The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Black Troopers, and other stories

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Title: The Black Troopers, and other stories

Author: Anonymous

Release date: February 20, 2020 [eBook #61456]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61456

Credits: Produced by Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK TROOPERS, AND OTHER STORIES ***

BLOODWORTH PROMISES TO REVEAL ALL. (see p. 308.)

THE BLACK

TROOPERS

AND OTHER STORIES

WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard, E.C.

CONTENTS

THE BLACK TROOPERS—

CHAP.

I. A MEETING—THE RIDE ROUND THE RUN

II. 'OLD MAN TOBY'

III. THE NIGHT ATTACK

IV. THE CONFESSION

V. PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT

VI. ON THE TRAIL

VII. THE END OF THE CHASE

CAPTAIN STAUNCY'S VOW

THE FORGED WILL

THE BLACK TROOPERS.

CHAPTER I.

A MEETING—THE RIDE ROUND THE RUN.

The drays with which I was travelling (it was in the month of March, 1849) had arrived as far as Lake Boga, on the Lower Murray River, within a day's journey of our destination. We had halted for the night close to a sheep-station established there. In the course of the evening the gentleman in charge of it—Macfarlane was his name—walked over to our camp; and I was informed by him that Mr. Stevenson, the superintendent of the run I was about to visit, had on the previous day ridden over to meet me, and had only returned home that afternoon. Having ascertained from him that I was a medical man, Mr. Macfarlane had come to invite me to his hut, and to ask me to visit one of his blacks, who had been wounded by a party from a tribe fifty miles up the river. These men had started originally for the purpose of surprising the blacks on Stevenson's station; but, traces of their presence in that neighbourhood having been discovered, they were forced to beat a retreat. In their rage at their disappointment, they had resolved, if possible, to slaughter some of the Lake blacks, rather than return empty-handed; but there also they were happily frustrated in their design, and only succeeded in wounding one man, whose leg they broke with a musket ball.

After this second disappointment, it was confidently anticipated that they would, as they generally did when their intended surprise proves a failure, return home, and await a more favourable opportunity. But they did not do so in this instance, as the result will show; for I subsequently had an opportunity of witnessing a striking illustration of the savage and barbarous mode of warfare of the Australian aboriginal, an opportunity not often afforded to the white man.

I set the wounded black's limb as well as I could with bark splints, and next day we started on our way to the banks of the Murray. The drays had to cross the river in order to reach the station I was going to. This was done by means of a punt, which had lately been built by a man who had also opened an inn for the use of travellers to South Australia, the road to which passed by the banks of the stream.

As we came in sight of this building, which was of weatherboard, with a verandah in front, I saw a man standing in the middle of the track or road, and watching our approach; and upon drawing near I observed that he was a black. When the driver, by whose team I was, recognised him, he uttered an exclamation, and stopped his dray.

'If there isn't that villain himself I was talking about to you, sir!'

'What do you mean?' I said.

'Why, I told you those blacks we heard of at the Lake yesterday, and who came to attack ours, wanted to kill one man in particular. That's him! His name is Bobby Peel, and he's the biggest rascal in the whole country round. It's a wonder he's alive yet, for when we left the run for this last trip to town, six or seven weeks ago, the black police were after him; and yet there he stands, as cool as you please, as if he hadn't ever killed a white man. Look at him!' he added, as his mate came up with his team.

'Why, it's Sir Robert! So he isn't settled yet. It isn't for want of trying; for if he's been shot at once, he has been twenty times at least. He'd a been dead long ago, only for our super, who won't let our men shoot him, as any one of them would only be too glad to do. There's not a place in the whole country round where he durst show himself, only ours.'

'How is that?' I asked.

'Because he's allers been a-robbing the out-station huts, sneaking in when the hut-keeper's away. He's a capital rider; and he'd get horses as he'd stole planted away in the bush, tethered handy; and he gallops off thirty miles one way, and robs a hut, and then gallops back and shows himself at our station. Then, when the squatters complain to our super about it, he says, "It couldn't ha' been Bobby, cos Bobby was at my head station that day you say your hut was robbed." Then next day, perhaps, away goes Master Bobby another way, and plays the same game! You see he isn't like the other blacks, who're afraid to travel alone after dark on account of the "devil-devils" they believe walk at night in the bush. But he was bowled out at that game at last, not long before we started this trip, and the super threatened he'd shoot him himself if he heard tell of any more of his games!'

The drays had moved on as he was speaking, and drew up at the door of the inn, for the punt-man to put them across the river; but no one appeared, and we found upon entering that the publican was away, and that the women of the place had locked themselves into one of the rooms. Hearing our voices, and the teams stopping, they ventured out.

'Oh, Bill, is it you?' said the publican's wife to the driver; 'I'm so glad! Send that horrid man away. You know it was him killed Mr. Berridge. I wonder they let him go about that way; he ought to be shot! He knew my husband was away, and the punt-man gone across the river, or he wouldn't have dared to show.'

'He would run very quickly if any of the young Mr. Berridges happened to come this way and catch sight of him,' said the other woman. 'They have often hunted for him.'

I turned to look at the man thus spoken of, and who seemed to be an object of hatred to black and white alike. He was still standing in the middle of the road, where he could command a view up and down and across the river, so that no foe could approach him unobserved. He seemed about twenty-five, slenderly built and tall, and was dressed in a complete suit of cast-off European clothing,—brown linen jacket, trousers, and waistcoat,—so that at a distance he might pass for a European. His eye had that peculiar, watchful, suspicious glance characteristic of the hunted man; it never for a instant ceased to wander over the landscape, except now and then, when he fixed them upon me as I stood with the others in the verandah. He was a good-looking fellow for a black, but there was a dark and desperate expression lurking beneath the appearance of carelessness which he put on under the looks of our party.

'How he looks at you, doctor!' said the driver. 'Hullo! here he comes. What's he got to say?' and, paying no regard to the women, who ordered him off, the black walked up to where I stood.

'Name—you?' he said, looking keenly at me.

'He wants to know your name,' said the driver, Bill.

'This one—doc—doc?' he asked the man, and pointing at the same time to me.

'See that, now!' said the other driver; 'if he doesn't know already you're a doctor! How could he know that?'

'Easy enough!' said his comrade. 'Either he was at the Lake, or else met some black from there, and they've told him about the doctor setting the other one's leg; that's how he knows.'

Meanwhile Bobby went back to the middle of the road, and, after casting a comprehensive glance all round, beckoned to me to go to him.

'Don't you go near him, sir,' said the women; 'it's well known he has killed many white men, and you may depend his spears are lying handy somewhere close by!'

But I had no fears on that score, and, curious to know what he could want with me, I left the rest and approached him. He led the way to the river bank, which was about thirty or forty yards in front of the house, and very steep, and descended the cutting in it formed to permit the drays to be driven down on to the deck of the punt. Here he was hidden from the sight of those in the verandah, but he kept in such a position that he could see over the top of the cutting if any of the party approached. I told them, however, not to follow me, as I intended to keep within call. Here Bobby threw off his jacket, and showed me his left shoulder and arm, on which were the marks of two wounds. Upon examining, I found that two slugs had lodged in them, and the black intimated that he wished me to cut them out. One had entered and lodged above the shoulder-blade, and was easily extracted by the forceps of my pocket-case, aided by a slight incision. The other had entered half-way up the arm, and travelled downwards until it reached the elbow, where it prevented free motion of the joint. This required rather a deep incision to get out, but he stood it without flinching. The whole affair did not occupy many minutes; and when it was over he said,—

'You got um—'bacca?'

I had a cake of cavendish in my pocket, and I gave it him, and he then stretched out his arm with a pleased look at having again recovered the free use of it. Then, taking me by the hand, he said,—

'Good white fellow, you!' Then looking round at the house near, and spreading his hand out, to indicate all the stations about his native place, he said, while a savage scowl settled upon his face,—

'All about—white fellow—no good!' and he shook his fist and uttered a fearful execration. For, ignorant as most blacks are of English, in swearing at us they rapidly become proficient. Just then we heard the noise of a horse's hoofs coming down the road, and, after giving one look over the bank at the rider, Bobby turned to me and said,—

'Good-bye, doc, doc!' and plunged into the river, gained the other side, and disappeared in the reeds, which just there grew in thick patches. He had good reason for leaving in a hurry. The horseman was one of the sons of a neighbouring squatter whom he, in conjunction with others, had the credit of having killed. Vengeance had overtaken all his companions in that exploit; but Bobby was still at large.

* * * * *

The squatting-station of which Mr. Stevenson was the superintendent was of very considerable size, extending for twenty miles along one side of the Murray, and for nearly the same distance back from the stream, which there flows through a level country, consisting of open plains alternating with belts and forests of timber, the latter giving place in many parts to patches, more or less extensive, of mallee scrub. Three-fourths of the run were reserved for sheep, the remainder for cattle, the head station huts being placed on the river banks, not far from the crossing-place. Besides the superintendent, the only other occupant of his hut was a young gentleman named Harris, who acted as overseer, and who was fitting himself for one day being able to manage a station of his own.

I had been some weeks on the run when Stevenson invited me to accompany him and the overseer on a visit of inspection they were about to make round to the different out-stations. The main object of this ride round was to supply the hut-keepers and shepherds with some strychnine he had just received from Melbourne, and with which he intended, if possible, to destroy the dingoes, or warrigals (wild dogs), whose ravages amongst the sheep had of late been frightful, twenty, thirty, and in one instance thirty-seven sheep of a flock being bitten in a single night. And as every sheep bitten, however slightly, dies (pining away as imprisoned by the wound), and as there were eight or nine out-stations, each equally exposed to attack, the losses may be imagined. Four hundred were killed, or died, during the first fortnight of my visit; indeed, the gentleman who formed the station some two years previously had sold it solely on account of this pest. Stevenson had determined to try what systematic poisoning of the run would do to diminish if not destroy this nuisance.[1]

[1] The dingo is now almost extinct in Victoria. Strychnine has greatly hastened its extermination.

It was a beautiful morning in April, the beginning of the Australian winter, when we started on our trip, which was to occupy two days. Our first day's ride was almost one continued hunt, for on nearly every plain we passed over one or more groups of kangaroo were visible, and, as my companions had brought their two dogs with them, chase was always given, and to me, who had lately been cooped up on shipboard, the change was glorious. The day was warm, but a cool breeze swept over the plains. We were mounted on stock horses, fleet, and in excellent trim; the dogs were well-bred, and always selected the foremost kangaroo of the herd, passing by all the rest; and as this animal often runs in a circle, and the plains were frequently two or three miles or more in diameter, the hunt was in full view from the beginning to the end.

It was curious to watch the hawks, which to my surprise had followed us all day, ever since we left the home station. They had found out by experience that when the dogs accompanied the horsemen a dinner was always left for them on the plains. High above us they followed the course of the chase, and when kangaroo and dogs were lost in the timber, we could always tell, by watching the hawks, the direction they were taking. At the cattle-station where we passed the night, the old stockman, Steve, assured me that these birds had learned to distinguish between his cattle dogs and the kangaroo hounds, as they never offered to accompany him in his daily rides unless he had the latter with him.

The consequences of all this rough bush-riding were, however, rather unpleasant to me, who had not mounted a horse except at rare intervals for years; and when we started next morning to resume our journey I had some difficulty in reaching my saddle, and hoped that our ride home would be a more quiet one. In this, however, I was disappointed, for we had scarcely left the cattle-station a mile before the dogs sighted an emu; and, after killing that, some wild cattle from the mallee were seen, and a long gallop after them ensued, in which my horse, a wilful, hard-mouthed brute, would take part, despite my protests to the contrary; so that by noon I was completely done up, and heartily wished the day's ride were ended.

As we came up to an out-station hut close to the border of the cattle-run, the hut-keeper stood at the door to receive us.

'I expected you yesterday, sir,' he said; 'or else old Steve.'

'Why?'

'Didn't you get my message?' the man asked.

'No; I got no message. What about?'

'There's been some games going on among the cattle,' replied the hut-keeper. 'The shepherd thought he heard a shot early in the morning, and saw them scampering out of the timber on to the plain where his sheep were. Here is the shepherd coming now,' he added; 'he must have seen you riding across the plain.'

The man presently reached the hut, and corroborated the hut-keeper's statement, adding that he thought he saw a spear sticking in the side of a beast which passed nearer him than the rest of the herd.

'I knew there were blacks about the day before, for I see their tracks; and I bet any money,' he added, 'it's that vagabond Bobby Peel and his mob have been killing a beast.'

'He had better not go too far,' said Stevenson, with an ominous look. 'Which part of the timber was it, Dick, and when did it happen?'

'Day before yesterday; there was a traveller passed here that morning on his way down to the river, and he said he intended staying that night at the head station, and would tell you.'

'He never called. What kind of a traveller—a horseman?'

'No, sir; a shepherd looking for a job, with his swag on his back. He must have passed the station and gone on to the public-house; yet he promised faithfully to tell you.'

CHAPTER II.

'OLD MAN TOBY.'

'Well, Dick,' said Stevenson, after a thoughtful pause, 'you had better go back to your flock. Show us the place you saw the cattle come out of.'

The man pointed out a spot on the line of timber, about two miles off, and left us, while we rode off to the place indicated. For some time the superintendent remained in deep thought; then, addressing the young man, he said,—

'You heard what the shepherd said about sending me a message by a traveller?'

'Yes.'

'Well, three weeks or a month ago, when I was over on the Wakool, Mr. James asked me if I had engaged the two men he had sent me, as I had told him one day when he was passing our way that I was short-handed, and asked him to direct any men who might be looking for work over to me. Neither of those men ever came. One started two days before the other, and there is no station between James's place and our own. Still, I did not think it strange, as these men might have been mere skulkers, walking from out-station to out-station, and only pretending to look for a job. There are hundreds of such fellows tramping about the colony. But now—I don't half like the look of it!'

'Why, what do you fear?' I asked.

'I think it very strange that, of three men known to have started with the intention of coming to Swan Hill (the name of the locality), not one should have arrived. And this man mentioned by my hut-keeper could only have stayed either at the public-house two miles beyond us, or else gone fifteen miles down the river one way, or the same distance up the stream to the Lake station, and that after dark too, for he would only reach the ferry late in the afternoon. Now this is so utterly improbable, that if I find, on inquiry, that he did not call at the Ferry Inn that night'—

'Why, what do you suspect?' I asked, observing that he looked very grave.

'That he has been killed by the blacks?' asked Harris eagerly.

'I fear so; and in that case he is not the only victim. You see,' said Stevenson to me, 'owing to the crossing-place of the river being near us, all passing travellers from the Edward, the Wakool, and other places higher up, must come through our run; and only think, in the twenty or thirty miles of wild country, what facilities are offered in the innumerable swamps, reed-beds, and scrub-patches, for the cutting-off of solitary travellers passing on foot through such a wilderness, where the only inhabitants are the shepherd with his flock, and the hut-keeper in the lonely out-stations eight or ten miles from each other!'

'What will you do?' I asked.

'I will write to Mr. Brown, who is a magistrate on the Edward, and mention my suspicions, and tell him to send one of his constables to make secret inquiries at the different out-stations near that locality as to the travellers who have passed that way during the last two months. But, in the meantime, do not mention the matter to any one. I do not think any of our home-station blacks are concerned in it; still, if they know that anything of the kind has happened, and suspect that we are aware of it, they will pass the word on to the murderers (that is, supposing any murders have taken place). Do you know, Harris, where the main body of our blacks are?'

'Old Steve told me to-day they were still on the Ballima, but were going to shift their camp to Wingong; that is about six miles from the home station.'

Just then we reached the timber indicated by the shepherd, and soon found the tracks made by the cattle in rushing out on the plain; and after following them up for a short distance we came upon the remains of a dead cow. A number of the dingoes, or wild dogs before mentioned, hundreds of which then infested the station, were busy at the carcases; and, as Harris and the superintendent were each provided with one of the formidable stock-whips used in driving cattle, instant chase was given, the two dogs selecting one each, and Stevenson following a third, which, after a smart gallop, he succeeded in heading and turning on to the plain. I had no wish to join in this chase, but my horse would not stay behind the others. The dingo held his own for a mile, but he had too much of the cow inside him for a longer run, and the superintendent soon overtook him, and brought his whip down in a style that poor dingo could not have relished. The unfortunate animal tried to escape the infliction by crouching to the earth and letting the horse shoot past him, and then doubling away at an angle to right or left. But the stock horses we were mounted on could double almost as quickly as he, and after a severe run of about twenty minutes he gave in. In his doublings he had again approached the timber, and he now lay down at the foot of a tree in a small detached clump, and awaited his fate.

I said I had no desire to join in the hunt. The fact was, I was awkwardly burdened. It happened that young Harris had, for the purpose of gaining practical experience, formerly resided at one of the out-stations we had visited. He had returned to the head station to live, but had all his clothes still at the hut. Being desirous of removing them, he had emptied his box on to the horses' backs. Stevenson had a great heap in front of him, which he threw to me when he started. I had a quantity also, and as Harris could not use his whip while carrying his lot, he hastily transferred that as well to me. I was thus barricaded to the chin with flannels and cotton shirts, trousers, coats, etc., for it was an outfit he had brought from England, provided by an anxious mother. I could scarcely see before me, and when he started off after the superintendent I actually had to grope for the reins. I had hardly thrown my arms over the 'swag' (to use a colonial phrase), when off started my excited horse after the others. As I galloped about, the articles worked loose one after another, and I must have cut a ridiculous figure, as I helplessly scudded hither and thither, dropping a shirt here, and a pair of trousers there. I faithfully tried to fulfil the duty assigned me, and held on to the bundles as long as I could, but at last a shirt, which worked loose and streamed out like a banner, got over my head and blinded me, and I was obliged to let them go, in order to see where I was rushing to.

We all dismounted and surrounded the dingo. It was a touching sight (to me, at least, who was not a squatter) to see with what stoical resignation it met its doom. After it once lay down it never moved, except to turn its head to watch the preparations being made to finish him. It was not long left in agony. But I could not have credited that the eye of an animal like that could have been capable of so much expression! There seemed to me a mingled resignation and despair in its glance as it calmly looked at its executioner until the film of death gathered over its eyes.

'Why, doctor! you look quite sentimental over it! There's one rascal the less. No more mutton for you, at any rate,' said Stevenson, as he turned away.

After this small tragedy, we returned to the dead cow, picking up Harris's traps by the way. We found upon examination that its leg had been broken by a ball, and that it had been afterwards despatched by spears; although, as Stevenson would not allow the blacks on his station to possess firearms, his men being strictly forbidden to supply them, it was a mystery where the gun came from which inflicted the wound.

'Not that we ourselves apprehend any danger now-a-days from them possessing them,' said Stevenson to me, in explanation. 'But, as you are aware, they are always engaged amongst themselves in a murderous kind of warfare,—sneaking by night on each other, and killing by stealth,—and as I found that the possession of the guns we gave them encouraged that sort of thing, I took them away again.'

'Perhaps Bobby Peel has been robbing some hut again, and stolen a gun,' said Harris; 'it's a wonder to me they can't catch that fellow.'

'He is an ungrateful rascal,' said Stevenson, as he remounted his horse, 'to kill my cow with it, if he has. I have got into very bad odour with my neighbours for standing between such a pestilent knave and summary vengeance. The fellow dare not show his face anywhere within thirty miles round; he would be shot down like a dingo if he did. And this is the return he makes for it! I only hope, however, he is not concerned in any foul play with those missing men. I strongly suspect him. Robbing a hut now and then for a supply of flour, or killing a sheep, I could wink at, though, forsooth, he might leave my cattle alone, and only rob those who have injured him. But bloodshed is a very different matter, and so he will find.'

We visited another out-station, and then turned our horses' heads towards home. It was sunset, and as we had been, with short intervals of rest at the different huts, in the saddle since dawn of the preceding day, I was not at all sorry that the end of our ride approached. But we were not to reach the head station without having another chase.

The dogs had rejoined us a short time after we left the slaughtered beast, and as we were crossing a small plain, and were within half a mile of the timber, all at once they picked up some scent and set off at a smart pace.

'What on earth have they got hold of now?' said Stevenson. 'There are no kangaroo likely to be here, so near home.'

We followed hard after, however, and managed to keep them in sight, until presently they broke into full speed and disappeared in the timber. They had sighted the game they were after, whatever it was. We rode in the direction they had taken, but, not seeing them, we pulled up to listen if they gave tongue. They did not, but somebody else did, without mistake; for we all at once heard most vociferous cries of distress from a human voice. We galloped up as fast as possible, and arrived just in time to save from destruction 'old man Toby,' one of our head-station blacks, who was walking quietly along when, he happened to hear the rush of the dogs behind him. He had instantly made for a tree, but was too late; for Rush, a dog lately brought from Melbourne, who was young, and unused as yet to blacks, sprang up as if he would tear him down. Old Toby, however, managed to keep on his feet, and resisted most gallantly. He had his yam-stick in his hand (a pointed stick used for digging up a small edible root which grows on the plains), and with this he met the rushes of the dogs, jobbing them with the sharpened end, and tearing them as badly as they had torn him. It was wonderful, during the half-minute or so that we were galloping up, to witness the coolness and dexterity, and, above all, the agility the old fellow displayed in avoiding the bounds the dogs made at him; while leaping to one side to avoid the onset of one, he would meet the other with a dexterous prod of his insignificant-looking weapon, which would send it sprawling with a wound in its side.

