. It would be better to rideto the village of Gastford, somewhere about two miles off, put upthere, and arrange for future proceedings. 

I did not know the way, and for a long time could see no one to ask. The consequence was that I made a wide round, and it was nearly darkbefore I reached the village. I thought it better for the present tofeed Lilith, and then make the best of my way home. 

The next evening--I felt so like a thief that I sought the thievishsecurity of the night--having provided myself with what was necessary, and borrowed a horse for Styles, I set out again. 

CHAPTER LXI. 

THE PARISH REGISTER. 

The sky clouded as we went; it grew very dark, and the wind began toblow. It threatened a storm. I told Styles a little of what I wasabout--just enough to impress on him the necessity for prudence. Thewind increased, and by the time we gained the copse, it was roaring, and the slender hazels bending like a field of corn. 

'You will have enough to do with two horses, ' I said. 

'I don't mind it, sir, ' Styles answered. 'A word from me will quietMiss Lilith; and for the other, I've known him pretty well for twoyears past. '

I left them tolerably sheltered in the winding lane, and betook myselfalone to the church. Cautiously I opened the door, and felt my way frompew to pew, for it was quite dark. I could just distinguish the windowsfrom the walls, and nothing more. As soon as I reached the vestry, Istruck a light, got down the volume, and proceeded to moisten theparchment with a wet sponge. For some time the water made littleimpression on the old parchment, of which but one side could be exposedto its influence, and I began to fear I should be much longer ingaining my end than I had expected. The wind roared and howled aboutthe trembling church, which seemed too weak with age to resist such anonslaught; but when at length the skin began to grow soft and yield tomy gentle efforts at removal, I became far too much absorbed in thesimple operation, which had to be performed with all the gentleness andnicety of a surgical one, to heed the uproar about me. Slowly theglutinous adhesion gave way, and slowly the writing revealed itself. Inmingled hope and doubt I restrained my curiosity; and as one teasesoneself sometimes by dallying with a letter of the greatest interest, not until I had folded down the parchment clear of what was manifestlyan entry, did I bring my candle close to it, and set myself to read it. Then, indeed, I found I had reason to regard with respect the dreamwhich had brought me thither. 

Right under the 1748 of the parchment, stood on the vellum cover 1747. Then followed the usual blank, and then came an entry correspondingword for word with the other entry of my great-grandfather and mother'smarriage. In all probability Moldwarp Hall was mine! Little as it coulddo for me now, I confess to a keen pang of pleasure at the thought. 

Meantime, I followed out my investigation, and gradually stripped theparchment off the vellum to within a couple of inches of the bottom ofthe cover. The result of knowledge was as follows:--

Next to the entry of the now hardly hypothetical marriage of myancestors, stood the summing up of the marriages of 1747, with thesignature of the rector. I paused, and, turning back, counted them. Including that in which alone I was interested, I found the numbergiven correct. Next came by itself the figures 1748, and then a fewmore entries, followed by the usual summing up and signature of therector. From this I turned to the leaf of parchment; there was adifference: upon the latter the sum was six, altered to seven; on theformer it was five. This of course suggested further search: I soonfound where the difference indicated lay. 

As the entry of _the_ marriage was, on the forged leaf, shifted upclose to the forged 1748, and as the summing and signature had to beomitted, because they belonged to the end of 1747, a blank would havebeen left, and the writing below would have shone through and attractedattention, revealing the forgery of the whole, instead of that of thepart only which was intended to look a forgery. To prevent this, analtogether fictitious entry had been made--over the summing andsignature. This, with the genuine entries faithfully copied, made ofthe five, six, which the forger had written and then blotted into aseven, intending to expose the entry of my ancestors' marriage as aforgery, while the rest of the year's register should look genuine. Ittook me some little trouble to clear it all up to my own mind, but bydegrees everything settled into its place, assuming an intelligibleshape in virtue of its position. 

With my many speculations as to why the mechanism of the forgery hadassumed this shape, I need not trouble my reader. Suffice it to saythat on more than one supposition, I can account for it satisfactorilyto myself. One other remark only will I make concerning it: I have nodoubt it was an old forgery. One after another those immediatelyconcerned in it had died, and there the falsehood lurked--in latentpower--inoperative until my second visit to Umberden Church. But whatdifferences might there not have been had it not started into activityfor the brief space betwixt then and my sorrow?

I left the parchment still attached to the cover at the bottom, and, laying a sheet of paper between the formerly adhering surfaces, lestthey should again adhere, closed and replaced the volume. Then, lookingat my watch, I found that, instead of an hour as I had supposed, I hadbeen in the church three hours. It was nearly eleven o'clock, too latefor anything further that night. 

When I came out, the sky was clear and the stars were shining. Thestorm had blown over. Much rain had fallen. But when the wind ceased orthe rain began, I had no recollection; the storm had vanishedaltogether from my consciousness. I found Styles where I had left him, smoking his pipe and leaning against Lilith, who--I cannot call her_which_--was feeding on the fine grass of the lane. The horse he hadpicketed near. We mounted and rode home. 