The stock-whips soon brought the animals to their senses; and we found, upon examining them all, that the dogs were the worst off for the encounter; for one had an eye wounded, and the other had a very ugly tear in his flank, which required to be sewn up.

CHAPTER III.

THE NIGHT ATTACK.

One evening, about ten days after our ride, I was sitting in the hut with young Harris. I had been engaged in cleaning my own gun, as well as a rifle belonging to the superintendent, who had ridden over on the previous day to the Edward River, and was expected home that night. While the barrels were drying before the fire—which occupied the centre of a hearth extending nearly the whole breadth of the hut—I put on my hat and walked down to the miamis of the blacks, two or three families of whom the superintendent allowed to camp in his paddock; the main body he kept at a distance. Old Toby's wounds were fast healing, a circumstance he seemed rather to regret, as he had been pensioned by three substantial meals daily from the kitchen, and was getting quite sleek and fat. I went from fire to fire, chatting with the occupants, Jimmy and Billy who, with their lubras, occupied two of them.

Polly and Kitty were two fine young women. One had a picanniny about twelve months old; the other a little boy of four or five years. The latter was coiled up fast asleep; but the other was kicking and sprawling in his mother's arms, while Jimmy, its father, on the other side of the fire, sat gravely cutting away at a boomerang he was fashioning, now and then stopping to notice the child, which was crowing at him, or to say, in an insinuating tone to me, 'Doc, doc! you carry 'moke um bacca?' Billy sat at the second fire close by, busy in preparing a new pipe he had got, and making it fit for black fellows' use. This process consisted in rubbing it thickly with fat, and tying a greasy rag round it, and burning it in the ashes. At the third fire were my old patient Toby, and two lads of eighteen or nineteen respectively, named Pothook and 'little Toby,' to distinguish him from 'old man Toby,' who was either his father or grandfather, I could not make out which.

The miami where these last were was at some little distance from the other two, and I thought I saw a fourth figure; but when I came up I found only the old man and the lads. I asked where the other man was, but they denied that any other man had been there. I could see, however, they were lying, and believed that, from the glimpse I had got, it was Bobby Peel, although he was without his European clothing, and had on a 'possum-skin cloak. I had distinctly seen his face by the light of the fire, as I quietly approached from the huts across the grass of the paddock; and, although I had not met him since the day of our first interview, his features were too strongly impressed upon my memory for me to forget them. I found shortly afterwards that he had excellent reasons for keeping out of the way.

After staying some time, and having my pockets emptied of the tobacco which was in them, I left and strolled on to the river. As I drew near its margin I heard a slight splash, as of a turtle startled by my step, and throwing itself into the water; but all was quiet when I reached it; no cry of duck or other waterfowl broke the stillness of the night; and the stream itself, fifty or sixty feet in depth, flowed on silently. The banks were very steep, and the surface of the water was some four yards beneath the level where I stood. There were no trees growing anywhere near; but the dead trunks of several left by former floods projected above the water, or rested against the banks, where, in the dim light, they resembled so many huge antediluvian reptiles. The opposite side of the river, which was 100 yards wide, was an island formed by an ana[1] branch, which left the main stream four miles above the paddock, and joined it again just below it. As I stood looking down on the dark waters, and up and down the reach, and observed that the blacks' fires were less than fifty yards off, I could not help thinking how easily their enemies, if still in the neighbourhood, could, under cover of the river banks, steal unawares upon them. I little thought that in the deep shade beneath the very spot I was then standing on, in the water at my feet, and with their heads concealed behind one of the tree trunks on the margin, already lay hidden the murderous band who, twice baffled, had stolen back for their revenge.

[1] Ana branch is a channel which, leaving the main stream above, again joins it below. These ana branches are very characteristic of Australian rivers, often forming networks of creeks, which supply vast tracks of country, back from the main stream, which would otherwise be destitute of water.

As I walked past them on my way back to the hut, the blacks began one of their monotonous chants, to which the two women beat time with sticks, which they struck together, their eyes sparkling and white teeth glistening in the firelight, as they shouted a merry 'Good-night, doc, doc,' to me.

At the door of our hut I found the superintendent, who had just dismounted. Harris had gone to bed. 'I have some news for you,' Stevenson said to me when we had entered.

He hung his saddle up on a peg projecting from the partition which divided it into two parts, one being used as a storeroom, the other as a bed and sitting, as well as a dining-room. The beds being boards or sheets of bark, with sheepskins laid on them, on which were stretched mattresses stuffed with the 'wongul,' or down of the reeds which abounded everywhere near the river banks. There were four of these beds in the room, two on each side; they were placed on posts driven in the ground, and in the day-time were used as seats. The only other articles of furniture were a movable table standing against the partition, an easy chair made out of a flour-cask, and some shelves fixed on the walls. The centre of the room was therefore clear. After ascertaining that no blacks were lounging about the hut, Stevenson continued,—

'You know I wrote to Brown, the magistrate over on the Edward, and sent the note by Scott's overseer, who happened to pass here the day after our ride round the run. That was eight or ten days ago, and up to the day before yesterday I had got no answer; so I rode over to find out the reason. And would you believe it?—for nearly a week the fellow had actually taken no steps whatever in the matter.'

'How was that? Had he got your note?'

'Oh yes, he got it; and a pretty fellow he is to have J.P. written after his name. Can you credit it?—on the very morning after he got my letter, he had discovered that the horse-stealers had swept his paddock! Above all, had taken his two hunters! For you must know he keeps hounds to hunt the dingo, as the fox is hunted in England. Actually had the impudence to tell me he was surprised and shocked to hear that I was laying poison for those animals!—hoped I would give up such a design! They ought to be hunted, he said, fairly; not poisoned like rats, or other vermin. This to me! who had lost from first to last, during the few months I have been here, nearly a thousand sheep by these creatures. His is a cattle-station principally, and his sheep country is all open plain, so that he is not troubled by these pests. He can bear other people's misfortunes in that line very easily. I told him a piece of my mind'—

These same dingoes were the plague of poor Stevenson's life, and when once started on the subject he forgot everything else; so I ventured to interrupt and bring him back to the point.

'But how was it nothing was done about these suspected murders?' I inquired.

'How? Why, because the fellow sent all three of the constables attached to the lock-up there off in different directions to look for his horses! The lives of poor fellows travelling in the bush are nothing compared to his hunters! I told him I should report his conduct to the authorities in Melbourne, and so I will too!'

'But has nothing been yet done?' I asked.

'One of the constables came back three days ago, and he has been making inquiries at the most likely out-stations. He returned before I left; and from his report my suspicions are confirmed. Eleven travellers called in the course of the last three weeks at the places he visited, on their way to this crossing-place, from the Edward. Now only five or six have arrived here from that part. I inquired before I started at our own men's huts, and all agree in that.'

'Then you may depend that rascal Peel is concerned in the matter,' said Harris, sitting up in bed.

'I forgot to tell you,' said Stevenson, 'that I came upon that fellow yesterday as I was drawing a carcase across the run, and leaving the poisoned baits in its track. It was in a scrub which my horse could hardly get through; and I had no idea that any human being was near me at the time. He might have speared me easily enough too, for I was unarmed and dismounted, and he touched me on the shoulder as I was stooping to place the bait to the ground. The fellow has some gratitude, I suppose; for, much as he hates white men, he knows he owes his life to me.'

'Twenty times over!' said Harris; 'for he would have been finished long ago but for you.'

'You told us, doctor,' continued the superintendent, 'that you extracted some slugs from his arm and shoulder the day you first saw him. How long, do you think, had those wounds been there?'

'About ten days or so, I should think.'

'What were the slugs like? a bullet cut up?'

'Yes.'

'Then the rascal is decidedly guilty! I will tell you how I found it out,' said Stevenson. 'Ever since you told me of the circumstance I have wondered how he got those wounds; and on my rides about this and neighbouring runs I have inquired, but could not hear that he had been shot at lately. In fact, ever since he was detected in those hut robberies, he has kept quiet, and out of white men's sight.

'Yesterday, on my way to the Edward, I called at the inn on the Wakool. In the bar I noticed a beautiful specimen of the "loouee," as the blacks call a rare bird which inhabits the mallee; and I asked the innkeeper who had stuffed it and set it up for him. He replied that a man who had been up on the Darling, making a collection of birds, had stopped there, and sold him this specimen. "But," added the man, "didn't he call at your place?"

'"No," I said; "did he tell you he was coming over?"

'"He told me that he intended staying a week at Swan Hill before going to town by the mail-cart. He sold me his horse, as he said he was going to walk across, and shoot birds along the swamps and reed-beds. Perhaps he altered his mind, and went somewhere else."

'Upon hearing this I told the innkeeper in confidence my own suspicions; and, as the distance was not great, we both rode over to the out-stations the man must pass on his way. At one of these the hut-keeper told us that such a man had slept at his place one night, and had left to shoot in the neighbourhood promising to come back to sleep there again; but he never came; and in the course of our conversation it came out that, before starting in the morning, the man, having used all his large shot, had cut up some bullets he had into slugs of different sizes, to load one barrel, in case he fell in with turkey or wallaby. So that he has been waylaid and murdered is, I fear, only too certain; and Peel must have been wounded by him. It was with the unfortunate man's gun, too, that that cow was shot which we found killed on the day of our ride round the out-stations. But,' continued Stevenson, 'is that woman going to give me anything to eat or not? I have had nothing since breakfast this morning, and am starving;' and he went out to the door to call out to the kitchen to hasten operations.

The night was calm, but dense clouds threatening rain obscured the moon. The fires of the blacks gleamed brightly from the low ground near the river, which was open and quite free from trees or bushes; and a cheerful blaze also shone from the window and from between the slabs of the kitchen, a separate hut, where the hut-keeper's wife was giving the finishing touch to the steak she was cooking for the superintendent's supper. All was peaceful and quiet; the hissing of the frying-pan and the distant chant of the blacks being the only sounds audible; except at intervals when the mopoke uttered its cuckoo-like cry from the timber ranges across the river. In a few moments the woman brought in the dishes, and Stevenson, having satisfied the first cravings of his hunger, was about to renew the conversation which the meal had stopped, when all at once the monotonous song of the blacks was interrupted by several musket shots fired in rapid succession. Shrieks and yells succeeded; and we instantly guessed what had happened. Our blacks had been attacked by their enemies!

Our first impulse was to rush off to their assistance; but the guns were in pieces, and a brace of pistols kept in the hut were unloaded. Stevenson hastily proceeded to charge the latter, while young Harris and I endeavoured as speedily as possible to put the other weapons in order. Through the open door the fires were visible; and now and then dark objects would flit rapidly past them and disappear. Mingled with the screams of the women was the clatter of blows, and old Toby's voice, replying defiantly to the yells of his enemies, could be plainly distinguished. Presently, one after the other in quick succession, three dark figures dashed with the frantic speed of fear into the hut, and, rushing up to the fireplace, crouched in the ashes on each side. Two of these were Pothook and little Toby; the third was no other than 'Sir Robert,' or, as he was more commonly called by the men, Bobby Peel, himself, whose suspected doings we had that evening been discussing—now, like his companions, in a state of mortal terror.

As generally happens in such emergencies, the proverb, 'More haste, less speed,' proved applicable to the present case. Never was I so long in putting a gun together; Stevenson could not find the bullet-pouch; while Harris, who knew the hut-keeper had a loaded double-barrelled piece in the kitchen, kept calling out to him to run down the slope and fire a shot over the heads of the attacking party; but no answer was given. The man was a new arrival in the colony, had always been terribly afraid of the blacks, and on the first alarm had barricaded himself in the kitchen, whence all his wife's taunts could not induce him to stir, or hand out the gun to Harris, who had at last to run for it. As the young man peeped through the crevices of the slabs he saw, by the glare of his eye, that the fellow was well-nigh delirious with terror. By the time the superintendent and I had armed ourselves, full five minutes had elapsed; and the cries had ceased some time. Upon procuring a light and searching the paddock, four mutilated bodies were found—Jimmy and Billy having been shot as they sat by their fires, and their bodies dragged away and hastily opened, and the kidney fat, the great trophy of these barbarous exploits, removed. The two lubras had fled, but in their terror they ran from our huts instead of towards them. Polly was overtaken soon, and killed by a blow on the head; the infant she carried could not be found; doubtless they had taken away the body. Kitty's screams were long heard, as she fled hither and thither in the paddock with her fell pursuers after her. Had she run for the huts, or had the cowardly hut-keeper run down and fired a shot, she might have escaped. Her little boy we found crouching in a small patch of reeds by the river, trembling like a leaf; and we plainly heard the triumphant laugh of the wretches, as they watched our search from the island to which they had swum.

'I know who those fellows are,' said Stevenson. 'They are Gunbower blacks—I was there some months ago, when that scoundrel Peel and a party of curs sneaked on them, and played just such another trick as this. They have paid us off for that exploit, at any rate! But where is old Toby? Can it be possible that he has escaped?'

After some further search we found the old man's body at some distance from the fires, his head, arms, and body covered with wounds. By the traces, as seen next day, we found he had made a most desperate resistance. His hand still grasped the yam-stick with which he had done battle with the dogs; probably it was the first thing he had caught up. His prolonged resistance had saved him from the mutilation which had befallen the others, as our approach had disturbed the murderers and forced them to recross the stream. For fear they should return and complete their work, the bodies were drawn up to the huts by Stevenson and myself, while Harris started for the ferry, where some more of our blacks were camped, to warn them of what had occurred. Except the hut-keeper, who was still quaking in the kitchen, there happened to be no other men on the head station that night, the two bullock-drivers and carpenter being absent, one splitting and drawing timber in the bush, the other bringing a load of salt from the lake.

'Did you say you saw Bobby Peel when at the camp with the others?' inquired Stevenson of me.

'Yes,' I replied; 'but he saw me coming and slipped away. Will you detain him in custody?'

He replied that he was uncertain what to do; but presently a circumstance decided him.

In searching the paddock and the banks of the river with the lantern, we found a double-barrelled gun, powder-flask, etc., hidden in some reeds. It was a very superior article, not at all likely to be honestly in possession of a black, and no doubt existed in our minds but that this was the piece belonging to the unfortunate bird-collector, and that it had been hidden there by Peel before he came to the camp fires; but the attack had been so sudden that he had no choice but to run for the huts. It was resolved, therefore, that he should be secured and handed over to the authorities.

'Although our head-station blacks,' said the superintendent, 'probably had nothing to do with the actual murders, I am sure they were aware of what had happened. I have noticed a great change in them for the last week. The two boys, Pothook and little Toby, were always hanging about the huts before, but of late I observed they kept away from us. They know of the murders, and are frightened. Now you must back me up, doctor,' he said to me; 'I am going to try and obtain a confession from them. In their present state they will tell all.'

We made our arrangements accordingly, and returned.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CONFESSION.

He had been absent from the huts for nearly half an hour, but we found the three blacks still in a state of the most abject fear. They started with dread even at our approach; and, what surprised me much, Peel seemed even more panic-stricken than his younger companions. His eyes rolled, his teeth chattered, and every now and then he would shiver convulsively. When I had first seen him he was dressed in jacket and trousers, but now he was in his aboriginal costume, an opossum-skin cloak wrapped round his otherwise perfectly naked form. He was squatting on his heels by the fire, but with his face towards the door. The superintendent was a tall, powerful man, and a formidable antagonist to face. He stood in the centre of the hut (which, as I have explained, happened to be clear, the table having been placed against the partition), and looked sternly down on the three crouching, shivering figures beneath him. He had purposely left the gun we had found in the kitchen, telling the hut-keeper and his wife not to come near, whatever they might hear. In his hand he held a pistol, while I stood with another in my belt, and my gun in my hand, ready for action. We had provided ourselves also with a stout piece of cord, which I had ready to give to him when he should ask for it.

For nearly a minute Stevenson thus stood and looked at them in silence. I observed that, after the first glance at him, the two boys stared round the hut and hung their heads without looking at him again. Not so Peel. As his eyes met the superintendent's I noticed that they became fixed. The pupils, before dilated, suddenly contracted; the lids, previously wide open, half closed, and a spasm seemed to pass over him. His head sank lower in the folds of his rug, but never for an instant did he remove his glance from Stevenson's face. He saw something there which made him suspect that his villainy was known, and that he had run into a trap; and the second danger counteracted the panic caused by the first.

'Bobby Peel,' said Stevenson, 'where gun belongin' to white fellow you kill?'

At this question the two youngest absolutely grovelled in the ashes, and seemed to give themselves up for lost. Peel did not answer, but drew his cloak over his head, and gathered himself together beneath it, as if he had resigned himself to his fate.

'Give me the rope, doctor,' said the superintendent, turning his face towards me.

It was but for a moment that he did so, but that moment was enough for the wary and agile black, who from beneath his covering had still watched every movement. Dropping his cloak, with one bound he sprang from his heels and shot himself forward against his antagonist, who was about five or six feet from him. His hands, held out at full length, caught the superintendent in the chest, and sent him reeling the whole length of the hut, until he came crash against the table, which was covered with dishes and plates, and fell heavily in the corner. Not hesitating an instant, the now naked black rushed to the door. I stepped back outside and raised the gun, but he paid no attention to my threat and order to stop, and slipped out and made off.

'Shoot him, doctor!' roared Stevenson in a towering rage, and for some time I had him covered, but somehow I could not pull the trigger; I felt a repugnance, guilty as he might be, at the thought of being his executioner.

I still had the gun pointed at the fugitive, who was fast disappearing in the gloom, when a shout arose from the superintendent, who had just risen from the ground in time to seize Pothook, who had decided—five seconds too late, however—upon following Peel's example. I barred the door, and the two were ordered to resume their places on each side of the fire.

'We have got these two fellows safe enough, doctor. Do you know they have been killing white men all about the run? Why did you not shoot Peel? I told you to fire.'

'But have they been killing white men?' I asked.

'Plenty. I heard of it to-day over at the Wakool—Peel, Pothook, little Toby, and Jumboy.'

In a low tone, as if for me, but taking care the two boys should hear us, we discussed what we should do.

The two hoys listened to us in silent terror. They knew, unhappily, only too well, from past experience, how little valued black lives were by the majority of the white men. With no provocation whatever, and in the mere wantonness of the power to slay, they had often been slaughtered by the settlers. But now, conscious that they were privy to many murders of the whites, and that a justification for their death existed,—kind and just as they knew Stevenson to be in general,—they believed that their hour was come. Their fear grew every moment stronger while we talked, and, as they thought, took counsel together how best to dispose of them. The end of it was that, only too anxious to save their own lives, they made a clean breast of it. Pothook had overheard Peel describe his doings to Jimmy—one of the head-station blacks. There were three or four others principally concerned, whose names were given. They waylaid their victims, sometimes spearing them from behind trees; at others accosting, and, after throwing them off their guard, striking them down unawares. Altogether Pothook knew of five or six thus killed. The bird-skin collector had met Peel when the latter was apparently alone, and had spoken to him. The two were walking along together, when the black made a sudden snatch at the gun the man carried, but he failed to obtain it, and took to his heels. Unfortunately, the white man, instead of letting the fellow go, and keeping his gun charged, fired the only barrel he had loaded at him as he ran away, wounding him slightly in the shoulder and arm. The other barrel was empty, he having shortly before discharged the shot it contained at a bird; and this Peel and his companions, who were lurking near, well knew. In an instant he was surrounded, and a volley of spears thrown at him, and he fell, pierced through and through.

Cupidity and revenge were the motives for these murders. Almost every man killed had a supply of tobacco; many had tea and sugar; and all had blankets. To them such spoil was of great value; but revenge, and the improbability of being found out, were doubtless inducements, for the class of men who wander about the interior from station to station are known to none: going nowhere in particular, but looking for employment as shepherds or hut-keepers, and heading in the direction of the districts where they are informed it can be obtained. Merely making this the pretext for lounging from one out-station to another, until shearing-time came on, they could earn money enough to indulge in their usual debauchery at that season, and were often marked as victims. Such men might disappear from the earth in numbers, and never be missed.

The lads seemed to have told all they knew, but Stevenson, to try them, pretended they had not done so.

''Pose you no tell what all about black fellow do,—eberyting,—mine hang you! You tell all.'

Thus urged, they informed us of the slaughter of another cow, killed the previous day (a thing we were as yet ignorant of). This was a great crime to any settler, and Stevenson threatened them severely if they kept anything back which they knew about destruction of sheep or cattle on the run; and they then confessed to several misdemeanours of that kind, though on a small scale, during the time he had been on the station.

In his anxiety to save himself, and tell 'eberyting what all about black fellow do,' Pothook confessed every piece of petty roguery his tribe had been guilty of for a long time past. It was now that we learned that, on two occasions when the slip panel of the paddock had been left down, and the horses all escaped into the bush—by the carelessness of some passing traveller, as we supposed—it was one of the blacks who had played the trick, and who had been rewarded with two sticks of tobacco for speedily finding and bringing them back. Percussion caps had been stolen, tobacco lying about the hut purloined, and even charges of powder taken from the flasks when our backs were turned. But, above all, it was a black fellow's dog which had killed the cat, which, on account of the snakes infesting the neighbourhood of the huts, the superintendent had taken such trouble and pains to procure, riding forty miles with it in a basket strapped behind him, and the unaccountable loss of which had much surprised and vexed him, for it had disappeared the day after its arrival.