The next thing was to see the rector of Umberden. He lived in his otherparish, and thither I rode the following day to call upon him. I foundhim an old gentleman, of the squire-type of rector. As soon as he heardmy name, he seemed to know who I was, and at once showed himselfhospitable. 

I told him that I came to him as I might, were I a Catholic, to afather-confessor. This Startled him a little. 

'Don't tell me anything I ought not to keep secret, ' he said; and itgave me confidence in him at once. 

'I will not, ' I returned. 'The secret is purely my own. Whatever crimethere is in it, was past punishment long before I was born; and it wascommitted against, not by my family. But it is rather a long story, andI hope I shall not be tedious. '

He assured me of his perfect leisure. 

I told him everything, from my earliest memory, which bore on thediscovery I had at length made. He soon showed signs of interest; andwhen I had ended the tale with the facts of the preceding night, hesilently rose and walked about the room. After a few moments, he said:

'And what do you mean to do, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Nothing, ' I answered, 'so long as Sir Giles is alive. He was kind tome when I was a boy. '

He came up behind me where I was seated, and laid his hand gently on myhead; then, without a word, resumed his walk. 

'And if you survive him, what then?'

'Then I must be guided partly by circumstances, ' I said. 

'And what do you want of me?'

'I want you to go with me to the church, and see the book, that, incase of anything happening to it, you may be a witness concerning itsprevious contents. '

'I am too old to be the only witness, ' he said. 'You ought to haveseveral of your own age. '

'I want as few to know the secret as may be, ' I answered. 

'You should have your lawyer one of them. '

'He would never leave me alone about it, ' I replied; 'and positively Ishall take no measures at present. Some day I hope to punish him fordeserting me as he did. '

For I had told him how Mr Coningham had behaved. 

'Revenge, Mr Cumbermede?'

'Not a serious one. All the punishment I hope to give him is but toshow him the fact of the case, and leave him to feel as he may aboutit. '

'There can't be much harm in that. '

He reflected a few moments, and then said:

'I will tell you what will be best. We shall go and see the booktogether. I will make an extract of both entries, and give adescription of the state of the volume, with an account of how thesecond entry--or more properly the first--came to be discovered. This Ishall sign in the presence of two witnesses, who need know nothing ofthe contents of the paper. Of that you shall yourself take charge. '

We went together to the church. The old man, after making a good manyobjections, was at length satisfied, and made notes for his paper. Hestarted the question whether it would not be better to secure thatvolume at least under lock and key. For this I thought there was nooccasion--that in fact it was safer where it was, and more certain ofbeing forthcoming when wanted. I did suggest that the key of the churchmight be deposited in a place of safety; but he answered that it hadbeen kept there ever since he came to the living forty years ago, andfor how long before that he could not tell; and so a change wouldattract attention, and possibly make some talk in the parish, which hadbetter be avoided. 

Before the end of the week, he had his document ready. He signed it inmy presence, and in that of two of his parishioners, who as witnessesappended their names and abodes. I have it now in my possession. Ishall enclose it, with my great-grandfather and mother's letters--andsomething besides--in the packet containing this history. 

That same week Sir Giles Brotherton died. 

CHAPTER LXII. 

A FOOLISH TRIUMPH. 

I should have now laid claim to my property, but for Mary. To turn SirGeoffrey with his mother and sister out of it, would have caused melittle compunction, for they would still be rich enough; I confessindeed it would have given me satisfaction. Nor could I say what realhurt of any kind it would occasion to Mary; and if I were writing forthe public, instead of my one reader, I know how foolishly incredibleit must appear that for her sake I should forego such claims. Shewould, however, I trust, have been able to believe it without theproofs which I intend to give her. The fact was simply this: I couldnot, even for my own sake, bear the thought of taking, in any manner ordegree, a position if but apparently antagonistic to her. My enemy washer husband: he should reap the advantage of being her husband; for hersake he should for the present retain what was mine. So long as thereshould be no reason to fear his adopting a different policy from hisfather's in respect of his tenants, I felt myself at liberty to leavethings as they were; for Sir Giles had been a good landlord, and I knewthe son was regarded with favour in the county. Were he to turn outunjust or oppressive, however, then duty on my part would come in. ButI must also remind my reader that I had no love for affairs; that I hadan income perfectly sufficient for my wants; that, both from my habitsof thought and from my sufferings, my regard was upon life itself--wasindeed so far from being confined to this chrysalid beginning thereof, that I had lost all interest in this world save as the porch to thehouse of life. And, should I ever meet her again, in any possiblefuture of being, how much rather would I not stand before her as onewho had been even Quixotic for her sake--as one who for ahair's-breadth of her interest had felt the sacrifice of a fortune amerely natural movement of his life! She would then know not merelythat I was true to her, but that I had been true in what I professed tobelieve when I sought her favour. And if it had been a pleasure tome--call it a weakness, and I will not oppose the impeachment;--call itself-pity, and I will confess to that as having a share in it;--but, ifit had been a shadowy pleasure to me to fancy I suffered for her sake, my present resolution, while it did not add the weight of a feather tomy suffering, did yet give me a similar vague satisfaction. 