'Whose dingo killed my cat, Pothook?' asked the superintendent.

Pothook rolled his eye towards young Toby, who hung his head with a guilty look.

'So, you scoundrel! that was the way the Colonel went, was it? And you pretended to hunt for it so diligently that I gave you your dinner and a stick of tobacco. If ever I see you or your dog after this within a mile of the head station, I'll take the stock-whip and make it a caution to the pair of you. What did you do with the body? Where put um pussy?'

No answer from the criminal; but Pothook, anxious to curry favour at everybody else's expense, informed us, 'Him yeat um.'

'Ate him?'

'Yes; him tink that one very good, white fellov 'possum.'

And Pothook furthermore let out that, under a somewhat similar delusion respecting a bottle of cold-drawn castor oil, from which he had one day seen young Harris draw the cork and swallow a glass, said little Toby had, at a moment when the hut was empty, slipped in, and, seizing the bottle as it stood on the shelf, hastily gulped down a goodly portion, under the impression that it was something of an intoxicating nature.

I observed that Pothook, in his narrative of delinquencies, did not mention any of his own exploits. This excessive modesty seemed quite misplaced to his companion, whose evil deeds he was bringing to light; and, plucking up a spirit, Toby junior retorted,—

'Mitta Tiffyson' (I may here observe that the superintendent's name was a great trial for most of the blacks. Almost every one of them had a method of his own of surmounting the difficulty. Some called him 'Mr. Stiffison,' others went further, and called him 'Stiffunson;' but plain 'Stiffuns,' with a splutter at the end, was the favourite pronunciation. I have, however, heard him called 'Stubbomson'),—'Mitta Tiffyson,' said young Toby eagerly, looking up at the superintendent, and pointing at Pothook as he spoke, 'this one marn (take) um fiz-fiz belongin' to flour.'

'Fiz-fiz for flour!' I said; 'what is that?'

'Oh, he means yeast!' said Stevenson.

'Yes, yist,' said little Toby; 'porter belongin' to bread. Pothook steal um that one.'

'Since you have been here,' said Stevenson to me, 'we have had yeast bread instead of damper. Mrs. Laidlaw got some from the publican's wife across the river. I remember her telling me that she had most unaccountably lost a quart bottle of it; she thought somebody had emptied it out in mistake. So Pothook take it, Toby?'

'Yes; him drink it all. Greedy fellow that one! no gib me any. Him tink it very good porter,' added the black, with a grin at the recollection. And upon further inquiry it was elicited that, having observed the woman place it on the table on her return home, and concluding it to be porter, Pothook had abstracted it, for he had often longed to taste that liquor. It would have been better for him if had shared the responsibility, as Toby junior proposed, and given him half, for the result was more than he could well bear.

Finding that the two had no more to tell, the superintendent informed them that their lives were spared for the present, but if they attempted to leave the hut they would be shot down. And in this Stevenson was quite in earnest, for after such a confession it was his duty to convey immediate information to the commander of the Border Black Police, the 'Black Troopers,' who were travelling down the river, and who, he had heard, would arrive at a station twenty miles off that evening. He resolved to start at once, and endeavour to return with them at daybreak, before the blacks, who might think themselves perfectly safe for that night, would suspect their vicinity and take to the scrub.

'It will be useless my starting to fetch the police if either of those two fellows escape out of your sight; and they are slippery as eels. Do you think you will be able to keep them safely?' said Stevenson to us.

I was very tired, and so was Harris; and the idea of sitting up all night was not pleasant. However, there was no help for it, and we promised to watch alternately during his absence. 'Where do you expect to find the troopers?' I asked; 'and how will you get to them?' I said.

'That is the question,' replied the superintendent. 'Lieutenant Walters, I heard, was to reach the Junction, twenty miles up on this side of the river, at sunset to-day; but the blacks are camped not far from the road I must go by, as it is too dark to travel through the bush. I must therefore cross the river here and go up by the other side, and then swim the river again—not a pleasant prospect truly. If I attempt to cross on horseback here, at the punt, the blacks there will instantly suspect the truth; so swim it I must, somewhere in our neighbourhood. Nice, isn't it?'

Finally it was decided that he should cross just below the island, carrying his clothes in a bundle, wrapped in a waterproof coat and placed in a bucket, which he held as he swam. He would then walk to the inn, taking care to approach it from behind, so that the blacks there, who, warned by Harris, had left their fires and were squatted in the verandah, should not hear him. A hundred yards behind the inn was the hut where the punt-man lived. He was to be roused and sent to the house, to tell the innkeeper to quietly saddle his mare, which was kept stabled at night, and bring her to Stevenson, while the man engaged the blacks in talk in the front of the house.

We watched until he had safely swam across and ascended the bank on the other side, and then returned to the hut. As we passed by the kitchen we looked in. Laidlaw, the hut-keeper, was sitting by the fire, and, to do him justice, seemed heartily ashamed of himself, for he did not turn his head as we appeared. His wife had made up a sleeping-place for the poor child whose parents had been so suddenly cut off. The poor thing was overcome by drowsiness, and every now and then would sink into sleep, from which, however, it would almost instantly spring up, screaming out violently that the blacks were coming to kill it, and clinging in the utmost terror to the woman's gown. It had found its way to the bodies of its mother and father behind the hut, and in its endeavours to arouse and awaken them had got covered with blood, which the woman was washing off as we entered, her tears falling plentifully the while; for she was much attached to the two lubras—who helped her in such household work as peeling potatoes, washing dishes, and bringing water, and the like, while their husbands caught fish or (before I came) shot wildfowl with the superintendent's fowling-piece. She was therefore much shocked at what had occurred, and was, moreover, heartily ashamed of her husband's pusillanimity.

We re-entered our hut, thinking that our adventures for that night at least were over—but I was mistaken.

It had been agreed that Harris and I should start an hour before daybreak and ride to a spot fixed upon, there to await the arrival of the superintendent with the troopers; and, having arranged that each of us should take a watch, I threw myself on one of the beds, and slept till two o'clock, when Harris woke me, and I took his place.

For some time I sat by the fire, musing over the different events which had occurred, and in imagination following the superintendent in his night ride up the river. It was about eleven o'clock when he started; and, allowing him an hour to reach the inn and get mounted, he would then have a straight gallop across a large bend of the river for about fifteen miles. He would then have to tether his horse and again swim the stream, as there were no other means of crossing at that spot, and walk a mile through the bush to the station where the troopers were. Allowing him till three o'clock to do this, he would have time to start with them on their errand, and be at the rendezvous fixed on before daybreak, always supposing no accident delayed him. Bobby Peel, we knew, would head for Winyong directly; but both he and the other murderers would certainly calculate upon having at least twenty-four hours undisturbed wherein to escape, during which they would be comparatively safe from the white man's vengeance.

I put some fresh logs on the fire, for the nights were now becoming very cold. The two blacks were lying sprawling by its side on the earthen floor of the hut; while Harris lay just above them on the bed next the chimney. The blaze from the burning wood and the light from the lamp fell strongly on the three sleepers, fully revealing their faces and figures, and I could not help being struck by the different aspect of the physiognomies before me, illustrations as they were of the highest and almost the lowest types of the animal man. For some time my mind wandered in a maze of theories as to the origin of types—effects of climate, food, and other modifying agencies in influencing the development of the genus homo, until all at once I became conscious that my ethnological speculations were rapidly coveying me into the land of dreams; so, jumping up to shake off the drowsiness creeping over me (for I had been shooting all day in the reed-beds), I slung the kettle, to make myself a pot of tea, and then went outside to look at the night.

The heavens were overcast with dense masses of clouds, and a light breeze blew from the southward, the damp feel of which indicated that the long-expected winter rains would not much longer be withheld from the parched-up country. After pacing up and down in front of the hut for some time, I turned to re-enter it, when all at once I heard one of the horses in the paddock neigh. Under ordinary circumstances this of itself would have signified nothing; but we were obliged to be constantly on the alert against the horse thieves, who often cleared out all the animals on several stations in a single night, and swept away with them over the borders and into the neighbouring colonies by routes known only to themselves, and where pursuit was in general utterly vain. As we had several valuable horses in our lot, I listened for some time, and, after giving a look at my charge, and ascertaining that both still slept soundly, I walked down to where they were grazing.

The paddock extended for nearly a mile up and down the river, and our huts were situated inside its fence and about in the centre. I found most of the animals a few hundred yards off, grazing quietly enough; but as I stood near one of them again neighed, and upon putting my ear to the ground I thought I heard a distant sound, which seemed to come from across the river. I went down to the bank and again listened. Sometimes it would die away, but presently it arose more strongly, until I plainly made it out to be the rushing gallop of either horses or cattle, my bush experience being then too slight to enable me to distinguish which. I concluded it must be the latter, as the sounds came from the island, which was some miles in length, being a broad, rolling plain, everywhere surrounded by deep water, and occupied exclusively by cattle, which, as they could not escape, had no one to look after them. It was not possible that any horsemen could be there by accident; for even our own stockman had to swim his horse over when Stevenson wished to muster the herd. Perhaps (I thought) the blacks who had made that night's murderous onslaught were still there, and the cattle on the island had been startled by them; for cattle have the greatest aversion to blacks, scenting them at a great distance and fleeing from their vicinity. Sometimes they will rush at the natives, charging them with great fury. Poor Leichardt relates, in the account of his most wonderful journey from Brisbane to Port Essington, that, having killed and eaten all their cattle but one, a bullock named Redman, to which they had become much attached for his patience and docility, the party was reduced to the very verge of starvation. For weeks they lived on boiled hide alone, and a very scanty allowance of that. Still, none could endure the thought of killing the faithful Redman, who had travelled with them for fifteen months through the wilderness, led by a rope passed through a ring in his nose. And the party did succeed in taking the animal into their destination, though at the cost of great suffering to themselves. In the last month or two of their journey, the explorers fell in with numerous tribes of blacks, who treated the white men with great kindness. Some of these tribes numbered five or six hundred souls. Whenever Redman, however, caught sight of them, it was with the utmost difficulty that he could be restrained. He would break away from his leader and charge the blacks with the utmost fury. 'Had the natives been hostile,' says Leichardt, 'Redman would have protected us and routed them all. I have seen three hundred men flee from his rush, for they were terribly afraid of him.'

All at once the sounds ceased, and for some minutes I heard nothing; but as my eye wandered over the river banks, suddenly I caught sight of objects moving on the island, and a short inspection convinced me that they were horses, and I fancied that they were mounted. I crouched down, to avoid being seen, but of that there was not much fear, as the shade of the rising ground behind me effectually concealed me. It was now darker than in the earlier part of the night, and the river was a hundred yards across, so that it was only when they passed along the summit of the bank and against the lighter background of the sky that I could distinguish them. They stopped opposite where I was, and at the only spot for many miles (except at the punt) where animals could descend and ascend to and from the water, the banks of the Murray being exceedingly precipitous. By this I felt convinced they were horse-stealers, and men, moreover, well acquainted with the locality, for they could not have passed down the river behind the inn, because the scrub, impenetrable at night, approached so close to the house that it would necessitate their passing within earshot. Higher up the river they could not cross without getting involved in a network of ana branches, impossible to ford in the dark. They were therefore obliged to cross at our paddock, and doubtless had the felonious intention of picking up our horses on their way.

CHAPTER V.

PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT.

As I lay watching their movements, as well as the darkness permitted, I suddenly remembered that there was a canoe, or little punt, a miserable, leaky, flat-bottomed affair, lying under the bank before me. The reason Stevenson had not used it to paddle down to the bottom of the island (a mile off) was the necessity of constant baling to keep it afloat in going such a distance. Merely to cross and recross the stream she would do well enough, as she would carry two men. I was determined the thieves should not have her for transporting their saddles and swags, and went forward to remove her. I crept along until I came to the huge log of dead timber to which the canoe was attached. Here I was completely in the shade, and sheltered, moreover, by the massive trunk, behind the upper end of which I crouched. I had reached out my hand to loosen the painter, when my eye fell on an object moving along the surface of the water, which was comparatively light. It was the head of a man swimming across for the boat; and I resolved to secure him.

As he approached nearer, I saw it was a black fellow. I was not surprised at this, as I had been informed that the organized gangs of depredators who carried on operations on a large scale between the different colonies generally secured the services of some of these dexterous children of the soil to assist them in travelling through the bush by the remotest and most unfrequented tracks; and, above all, to aid them in swimming the horses across streams when flooded with the winter rains. He did not seem to anticipate any ambush or interruption, for he came boldly though silently on, and, reaching the boat, hauled himself on, and, grasping the rope, lifted himself out of the water by its aid, and in two steps ascended to where it was fastened. I had drawn my pistol from its belt, and the moment he reached out his hand, I pointed it at him, and said quietly, 'If you move, I shoot you!'

Beyond turning his face quickly to the spot whence my voice proceeded, the black made not the slightest motion, but remained in the same attitude, as if suddenly paralyzed by this unexpected rencontre; and I stood up to seize and take him up the bank. I confess I acted like a blockhead; but I was new to such matters then; yet, after the example I had already witnessed that evening of the cunning, dexterity, and agility of the blacks, I ought to have known better.

Instead of keeping him covered with my pistol, and ordering him to come up the bank to me, I descended the steep face of it to him, and, reaching out my left hand, took hold of his wrist to lead him up. The fellow yielded without uttering a syllable, and as if he had not the slightest intention of resisting, and ascended a step or two, thus bringing himself close to and just beneath me. Another step would have placed us on a level, and he was in the act of making it, when, quick as lightning, the rascal, finding himself quite close to me, threw his arm round my body and hurled himself back into the river, head foremost, dragging me with him, and, when under water, instantly making the most desperate efforts to get loose from my grasp. I was a good swimmer, fortunately, and in falling I had let go his wrist and seized him by his bushy head of hair, which I kept a tight hold of. I was desperately enraged at having been so simply done, and when we reached the surface I gave him a blow or two with the pistol. I soon found I was the stronger of the two; but still he struggled viciously.

'What for white fellow kill black drooper?'

'Trooper!' I said; 'what do you mean?'

'Mine belongin' to p'leece!' he roared, while voices from the other side, which the noise and splashing of our struggle had hitherto prevented me from hearing, called out to know what was the matter.

'You blockhead!' I said; 'why didn't you say so at first?' and I scrambled out.

'Who is there?' I said.

'Lieutenant Walters and the native police. Is that you, doctor? Will you bring the punt over?'

It was Stevenson's voice. In a few moments I and my late antagonist were on the other side.

'What have you and the darky been up to?' he said.

'I took you for a lot of horse-stealers. Who could have dreamt it was you? Back so soon, and on the island too!'

'But how did you manage to get into the river? You fell in, did you not?'

'It was this black fellow pulled me in,' I said. 'What for you pull me in along a water, eh? What for no speak?'

'What for you poke 'um pissel along a me, eh? What for you pabber "mine shoot"? You stupid white fellow—you! Crack um cobra belongin' to mine!' and he rubbed said 'cobra' very gingerly. However, as his head was as hard as the generality of blacks', there was no great harm done.

'Mistakes on both sides, apparently,' said Stevenson; 'but you had better get across as soon as possible. I will go over with you. Are the two boys safe?'

'Fast as a church, when I saw them last,' said I, seizing the paddle and sculling vigorously, for I was getting benumbed with cold. One of the blacks swam alongside, to bring back the punt, and hurried home to change. As we went Stevenson explained that, when some distance on his journey, he had met the troop on the plains, and was told that, having found a note awaiting his arrival, with orders on the subject from Brown, the lieutenant had determined to push on that very night, and beat up the blacks' quarters next morning, if possible. Knowing that his every movement was closely watched, and that information is passed on from tribe to tribe with wonderful celerity, he was obliged to be very cautious. Feigning that the note was an unwelcome summons to another place, he, in apparent ill-humour, gave orders that the troop should cross the river that evening, in order to be ready for an early start for the Avoca, where he pretended that his presence was urgently required. At midnight he sent out two or three scouts to examine the neighbourhood for any lurking spies, and, finding that his ruse had succeeded, he quietly saddled up and started, and met Stevenson on his way.

Upon approaching the station, they debated whether they should try to surprise and secure the four or five blacks at the Ferry Inn, and then recross the river by the punt, or whether they should get on to the island, and swim the river opposite the huts. As the blacks were on their guard, the first idea was abandoned; and the more readily, as it transpired that one of the troopers on a former marauding expedition had discovered a ford across the branch, by which they could reach the island without the necessity of swimming. They were thus enabled to ferry over their saddles and clothes.

While Stevenson was giving me these particulars, and I was changing my clothes and imbibing some hot tea, the troopers swam their horses across, and presently mustered before the huts. Their commander was a young fellow of four or five-and-twenty, in some respects well fitted for his post, for he was a dashing, reckless fellow, with plenty of courage and hardihood. But, as regarded discipline or organization of any kind, his troop was sadly deficient. They were simply black fellows clapped into uniforms, armed with carbine, sword, and pistol, and mounted on horseback; and wonderful airs they gave themselves as they strutted about. When I say they wore uniforms, I must except boots. These supposed essentials to the equipment of the cavalry soldier were dispensed with by them, except on grand occasions, such as the review of the force. Then, with great agony and numerous contortions, these were dragged on, and their usual springy, elastic gait was instantly changed to a most unsoldierlike and pitiful hobble. But on active service the boots were hung at the saddle-bow, while each sable warrior inserted his great toe into the stirrup, the spurs being lashed to the naked heel.

The hut-keeper and his wife had been roused to prepare supper, or breakfast, for it was now long past three o'clock, and soon the frying-pan was hard at work.

'Do you think any of your head-station blacks who were killed last night had anything to do with the murders?' asked Walters, when he had returned from inspecting the bodies.

'They knew of them, but took no active part, I believe; Pothook had overheard Peel telling poor Jimmy about them.'

'It was a good thought of yours, keeping these fellows,' said the lieutenant to me; 'shouldn't have caught them for months if they had got wind of our coming. Sorry that fool of mine gave you such a ducking; he always was a stupid blockhead. Now, the question is, Where are these fellows we want? What kind of country are they camped in? Can I get at them so as to surround their miamis? Who knows the locality? I must have that fellow Peel this time, he has dodged me so often.'

'I rather think the doctor here knows that ground better than any one, as he has shot ducks up and down the creek almost every day, and fished for eels in nearly every water-hole,' said Stevenson.

'But does he know the murderers? I have got orders to catch the next lot, and send them prisoners to town. It makes more impression on the rest than shooting.'

'Harris and I know them all. We will both go with you. When will you start?'

'In time to reach and surround their camp just before daybreak. Will you be good enough to give me a rough sketch of the ground near it?' he said to me.

I made out a plan; and, while he was studying it, Harris went to the woolshed and brought down a number of sheepskins, which each trooper quickly made into pads for putting on their horses' feet on approaching near to the camp, in order to deaden the sound.

'I see there is a swamp near the camp; can horses cross it?'

'No; it is all soft ground, boggy in many places—I have walked over it often,' I replied.

'Then we must try and cut them off from it, that's all. When we have had something to eat, it will be time to start.'

He sat down to the meal the woman had just brought in; and while he was engaged with it Stevenson took me aside. We went towards the kitchen, where the troopers were crowded together, eating their supper also, some sitting at the table, the rest squatted on the floor. After examining them through the window for a while, Stevenson pointed out three of the twelve, whom he knew to belong to the same tribe which had made the onslaught on his blacks that night.

'I saw those fellows just now, when you and Walters went to look at the bodies, spitting and stamping upon the tracks made by our blacks about the hut, and shaking their fists towards the camp they are going to attack. They are gloating over the prospect before them, and the scoundrels will kill lubras and children without scruple, for Walters alone will not be able to restrain them. He is altogether too young and reckless—in fact, too indifferent about the lives of these poor creatures; and in that respect he resembles too many of the squatters, I am sorry to say. Now, I am determined that my blacks shall not be cut up by these fellows, if I can prevent it. You will come with us, of course?'

'Not I. I have not the slightest wish to see the pour wretches killed or captured, I assure you.'

'Still I hope you'll come,' he urged. 'Your presence, as a stranger, will be even a greater restraint upon them than mine, who am supposed to have an interest in the destruction of these troublesome pests to the squatter. Walters will exert himself to obey the orders he has received, and take them alive; and I must offer these fellows some bribe or other to induce them to behave mercifully, and prevent the slaughter of women and children at least.'

'If you think my presence will have any good effect, I shall, of course, be only to happy to go with you. But the fact is, I am sick of bloodshed after what happened last night,' I said.

'I don't wonder at it; and yet, just look at those fellows,' he added, pointing to where the troopers were enjoying their sweetened tea, damper, and beef. 'What fills us with such loathing is to them a source of the keenest delight. They are in their glory now. Strange, is it not—this dreadful instinct to kill, even in the case of men living far apart, and who never, perhaps, saw each other before? And yet I must not be unjust to them either. They kill because they are under the impression that every death, or sickness, or other misfortune which occurs to themselves or friends, is the work of some distant enemy, who has bewitched or stolen away his kidney fat. But here comes Walters; I suppose he intends making a start.'