I must also confess to a certain satisfaction in feeling that I hadpower over my enemy--power of making him feel my power--power ofvindicating my character against him as well, seeing one who could thusabstain from asserting his own rights could hardly have been one toinvade the rights of another; but the enjoyment of this consciousnessappeared to depend on my silence. If I broke that, the strength woulddepart from me; but while I held my peace, I held my foe in aninvisible mesh. I half deluded myself into fancying that, while I keptmy power over him unexercised, I retained a sort of pledge for hisconduct to Mary, of which I was more than doubtful; for a man with suchantecedents as his, a man who had been capable of behaving as he hadbehaved to Charley, was less than likely to be true to his wife: he wasless than likely to treat the sister as a lady, who to the brother hadbeen a traitorous seducer. 

I have now to confess a fault as well as an imprudence--punished, Ibelieve, in the results. 

The behaviour of Mr. Coningham still rankled a little in my bosom. FromGeoffrey I had never looked for anything but evil; of Mr Coningham Ihad expected differently, and I began to meditate the revenge ofholding him up to himself: I would punish him in a manner which, withhis confidence in his business faculty, he must feel: I would simplyshow him how the precipitation of selfish disappointment had led himastray, and frustrated his designs. For if he had given even a decentattention to the matter, he would have found in the forgery itselfhints sufficient to suggest the desirableness of further investigation. 

I had not, however, concluded upon anything, when one day Iaccidentally met him, and we had a little talk about business, for hecontinued to look after the rent of my field. He informed me that SirGeoffrey Brotherton had been doing all he could to get even temporarypossession of the park, as we called it; and, although I said nothingof it to Mr Coningham, my suspicion is that, had he succeeded, hewould, at the risk of a law-suit, in which he would certainly have beencast, have ploughed it up. He told me, also, that Clara was in poorhealth; she who had looked as if no blight could ever touch her hadbroken down utterly. The shadow of her sorrow was plain enough on theface of her father, and his confident manner had a little yielded, although he was the old man still. His father had died a little beforeSir Giles. The new baronet had not offered him the succession. 

I asked him to go with me yet once more to Umberden Church--for Iwanted to show him something he had over-looked in the register--not, Isaid, that it would be of the slightest furtherance to his formerhopes. He agreed at once, already a little ashamed, perhaps, of the wayin which he had abandoned me. Before we parted we made an appointmentto meet at the church. 

We went at once to the vestry. I took down the volume, and laid itbefore him. He opened it, with a curious look at me first. But themoment he lifted the cover, its condition at once attracted and asinstantly riveted his attention. He gave me one glance more, in whichquestions and remarks and exclamations numberless lay in embryo; thenturning to the book, was presently absorbed, first in reading thegenuine entry, next in comparing it with the forged one. 

'Right, after all!' he exclaimed at length. 

'In what?' I asked. ' In dropping me without a word, as if I had been animpostor? In forgetting that you yourself had raised in me the hopeswhose discomfiture you took as a personal injury?'

'My dear sir!' he stammered in an expostulatory tone, 'you must makeallowance. It was a tremendous disappointment to me. '

'I cannot say I felt it quite so much myself, but at least you owed mean apology for having misled me. '

'I had _not_ misled you, ' he retorted angrily, pointing to theregister. --'There!'

'You left _me_ to find that out, though. _You_ took no further pains inthe matter. '

'How _did_ you find it out?' he asked, clutching at a change in thetone of the conversation. 

I said nothing of my dream, but I told him everything else concerningthe discovery. When I had finished--

'It's all plain sailing now, ' he cried. 'There is not an obstacle inthe way. I will set the thing in motion the instant I get home. --Itwill be a victory worth achieving, ' he added, rubbing his hands. 

'Mr Coningham, I have not the slightest intention of moving in thematter, ' I said. 

His face fell. 

'You do not mean--when you hold them in your very hands--to throw awayevery advantage of birth and fortune, and be a nobody in the world?'

'Infinite advantages of the kind you mean, Mr Coningham, could make menot one whit more than I am; they _might_ make me less. '

'Come, come, ' he expostulated; 'you must not allow disappointment toupset your judgment of things. '

'My judgment of things lies deeper than any disappointment I have yethad, ' I replied. 'My uncle's teaching has at last begun to bear fruitin me. '

'Your uncle was a fool!' he exclaimed. 

'But for my uncle's sake, I would knock you down for daring to couplesuch a word with _him_. '

He turned on me with a sneer. His eyes had receded in his head, and inhis rage he grinned. The old ape-face, which had lurked in my memoryever since the time I first saw him, came out so plainly that Istarted: the child had read his face aright! the following judgment ofthe man had been wrong! the child's fear had not imprinted a falseeidolon upon the growing brain. 

'What right had, you, ' he said, 'to bring me all this way for suchtomfoolery?'

'I told you it would not further your wishes. --But who brought me herefor nothing first?' I added, most foolishly. 

'I was myself deceived. I did not intend to deceive you. '

'I know that. God forbid I should be unjust to you! But you have provedto me that your friendship was all a pretence; that your private endswere all your object. When you discovered that I could not serve those, you dropped me like a bit of glass you had taken for a diamond. Haveyou any right to grumble if I give you the discipline of a passingshame?'

'Mr Cumbermede, ' he said, through his teeth, 'you will repent this. '

I gave him no answer, and he left the church in haste. Having replacedthe register, I was following at my leisure, when I heard sounds thatmade me hurry to the door. Lilith was plunging and rearing and pullingat the bridle which I had thrown over one of the spiked bars of thegate. Another moment and she must have broken loose, or dragged thegate upon her--more likely the latter, for the bridle was a new onewith broad reins--when some frightful injury would in all probabilityhave been the consequence to herself. But a word from me quieted her, and she stood till I came up. Every inch of her was trembling. Isuspected at once, and in a moment discovered plainly that Mr Coninghamhad struck her with his whip: there was a big weal on the fine skin ofher hip and across, her croup. She shrunk like a hurt child when myhand approached the injured part, but moved neither hoof nor head. 

Having patted and petted and consoled her a little, I mounted and rodeafter Mr Coningham. Nor was it difficult to overtake him, for he wasgoing a foot-pace. He was stooping in his saddle, and when I drew near, I saw that he was looking very pale. I did not, however, suspect thathe was in pain. 

'It was a cowardly thing to strike the poor dumb animal, ' I cried. 

'You would have struck her yourself, ' he answered with a curse, ' if shehad broken your leg. '

I rode nearer. I knew well enough that she would not have kicked him ifhe had not struck her first; and I could see that his leg was notbroken; but evidently he was in great suffering. 

'I am very sorry, ' I said. Can I help you?'

'Go to the devil!' he groaned. 

I am ashamed to say the answer made me so angry that I spoke the truth. 

'Don't suppose you deceive me, ' I said. 'I know well enough my mare didnot kick you before you struck her. Then she lashed out, of course. '

I waited for no reply, but turned and rode back to the church, the doorof which, in my haste, I had left open. I locked it, replaced the key, and then rode quietly home. 

But as I went, I began to feel that I had done wrong. No doubt, MrConingham deserved it, but the law was not in my hands. No man has aright to _punish_ another. Vengeance belongs to a higher region, andthe vengeance of God is a very different thing from the vengeance ofman. However it may be softened with the name of retribution, revengeruns into all our notions of justice; and until we love purely, so itmust ever be. 

All I had gained was self-rebuke, and another enemy. Having reachedhome, I read the Manual of Epictetus right through before I laid itdown, and, if it did not teach me to love my enemies, it taught me atleast to be ashamed of myself. Then I wrote to Mr Coningham, saying Iwas sorry I had spoken to him as I did, and begging him to let by-gonesbe by-gones; assuring him that, if ever I moved in the matter of ourdifference, he should be the first to whom I applied for assistance. 

He returned me no answer. 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

A COLLISION. 

And now came a dreary time of re-action. There seemed nothing left forme to do, and I felt listless and weary. Something kept urging me toget away and hide myself, and I soon made up my mind to yield to theimpulse and go abroad. My intention was to avoid cities, and, wanderingfrom village to village, lay my soul bare to the healing influences ofnature. As to any healing in the power of Time, I despised the oldbald-pate as a quack who performed his seeming cures at the expense ofthe whole body. The better cures attributed to him are not his at all, but produced by the operative causes whose servant he is. A thousandholy balms require his services for their full action, but they, andnot he, are the saving powers. Along with Time I ranked, and withabsolute hatred shrunk from--all those means which offered to cure meby making me forget. From a child I had a horror of forgetting; italways seemed to me like a loss of being, like a hollow scooped out ofmy very existence--almost like the loss of identity. At times I evenshrunk from going to sleep, so much did it seem like yielding to anabsolute death--a death so deep that the visible death is but a pictureor type of it. If I could have been sure of dreaming, it would havebeen different, but in the uncertainty it seemed like consenting tonothingness. That one who thus felt should ever have been tempted tosuicide, will reveal how painful if not valueless his thoughts andfeelings--his conscious life--must have grown to him; and that the onlything which withheld him from it should be the fear that no death, buta more intense life might be the result, will reveal it yet moreclearly. That in that sleep I might at least dream--there was the rub. 

All such relief, in a word, as might come of a lowering of my life, either physically, morally, or spiritually, I hated, detested, despised. The man who finds solace for a wounded heart inself-indulgence may indeed be _capable_ of angelic virtues, but in themean time his conduct is that of the devils who went into the swinerather than be bodiless. The man who can thus be consoled for the lossof a woman could never have been worthy of her, possibly would not haveremained true to her beyond the first delights of possession. Therelief to which I could open my door must be such alone as wouldoperate through the enlarging and elevating of what I recognized as_myself_. Whatever would make me greater, so that my torture, intensified, it might well be, should yet have room to dash itselfhither and thither without injuring the walls of my being, would bewelcome. If I might become so great that, my grief yet stinging me toagony, the infinite _I_ of me should remain pure and calm, God-lovingand man-cherishing, then I should be saved. God might be able to domore for me--I could not tell: I looked for no more. I would myself besuch as to inclose my pain in a mighty sphere of out-spacing life, inrelation to which even such sorrow as mine should be but a littlething. Such deliverance alone, I say, could I consent with myself toaccept, and such alone, I believed, would God offer me--for such aloneseemed worthy of him, and such alone seemed not unworthy of me. 