In a short time all were ready, our horses driven up to the stockyard and saddled. The troopers, under the guidance of Harris, mounted and started, while Walters and we then entered the hut once more, to look at the two blacks, to whom I had given a dose of something to make them sleep.

'I want to make sure of these fellows,' said the former. 'It would never do if, the moment our backs are turned, one of them jumped up and made off. He could easily reach the camp before daybreak, and all our trouble would be thrown away. Try them again, doctor, please.'

I did so. Little Toby could be roused only with difficulty. Pothook, however, was not so drowsy; and upon shaking him he opened his eyes and fixed them for a moment on Walters and a trooper, who, in their shining accoutrements, stood before him. His head almost instantly fell back, and apparently he was sound asleep again in a moment. Something, however, in the glance aroused my suspicions, and I quietly asked the lieutenant if the blacks here knew him.

'Oh yes! they all know me very well.'

'Then Pothook recognised you! I believe he is wide awake at this moment, and will continue so, as the shock of the discovery that you are here will rouse him thoroughly. He must be guarded. Shall we tie them together?'

'No need of that, if your hut-keeper will only mount guard over them for one hour. It is half-past four now, and day dawns at six. Call him in.'

Laidlaw came in, and, having received his orders not to lose sight of them for an instant until daylight, we mounted our horses and pushed on to overtake the troop.

'I am vexed that you should be dragged out on such a miserable expedition as this,' said Stevenson to me as we rode together; 'but you know my motives. I feel very sad when I think of the fate about to befall these unhappy wretches. I can venture to say this much to you. Were I to speak thus to nine out of ten squatters, they would stare at me in astonishment. It is enough for them that these blacks have killed white men. They must, therefore, be shot down if they run, or be hanged if they are taken alive. But I cannot help feeling that all those so-called murders were perpetrated by these ignorant savages in retaliation for innumerable atrocities practised by the overlanders and their men, who, until a year or two back, when this station was first formed, used to travel from the Sydney side with their sheep and cattle to take up this country. Had we white men only done our duty by these poor creatures, and used our superior power a little more mercifully when we seized and occupied their country, such atrocities as those we are now going to punish would never have occurred. It is enough to make one's blood run cold to hear some of my neighbours speak of these blacks. "How many did you shoot when you came over?" one will ask another. "Only eleven," he will reply. "How many did you?" "Fourteen altogether." And in town I have more than once met—gentlemen, I suppose I must call them—who openly asserted that they made it a point to shoot all they came across.'

'I have heard men say the same,' I replied, 'more than once, when in Melbourne. It is perfectly horrible.'

Walters riding up at this moment put a stop to the conversation, and presently we overtook the troop.

The blacks whom we were going to surprise were stationed six miles off, at the upper end of a long plain, and a hundred yards or so from the banks of a creek, which for some miles above their camp was closely bordered on one side by a swamp and on the other by mallee scrub. The miamis were pitched near the lower end of the swamp (which was on the right or station side of the watercourse), and in such a position that the blacks could see all over the plain the approach of danger, and, taking to the reeds, could escape across the creek into the mallee, which there ended, abruptly extending back in a solid wall at right angles with the bank for half a mile. After passing the camp, the creek wound through the centre of a perfectly level open plain, which plain was bounded on one side by a dense wall of scrub, and on the other by a line of open timber; both the mallee and the timber running parallel to the general course of the creek, at a distance of ten or twelve hundred yards, except at a spot one mile down, where a point or promontory of scrub approached the bank much more closely. At that part of the creek there was an out-station hut.

It happened, however, that the lower portion of the swamp, which protected the rear of the blacks from the approach of horsemen, was almost entirely detached from the upper by a bay or indentation of the plain; and guided by young Harris, who also knew the ground well, and favoured by the hour, the darkness, and a high cold wind which had sprung up, accompanied with a drizzling rain, the troops succeeded in passing the blacks and reaching this spot unobserved. Descending into the bed of the stream, which was nearly dry, and ten feet below the surrounding plain, nine of the twelve, with Walters and myself, then silently crept down it, until we came opposite to the fires. A scout sent forward to reconnoitre reported that, entirely unsuspicious that their dreaded enemies were near them, the blacks and their dogs were all lying close, and sheltered from the cold wind and rain beneath their miamis, and apparently all asleep. Walters had planted three sentries in the interval between the two swamps, and across the creek at the edge of the scrub, which terminated just opposite that spot; the lower part of the swamp continuing some two hundred yards farther down the watercourse. If any of the blacks, therefore, escaped into this lower patch of reeds, they would be prevented from passing higher up the creek, or across the intervening two hundred yards of plain, into the mallee scrub.

My feelings were not very pleasant as I stood by my horse's head shivering, and watching over the edge of the bank the showers of sparks which the wind, now increased to a gale, caught up and scattered over the plain. I felt sorry for the miserable destiny of the poor creatures for whom we had prepared so unpleasant an awakening. But I cannot say my sentiments were at all shared by my companions. The rascals were all alive with energy, and waited impatiently for the moment when they were to be let loose on their unfortunate countrymen. Not that they had the slightest desire to avenge the deaths of the white men; they were not so weak; but because, under the guise of duty, they hoped to wreak their vengeance upon those whom they regarded as their hereditary enemies. I had heard their commander tell them to capture, not kill; and very much disgusted they were with the order. I fully appreciated Stevenson's reluctance to let loose such a set on his blacks.

The different colonial governments, well aware of the savage and bloodthirsty character of these same native border police, had often meditated suppressing the force altogether. But they had hitherto found themselves unable to do so. White constables are useless on the borders. It is only the aboriginal, with his keen senses and power of tracking his enemy, who can be depended upon to protect the settlers in those districts where native outrages prevail, or to inflict chastisement upon the perpetrators of them.

With the first faint streak of dawn the cry of the mopoke rang through the foliage above our heads. It was the signal agreed upon, and emerging from the bed of the creek the troopers silently placed themselves in a semicircle between the reeds and the eight or ten miamis which constituted the camp; and, removing the pads which had deadened the sound of their advance, waited until the blacks should become aware of their presence. Like most savages who are given to surprise their enemies, the Australian aboriginal is yet careless in guarding against surprise. It was broad daylight before a shrill cry announced that they were at last aware of their danger. Springing up from their sleep, and taking in the whole situation at a glance, they fled in a body over the plain, the only way left open for them. Guided by Harris and Stevenson, who had remained behind the reeds, but who now rode out and across the course of the fugitives, the troopers galloped after, and soon succeeded in securing the murderers, of whom one only offered any resistance.

CHAPTER VI.

ON THE TRAIL.

When the troopers passed through the camp, each man gave a sharp look at the miamis, to see that no blacks remained. These were merely sheets of bark, or boughs set up on end, so as to form a sloping wall between the fires and the wind, so that they could not conceal anybody. Owing to the haste, apparently, with which the blacks had sprung up, one of these miamis had got knocked down, and the boughs had fallen on the fire in front, where the leaves, damp with the rain which had fallen, were smouldering. Beneath these fallen boughs, and running the risk of being burned to death, lay hidden the black Walters so much wished to capture. He had had the presence of mind, on the alarm being given, to roll himself close to the fire, and, lying flat under his blanket, to knock away the prop which supported the bark and boughs of his miami; and as I rode up to the camp from the creek, for I had remained behind the troop, having no desire to be other than a mere spectator, Bobby Peel, dressed once more in cotton shirt, jacket, and trousers, was just rolling himself from beneath them.

My first impulse was to detain him, but he gave me such an appealing, eloquent look, that I hesitated. I remembered what Stevenson had told me as to the infamous treatment endured by this man's tribe; how Peel's first experience of white men was being fired on when awaiting the approach of a party of overlanders who came near, making signs of friendship until within range, when they delivered a volley which killed his father and two brothers. Old Toby had often shown me the patch of reeds he and Peel, then a lad, took shelter in on that occasion. I had warned Stevenson I would not in any way aid in the capture, even if I saw them escaping. In the short time I had been on the run, I had mingled much with them, had taken long shooting and botanical excursions with two of these very murderers, and been of service to them professionally; for European disease was rife amongst their miamis, and that they were grateful to me I could easily see by the gleam of pleasure which lightened up their visages when 'doc, doc,' as they called me, appeared amongst them. Moreover, as I looked round, there seemed no possibility of escape for Peel. The mallee and swamp were guarded, and across the plain he could not move unseen. Was it for me to hasten the miserable creature's doom by a few minutes? I could not do it; and when the black, raising himself on his elbow, after a keen look at the troop, at that moment in full career after his countrymen, pushed the wet boughs farther on to the fire, so as to raise a dense smoke, which the high wind blowing carried along the ground, and ran unobserved under its shelter to the reeds, I did not interfere to prevent him.

A very short time, however, elapsed before Walters was on his track. Not finding him with the rest, and suspecting what had actually occurred, he galloped down to the camp, and his men soon found the foot-marks of the fugitive in the wet grass. But upon following these through the swamp, the bird was flown. Peel had crept to the margin of the creek, and there seeing the sentry by the mallee, instantly suspected that the upper swamp also was guarded, for he knew well the number of the troop. His only resource, then, was to enter the bed of the creek and run down it until near enough to the point where the scrub approached its banks, to afford him a chance of reaching it before being overtaken. This was, as I said above, only a thousand yards or so away in a straight line, but by the creek bed, owing to its great winding, the distance was nearly doubled. To succeed, he required a far longer start than Walters' vigilance had left him, for not many minutes had elapsed from the time he had disappeared in the reeds, before the lieutenant had sent troopers down to guard the bed of the watercourse and the plain on both sides; after which he put three expert trackers on the trail. Then, riding to where Stevenson and I were patching up two or three wounded blacks,—for, in spite of all his injunctions and efforts, some of his men would use their weapons,—and hastily ordering the prisoners to be taken to the head station, whither Harris also went, to bring the spring cart for one of the wounded men who had bled very much, he invited me to join him in the hunt; for I had in the course of conversation the previous night expressed a wish to witness a specimen of the tracking powers of his men. I eagerly consented, not only because I was desirous of seeing exercised some of those keen faculties which the savage possesses in such perfection, but because I somehow felt a great interest in the fate of the miserable fugitive, and wished to be present to witness the result of the chase, whatever it might be, whether escape or capture. I could not help secretly hoping, as I noted the eager and ardent way in which his own countrymen set to work to hunt him down, that the poor wretch might escape. But there was, to all appearance, but small hope of that.

The creek down the bed of which the fugitive had fled was not an ana branch of the Murray, but one of the ordinary watercourses called by that name in Australia, which is, however, only properly applicable to an inlet of the sea. A raging torrent in winter, it was in summer a succession of 'water-holes' or pools, with spaces of dry ground between them. Some of these water-holes were from fifty to a hundred yards in length,—a few much larger, but in general they resembled small ponds,—the breadth being some forty or fifty feet. In depth many greatly exceeded this. The banks were fringed with the 'yarra' trees, which almost invariably, even when they are passing through plains otherwise treeless, margin the smaller watercourses of Australia, and which in this particular creek grew more closely than usual together at that level of the bank reached by the floods in winter-time. Unlike the generality of Australian timber, which shoots up to a considerable height before giving off any branches, these yarra trees in form more often resemble those of English growth (such as the oak); the trunk, gnarled and stunted, dividing at a few feet into large branches, the inner ones growing with an inclination downwards towards the water, into which at flood-time their ends often dip. From the blacks' camp to the out-station hut, a mile off, the course of the creek somewhat resembled the letter S.

We soon overtook the trackers, who had not much difficulty in following, as the fugitive had not had time to resort to any elaborate artifices. At one spot he had taken to the water, and some time passed before the place where he left it could be ascertained. The margin of that particular water-hole was rocky in some places. A slight drizzling rain had continued to fall, but beneath the trees the ground as yet was comparatively dry. The drippings from the fugitive's clothes would quickly betray his passage, but none such could be seen. It was concluded that he lay hidden in a patch of reeds which grew in a shallow part of the water at one end, and search was being made there by two of the blacks as we rode up. The third, however, more cunning than the rest, instead of joining them, ascended on to the plain, and commenced making casts round about in the neighbourhood. At first he also was unsuccessful, but in working his way round the water-hole he caught sight of a tuft of pretty thick bushes some thirty feet or so out. Instantly he ran up to them, as if pretty certain of there finding what he was looking for, and, stooping, he drew out a couple of dead, flattened, bushy boughs. Beneath these were the footmarks of the hunted man.

The bush in Australia is everywhere littered with dead trees and branches, the beds of the creeks in particular, where they are torn from the banks and deposited in heaps by floods. The leaves of one small bushy species adhere most tenaciously for months after death, and are not easily broken. Picking up two of these as he fled, and keeping them dry as he entered the water and swam, Peel had placed them on the dry, rocky part of the bank. Hastily pressing and squeezing as much moisture as possible out of his clothes, he had lifted himself out upon them, and allowed them to receive the droppings from his person. Shifting one before the other, and always keeping upon them, he had ascended the bank, and in this manner reached the tuft of bushes without leaving any moisture or footprint to betray him. We found that the bend of the creek at this spot would hide him from view.

After leaving the tuft of bushes, he had run for some distance at full speed, and again descended into the bed. Upon coming to that part where it approached the mallee sufficiently close to enable the fugitive, had he left the creek, to reach the scrub before the horseman on watch could overtake him, the trackers found that the traces still continued to keep within the banks. By this they were sure that he had not had time to try it, and that Walters had been too quick for him. His resorting to these artifices was another proof, and the trackers now proceeded cautiously, for fear he should double on them and take the back track.

We at length came to a water-hole of great size, being nearly three hundred yards in length, and in parts very broad. Along the side of this the tracks led for a good distance, and then suddenly disappeared. The mallee came closer here than in any other part; and the trooper on sentry there was riding up and down in its front. He examined the ground where he was; and the blacks with us, thinking that by chance he might have dodged in unobserved by the sentry, examined the plain in their own vicinity; but no marks could be seen. The fugitive had evidently taken to the water. But had he left it, and how? was the question; for, search as they would, not a mark to indicate the whereabouts of his exit could be seen. The long, dry summer had sunk the water so much, that on both sides a broad margin of damp clay bank extended, which would have quickly betrayed his passage; and the blacks had soon ascertained that Peel had not repeated his former ruse. They decided, therefore, that he was still in the water, concealed; and that, moreover, there was another black concealed there with him.

The farther end of the larger lagoon was connected by a narrow, shallow strait, a few feet wide, with a smaller one; and on walking round this, one of the troopers had come upon some other tracks, which also led to the margin of the pool, and there disappeared. An examination of these soon led to the decision that they had very recently been made, that they were the footmarks of a black, and that it was not Peel. And upon examining the narrow strait of shallow water, they furthermore asserted that the individual, whoever he was, had passed through it hurriedly on his way to the larger lagoon.

When Walters conveyed this information to the superintendent and myself, who were present, I was much surprised. I could not imagine how it could be possible for the men to be concealed in such a place.

'How can they tell that anybody has passed through this water?' I said to their commander. 'It is only two or three feet deep, but the bottom is invisible, owing to the dark colour of the clay, and the shade cast by the trees.'

'They examined the edge of it,' he replied, 'and found that a ripple or wave had recently washed over the pebbles, grass, and clay of the bank for several inches. If he had walked gently through, the mark left would have been much slighter than if he had passed through in a hurry. This fellow rushed through in a hurry, evidently. Probably just then he caught sight of the troopers coming over the plain to station themselves by the scrub here, close by, and made for the larger water directly.'

'Perhaps,' I suggested, 'the tracks are Peel's, made by walking backwards out of the water, to deceive you.'

'He knew well he could not deceive the blacks that way,' said Walters. 'No! this is the track of a man running, and running fast. Doubtless it was one of the head-station blacks, from the public-house, who had heard or suspected something, and was coming to give the others warning, but was too late. Whoever he is, he is hidden somewhere in the water still, and Peel too, most likely.'

'In the water?' I said, astonished.

'Yes; amongst the reeds.'

'But,' said I, 'there are no reeds, or scarcely any; only those narrow strips, barely a yard or two in width, round the margin; and you can see right down into them from the banks, and detect any man's head above the surface, even if it were in the thickest patch I see hereabouts; for they are not more than ten or twelve inches above the water, at most.'

'Yes; if they were such fools as to keep their heads above water,' replied the lieutenant. 'But these chaps are stowed away underneath.'

'With their heads under water? What do you mean?'

'I mean that you might pass this lagoon, walk round its banks, and look as closely as you will down upon those scanty reeds fringing the margin,—you will see nothing, and hear nothing but the rustling of the wind in the leaves. And yet a hundred blacks might be lying hidden there all the time! And so closely will they be concealed that a flock of wild ducks might alight and see nothing to startle them, so solitary and quiet will be the aspect of the place.'

'How can they manage it?'

'Simply enough. Almost every one of them keeps about him, concealed in his thick, bushy hair, a piece of hollow reed tube. When closely pressed, they take to the water, and, diving beneath, thrust their heads into a patch of reeds. Turning on their backs first, they allow their faces to come near enough to the surface for the tube to project, and they breathe through it. The sharpest eye could not detect this, hidden as it is amongst the thick growth; and even without it, it would be impossible to detect their nostrils, which, in that case, they only allow to project above water. See!' he added; 'they are groping for them.'

Some spears had been brought from the deserted camp for this very purpose; and, walking round the margin, two of the troopers thrust these in all directions into the water, but for some time without any result; the other black continuing his search round the banks for the trail, in case they had after all left it. All at once, however, I noticed one of them, as he was bending forward, and probing with his weapon, slip and partly fall in. His spear had been jerked out of his hand, and a movement in the reeds betrayed the cause. Running up, I caught sight, for an instant, of the twinkling soles of the feet (which are much lighter-coloured than the skin of the rest of the body) of the diver, as he proceeded to swim under water to some other part of the lagoon. But his pursuers had also seen them, and had been able to follow, with their keener gaze, the passage of the dark body itself, which, after the first glimpse, was invisible to me, to its new hiding-place. There was not the slightest disturbance of the surface, or any greater movement amongst the wind-tossed reeds than was observable elsewhere on the water-hole, to betray its whereabouts, yet the blacks unerringly selected the spot, and with poised spears were about to thrust the unfortunate through, whoever he was, when Stevenson interposed.

'No, we must have none of that kind of work, Walters,' he said. 'Get him out alive;' and after poking and following the fugitive to two or three different parts of the lagoon, finding it useless to persist, he at length popped his head above water, revealing to our gaze the features, not of Bobby Peel, but of the boy Pothook, whom we had left at home. Finding a brandy bottle on the shelf of our hut, his custodian had gone to get some water to mix himself a glass, thinking that as the boy was snoring he must be asleep; and the lad had seized the opportunity, slipped out, and made off, and was out of range before the hut-keeper had missed him. But Pothook was too late to warn his friends.

He was in mortal terror at finding himself in the hands of the dreaded troopers, and would not come out of the water until he had made Stevenson and me promise they should not kill him.

'Where Bobby Peel?' asked the superintendent of the lad.

'Him pull away over yonder,' he replied, pointing to the out-station hut, which was invisible, being hidden by some bushes out in the plain.

'Likely story that!' said the lieutenant contemptuously. 'It's no use asking him anything; he wants to get us away from here; and he'll lie till he's white in the face to do it. No! Peel is in this water-hole, I am positive. We shall have him presently, never fear. I must have that rascal this time; he has dodged me so often. But I think he won't slip through my fingers now.'

But 'the rascal' seemed destined not to be caught. The blacks stripped and swam about the lagoon, groping amongst the remaining reeds, and now and then diving to take a look below, but in vain. Half an hour had altogether been spent in the search, and still there were no signs of the fugitive.

'I begin to think the boy may be speaking the truth after all,' said the superintendent to me; 'though why Peel should make for the hut, where the men hate him so much, is a puzzle to me. Surely he would not dare. I will ride across and see.'

Just at that moment, however, we observed one of the blacks, who was coursing round the water-hole like a baffled bloodhound, suddenly stop, and look up at the branches of the trees which everywhere surrounded it. These had been examined by them upon first coming, in order to make sure that no boughs hung near enough to the surface for any swimmer to lift himself out by their aid. But the water was so low at this time that every branch was at first sight apparently too far out of reach. Finding no trace, however, on the broad clay margin on either side, the idea again suggested itself, and a more minute examination of the different trees was made; but the bough which approached the water most nearly was five or six feet from the surface, and belonged to a tree which was situated on the side nearest to the hut. Jumping into the creek, however, the black above mentioned swam out until he came beneath it, and, although the water-hole was at least fifty feet deep, to our surprise the man's body presently emerged until he stood up, and, reaching out his hands, grasped the bough and swung himself up on to it. The manner in which Peel had left the water was now made manifest. A large tree was there sunk,[1] a bough of it coming to within a few inches of the surface. From the banks this was invisible, owing to the dark shade cast by the branches above; but the fugitive, who was familiar with every foot of the water-hole from infancy, had availed himself of it, and had landed on the side nearest to the hut, and away from the scrub.