The help that Nature could give me, I judged to be of this ennoblingkind. For either nature was nature in virtue of having been born(_nata_) of God, or she was but a phantasm of my own brain--againstwhich supposition the nature in me protested with the agony of atortured man. To nature, then, I would go. Like the hurt child whofolds himself in the skirt of his mother's velvet garment, I would foldmyself in the robe of Deity. 

But to give honour and gratitude where both are due, I must hereconfess obligation with a willing and thankful heart. The _Excursion_of Wordsworth was published ere I was born, but only since I leftcollege had I made acquaintance with it: so long does it take for thelight of a new star to reach a distant world! To this book I owe somuch that to me it would alone justify the conviction that Wordsworthwill never be forgotten. That he is no longer the fashion, militatesnothing against his reputation. We, the old ones, hold fast by him forno sentimental reminiscence of the fashion of our youth, but simplybecause his humanity has come into contact with ours. The men of thenew generation have their new loves and worships: it remains to be seento whom the worthy amongst them will turn long ere the frosts of agebegin to gather and the winds of the human autumn to blow. Wordsworthwill recede through the gliding ages until, with the greater Chaucer, and the greater Shakspere, and the greater Milton, he is yet a star inthe constellated crown of England. 

Before I was able to leave home, however, a new event occurred. 

I received an anonymous letter, in a hand-writing I did not recognize. Its contents were as follows:--

'SIR, --Treachery is intended you. If you have anything worth watching, _watch_ it. '

For one moment--so few were the places in which through my possessionsI was vulnerable--I fancied the warning might point to Lilith, but Isoon dismissed the idea. I could make no inquiries, for it had beenleft an hour before my return from a stroll by an unknown messenger. Icould think of nothing besides but the register, and if this was whatmy correspondent aimed at, I had less reason to be anxious concerningit, because of the attested copy, than my informant probably knew. Still its safety was far from being a matter of indifference to me. Iresolved to ride over to Umberden Church, and see if it was as I hadleft it. 

The twilight was fast thickening into darkness when I entered thegloomy building. There was light enough, however, to guide my hand tothe right volume, and by carrying it to the door, I was able to satisfymyself that it was as I had left it. 

Thinking over the matter once more as I stood, I could not help wishingthat the book were out of danger just for the present; but there washardly a place in the bare church where it was possible to conceal it. At last I thought of one--half groped my way to the pulpit, ascendedits creaking stair, lifted the cushion of the seat, and laid the book, which was thin, open in the middle, and flat on its face, under it. Ithen locked the door, mounted, and rode off. 

It was now more than dusk. Lilith was frolicsome, and, rejoicing in thegrass under her feet, broke into a quick canter along the noiseless, winding lane. Suddenly there was a great shock, and I lay senseless. 

I came to myself under the stinging blows of a whip, only afterwardsrecognized as such, however. I sprung staggering to my feet, and rushedat the dim form of an assailant, with such a sudden and, I suppose, unexpected assault, that he fell under me. Had he not fallen I shouldhave had little chance with him, for, as I now learned by his voice, itwas Sir Geoffrey Brotherton. 

'Thief! Swindler! Sneak!' he cried, making a last harmless blow at meas he fell. 

All the wild beast in my nature was roused. I had no weapon--not even awhip, for Lilith never needed one. It was well, for what I might havedone in the first rush of blood to my reviving brain, I dare hardlyimagine. I seized him by the throat with such fury that, though far thestronger, he had no chance as he lay. I kneeled on his chest. Hestruggled furiously, but could not force my gripe from his throat. Isoon perceived that I was strangling him, and tightened my grasp. 

His efforts were already growing feebler, when I became aware of a softtouch apparently trying to take hold of my hair. Glancing up withoutrelaxing my hold, I saw the white head of Lilith close to mine. Was itthe whiteness--was it the calmness of the creature--I cannot pretend toaccount for the fact, but the same instant before my mind's eye rosethe vision of one standing speechless before his accusers, bearing onhis form the marks of ruthless blows. I did not then remember that justbefore I came out I had been gazing, as I often gazed, upon an EcceHomo of Albert Dürer's that hung in my room. Immediately my heart awokewithin me. My whole being still trembling with passionate struggle andgratified hate, a rush of human pity swept across it. I took my handfrom my enemy's throat, rose, withdrew some paces, and burst intotears. I could have embraced him, but I dared not even minister to himfor the insult at would appear. He did not at once rise, and when hedid, he stood for a few moments, half-unconscious, I think, staring atme. Coming to himself, he felt for and found his whip--I thought withthe intention of attacking me again, but he moved towards his horse, which was quietly eating the grass, now wet with dew. Gathering itsbridle from around its leg, he mounted, and rode back the way he hadcome. 