[1] The Australian woods, with a few exceptions, sink in water.

The black scrambled along until he reached the trunk, and, slipping down, looked at the ground at its foot. The grass along the edge of the plain above, for the breadth of a few feet back from the bank, had already been examined up and down the water-hole on his side, but without effect, and no tracks could now be seen at the foot of this particular tree. The black, however, again looking up, observed that a long bough projected out over the plain, and walking out to the end of this he again examined the ground. One glance was sufficient for him, although I could see nothing, and giving a cooey to the rest, who were still hunting in the bed of the creek, Walters and his companions joined him.

'Got it—track belongin' to Bobby,' said the trooper, pointing to the ground, and trotting farther out on the plain towards the hut.

CHAPTER VII.

THE END OF THE CHASE.

'Now what dodge has the fellow been up to?' said Walters. 'If he is skulking in this myrtle patch, hoping to double back to the creek, he is mistaken. Unless he has passed my men on the plain, which isn't likely, we'll soon have him.'

I observed Stevenson looking round for Pothook, but that youth had prudently slipped off. We afterwards questioned him as to what took place when he and Peel met each other. It seems that, cut off from his only chance, the scrub on one side of the creek, and informed, by the way, that the bed of it lower down was guarded, the black had for a few moments given up all hope of escape. He looked in despair between the trunks of the yarra trees towards the out-station hut, which lay a quarter of a mile off, hidden in a belt of myrtle and quandong bushes, some three or four hundred yards long, and extending across the bend so as to shut out the view of the great plain beyond. That plain, he knew, was carefully guarded, and, moreover, it led to the home station. But as he looked he saw an object which excited a gleam of hope, and inspired him with a desperate resolve. The sunken tree was some distance back from where he stood, and to avoid showing his return traces he jumped into the water and swam to it, emerging in the manner described, while the boy took to the creek, intending to remain concealed under the surface until the danger which he fancied menaced himself passed by. In going towards the hut, Peel ran no danger of being seen by the black stationed by the mallee, for on such a level plain the yarra trees which fringed the water-hole completely screened from those at a distance on one side whatever passed on the other side of the creek.

The open space between the part of the banks where we now stood and the belt of small timber above mentioned, was less than a quarter of a mile, and while the blacks who had been swimming in the water-hole were dressing themselves, Walters galloped across it, and through the bushes and on to the large plain beyond, to see whereabouts his sentries were. He could see two, who were riding up and down just within sight of each other, while between and beyond them, far out, was the shepherd with his flock. There was not a bush to conceal the view, and far away, by the edge of the distant timber, the blacks and their guard were still in sight, on their way to the home station. The timber opened opposite to him, and through this opening he could see miles away on to another plain beyond. The road from the punt to the upper part of the river passed that way, and came up to near where he stood, crossing the creek near the out-station hut, and going through a narrow portion of the mallee, which had been cleared for the purpose. On this road, at a considerable distance off, was a solitary horseman, apparently riding to the home station.

Meanwhile the blacks had again taken up the trail, which led straight to the brush in which the hut was concealed. Just before we reached the edge of this, Walters joined us again.

'I can't make the fellow out,' he said; 'he can't have crossed the plain; and if he is skulking here, we shall soon have him.'

The sentry across at the mallee had been called over, and, with another man, now watched in the open, to give notice if Peel doubled out and made back tracks for the creek again; and we proceeded to enter the bushes of quandong and myrtle. All at once there was a commotion amongst the trackers, who sprang to their horses, shouting something to Walters, who thereupon raged and stormed; and no wonder. The distant horseman he had a few minutes before seen was the very man he was after.

'Has either of your men here got a horse?' he asked the superintendent hastily.

'Yes,' replied Stevenson (who, I suspected, had been for some time aware of the trick Peel had played), 'the shepherd has one. He bought it to shepherd his flock with on these level plains, as he was always losing his sheep. He is a very little man, and consequently could only see a short distance.'

'But he hadn't it to-day, had he?'

'No. The fact is, he was taken in, knowing nothing about horses, and bought a thorough buck-jumper, who pitched him off as fast as he got on. And the brute won't let you catch him in hobbles; so, as he expects to sell it again, he keeps it tethered about the hut handy. I am afraid,' added Stevenson to me, as Walters, too impatient to listen further, spurred on after his men,—'I am afraid that vagabond has been up to some mischief. I hope Watkins, the hut-keeper here, is all right. Peel would be desperate, and not stick at a trifle in the fix he was in. I suspected what he had been up to.'

'So I thought,' I replied, as we rushed on after the trackers.

Just as they reached the hut door, a man was crawling out on his hands and knees. This turned out to be the hut-keeper, who was covered with blood, which had flowed from a wound on his head.

'Why, Bill! what's the matter?' said the superintendent. 'Did Peel do that?'

'Oh, is that you, Mr. Stevenson?' said the man, looking up at our party, and raising himself with difficulty. 'Yes, it was; are you after him?'

'Yes, we are; but how came you to let him do that?'

'You had best put your men on his track at once, Mr. Walters. He's got King's horse.'

'We know he has, the villain!' said Walters, as he directed the three trackers to follow instantly (Peel was still in sight, but soon disappeared in the timber), while he and the rest waited behind a few moments to hear the hut-keeper's account of the attack made on him, which he gave as I bound up his wound.

It appeared that, while engaged in his usual morning work of shifting the hurdles, after the flock had gone out at daylight, he saw some one riding (as he thought) through the bushes towards his hut, and left his work to see who it was. To his surprise, he found the shepherd's horse, which he himself had tethered out that morning at the edge of the myrtle, tied to the door, but immediately concluded that the man himself had come for it, as he was daily expecting to sell it, and that perhaps the intending purchaser had joined him while with his flock. He therefore entered the hut quite unsuspiciously; but it was apparently empty. While turning round, he was felled by a blow with his own gun; and, staggering forwards, fell close to his bed. He was not entirely stunned, and instantly rolled himself underneath it. At first he thought that Peel (whom he had recognised) was going to drag him out and finish him, but the black was in too great a hurry. He stayed long enough, however, to saddle the horse, and load himself with the tea and sugar bags, as well as the flour and half a damper which was on the table. Moreover, the man found that he had taken down his looking-glass, which hung on a nail in the wall. His object in doing this was that he might whiten his face with the dirty outside of the flour bag. With a cabbage-tree hat and a shooting coat which he put on, at a distance he would not look like a black, and he could pass the sentries unsuspected. In fact, we heard afterwards from them that he went between them, walking, and leading his horse, and pretending to read an old newspaper he had picked up off the table in the hut. It was so natural that a passing horseman coming from higher up the river should call at the out-station, and he turned his whitened, or rather whitey-browned, face towards them both so coolly, that, disguised as he was in hat and coat, and having the horse as well, it was no wonder that, at several hundred yards distance, they should be deceived.

I felt rather queer when I saw the hut-keeper's condition, and reflected that, had he been killed, I should have been indirectly the cause of his death. And what if the black, driven to desperation, committed more murders? There was no chance now of their catching him. He was making straight for the large reed-bed, which extended miles down the river below the head station.

'I don't see the use of following him any longer. He has got off clear!' said Stevenson, after we had gone some miles. 'Upon my word, he deserves his liberty too.'

We at last reached the reeds, and followed the traces along their margin, thick timber with brush being on our right. In passing the head station all but two of the most expert of the troopers were sent away. With these, the superintendent, Walters, and I, continued the chase, although with very slight hopes of capturing the fugitive, now that he had succeeded in reaching the neighbourhood of the reedy swamps, which communicated with the main body of the mallee, extending in the direction of South Australia for hundreds of miles down the river.

'Dodged me once more!' said Walters. 'Oh, if I had only thought of telling one of my men to call as he passed the hut where he stole the horse! We should have had him, for they would have been on the look-out. But now— What's the matter, Doolibut?'

The track had hitherto led for several miles in a straight line, parallel with the river; but now the leading black pulled up his horse and looked about him. The hoof-marks had changed their character, and swerved from their former course, zigzagging in different directions; these signs indicating that a severe struggle had here taken place between the horse and his rider.

'His horse has been playing up!' said the superintendent. 'These are the marks made by his hack jumping about. I wonder the beast went so far with the black on his back without doing so before, for he is a regular brute. No one on the station will ride him.'

It seemed, however, that Peel had conquered, for presently the tracks of the horse once more galloping were taken up, and we followed them on. But again we came to the marks of a struggle; and these increased in number at every mile or so, until we came to a place about half a mile from the scrub for which the black was making, and where the reeds and the timber, mingled with brush, approached each other closely. We were passing along a narrow, winding opening or path between these, having the reeds on our left, when once more the leading black pulled up, and after a brief glance at the ground, dismounted.

The sandy, loose soil on which the trees grew was margined by and intermingled with the soft boggy ground on which were the reeds, here five or six feet in height, and very dense. The spot was thickly overgrown with ferns and small bushes, which in several places were broken and trampled, while the ground was deeply imprinted with hoof-marks. Besides these, however, the blacks evidently saw other signs; for, pointing to one particular place, and speaking eagerly to each other, they stooped down to examine it more narrowly; and then, walking on a few steps, came to the foot of an immense tree, which, growing on the very margin of the swamp, had one portion of its roots bathed by its waters, there being hardly room for a man to pass between the reeds and the trunk on that side. On the other were some bushes, which concealed the view immediately beyond.

'Why, there is the horse!' said the superintendent suddenly, pointing to the right amongst the trees. 'He has left it, and taken to the swamp on foot. He's safe now.'

The two blacks paused and raised themselves up as he spoke; and, following the direction in which Stevenson pointed, one of them walked forward a few paces to look. He stood a single instant, and was in the act of turning to rejoin his companion, when a puff of smoke rose beyond the bushes, we heard a report, and saw him fall to the earth. He was shot right through the heart.

The other trooper, knowing that Peel's gun was a single barrel, and that he had now no charge left, ran round the bushes to fire; and Stevenson and I rode in the same direction. Beyond these bushes was a small open space, margined on one side by a pool of water. Half in this water and half out lay an immense prostrate tree; and sitting on the ground, leaning his back against this, was Bobby Peel. He knew that his last hour was come, for he had evidently made up his mind to die. He had delayed too long leaving his horse, for the animal had at length succeeded in throwing him; and in the fall he came on one of the roots of this large tree, and his leg was broken. He had dragged himself round to the edge of the pool, probably for the purpose of obtaining a drink of water, to assuage the thirst which is always the greatest torture in such calamities.

The dead tree against which he was leaning was that kind of Eucalyptus the bark of which is cellular, and very thick. This bark had peeled off the trunk, and lay in great hard dry flakes by its side; and the black had employed himself in breaking up this heavy, brittle material into pieces about the size of a cheese-plate. Several heaps thus prepared lay ready to his hand on both sides of him. He was busy in reloading his gun; and for a few moments, from my horse's back, I had an opportunity of noticing these particulars, for, owing to the dense brush which surrounded the place in which he was, it was some little time before the troopers could fairly approach him.

'Take him alive, Mr. Walters,' I urged. 'Don't let your fellow shoot him. Tell him to surrender, and lay down his gun, Stevenson.'

But Walters was naturally much incensed at the loss of his man, and felt very little inclination to do anything of the kind; and to the superintendent's summons the black replied by a volley of curses and imprecations against all white men,—in the midst of which the trooper fired, and the ball passed through Peel's chest.

The gun, which was nearly reloaded, fell from his hands, and Walters dismounted and walked forward to take possession of it. But the moment he appeared within the little open space the black, seizing a handful of the pieces of heavy bark, hurled them edgeways at his head and face with a rapidity and certainty of aim perfectly wonderful. The first piece he flung struck Walters across the forehead; and piece followed piece in such quick succession that the lieutenant was compelled to turn his back while he drew and cocked his pistol. For some time he found it impossible to aim, so unerringly did the missiles come rapping at him; but when at length he fired the black fell dead.

Years have passed, but all the incidents of that exciting and tragic chase are still fresh in my memory. The fierce strength of that last terrible effort almost appalled us, and we were loud in our regrets that so much skill and endurance should come to such an end. Times have changed since then, but it remains a reproach to our civilisation that the aboriginal races are fast vanishing before it. At the same time, there is cause for thankfulness that the efforts of Christian benevolence have not been in vain on behalf of the natives. There are still occasional outrages, but reckless treatment of the blacks is now held in check by a healthier public opinion.

CAPTAIN STAUNCY'S VOW.

CHAPTER I.

In the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four there stood on the old quay at Appledore—a maritime village in the north of Devon—a sombre-looking abode of respectability, with an air of faded greatness about it, which towered above its more humble neighbours, and commanded an unbroken view of the so-called 'Pool.'

That self-same 'Pool' is not unworthy of notice; for there the tidal waters of the Torridge and the Taw form a spacious basin, in which shipping of no mean tonnage may swim and swing. It is there that those waters assume the hue and mimic the mien of their capricious stepmother, the ocean, becoming greener and more wavy; and when the old lady, rushing in over Bideford Bar, takes these children in her arms, the swelling and dancing and splashing of that Pool in the pride of its heart is beyond all common belief. It is there, too, that, having parted company for a time, and sailed miles into the country, they return again, and, bidding their tidal convoy farewell for a season, allow her to glide out by the side of the Burrows, until she joins once more with the Atlantic in Bideford Bay.

There are not a few who leave smoky cities, and breezeless plains, and monotonous landscapes, during the summer months, for seaside air and scenery; and to such we would say, Search out this meeting of the waters. Make acquaintance with North Devon, and pay your respects to Northam, the birthplace and the resting-place of that valiant adventurous knight Sir Amyas Leigh. Run down from thence to the Burrows, with its thousand acres of greensward like a bowling-green, studded with grazing cattle, and fenced by a long sea-wall of innumerable pebbles, beyond which is a strand that would amaze Ilfracombe or Weston. Inhale there the strong sea-breezes fresh up from the Atlantic. Walk fearlessly out into the surf, to meet the breakers rolling majestically, and harmless withal as the ripples on a mill-pond. Creep over the slaty rocks with oarweed strewed, surveying thence the frowning head of Hartland, or the burnt turf slopes and beetling cliffs of Baggy, and you will meet with marine enjoyments which few of the more fashionable resorts have ever dreamt of, and can never hope to supply.

In one of the front rooms of that sombre abode of respectability sat the wealthiest and most renowned of Appledore's merchants—and then they were princes indeed. Mr. Phillipson was a shrewd and determined man. Descended from ancestors who had contributed much to the commercial prosperity of Devon, when Bideford was one of the most stirring and thriving of British trading ports, he inherited their business habits, their passion for speculation, their greed for gain, and consequently their remorseless rapacity; and, at the time of which we write, he was busily engaged in the American and Russian trade, which yielded him a handsome income. Though well educated, and accustomed to good society, his manners were anything but refined; and so rough and coarse was his language at times that the common people honoured him with epithets not very flattering to his respectability. It was said by those who pretended to know that he was a hard drinker. There were whispers, too, that he had so far departed from the line of rectitude as to traffic in contraband goods, and that some of his craft were in fact no better than out-and-out smugglers. These rumours, however, were attributed by all genteel inhabitants to the tongue of scandal; for true it is that evil-speaking, lying, and slandering were very strong-handed in that maritime village. And so it came to pass that money and station did then what they have always done, and will always do—stave off suspicions, make the possibility of crime a hard thing to be believed, and keep a fence around the character which it is next door to sacrilege to touch.

It was a winter morning. The fire which burned brightly on the hearth was clear and glowing as a frosty air could make it; and as the merchant gazed on the ruddy mass and flickering flame, he seemed absorbed in some dreamy reverie; but, recovering occasionally from the fit of abstraction into which his musings had thrown him, he cast his eyes hurriedly and anxiously on the papers that lay on the table before him.

His reverie was interrupted at the moment he had apparently come to some definite conclusion. A servant entered and announced that Captain Stauncy wished to speak with him.

'Show him in,' he said smartly, as though annoyed at being interrupted and intruded on just then; adding, in a more self-possessed tone, 'See that no one is admitted whilst the captain is here.'

James Stauncy entered, and a goodly specimen of a British tar was he. His manly, open, sunburnt countenance, his broad and strong-built figure, his smart and jaunty air, his bold and sparkling eye, his spruce and expensive fittings, proclaimed him a worthy son of Neptune. Under other circumstances, and with opportunities more favourable, he would have become an extraordinary man. Generous and disinterested, brave and devoted, self-possessed and strong-minded, he would have stood out from and proved himself superior to his class. But his education had been scanty; and, having reached the quarter-deck through the hawse-hole, as the sailors express it,—that is, having passed through all possible gradations, from the cabin-boy to the captain,—he had not been able to rub off the rough manners of early days, nor had he furnished his mind with any literature beyond that of the log-book.

The habits and associations of the forecastle had marked him strongly; and the only wonder is that, having passed through many a slough in his sailor's career, there was comparatively so little mire adhering to him. His moral code was for the most part comprised in one word, duty, comprehending fidelity to his employer and devotedness to his family; and faithfully must it be recorded that he seldom felt much scruple about the means, provided the ends were 'all right' in his estimation.

Having respectfully saluted his superior, he seated himself near the fire, at the request of the merchant, who, without giving him an immediate opportunity of explaining his errand, said, 'You will join me, Mr. Stauncy?' and, taking a bottle of brandy from the cupboard, he held it for a moment in his hand reflectingly; then, raising it between his eye and the window, he smiled as he surveyed the brilliant liquor, and observed, 'Here's something, captain, that never blushed at the face of a gauger: help yourself;' and he helped himself, remarking, as he smacked his lips, 'Prime stuff for priming, Mr. Stauncy, I'll warrant you. Captain,' he added, evidently speaking out of the fulness of his heart, and continuing audibly what he had been revolving mentally, 'the road to fortune is what we make it—long or short, broad or narrow. There is the long roundabout turnpike road, and there is the short cut through brake and spinney. I was thinking about this just as you entered, and I should like to have your opinion. It strikes me that two words comprehend everything—work and wit: work is the turnpike—wit is the short cut.'

'I don't know, Mr. Phillipson,' replied the captain; 'short cuts for a sailor are often dangerous things; and the fellows that I am acquainted with who live by their wits are a ragged lot, sure enough.'

'Bah! you don't understand me; but you'll be wiser some day. I tell you what it is, Stauncy: the higher up you get in life, the shorter the cuts are. Chances multiply as you run up the ladder. What is knavery amongst the poor at the bottom is "unfortunate speculation," or something of that sort, amongst the wealthy at the top; whilst all the way through, according to a graduated scale, artifice, or roguery if you like, changes both its name and its aspect. Dangerous at one end, it gradually becomes safer and safer; for, whilst it exposes the wits you speak of to a few lessons on the treadmill, it rewards the wits I speak of with the fawning homage of everybody. I would only observe,' he added, helping himself at the same time, 'that you and I are fools if we don't make our brains serve us as others do. And now, what is it?'

'I came, sir,' replied Stauncy, 'to ask for orders, as we shall be ready to move off to-morrow morning. The men say that the vessel is bound to Jersey or Marseilles.'

'Never mind what the men say,' exclaimed the merchant; 'there is gossip enough in this place to ballast a man-of-war. The Sarah Ann is bound to a far more comfortable and profitable port.'

'Any where you please, sir,' said the captain, who had been accustomed for some time to receive orders at the last moment. 'I am not particularly curious; and, indeed,' he added, laughing, 'it's part of my agreement, you know, to ask no questions, and do as I'm bid.'

'Exactly so,' Mr. Phillipson responded. 'I do as I am bid by circumstances and chances; you do as you are bid by my honourable self; and, as I have always endeavoured to be faithful to my masters, so you have always been faithful to me.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Stauncy, evidently flattered. 'I hope I know my duty;' and, preparing for himself a fresh potation, he added, 'Long life to you, sir, and all the success you wish for.'

'All the success I wish for, Stauncy, is more than I can expect to secure; but you can help me, if you will, to a large slice of it. I have trusted you more than any man living.'

'Mr. Phillipson,' replied the captain, 'all I say is, I've endeavoured to do my duty.'

'You have, Stauncy; and I'll make a man of you when you return from this voyage. You'll be able to sing "With shiners in my sack" to some purpose.'

'It'll be a short cut, then,' answered the captain, who had often heard the same thing before, but whose love of money was keener than his sense of disappointment; 'and maybe I shall get to the top of the ladder after all. I suppose we are bound for kegs, as usual?'

CHAPTER II.

By this time the potency of their morning beverage began to betray itself. The merchant, no longer irresolute, put on the air of a determined man, ready to do the utmost bidding of his covetous spirit. And the captain, no longer calm and self-controlled, grew self-complacent, and, in the pride of his heart, felt brave and true enough to do anything.

'Kegs!' replied the governor; 'no. The last was a poor speculation, and Lundy Cave is gorged enough by this time. I'm for a short cut, Mr. Stauncy, a short cut; and, if I can only get a bold heart to help me, I'll go through with it.'

'Here you are then!' exclaimed the captain. 'A bold heart? It isn't much I fear. I should like to see what I wouldn't face. Why, I once ran for the bar with a king's ship at my heels, when it was blowing a gale of wind, and hardly half-tide on; when the bay was like a boiling caldron, and every wave sprinkled our topmast-head. Twice we were on our beam ends; and, as we neared the South Tail, a huge sea struck us, which cleaned our deck and carried away the rudder, leaving us to the mercy of the surge, which roared and hissed as it leapt around such daring prey. My heart feared nothing, however, and, by manoeuvring with the sails, we got safely through it, and reached the Pool. Then there was that affair in Cawsand Bay, when Heard, the vagabond, betrayed me, and I was taken on board the three-decker'—

'Say no more, Stauncy,' responded the merchant, interrupting him. 'You have a heart bold enough, I know; but the courage you are thinking of is not exactly what I want just now. There are plenty who could be cool and resolute under such circumstances; but show me the man whose conscience is not governed by human laws, but by human rights; who, with such a conscience, can face the shame which the violation of those laws may incur. Show me the man who, in a land where poverty is a crime and wealth a virtue, and where imposts are so levied as to oppress the class least able to bear them, has spirit enough to give the revenue the go-by rather than slave on, without the chance of doing what his heart tells him he ought to do, for himself and family.'

'Ay, ay, sir,' said the captain, wondering at the merchant's earnestness, and little suspecting his base design in giving utterance to such atrocious sentiments; 'our circumstances, you mean, must determine our duties, and not our one-sided laws. I should think I've courage enough to follow out that creed any day.'

'I believe it, captain, and I'll put you to the proof now: help yourself.' Then, rising from his chair and pacing the room, he continued, 'The worst of a thing does not always appear at the first; but my scheme has this advantage, that you can see all its darkness, if there be any, at once. I want to improve the state of my pocket, and of yours too, Stauncy, and nothing can be easier. The way of it is'—And then, approaching close to the captain, he whispered for a few moments in his ear.

The seaman compressed his lips and was silent, whilst the merchant continued to pace the room, ejaculating occasionally to himself, and waiting until his victim had taken in the idea.

'FIFTY POUNDS, AND THE QUARTER-DECK OF THE "ARIADNE."'

'Fifty pounds, Stauncy!' he at length exclaimed; for he began to fear lest the captain's heart was misgiving him, and promptly stated a sum about which he had long haggled with himself an hour or so before,—'fifty pounds and the quarter-deck of the Ariadne when she is launched. A mushroom like that is not kicked up every day.'

'The money is tempting, Mr. Phillipson, but the scheme is new. I don't see any bravery in it either.'

'The less the bravery the less the risk, captain; and let the waves cast up what they may against smugglers, they will never tell tales after such a pretty funeral.'

'Not likely, sir, not likely. Fifty pounds, you said, Mr. Phillipson? Well, I don't see why I shouldn't do as I'm bid, and ask no questions. Pay me down the money, and I'm at your service.'

'I said,' observed the merchant, 'that the less the bravery the less the risk; but you must remember that in my case the risk is considerable. I put myself completely into your hands, and must therefore secure myself by a pledge from you, if I secure you by paying down the money.'

'What pledge do you want, sir?' said Stauncy, colouring, and looking displeased. 'One halter has been about our necks for many years, and I'm not the man to slip it, unless we can slip it together. Do you think I shall turn king's evidence?'

'No fear of that,' said Mr. Phillipson blandly. 'I'm as sure of you as I am of myself. All I want you to do is, to promise that my name shall never be mentioned in the matter, come what may.'

'Granted,' said the captain; 'I promise.'

'Stop, stop!' exclaimed the merchant hurriedly; 'let us do it regular—and make it what it ought to be.'

'Anything you like,' responded the captain. 'What I say I mean. I'll pledge my life if you will.' And then, by a solemn vow, the blinded and seduced sailor bound himself never to divulge the name of his tempter, imprecating fearful judgments on himself if he violated his promise.

'I am satisfied,' said the merchant. 'Here's the money, Stauncy; and now all you have to do is to whistle for a breeze.'

A gust of wind that moment rushing through the passage shrieked into the keyhole. The fire cracked and flared with intense excitement. The merchant's dog, which had lain quietly under the table, gave one short bark and one long howl; and so they separated.

CHAPTER III.

The village of Northam, which lies on the slope of a high tongue of land between Bideford Bay and the Torridge, is neither pretty, nor picturesque, nor romantic, nor anything of the kind. It is a plain, antiquated, countrified-looking place, with irregular rows of cottages, representing the style of architecture which prevailed centuries ago, relieved occasionally by a dilapidated building of statelier proportions, disclosing signs of former gentility, at a time when the houses of the poor were at a respectful distance from it, and it could boast of shrubbery, lawn, and orchard. The plainness of the village, however, by no means detracts from its merit, for historic associations of no small interest have gathered round this little hamlet, from the days of Ubba, the Danish chieftain and robber, to the days of James Stauncy; and warriors of note, seamen of renown, friars of doubtful reputation, have in their turn given Northam a name, and made it, 'for the nonce,' a small lion. It is not of these, however that we have now to write. Had the captain's dwelling been elsewhere, the village would have been left alone in its quietude; but there, in the street which lies at right angles to the main road, and which leads to the Appledore Causeway, is the selfsame cottage he once called his home. Time has not changed it greatly. The huge chimney projects where it always projected, supporting the front wall, and wasting its comfortable warmth upon the front air. The window by its side is somewhat modernized, indeed, and instead of the double hatch there is a panelled door. In all other respects it is the same cottage still.

CAPTAIN STAUNCY REPORTS PROGRESS AT HOME.

By the side of a bright fire in that happy home sat Mary Stauncy, waiting the return of her husband. The children were settled for the night, and everything in the little sitting-room was made to wear an air of cheeriness, that would have brightened a cloudy brow had it darkened the door. But Stauncy's brow was not clouded when he stepped in lightly, and saluted his smiling wife. On the contrary, his manner was unusually lively, and, being quite himself again, having shaken off the effects of his morning potations, he laughingly said, 'The old boy was in good cue for once, Mary, and I'm a richer man than I was yesterday. He has come out handsome.'

Now, Mary Stauncy, who was a woman of a penetrating mind, and thoroughly sterling in character, had a marvellous contempt for the said Mr. Phillipson. She mistrusted and scorned him, and her dislike was the barbed arrow of a woman's aversion. She therefore replied, in a tone which showed that strong feelings were on the instant awakened, 'And not before it was time, James. He has often promised to do something; but his promises, like himself, are worthless. Here are your best years running out, and what do you get for it? Depend upon it, when you answer his purpose no longer, he'll send you adrift with as little compunction as he turned Nanny Heale out of house and home—the poor old creature!'

'Cut the painter, eh, Mary?' he replied, smiling.

'Yes—cut the painter, James, and no joke in it either. It'll be a serious thing to get older and poorer at the same time, living, as I may say, from hand to mouth, and letting time go by us until every opportunity for bettering ourselves has passed away, because your unprincipled employer is pleased to keep us off and on, promising and promising, without ever intending to perform.'

'Nonsense, Mary!' replied the captain; 'we're young enough yet, and all our spring tides are not done with. Though you think so ill of the merchant, it isn't all breath he deals in;' and, laying the fifty-pound note on the table, he added, 'Look, there's a hansel.'

The little woman coloured scarlet. Surprise, pleasure, hope, suspicion, marshalled themselves hastily in her bosom; and, as there are times when the whelming tide of the heart keeps back the faculties of thought and utterance, she remained for a few moments silent. But as the blood stole gradually from her cheeks, and a pallor all the more death-like spread over them, she gave utterance to her uppermost thought—the offspring of that intuition which is woman's surest and safest logic, and said, 'Well, James, that's a fine prize surely; but I'm certain there's roguery in it.'

'Roguery?'

'Yes, roguery, James. That covetous, dishonourable old man would as soon part with his blood as with his money, unless he had some bad scheme in his mind. It's no little would make him hand over a fifty-pound note; and, to my eyes, every letter of it spells a warning.'

'Come, come, Mary! you are too hard upon him; and really you might have been gossiping with that old croaking witch, Betty Eastman, you speak so solemnly about warning. The worst thing of the kind I know of is the warning to pack up and go over the bar the first tide.'

'To-night, James?'

'To-night, Mary; and a fine wind we shall have for it, I reckon. But you're all out at sea yourself, and look as melancholy as if you were going to a funeral. The note, which I thought would raise your spirits, has put a damper on them, sure enough.'

'And no wonder,' she replied, with tears in her eyes. 'I've had a weight on my mind all day, and a presentiment that something unfortunate would happen. I dreamt about you last night, James; and, though our sleep-thoughts may be nothing but airy fancies most times, we cannot always dismiss them as such. They hang about our minds like living realities, and there's no reason why they shouldn't now and then be true warnings. I have no wish to make too much of my dream, but it haunts me whether I will or not. I saw you, as plain as could be, walking among the sandhills, and soon the sky grew suddenly dark—so dark that I lost sight of your form, until, by the glare of a vivid flash of lightning, I beheld you sinking in a quicksand. A wild shriek sounded above the roaring wind, drowned only by the pealing thunder, and when the cloud passed away, and the sun shone out brightly again as before, you were gone—lost to me, I thought, for ever. As soon, therefore, as you showed me the note, it flashed across my mind in a moment—that's the quicksand: old Phillipson will make us sup sorrow yet.'

'I hope not, Mary,' the captain replied, with as cheerful and easy a manner as he could assume in the face of an upbraiding conscience; 'things are brighter than you think for. Get my traps together, and all will be right, you'll see.' And when the church clock tolled out the hour of eleven, the captain, who had talked himself into a comfortable state again, rose to depart.

'James,' said his wife, who was still struggling with her misgivings, 'you haven't told me where you're bound, and when I may expect you again.'

'You know, my love,' he answered, 'that Phillipson always gives his orders the last thing. You shall hear from me as soon as possible; so don't be down-hearted.' And, folding her in his arms, he bade her farewell, with a warmth of true affection which did but make the pang more poignant which apprehension had inflicted.

'God bless you and keep you!' she said, sobbing; and before those strange emotions which were conflicting within could express themselves further he was on his way to Appledore.

She watched him down the street, as he walked briskly along, encountering the frosty night air; and when his footfall no longer resounded on the hard causeway she clasped her hands, and said, 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!'

CHAPTER IV.

The Sarah Arm was as smart a little brig as ever crossed Bideford Bar. She lay in the Pool that night with her head seaward, dividing the flowing tide as though she were rushing through it, and rising to the gentle swell with a seeming impatience to be gone. And shortly after midnight the word was given to weigh anchor and shake out the sails; and James Stauncy once more bade farewell to the Tonidge and the Taw.

A light haze had gathered over the waters, but the gibbous moon, which still rode high in the heavens, shone brightly. In queenly majesty she looked down on that quiet scene, watching over unconscious slumberers; and though little of the landscape could be seen as the vessel passed Graysand, yet, when she had cleared the bar, the land-mist was left behind, and the bay, distinctly traceable, sparkled everywhere with silvery brightness.

The ship's company, besides the skipper and Mr. Mogford, the mate, consisted of eight seamen and an apprentice, whose name was Jim Ortop, a cross-grained, vexatious youngster, whose cunning at one time and sulkiness at another procured for him most days what the sailors called 'monkeys' 'lowance.'

The men, having seen all snug, were lounging in the forecastle, where the look-out was stationed; and as the vessel sped along under courses, with a fine breeze, they beguiled the time by giving utterance to sundry and divers reflections.

'We shall have a change of weather soon, I'm thinking,' said Harry Cole. 'D'ye hear how the sea roars at the Rock's Nose?'

'Ay, ay,' replied Jem Kelly; 'a ring round the moon and a roar at the Snuffler is a sure sign of a slapping sou-wester, and it'll be ready for us, all brewed, before we reach the chops of the Channel.'

'Do you know where we're bound?' said Sam Pickard. 'I made sure we were going foreign when Mr. Phillipson said to the cap'n, as he bade him good-bye, "Keep your weather eye open, cap'n."'

'I didn't like the way the gov'nor and the cap'n whispered and laughed as they parted,' answered Kelly. 'I overheard the cap'n tell the mate just now that we were going up the Straits, and that, according to the ship's papers, the bales we've got on board are bales of broadcloth, which he said were heavily insured.' And, having thus delivered himself, he winked hard for his own private amusement.

'Bales of broadcloth!' responded Jack Purden, with a sarcastic laugh; 'bales of list, more like; and a fine market the old rogue will make of it, I'll warrant you.' And Jim Ortop saw by the bright moonlight that he too winked in a very knowing and emphatic manner.

'The last time we were up the Mediterranean,' Jim chimed in, 'the cap'n knocked me overboard; and if it hadn't been for Ned Birch I should have been drowned. If he serves me so again, I'll run away.'

'Where will you run to, you young scapegrace?' said Pickard. 'How is it you haven't got that rope stowed away yet? Look sharp, or the end of it will make acquaintance with your shoulders.'

And so they talked and joked, and moralized too, by times, until the day began to dawn; and the order was given, as the wind had freshened, to clew up the courses and wash the deck.

They were still within sight of the Cornish coast when the sun rose gloomily into the thickening sky, assuming the cold red hue which characterizes a frosty morning, and then the dull greasy look which bespeaks a thaw, or maybe a storm.

Before nine o'clock the ship had been so far eased of canvas that she was scudding under topsails. Dark banks of clouds began to lower in the horizon. The wind, which had risen to a gusty gale, and veered frequently, swept and howled through the rigging; and so threatening were appearances that when Jim Ortop went whistling up the shrouds to execute some trifling order, he had to run the gauntlet for it as soon as he reached the deck.

'You whistling rascal!' said Cole; 'don't you know you can't be whistling when there's a wind without raising a hurricane? If I hear you at that again, I'll make a figure-head of you.'

But the warning came too late. The wind, which had been chopping about, determinately settled into a stern sou-wester, and began to muster its forces for a deadly assault. Gusty and gustier still, it swept the rain-clouds hurriedly along the sky, exciting the billows into a wild tumult.

The captain was obliged to alter his course a point or two, in consequence of this state of things; but he kept the vessel's head as close to the wind as possible, and carried all the sail she would bear.

'We shall have a dirty time of it, Mr. Mogford,' he said, 'We must batten all down, and keep her facing it as long as we can.'

'There's no telling, sir,' replied the mate, 'how it may go. We haven't got the worst of it yet, for certain.'

Nor had they. Hour after hour the tempest increased in violence, until it became a perfect hurricane. Pausing to take breath, and sobbing and sighing, as if in vexation whilst it lulled, the raging wind recovered itself to blow more frantically, bending the brig to the gunwale, and sending green waves over her, whose hissing crests rose haughtily, and broke in briny showers amid her spars and rigging. Right skilfully did Stauncy handle her, and gallantly she carried herself, struggling bravely with the wild, writhing billows, which chased each other like giants at their gambols.

The evening began to draw in, and, until the moon arose to cast a pale and sickly light over the wide waste of tumultuous waters, the darkness added to the terror of the storm. The men, who had lashed themselves to different parts of the vessel for safety, began to despair; and Stauncy himself perceived that the case was serious. Still, however, he carried on, until a gust more wilful than its fellows rent the staysail into strips, which streamed out into the wind or flogged and cracked with restless fury; and a monster wave, bent on destruction, broke over the trembling vessel, sweeping the caboose and part of the bulwarks overboard, and with them the pride and life of the crew, Jim Kelly.

'He's gone, sir!' shouted the men,—'Jim's overboard, sir!' and the order to wear the ship was immediately given. But the seaman was beyond the reach of help, and all that Stauncy could do was to look after the safety of the rest.

'We'll run before it, Mr. Mogford,' he said; 'I don't know what else we can do.' And away flew the brig with bare poles, plunging and rolling in the seething waters.

CHAPTER V.

Swiftly and successfully the little brig retraced her steps, careering like a sea-fowl over the watery mountains that rose in her path, ever and anon plunging into the yawning abyss; but gallantly she rose again, and, shaking herself from brine and foam, bounded onward. Having ventured, after awhile, on the smallest show of canvas possible, the captain gave orders to sound the pumps, and sent Mogford below to ascertain how things looked in the hold.

The mate slipped down the fore hatchway, making his way over tightly packed bales, empty crates and barrels, which were stowed on an extemporized half orlop-deck; and, watching his opportunity, Jim Ortop, the 'prentice, descended too, for the purpose of getting an hour or two's undisturbed sleep. Discovering a crate half-filled with straw, he quietly stole into it, and, almost before the mate reached the deck again, was wrapped in slumber.

'There are two feet of water, sir, or a little more,' said Mogford, when he reappeared; 'but I don't think there is much wrong, and the weather is moderating.'

'See that there's a good look-out kept,' replied the captain. 'We shall soon, at this rate, be upon the coast.' And scarcely were the words uttered, when a voice was heard from the forecastle, struggling for audience against the humming wind, 'Land on the starboard bow!'

A misty line of elevated land was speedily traceable in the distance; and, wishing to avoid proximity to such a shore, the captain directed that the vessel should be brought up towards the wind. Such, however, was the force of the gale, and such the difficulty of spreading even a modicum of canvas, that Stauncy's seamanship was taxed to the utmost to save the ship from the grasp of that rock-bound coast. They were driven sufficiently near to discern, by the dusky moonlight, its frowning precipices, against which the sea broke heavily with deafening roar, sending up jets of spray into nooks and crannies where gulls and puffins had sought a roosting-place, and scaring them away to seek, with angry scream, a quieter retreat; but as yet there was no manifest danger.

'We're handy Bude Bay,' said Pickard, who was assisting Cole at the wheel; 'I know the look of that ugly headland well enough. We were coming home from America one time, and by our dead reckoning we ought'—

'Down helm! run up the jib, and shake out the foretopsail,' said the captain sharply. 'We're well in for Bude Bay, and shall hardly clear the land without making all the sail we can.'

The vessel answered well to her helm, springing her luff to Stauncy's satisfaction, but yawed alarmingly when a heavy sea struck her on the beam; so that he perceived at once how much depended on vigorous measures.

Accordingly, the closely-reefed maintopsail and mainsail were set, an experiment which made the Sarah Ann heel over so much that she was well-nigh on her beam ends; but it succeeded, so that the brig was kept at a respectful distance from the grim-looking rocks which scowled behind snowy foam; and every heart felt light and hopeful when Hartland Point stood out in the distance, like a huge fog-bank, and the arms of Bideford Bay seemed stretched out rejoicingly, to welcome them back again.

'Sound the pumps again,' said the captain, 'and I'll go below myself.'

'The water has gained on us rapidly, Mr. Mogford,' was his first remark on emerging from the hold, where he had unconsciously disturbed the slumbers of Jim Ortop. 'Every time she pitches, it seems to pour in; we'll run up under Lundy, and wait for the tide. Keep the pumps agoing.'

In less than half an hour he descended again, and seemed to examine with some care the state of the seams. The lantern carried in his hand was suddenly extinguished, and the apprentice, who had fallen into a doze, was aroused by a harsh rasping sound which startled him, and stirred his curiosity. It went on for some minutes, and then, as though every barrel in the hold had been pierced at once, a gurgling, gushing noise assailed his ears, which taxed his powers of consideration no little; and, as it lasted for a considerable time, his brain became greatly excited. A scrambling over bales and crates succeeded; and, as the captain swung himself up the hatchway, Jim heard him say, 'Mr. Mogford, I've been watching the water below, and it's gaining on us every minute;' and then, in a louder tone, 'All hands to the pumps! Where's that skulking Ortop got to?'

Now, Ortop was just beginning to engage in a small expedition on his own account. Creeping quietly down to the part from whence the grating noise had proceeded, he passed his hands inquiringly in all directions; but nothing could he discover save a little trickling stream, which seemed to spring from under a projecting trenail, standing out from the ship's side like a giant vent-peg. So he made his way to the crate again, and, considering that he might as well be rope's-ended for a long nap as a short one, made himself as comfortable as he could.

Daylight at length began faintly to appear, and the ship rolled and laboured as before; for, though the tempest had spent itself and was hushing up, she had now a considerable depth of water in her, as Stauncy had reported.

'Land ahead, sir!' said the mate.

'I see it, Mogford. Up helm! We'll run round off the cave.'

The brig fell off, and before she had passed Rat Island, to the south of Lundy, the captain made another descent into the hold, guided by the light of a lantern. The candle was extinguished, the old creaking sound followed, and then that self-same rushing, splashing commotion which had astonished the apprentice before astonished him again, as though the skipper were tapping the casks for his private gratification. On, and on, and on, the mysterious rush continued; and the captain, having once more groped his way upward, exclaimed, 'Get the boats ready for lowering: we're water-logged, sure enough! See that everything is right, Mr. Mogford, and I'll have another look.'

And, lantern in hand, he visited the mysterious spot once more, and the same harsh notes and hissing chorus chimed in with creaking timbers and splashing waves.

By this time the water had gained the aforesaid orlop-deck, and was slushing amongst the stowage; so that, after the captain had again ascended, the apprentice began to look out for a favourable time to accomplish his escape.

'Is all ready?' said Stauncy.

'All ready, sir,' replied the mate.

'Then get what you can out of the ship, all of you, for she's settling down fast.'

The jolly-boat was lowered first, and manned by six of the crew; but the painter snapped before they had settled themselves, and away she went astern, dancing over the billows, soon lost to view in the hazy morning twilight.