I lingered for a while utterly exhausted. I was trembling in everylimb. The moon rose and began to shed her low yellow light over thehazel copse, filling the lane with brightness and shadow. Lilith, seeming-in her whiteness to gather a tenfold share of the light uponherself, was now feeding as gently as if she had known nothing of thestrife, and I congratulated myself that the fall had not injured her. But as she took a step forward in her feeding, I discovered to mydismay that she was quite lame. For my own part I was now feeling theache of numerous and severe bruises. When I took Lilith by the bridleto lead her away, I found that neither of us could manage more than twomiles an hour. I was very uneasy about her. There was nothing for it, however, but make the best of our way to Gastford. It was no littlesatisfaction to think, as we hobbled along, that the accident hadhappened through no carelessness of mine, beyond that of cantering inthe dark, for I was on my own side of the road. Had Geoffrey been onhis, narrow as the lane was, we might have passed without injury. 

It was so late when we reached Gastford, that we had to rouse theostler before I could get Lilith attended to. I bathed the injured leg, of which the shoulder seemed wrenched; and having fed her, but lessplentifully than usual, I left her to her repose. In the morning shewas considerably better, but I resolved to leave her where she was, and, sending a messenger for Styles to come and attend to her, I hireda gig, and went to call on my new friend the rector of Umberden. 

I told him all that had happened, and where I had left the volume. Hesaid he would have a chest made in which to secure the whole register, and, meanwhile, would himself go to the church and bring that volumehome with him. It is safe enough now, as any one may find who wishes tosee it--though the old man has long passed away. 

Lilith remained at Gastford a week before I judged it safe for her tocome home. The injury, however, turned out to be a not very seriousone. 

Why should I write of my poor mare--but that she was once hers all forwhose hoped perusal I am writing this? No, there is even a betterreason: I shall never, to all my eternity, forget, even if I shouldnever see her again, which I do not for a moment believe, what she didfor me that evening. Surely she deserves to appear in her own place inmy story!

Of course I was exercised in my mind as to who had sent me the warning. There could be no more doubt that I had hit what it intended, and hadpossibly preserved the register from being once more tampered with. Icould think only of one. I have never had an opportunity of inquiring, and for her sake I should never have asked the question, but I havelittle doubt it was Clara. Who else could have had a chance of makingthe discovery, and at the same time would have cared to let me know it?Also she would have cogent reason for keeping such a part in the affaira secret. Probably she had heard her father informing Geoffrey; but hemight have done so with no worse intention than had informed hisprevious policy. 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

YET ONCE. 

I am drawing my story to a close. Almost all that followed bears soexclusively upon my internal history, that I will write but oneincident more of it. I have roamed the world, and reaped many harvests. In the deepest agony I have never refused the consolations of Nature orof Truth. I have never knowingly accepted any founded in falsehood, inforgetfulness, or in distraction. Let such as have no hope in God drinkof what Lethe they can find; to me it is a river of Hell and altogetherabominable. I could not be content even to forget my sins. There can bebut one deliverance from them, namely, that God and they should cometogether in my soul. In his presence I shall serenely face them. Without him I dare not think of them. With God a man can confrontanything; without God, he is but the withered straw which the sickle ofthe reaper has left standing on a wintry field. But to forget themwould be to cease and begin anew, which to one aware of his immortalityis a horror. 

If comfort profound as the ocean has not yet overtaken and infolded me, I see how such may come--perhaps will come. It must be by the enlargingof my whole being in truth, in God, so as to give room for the storm torage, yet not destroy; for the sorrow to brood, yet not kill; for thesunshine of love to return after the east wind and black frost ofbitterest disappointment; for the heart to feel the uttermosttenderness while the arms go not forth to embrace; for a mighty heavenof the unknown, crowded with the stars of endless possibilities, todawn when the sun of love has vanished, and the moon of its memory istoo ghastly to give any light: it is comfort such and thence that Ithink will one day possess me. Already has not its aurora brightenedthe tops of my snow-covered mountains? And if yet my valleys lie gloomyand forlorn, is not light on the loneliest peak a sure promise of thecoming day?

Only once again have I looked in Mary's face. I will record theoccasion, and then drop my pen. 

About five years after I left home, I happened in my wanderings to bein one of my favourite Swiss valleys--high and yet sheltered. Irejoiced to be far up in the mountains, yet behold the inaccessiblepeaks above me--mine, though not to be trodden by foot of mine--myheart's own, though never to yield me a moment's outlook from theirlofty brows; for I was never strong enough to reach one mighty summit. It was enough for me that they sent me down the glad streams from thecold bosoms of their glaciers--the offspring of the sun and the snow;that I too beheld the stars to which they were nearer than I. 