'Look sharp there!' said the captain; 'lower away quick!' and the other boat took the water like a gull. The 'prentice, who had turned up in the nick of time, Sam Pickard, the mate, and Stauncy jumped into her; and scarcely had they cleared the vessel when her death-struggle came on. It was soon over, however. A heavy sea raised her by the stern, and, unable to recover herself, she swayed and writhed for a moment, and then sunk headlong into the leaping waters, which closed over her hurriedly, clashing and seething amid the moaning of the wind and the booming of the broken surges against the beetling cliffs of Lundy Isle.

CHAPTER VI.

Calamity and danger are among the many circumstances which help to break down the distinctions of life into reasonable and helpful differences, and serve to bring out the cementing power of sympathy, which is the surest bond of social union. A common trouble does much to awaken a common interest; and so it proved with the saved remnant who pulled for their lives from the Sarah Ann. The captain, the cook, the mate, and the cabin-boy forgot for the time those ruling ideas of superior and inferior, which so frequently make great men tyrants and poor men obsequious, and as companions in tribulation endeavoured without distinction to manage the boat and effect a landing. But the task was no easy one, and had they been strangers to the island, in all probability they would have perished on the rocky shore; for Lundy tolerates but one small beach, defying intrusion elsewhere by its rough, inaccessible cliffs, towering hundreds of feet above the sea. For that beach the seamen longed and strove, and their efforts were so far successful that they ran in amongst the breakers, where, despite their utmost efforts, the boat was capsized, and they had to struggle as best they could for a footing on the gritty strand.

'Just!' exclaimed the 'prentice in a moody tone, as they stood on the shore wringing out their drenched clothes,—'just!'

'Just what?' said Stauncy, in a kinder tone than Jim was accustomed to.

'Just saved,' he replied; 'but I s'pose you reckoned on that when the brig was once off here.'

'Why, to be sure,' rejoined the mate; 'if there was any chance for us, it was the lee of Lundy, where nobody is more at home than ourselves.'

'Certainly,' responded the captain; 'I made sure of a chance if we only rounded Lametry; and here we are.'

'We've only got what we stand up in,' the 'prentice answered in a querulous and somewhat independent tone; 'I wonder who'll pay me for all I've lost.'

'You'll get as good a share as the rest,' said Pickard; 'and I wonder, Mister Jim, what makes you so forward.'

'I've got as much right to speak as you,' he replied. 'I don't think we ought to be turned adrift this way, and lose everything; we ain't ought.'

'Never mind him,' said the captain, apparently anxious to put an end to the dialogue; 'he's a saucy chap. A few hours' more pickling would have preserved him better. We'll get up to the top and rouse 'em up in the old Keep;' and he turned towards the narrow path which wound up the mountain side.

The cotters resident on the bleak island received them kindly, and, having dried their clothes and satisfied their hunger, proposed a turn in for a few hours' rest.

'I don't want any rest,' said Jim; 'I had a good sleep in one of the empty crates.'

'You had, eh?' replied Pickard; 'that's where you were hiding so long, was it? How did you get a berth there, I wonder?'

'Well, I was knocked up, and when the mate went down the fore-hatch I slipped after him.'

'I wish I'd pitched you overboard,' said Stauncy hastily; 'and very much inclined I feel to slip you down the Devil's Lime Kiln,[1] to spout your impudence to the gannets, or to the porpoises when they come in with the tide.'

[1] A singular hole so called, at the south-west point, about eighty yards square at the top, and 250 feet in depth, communicating by an outlet with the sea.

In fact, the 'prentice's disclosure of his sleeping quarters during the storm considerably discomposed the captain's serenity, calling up feelings whose first expression was anger; but, having lain down with the mate and cook, and spent an hour in reflection, he determined to proceed cautiously.

The morning broke with hopeful promise. A fresh, cold breeze, into which the gale had moderated, blew directly for the opposite quarter, as though the blustering tornado, having vented its passion, had turned repentant, and was now retracing its track with sober pace. There was still a tumbling sea on; but soon the bright blue sky and the sharp bracing air dispelled all omens suggested by the past, and a fleet of trawlers from Clovelly was to be seen dotting the heaving bosom of the ocean in all directions.

A signal was hoisted which drew one of the smacks towards the island, and Stauncy and his companions were consigned to the safe keeping of the master of a boat. The mate and Pickard settled down in the stern-sheets, and engaged in a close and earnest conversation with the steersman, whilst the captain went over the story of the storm to the skipper, and then slipped forward to the bow, where Jim Ortop was seated on a coil of rope, gazing intently into the sky.

'You needn't mind about the things you've lost, Jim,' said the captain; 'I'll rig you out again, and, if you behave yourself to my satisfaction, you shall have a guinea to boot, to sport with while ashore.'

The golden idea roused Jim from his contemplations, and was far too large to be taken in at once; it upset him completely. Whatever his thoughts and emotions may have been as he sat staring into vacuity, they were routed and sent to the gulls by this new gilded intruder. A guinea! He had scarcely ever seen one. Extravagant and romantic ideas had always been conjured up when people talked in his hearing of that precious coin. He pictured it to his mind. He fancied that he felt it in his hand. It seemed as though the universe itself would be purchasable; and, looking up into the captain's face with an animated eye, he said, 'Shall I fetch it, sir?'

'Yes, Jim; come to my house when we get to Northam, and you shall have a guinea sure enough—that is, if you mind and behave yourself.'

The 'prentice did not reply. The prospect of possessing a guinea had gathered all his thoughts into one sentiment, all his sensations into one passion; and his deep-set eyes again settled into an earnest gaze on the swelling sea, as though he had been spellbound.

The captain saw that he had hit the nail on the head, as he expressed it to himself, and, leaving Jim to his dreams, went aft with lighter heart than he expected.

'I wonder, Mogford,' he said, 'where the other poor fellows are;' and then, addressing himself to the fishermen, asked whether anything had been seen of a boat with six men in it. But no one had heard or seen thereof; and, indeed, whilst Stauncy was speaking, a wanderer on Brunton Sands picked up a portion of a boat's stern with Sarah Ann on it: so that the story is soon told. The jolly-boat had been swamped, or stove on the rocks, and the men who were borne away in her from the foundering brig soon followed the fated vessel to a watery grave. No human eye beheld that ocean funeral; no human voice bewailed them as they went to rest. The booming billows rang out their passing bell. The foam-draped waves joined hands to consign them to the deep. The moaning wind sang mournfully their requiem, and said farewell, as though the angry sea knew no remorse, and would never surrender its prey again.

CHAPTER VII.

The village of Clovelly, which looks out from the steep cliff's side on Bideford Bay, has surely a character peculiar to itself. Rising abruptly from an antique pier, its lichen-covered cottages are piled up on an incline so sharp that the traveller has to climb its oblique, pebble-paved street, and is constrained to wonder how human habitations were perched on so precipitous an acclivity, and how the villagers contrive to descend day after day without bodily detriment, or to ascend with fish-filled maunds without perilling their existence. Besides the dwellings which line the slanting thoroughfare, a number of cottages are scattered on the right and left, embosomed in foliage which salutes the waving ocean; and so completely is the cliff graced with fine old trees and with tangled underwood, through which a grey rock here and there protrudes, that the village looks right cosy, despite its perpendicular build, and adds no little to the picturesque appearance of the charming coast.

The only inn of those days, which swung its sign in the main street of that unique fishing hamlet, was the Crown and Anchor, in which Pickard and the 'prentice were quartered for the night. The captain and Mr. Mogford repaired to the outskirts of the village, where a relative of the former resided, a worthy bachelor, who made them welcome to his home and to such Devonshire fare as his larder afforded. Everything was done that evening which Cousin William could do to make the seamen 'snug and comfortable.'

It's like a dream, cap'n,' said Mogford; 'ain't it?'

'A dream with a plaguey nightmare into the bargain,' responded Stauncy; 'but the ship isn't launched, and the skipper isn't born, who can stand anything that comes.'

'Misfortunes will happen,' said the relative, with a sedate smile, 'and we must all be thankful it's no worse. We shall hear of many a wreck after such a night, and the list of widows and orphans will be greatly increased, I'm thinking.'

'Well, William,' said the captain, 'the mate knows, and I know, that every effort was made to weather the storm and keep her afloat. But it was to be.'

'There!' hastily interrupted the cousin. 'You're at your old doctrine again, James, which is really no creed at all, but only an easy, excusing way of getting over a difficulty, and sometimes of justifying a crime.'

'I don't know anything about that, William,' replied the captain; 'all I know is, that what is to be, will be.'

'What is to be: you mean by that, what has been determined by the Divine will. This is true as regards Divine permission, but not as regards responsibility and the rights and wrongs of what happens; because a great deal comes to pass through the wickedness of men, who act from the impulses of their own bad hearts.'

The captain winced, and, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable at the turn his relative's logic had taken, he replied, 'I cannot argue with you, cousin, particularly as you are a pious man. All I want to say is, that everything was done that mortal could do to survive the gale. But it was to be.'

'Everything,' said the mate; 'nothing but good handling would have kept her from foundering, or from running ashore between Bude and 'Arty. No better seamanship could be.'

'Thank you, Mogford,' replied Stauncy; 'we shall have to give an account of ourselves, I suppose, and you'll bear witness for me, I'm sure.'

'I should think so,' answered the mate; 'and perhaps your good cousin here will appear to prove that it wasn't to be.'

'It would require data,' responded the relative, 'with which I am unacquainted, and which have no existence, I am sure, to prove it in this case. But such a thing might be proved.'

And thus the evening was spent pleasantly, as it seemed: their worthy host declared it was spent profitably. They were known to become more eloquent! as it advanced; and the mate was afterwards heard to say that the debating theologian delivered them a final lecture before they separated for the night, in which, as far as he could understand it, he endeavoured to make good the point that to excuse all things by a Divine decree was to adopt a miserably one-sided and fallacious view, and at the termination of which he besought his cousin to throw overboard the foolish dogma, 'What is to be, will be.'

By sunrise the next morning the little party was on its way to Northam and Appledore. The captain first reported himself to his wife, who was no less surprised than rejoiced to see him, and then walked on to bear tidings to the merchant.

That gentleman was sitting in the parlour already described, and, when the captain was announced, rose up to meet him, with a cunning smile that would have startled most men.

'Well, Stauncy,' he said, 'what news?'

'All right, sir; she's in as snug a berth as you could wish, with plenty of water at low tide to cover her respectably. A prettier burying couldn't be; but we had a terrible time of it, and I scarcely thought we should have made Lundy again. One of our hands was washed overboard, and six, I fear, have been cast away in the jolly-boat.'

'Dear me!' exclaimed the merchant; 'and so she went down comfortably. Well—pax vobiscum—I believe that's the Latin; and now let us drink each other's health. There's a good round sum on the ship and cargo together.'

'I don't feel very comfortable, though,' said Stauncy; 'that sneaking 'prentice, who is crafty and malicious, was down in the hold from the time we reached Bude Bay, and I think he wants gagging.'

'Take no notice of him whatever,' replied Mr. Phillipson. 'The bark of such a young cur as that is not worth thinking about.'

'I thought,' said the captain, 'that I would just keep him, in tow, like, and promised to give him a guinea if he deserved it.'

'You're a simpleton—a downright simpleton!' answered the merchant angrily. 'He's wide-awake enough to read the meaning of that; and if he isn't his father is. Guessing that you fear something, he'll be ready to suspect much. You've the mate and the cook on your side, and if you don't put down that young fellow he'll be too much for you. Begin to give, and you'll always be in his power, depend upon it. In a case like this, either you must let the truth right out, or you must deny the truth right out. To go in the middle is to make yourself suspected, and halter yourself with your own hands. You must make short work with him, Stauncy. The promise of a good rope's end for going below without leave would serve him right, and serve you most.'

The captain saw the force of these remarks; but, had he consulted his wife before acting on them, he might have doubted their applicability in Jim's case. She would have suggested, in her wisdom, that the prentice's notion of wealth extended no further than the promised guinea, and that it would be more than unwise to provoke bad feeling by violating an engagement which had filled the boy's mind with such bright hopes. Acting, however, in accordance with the merchant's wishes, the captain treated the 'prentice in a way that his honest nature revolted against, and, like many another who has begun to do evil, condemned himself whilst carrying it out.

With a smiling face, which might have caused the merchant himself to relent, and a shyness of manner which betokened a sense of unworthiness, Jim Ortop presented himself the next day at the captain's door, and quietly said that he came about the guinea.

'I told you,' the captain remarked, assuming a ruffled manner, 'that you should have it if you behaved yourself; but now I come to think it over, it would be paying you for neglecting your duty. You know what you deserve, Jim, and be thankful to carry a whole skin. You shall have a guinea when you've earned it.'

So stunned was the boy by this reception that he stood speechless, and when Stauncy bid him begone, the shock was too much for him, and he burst into tears.

CHAPTER VIII.

'Severity,' said Dr. Johnson, 'may be the way to govern men, but it is not the way to mend them,'—a sentiment which the wife of Stauncy mentally endorsed, as she listened to her husband's hectoring; and when he had closed the door on the 'prentice, she said, 'That was not like you, James. I never saw you act so unkindly before, nor so unwisely; for people are very much as they are treated. To disregard the finer feelings is to weaken them, and to be unjustly severe is to create an itching for that course which deserves it. You have smitten on the head some feeling that might have contributed to right character, and helped to make the boy reckless as well as hostile. Did you really promise him a guinea, James? Why, think, then, how he has been nursing the idea; what a hold it must have got on him; how he has been revelling in the prospect; and, all at once, you not only extinguish hope, and injure his feelings deeply, but you falsify your word, and make yourself unworthy of his confidence.'

'I would I were as wise as you, Mary,' replied Stauncy who had acted unnaturally, and whose conscience upbraided him; 'I should keep free from trouble; but I thought it best to act as I did.'

'Unkindness can never be best, James; wrong can never be right. You must think better of it and do the boy justice.' But the captain was unwilling to retrace his steps, for reasons of which his sensible and prudent wife knew nothing. So he left the matter where it was, saying to himself, 'What must be, must.'

The darkening shadows had fallen for hours that night, when a party more numerous than usual took possession of the taproom of the Jolly Tar, in one of the narrow streets of Appledore. The ruddy glow of the log fire on the hearth was warmly reflected on the faces of the motley group as they sat around the settle, and gave to their features a bloated appearance, which too well read out the sottish habits of most of them. Night after night they congregated in that beery repository of gossip and scandal, of drunkenness and brawling; and many were the hapless wives and children who paid in hunger, nakedness, tears, and crime, for their bacchanalian selfishness and revelry. The company was varied occasionally by casual visitors, who were constrained to 'stand a treat,' and tempted to aspire after that maudlin condition denominated 'three sheets in the wind.' Such a visitor on the evening in question was Sam Pickard, who became the hero of the night, and escaped the ordinary requirement of 'glasses round,' from the sympathy awakened by his escape from a watery grave. Jim Ortop's father a wild, cadaverous-looking shoemaker, and a noted tippler, appeared to be the leading spirit; and from the twinkling of his eyes, and the rapidity with which he swallowed his potations, it was evident that he was unusually excited.

By general request, Sam Pickard proceeded to give them the history of the loss of the Sarah Ann, which he did with much feeling, and amidst a silence which was only broken occasionally by unsympathetic grumblings from the restless, angry-looking shoemaker.

'What's become of the six poor fellows who drifted away in the jolly-boat?' asked a grim-looking blacksmith.

'Who knows?' said Pickard; 'I heard this afternoon that part of a boat had been picked up over to Braunton, and that'—

'Just before I came here,' broke in one of the party, 'Bill Berry told me that four of the bodies had been found at the back of the Burrows.'

'They've been murdered, then,' said Ortop fiercely. 'I tell you they never came to their end by fair means. Their blood lies at the door of Cap'n Stauncy, who scuttled the brig, as sure as I'm a living man; and if there's any justice in England, it ought to follow him like a bloodhound.'

'It's false!' said Pickard, rising, with a flow of blood in his face which threatened mischief. 'What should the cap'n want to scuttle the vessel for? He did his best to keep her up during the gale, and I'll sew your mouth up for you if you spread such a lying report any further.'

'I say,' vociferated the shoemaker, smashing his pipe on the table, 'that they're murdered men; and before you try to sew my mouth up, you'd better slacken the noose that's tightening round your own neck!'

The ex-cook rushed forward to take summary vengeance on the representative of the gentle craft, who rose to defend himself, and a fearful fight would have ensued had the evening been farther advanced. As it was, they were most of them tolerably sober, and managed to separate the combatants.

THEY MANAGED TO SEPARATE THE COMBATANTS.

'I say again what I have said,' exclaimed Ortop, as he was pushed to his seat. 'My boy told me all about it; and I'll have a reckoning with you another day, Mr. Pickard.'

It was some time before they were quieted; but a forecastle man, with a powerful voice, contrived to bring things round by singing a song in heave anchor fashion, the chorus of which was taken up noisily by most present. He was followed by an old salt, who had swallowed the handspike, as the sailors say when any one has retired from the service, and who perpetrated with a nasal twang a doggerel ballad, immensely popular amongst his class, which was followed by a furious rattling of tankards and glasses, in token of approbation; and, having 'filled again,' they opened a running fire of convivial talk, which gradually brought round the engrossing topic of the evening.

'I should think,' said a little man in the company, 'that the gale was heavy enough to send any vessel down, without laying violent hands on her.'

'So it was,' replied Pickard, 'and scuttling would have been like cutting the throat of a dead man.'

'Suppose he did scuttle her,' exclaims a wiry-haired mason, 'that's old Phillipson's look-out. The vessel belonged to him, and if Stauncy satisfies the merchant that's enough.'

'And who's to satisfy the widows and orphans, or who's to satisfy the insurance office?' said Ortop, in a sarcastic, bitter tone. 'I'll get that question answered before long. I owe Stauncy a grudge, and I'll not forget it.'

'If there's sin anywhere in this matter,' the blacksmith remarked, 'it lies with the old scoundrel on the quay, who'd sell the life of any one for a groat. He's made a market out of many a vessel and many a man before now, and little cares who suffers as long as he fingers the gold.'

'What's the use of talking in this way?' rejoined Pickard. 'The brig went down natural enough, and no blame to nobody.' And so the house became divided in opinion, and the division occasioned fierce words and much quarrelling, until towards midnight inebriate voices, loud and wrangling, broke incessantly on the stillness reigning without.

CHAPTER IX.

A storm of angry feeling, of vengeful passion, raged fiercely the next day throughout Appledore, as soon as Jim Ortop's story was noised abroad. Doorways were crowded with men and women discussing the report, and venting their feelings in no honeyed phraseology. Knots of gossips augmented into small crowds, whose excitement grew uproarious. The principal street became in an hour or so a scene of the utmost exasperation, in which murmurs, intensified by the wailing relatives of the drowned seamen, were concentrated, till in that narrow gangway burst forth a fire of resentment, which nothing but blood, the blacksmith was heard to say, could possibly quench. 'Murder! vengeance! vengeance! murder!' were the cries which sounded high above the swelling din of that tumultuous multitude.

Whilst Appledore was thus in a state of frenzy, Northam was in a state of gloom. A funeral is always a solemn occasion; but the interment of four drowned men, whose bodies had been picked up amongst the rocks at the west end of the Burrows, occasioned an amount of sadness in the village not often manifested. The church was crowded, the churchyard was thronged; and as the words of consignment to earth were heard—'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'—a stifled groan arose from that heart-struck assembly. There were many who retired to their homes silent and thoughtful; but there were some who hung about the church gates, conversing on the melancholy fate of the deceased, until they too, like the men and women of Appledore, were ruffled into an angry mood, and began to breathe out threatening. Creeping slowly on toward the dwelling of Stauncy, they grew louder in their protestations, exciting each other, as moved spirits crowded together invariably do, and experiencing a glowing thirst for action of some kind. They wanted to do as well as to complain, but what to do they could not determine.

The captain's wife, with her usual foresight, had anticipated the possibility of a storm. The news of her husband's rumoured delinquency had filled her with distress, but it served to bring out some of her fine qualities of head and heart. She felt assured the report was untrue; though, from the time that Stauncy went over the bar, her dream had troubled her, and she was unable to refrain from depressing forebodings, so that she contrived a plan by which the captain was absent from Northam at the time of the funeral.

The crowd became more and more uneasy and vehement, and a series of altercations as to what ought to be done by no means improved their temper. Whilst some pressed forward and gazed rudely into Stauncy's windows, others vociferated, 'Who scuttled the brig? who murdered the crew?' The voices of flushed females prevailed even more than the clamour of wordy contention and indignation amongst the men, and something serious seemed impending, when Mary Stauncy appeared at the door, and, drawing herself up to the extent of her dignity, proceeded at once, like a clever tactician, to charge right home.

'You're a disgrace to Northam,' she said; 'you're a disgrace to human nature. Instead of uniting to shelter a townsman from suspicion, and guard a character you have always held blameless, you first listen to the scandal of a tap-room, believing a worthless toper who wants money as a price for silence, and then you take the law into your own hands without judge or jury. Be ashamed of yourselves, and go home, as you ought to do after such a burying, serious and charitable.'