One lovely morning I had wandered a good way from the village--a placelittle frequented by visitors, where I had a lodging in the house ofthe syndic--when I was overtaken by one of the sudden fogs which sofrequently render those upper regions dangerous. There was no path toguide me back to my temporary home, but, a hundred yards or so beneathwhere I had been sitting, lay that which led down to one of the bestknown villages of the canton, where I could easily find shelter. I madehaste to descend. 

After a couple of hours' walking, during which the fog kept followingme, as if hunting me from its lair, I at length arrived at the level ofthe valley, and was soon in one of those large hotels which in Summerare crowded as bee-hives, and in Winter forsaken as a ruin. The seasonfor travellers was drawing to a close, and the house was full ofhomeward-bound guests. 

For the mountains will endure but a season of intrusion. If travellerslinger too long within their hospitable gates, their humour changes, and, with fierce winds and snow and bitter sleet, they will drive themforth, preserving their Winter privacy for the bosom friends of theirmistress, Nature. Many is the Winter since those of my boyhood which Ihave spent amongst the Alps; and in such solitude I have ever found thenegation of all solitude, the one absolute Presence. David communedwith his own heart on his bed and was still--there finding God:communing with my own heart in the Winter-valleys of Switzerland Ifound at least what made me cry out: 'Surely this is the house of God;this is the gate of heaven!' I would not be supposed to fancy that Godis in mountains, and not in plains--that God is in the solitude, andnot in the city: in any region harmonious with its condition andnecessities, it is easier, for the heart to be still, and in itsstillness to hear the still small voice. 

Dinner was going on at the _table-d'hôte_. It was full, but a place wasfound for me in a bay-window. Turning to the one side, I belonged tothe great world, represented by the Germans, Americans, and English, with a Frenchman and Italian here and there, filling the long table;turning to the other, I knew myself in a temple of the Most High, sohuge that it seemed empty of men. The great altar of a mighty mountainrose, massy as a world, and ethereal as a thought, into the upturnedgulf of the twilight air--its snowy peak, ever as I turned to look, mounting up and up to its repose. I had been playing with my own soul, spinning it between the sun and the moon, as it were, and watching nowthe golden and now the silvery side, as I glanced from the mountain tothe table, and again from the table to the mountain, when all at once Idiscovered that I was searching the mountain for something--I did notknow what. Whether any tones had reached me, I cannot tell;--a man'smind may, even through his senses, be marvellously moved withoutknowing whence the influence comes;--but there I was searching the faceof the mountain for something, with a want which had not begun toexplain itself. From base to peak my eyes went flitting and resting andwandering again upwards. At last they reached the snowy crown, fromwhich they fell into the infinite blue beyond. Then, suddenly, theunknown something I wanted was clear. The same moment I turned to thetable. Almost opposite was a face--pallid, with parted lips and fixedeyes--gazing at me. Then I knew those eyes had been gazing at me allthe time I had been searching the face of the mountain. For one momentthey met mine and rested; for one moment, I felt as if I must throwmyself at her feet, and clasp them to my heart; but she turned her eyesaway, and I rose and left the house. 

The mist was gone, and the moon was rising. I walked up the mountainpath towards my village. But long ere I reached it the sun was rising. With his first arrow of slenderest light, the tossing waves of myspirit began to lose their white tops, and sink again towards a distantcalm; and ere I saw the village from the first point of vision, I hadmade the following verses. They are the last I will set down. 

 I know that I cannot move thee To an echo of my pain, Or a thrill of the storming trouble That racks my soul and brain;

 That our hearts through all the ages Shall never sound in tune; That they meet no more in their cycles Than the parted sun and moon. 

 But if ever a spirit flashes Itself on another soul, One day, in thy stillness, a vapour Shall round about thee roll;

 And the lifting of the vapour Shall reveal a world of pain, Of frosted suns, and moons that wander Through misty mountains of rain. 

 Thou shalt know me for one live instant-- Thou halt know me--and yet not love: I would not have thee troubled, My cold, white-feathered dove!

 I would only once come near thee--Myself, and not my form; Then away in the distance wander, A slow-dissolving storm. 

 The vision should pass in vapour, That melts in aether again; Only a something linger-Not pain, but the shadow of pain. 

 And I should know that thy spirit On mine one look had sent; And glide away from thy knowledge, And try to be half-content. 

CHAPTER LXV. 

CONCLUSION. 

The ebbing tide that leaves bare the shore swells the heaps of thecentral sea. The tide of life ebbs from this body of mine, soon to lieon the shore of life like a stranded wreck; but the murmur of thewaters that break upon no strand is in my ears; to join the waters ofthe infinite life, mine is ebbing away. 

Whatever has been his will is well--grandly well--well even for that inme which feared, and in those very respects in which it feared that itmight not be well. The whole being of me past and present shall say: Itis infinitely well, and I would not have it otherwise. Rather than itshould not be as it is, I would go back to the world and this body ofwhich I grew weary, and encounter yet again all that met me on myjourney. Yes--final submission of my will to the All-will--I would meetit _knowing what was coming_. Lord of me, Father of Jesus Christ, willthis suffice? Is my faith enough yet? I say it, not having beheld whatthou hast in store--not knowing what I shall be--not even absolutelycertain that thou art--confident only that, if thou be, such thou mustbe. 

The last struggle is before me. But I have passed already through somany valleys of death itself, where the darkness was not only palpable, but choking and stinging, that I cannot greatly fear that which holdsbut the shadow of death. For what men call death, is but its shadow. Death never comes near us; it lies behind the back of God; he isbetween it and us. If he were to turn his back upon us, the death whichno imagination can shadow forth, would lap itself around us, and weshould be--we should not know what. 

At night I lie wondering how it will feel; and, but that God will bewith me, I would rather be slain suddenly, than lie still and await thechange. The growing weakness, ushered in, it may be, by long agony; thealienation from things about me, while I am yet amidst them; the slowrending of the bonds which make this body a home, so that it turns halfalien, while yet some bonds unsevered hold the live thing fluttering inits worm-eaten cage--but God knows me and my house, and I need notspeculate or forebode. When it comes, death will prove as natural asbirth. Bethink thee, Lord--nay, thou never forgettest. It is becausethou thinkest and feelest that I think and feel; it is on thy deeperconsciousness that mine ever floats; thou knowest my frame, andrememberest that I am dust: do with me as thou wilt. Let me takecenturies to die if so thou willest, for thou wilt be with me. Only ifan hour should come when thou must seem to forsake me, watch me all thetime, lest self-pity should awake, and I should cry that thou wastdealing hardly with me. For when thou hidest thy face, the world is acorpse, and I am a live soul fainting within it. 

 * * * * *

Thus far had I written, and was about to close with certain words ofJob, which are to me like the trumpet of the resurrection, when thenews reached me that Sir Geoffrey Brotherton was dead. He leaves nochildren, and the property is expected to pass to a distant branch ofthe family. Mary will have to leave Moldwarp Hall. 

 * * * * *

I have been up to London to my friend Marston--for it is years since MrConingham died. I have laid everything before him, and left the affairin his hands. He is so confident in my cause, that he offers, in casemy means should fail me, to find what is necessary himself; but he isalmost as confident of a speedy settlement. 

And now, for the first time in my life, I am about--shall I say, tocourt society? At least I am going to London, about to give and receiveinvitations, and cultivate the acquaintance of those whose appearanceand conversation attract me. 

I have not a single relative, to my knowledge, in the world, and I amfree, beyond question, to leave whatever property I have, or may have, to whomsoever I please. 

My design is this: if I succeed in my suit, I will offer Moldwarp toMary for her lifetime. She is greatly beloved in the county, and hasdone much for the labourers, nor upon her own lands only. If she hadthe full power she would do yet better. But of course it is verydoubtful whether she will accept it. Should she decline it, I shall tryto manage it myself--leaving it to her, with reversion to the man, whoever he may be, whom I shall choose to succeed her. 

What sort of man I shall endeavour to find, I think my reader willunderstand. I will not describe him, beyond saying that he must aboveall things be just, generous, and free from the petty prejudices of thecountry gentleman. He must understand that property involves service toevery human soul that lives or labours upon it--the service of theelder brother to his less burdened yet more enduring and more helplessbrothers and sisters; that for the lives of all such he has in hisdegree to render account. For surely God never meant to uplift any man_at the expense_ of his fellows; but to uplift him that he might bestrong to minister, as a wise friend and ruler, to their highest andbest needs--first of all by giving them the justice which will berecognized as such by him before whom a man _is_ his brother's keeper, and becomes a Cain in denying it. 

Lest Lady Brotherton, however, should like to have something to giveaway, I leave my former will as it was. It is in Marston's hands. 

 * * * * *

Would I marry her now, if I might? I cannot tell. The thought rouses nopassionate flood within me. Mighty spaces of endless possibility andendless result open before me. Death is knocking at my door. --

No--no; I will be honest, and lay it to no half reasons, howeverwise. --I would rather meet her then first, when she is clothed in thatnew garment called by St Paul the spiritual body. That, Geoffrey hasnever touched; over that he has no claim. 

But if the loveliness of her character should have purified his, anddrawn and bound his soul to hers?

Father, fold me in thyself. The storm, so long still, awakes; once moreit flutters its fierce pinions. Let it not swing itself aloft in theair of my spirit. I dare not think, not merely lest thought shouldkindle into agony, but lest I should fail to rejoice over the lost andfound. But my heart is in thy hand. Need I school myself to bow to animagined decree of thine? Is it not enough that, when I shall know athing for thy will, I shall then be able to say: Thy will be done? Itis not enough; I need more. School thou my heart so to love thy willthat in all calmness I leave to think what may or may not be itschoice, and rest in its holy self. 

 * * * * *

She has sent for me. I go to her. I will not think beforehand what Ishall say. 

Something within tells me that a word from her would explain all thatsometimes even now seems so inexplicable as hers. Will she speak thatword? Shall I pray her for that word? I know nothing. The pure Will bedone!

THE END.