The crowd listened; the crowd relented; the crowd was on the point of taking a new view of things, when a way was rapidly made in it by the pushing form of the captain, who had returned sooner than his wife expected, and imagined that some disaster had befallen his family. But when his presence evoked again the cry, 'Who scuttled the brig? who murdered the crew?' the truth flashed on him in a moment, and, rushing towards the most noisy of the calumniators, he threatened to fell him with a blow, and, confronting the astonished mob, exclaimed, 'If any of you have anything to say, say it, or else be off every one of you!'

The people dispersed, grumbling but cowed, their leader, the cadaverous shoemaker, muttering that Stauncy would repent of his work yet.

'I'll dog him,' said Ortop, 'till he dangle from the yard-arm of a jury-mast rigged up in Execution Dock.'

His presence was missed that night by the roystering tipplers in Ship Street; for, on returning to Appledore, he revealed his mind to another votary of Crispin, who was able to wield the quill, an accomplishment not very common in those days; and, having dictated an epistle giving information against Stauncy, he started off to Bideford, and sent it on its way to London. 'There,' said he, as he dropped the document into the letter-box, 'if that don't stretch him, I'm no fortune-teller.'

It was deemed expedient by the captain that he should immediately confer with the merchant; and when the shades of evening gathered in, he paid him a visit.

'The cat's out of the bag, Mr. Phillipson,' he said; 'Jim Ortop has told all he knows, and more, I daresay. A crowd of folks besieged my house just now as if they were mazed. Old Ortop, who was there, let out a bit of his mind, confirming what I feared from young Jim Ortop; but I warned him to mind what he is about.'

'Stauncy,' said Mr. Phillipson in a serious tone, 'you might have been born yesterday. You're very courageous, but you haven't got half the sagacity of my dog. Instead of applying a plaster to the sore place in Ortop's mind, you apply a blister. You should have taken the bull by the tail, and not by the horns, cap'n; it's a bad job of it! Why, here in Appledore there have been worse doings than in Northam, I'll warrant you. The people came round my door like a pack of wolves, and, just to show that they meant something, sent a volley of stones through the windows. The groom went out to ask "What's up?" and a hundred voices replied, in menacing words and tones, "Tell the old wizard," I heard them say, "that we'll burn 'un. Tell the old junk we'll scuttle 'un. Tell the old rogue we'll send 'un to sea in a hencoop." The women, who looked like harpies, screeched defiance. The men and boys threw stones and cob, upbraiding me all the while, and threatening I don't know what. I knew they could prove nothing, and that it was all a surface thing—a tide that could be made to ebb as easily as it was made to flow; so I went to the door with my handkerchief to my eyes, and looking as if I had lost a baby, or something worse. Didn't they yell! but when they saw my pale face, and how I kept mopping up, they soon got as quiet as lambs. "My good people," said I, as well as I could for choking grief, you know, "what is it? Is this the way you treat an old employer, who is paying half the town, and will soon pay the other half? Can I still the winds and waves? Can I control the stormy winds, or keep men back from death when their time has come? I never thought"—and then I fairly blubbered—"to come to this, or that my grey hairs, and family name, which is a household word, would be treated with such a want of consideration." You should have seen, Stauncy, how they all veered round in a minute. Some of the women began a-crying too, and called out shame on the ringleaders, who slunk away; and there I stood, sniffing, and speaking to their feelings, until they all went home, declaring they wouldn't see a hair of my head hurt. That's the way, Stauncy: nothing like oil for troubled waters. Only make yourself felt somehow—anyhow—and you'll be pronounced right.

CHAPTER X.

A strange-looking craft crossed Bideford Bar and anchored in the Pool about three weeks after this popular outbreak. She looked like a squat Dutchman: her bows were unusually round and bluff, even for those times; her mast was stepped much farther aft than the rules and proprieties of ship rigging tolerated, and on her roomy forecastle appeared a considerable mass of something, covered lightly over with a tarpaulin. Such a nondescript vessel had never been seen in those waters before, and many were the conjectures ventured on as to her class and calling. Some thought she must be a smuggler brought in for repairs. Others pronounced her to be a light-ship, which, for unknown reasons, had resigned her friendly office, and was taking a holiday; and a few of that class whose judgments are more romantic than reasonable affirmed, with a knowing jerk of the head, that she was a king's sloop—a revenue cutter got up in that odd fashion to beguile the unwary, to catch, as they said with a chuckle, 'a weasel asleep;' but what she really was remained, after all, a mystery.

'Rattler, ahoy!' shouted a genteel-looking man, who had been seen about Appledore for more than a week, and now made his appearance on the quay,—'Rattler, ahoy!'

A voice responded from the vessel, and, a boat being lowered, two men rowed ashore and took the stranger off.

'I scarcely expected to see you here, Captain Robinson,' he said, when he reached the deck; 'but it will expedite matters. You've had a fine time for pearl-fishing, eh?'

'A very fine time, Mr. Cocks, ever since we left Plymouth. The sea has been like a millpond, so that we finished operations sooner than I expected; and, as I wanted to see the face of a ship's chandler, I ran in here.'

'And what's the result of your operations?'

'Oh, very satisfactory. There's no doubt about the matter at all. The evidence has been drawn up and signed, and you can have it now if you please.'

That very evening the genteel-looking man betook himself to a justice of the peace, accompanied by Jim Ortop, and made such depositions that the worthy magistrate was necessitated, much against his will, to issue a warrant against James Stauncy, as charged with having scuttled on the high seas the brig Sarah Ann. The next morning that warrant was duly served by the village constable, who had received instructions to bring the captain at an early hour before the minister of justice; and, faithful to his duty, he appeared at the appointed time, accompanied by Stauncy, at the house of Squire Hart, who was universally esteemed and respected as a humane and impartial administrator of the law.

Poor Mary! her heart died within her when the fussy official hurried away the light of her eyes. Sinking into a chair, she sat gazing at the fire, spellbound, pale, and trembling, heaving deep sighs, and exclaiming, ever and anon, 'The quicksand! the quicksand!' and so she continued for hours, until a neighbour, like a true friend, looked in on the stricken woman, and endeavoured to soothe and comfort her afflicted spirit.

There is an amount of sympathy with fellow-suffering amongst the middle and lower classes especially, which serves to mitigate no little the miseries of life; and few there are who do not meet with some kind spirits prepared to act the part of the Good Samaritan, and to help in bearing the burden of woe. The wife of the captain found it so; and much, indeed, did her shocked and sensitive nature require a wise and aiding sympathizer, for such was the nature of the evidence brought against Stauncy that the magistrate, whilst he roundly asserted his repugnance, and spoke cheerily to the arraigned seaman, was under the necessity of committing him for trial; and he was hurried away in a hired vehicle to Exeter, without being permitted to see his wife and kiss his children.

How much he smarted and writhed under the deprivation may be conceived; but perhaps it was wisely ordered for Mary's sake, for a parting, and such a parting, would have overwhelmed her, stricken and crushed as she was; whereas the cruelty of the thing, and the thought of hastening to him as soon as might be, gave a turn to the tide of her feelings, and helped to bring into action again her strong and resolute mind.

'Don't be cast down, Mary,' said her visitor, the widow of a respectable farmer, who had seen no little tribulation, and was much looked up to for her sagacious mind and sterling character. 'The law is a terrible thing, no doubt, and is sometimes severe without being righteous; but there is a power above the law which can say, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." 'Tis a heavy blow, sure enough, but worse things might happen than for honesty to be suspected and for innocence to suffer. He'll come clear out of it, Mary; and the result will be outweighing compensations for all you are now suffering. Cheer up, and look on the bright side of things.'

'You mean well, Grace,' she replied. 'You have a wise head and a kind heart; but my fears are stronger than my hopes. I've had a presentiment of this from the time Stauncy went to sea, and I wish I could think him clear of all things. I can confide my mind to you, and it'll be a relief to do it. I greatly fear that Stauncy has been led into temptation, and has committed himself some way. I say led into temptation, for his heart revolts at crime as much as mine, and it could only have been under the influence of drink, and of wily, wicked reasoning, that he was persuaded to be the cat's paw of that heartless, unprincipled man in Appledore.'

'Phillipson you mean, Mary; and as like as not he has been the cause of the wrong, if wrong there be. Do you really think the charge is true?'

'I scarcely know what to think, Grace. Sometimes I cast the thought from me as I would hurl away a viper, and then again it twines round my heart with such irresistible power that I start at my suspicions, as though I were guilty myself. One thing I know—the merchant gave Stauncy a sum of money the very day he sailed, and I would rather have had a pest in the house than that fifty-pound note.'

Her visitor was silent for a while. This revelation perplexed her; but, knowing how to be candid without being unkind, she replied, 'I can't a-bear that roguish, wicked Phillipson, Mary: I've suffered too much from his grasping, cruel heart to think that any good can come with his gifts. You may depend upon it, he is at the bottom of all this; and at any rate it helps to make a bright lining to the dark clouds. Whatever Stauncy may have done, it will be traced to the merchant, and, as he has money and friends enough to rescue him even from the fangs of the law, he must carry the cap'n with him. He'll be high and dry after all, Mary.'

'God grant it!' she answered; 'but— There's a knock at the door, Grace;' and, deeming that signal of approach sufficient, the door was opened by the very gentleman whose merits they were discussing.

'Good afternoon, Mrs. Stauncy,' he said, standing in the middle of the room, 'I came to tell you not to trouble yourself about the cap'n. That good-for-nothing fellow, Jim Ortop, has been lying, as usual, and his father is vowing vengeance because Stauncy threatened him; but I'll see all made right, and punish the scamps, as sure as my name's Phillipson.'

'Sir,' said Mary, 'you know more than I do about it, and can tell whether you are trifling with me or not; but do you think Squire Hart would have suffered my poor James to be taken to jail like a criminal on the word of Jim Ortop? Who was the gentleman that said so much, and insisted in such a way, that the magistrate couldn't help himself?'

'Gentleman?' said the merchant quickly; 'what do you mean?'

'I mean,' she answered, 'that a strange gentleman, who has been about here for more than a week, obliged the squire to commit him for trial, and insisted on his being sent off to Exeter directly.'

'I never heard of it,' the merchant replied, with a frown on his brow; 'but I'll make that gentleman, whoever he is, eat up his words faster than he uttered them, and you shall see whether the service of the Phillipson family isn't proof against all the magistrates and lawyers of the country. This is Friday: on Monday I'll go to Exeter, and drive you down too, if you like.'

The prospect thus held out so filled her mind on the instant that she could say no more; but her worthy friend relieved her of the necessity by telling him as much of her own thoughts as she considered fitting.

'You know me well, Mr. Phillipson,' she said; 'and I should think my presence is enough to bring any wrong to remembrance. I am what I am—a poor widow—through you, robbed of the inheritance of my fathers; and I am not the only one you have sacrificed to your insatiable avarice. The cry of Miss Herbert, the poor crazed lady, must surely be ringing yet in your ears. It's seldom enough you darken the church doors; but don't you mind the last time you were there, how she rose when you entered, though the service had begun, and, exclaiming, "The widow's curse! my curse!" rushed out, to escape a presence more tormenting than the presence of an evil spirit could have been. And now, I'll warrant, you are trying to add to the number of your victims, whose cries rise up to heaven like the cry of Abel's blood. Mr. Phillipson, the judgment of God has leaden feet, and therefore, in mercy, it has not reached you yet; but its advance is as sure as the sun's rising. If its feet are leaden, its hands are iron, and whom it grasps it holds. You had better take care how you fasten another millstone round your neck.'

'You're an impudent woman!' he replied angrily. 'You, and the like of you, throw all your misfortunes into the teeth of those most troubled by them, because property happens to change hands through extravagance or folly. You won't improve your condition by such remarks, believe me. I can hinder as easily as I can help. Mrs. Stauncy, I'll call for you on Monday morning at nine o'clock, if you like to go.'

CHAPTER XI.

In these times of macadamized roads and railways, we can scarcely appreciate the difficulties our ancestors had to encounter a century ago in accomplishing a journey. To travel a distance of fifty miles was so serious a thing that it was only undertaken on urgent occasions; and we need not wonder that, when the figures increased to hundreds, it was customary for our forefathers to settle their affairs with more care and completeness than men do now-a-days when leaving home for the antipodes. The roads were wretched in the extreme; in some parts, at certain seasons of the year, they were all but impassable, and this, combined with the strength and weight of vehicles built to contend with rough usage, rendered locomotion a slow and tedious process. No one will be surprised to learn, therefore, that Mr. Phillipson and the captain's wife were two days on the road, and did not reach Exeter until the shades of evening had drawn in, and the dusky oil lamps were twinkling in the streets of the city, on the second evening.

Their journey, however, was a delightful one, as far as externals were concerned. A frosty morning, sharp and crisp, gave omen, as the merchant thought, of propitious experiences, and was regarded as a special boon. It braced up nature marvellously, turning dangerous sloughs into solid roadways; and even if the jolting was thereby augmented, the anxieties of sunken wheels and floundering cattle were escaped. Instead of a host of forebodings in anticipation of untold depths of soaked clay and sludgy mire, there was the prospect of keeping to the earth's surface, and of doing better than the Devonshire traveller of a certain century, who is reported to have 'rode fourteen miles in fifteen days.'

The sun shone out most brightly and cheerily on the scene as the travellers wended their way from Northam to Bideford, and enabled them, after they had climbed the old Torrington road, to gaze on a landscape which, though familiar, would have been anew enchanting, had the nature of their errand permitted them to enjoy it. It seemed as if the contagion of ocean's society had greatly affected those highlands, for not more wavy was the Atlantic itself, and up and down they went, until at length they dived into a true Devonian lane, with its towering hedges of furze, hazel, and tangled weed, its sharp descent, its labyrinthine windings, its rough and rocky pavement, and emerged in a shady dell in which a rustic village nestled, surrounded by woody hills and rock-capped heights, on which the grey mists of morning continued to hover.

These sylvan and picturesque districts were succeeded by bleak moors, or 'commons,' as they are called, where Mary was glad of additional wrappings, and the merchant made frequent appeals to a bottle with which he had considerately furnished himself. These wild, exposed regions stretch away for miles, affording a scanty pasturage for cattle, and supplying the villagers in the neighbourhood with peat and furze. They are for the most part covered with rough grass, ferns, and rushes, and here and there a morass may be met with, as well as a sprinkling of granite boulders, whilst loftier specimens of this primitive rock occasionally spring up in fantastic forms, the hiding-place of highwaymen in days of yore, who drove a good business on these desolate wastes.

And so the face of the country alternated between the romantic and the sterile until they reached the neighbourhood of Exeter, where the former has it all its own way. But the evening was too far advanced, and our travellers were too wearied to do homage to beauties of scenery, and gladly did they exchange the biting air for the inviting comforts of the London Inn.

As soon as Mr. Phillipson had breakfasted the next morning, he made his way to the jail. Unfeeling and selfish as he was, strong qualms of conscience troubled him as he strode along, despite his infidel theories; nor was he able, with all his efforts, to command in full the powers of his scheming, reckless mind. For two days he had been travelling with a woman of a sorrowful spirit, whose meek sadness and high-toned Christian principle had embarrassed and cowed him. Her sensitiveness had put to shame his stolidity; her simple-hearted confidence in her husband had roused into spasmodic action the dying pity of his heart. If ever regret had place within him it was now; but, ashamed of these softer emotions, he took a little time to shake them off before visiting the prisoner, and walked for an hour in the streets, recalling more congenial feelings, which might enable him to act his part becomingly. Having obtained permission to see the captain, he was admitted through a heavy-looking gateway, strongly secured, into a yard which disclosed on all sides grim-visaged doors frowning implacably, and small rusty gratings which looked like devouring eyes—the outward and visible signs of dark and saddening scenes within. There may now, perhaps, be the extreme of pitying benevolence in prison accommodation and usage; but at that time there was the extreme of unpitying neglect.

Through one of these surly-faced doors the merchant passed with his conductor into a low dark passage, where his ears were assailed by the chilling music of clinking manacles resounding from cells on either side; and the application of a massive key introduced him to his victim. The captain was stretched on his hard bed, as the most satisfactory position he could discover; but he rose when the merchant entered, and, recognising his visitor, made room for him on his pallet of straw.

'I have brought,' said Mr. Phillipson, scarcely knowing in what shape to open the conversation,—'I have brought your wife to see you, Stauncy. I thought it would be a satisfaction to her, poor woman, and to you also. Why, cap'n, I can't believe my own senses. I wouldn't have had this happen for all the world.'

'Our wisdom comes too late sometimes,' replied Stauncy, 'and that's my case. If I could only undo one thing, I could be happy even in a prison. The darkness within is the worst darkness now to me. The iron in my soul is a thousand times more humiliating and painful than these bars and doors, believe me. I could have wished, for her own sake, that my wife had not had an opportunity of witnessing my degradation; but her wisdom and love will comfort me.'

'As for myself,' the merchant remarked, 'I came to Exeter mainly for the purpose of securing the best counsel the city will afford; and it's impossible that those Ortops can make head against the searching, withering cleverness of Mr. Whitehead.'

'No cleverness will be of any avail, Mr. Phillipson,' said the captain mournfully. 'I thought the Sarah Ann was mute for ever, but she has been made to speak. Did you notice that lumbering vessel in the Pool? There are those on board of her who could hang both of us.'

The merchant's cheeks blanched at this intelligence. With the rapidity of lightning the true state of the case flashed upon his perception, and in an instant exposure and punishment confronted him. The light which struggled for existence in the cell was too dim, however, to reveal his ashy features, and, contriving to maintain an air of composure, he said,—

'Were the remarks made before Squire Hart confined to the scuttling of the brig?'

'I believe so; at least, when I was present.'

'No one, then, was implicated but yourself?'

'No one, as far as I know. Not a word escaped my lips that would implicate any one. I simply denied that I was guilty; for acts are to be judged of by circumstances—at least, you have taught me so. If you had done it, it would have been a different thing. I did as I was ordered, and therefore draw a line between duty and crime.'

'A distinction,' responded the merchant, momentarily startled at his own doctrine when presented in such a practical form, and wishing to rid himself of all responsibility arising from the lessons he had inculcated, 'which the law would scarcely acknowledge as a difference. That kind of casuistry, Stauncy, often satisfies a fellow's conscience, and is something to keep the spirits up; but there its utility ends.'

'Then you have doubly deceived me,' replied the captain scornfully; 'and there's a strong temptation to turn king's evidence.'

'It wouldn't help you, cap'n. Everybody knows that the biggest rogues always do that, and judges them accordingly; and as I am at the top of the ladder, and you are at the bottom, it would be all the worse for you. A little palm-grease and a little hard swearing would upset you, depend upon it.'

'I don't know,' said the captain. 'It would go hard with you, Mr. Phillipson, if all I know were to come out; and far better would it be for you to devise a plan for my protection, if money and station can do it, than to let an implied threat tread on the heels of a snakish bribe.'

The merchant was silent, because he was mortified. His mind oscillated between his two theories of bluster and blarney. Should he defy or conciliate, threaten or cajole? His prudence, however, got the better of his vexation, and he answered, after a short pause, 'I admit all you say, Stauncy; but suppose the worst comes to the worst, it's no use for both of us to put our heads into one noose; and though life is as precious to you as to me, yet consider for a moment the merits of the case. You did the deed; so that, if I were put up as a breastwork before you, you would be sent to Botany Bay for life,—as good as dead to your wife and family,—whilst I should be placed beyond the possibility of acting as a husband and a father to them. And then there's your oath, Stauncy. How can you get over that? whilst, by letting me down helm, that I may pay off, you would leave some one behind who could provide for the widow and the orphan; and I give you my oath here, against yours.'

'You would, Mr. Phillipson? Do you say that sincerely? The widow and the orphan have not had much of your sympathy and care hitherto; and the book which I have so little heeded says, "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?"'

'If I give you my oath, Stauncy, what can I do more? That's not a thing to wriggle out of. You might put my life in the scale against it.'

The bolt grated harshly in the lock as the merchant uttered these words, and the turnkey apprised them that the interview must terminate. Bidding the prisoner farewell, Mr. Phillipson hastily retreated from a place where all the while he seemed to hear accusing voices—endeavouring to feel self-satisfied, but in reality self-condemned; and as the door closed once more on the captain, the prisoner stretched himself again on the hard mattress, to weigh the chances that favoured him and the worth of the merchant's promise.

CHAPTER XII.

It required some effort on the part of Mr. Phillipson to secure the admission of a second visitor on the same day; but, having golden methods at hand when others failed, he was seldom baulked in his purpose. With a show of sympathy and concern, he accompanied the captain's wife in a hackney coach to the jail gate, and consigned her to the guidance of the porter. With beating heart and trembling steps she followed her conductor; but the dread that stole over her spirit as she crossed the yard, with its repulsive signals of branded character and penal suffering, and the thought of meeting her loved and trusted one in a prison cell, so overcame her that she sought the support of the mechanical official, who displayed an amount of considerate sympathy unusual in men of his calling.

The obscure and dripping passage was traversed; the ponderous door was thrown open; and the broken-hearted wife fell into the arms of her wretched, repentant husband.

It is a blessed thing that the sorrows of our nature have outlets by which to relieve themselves. Pent up within the bosom, recoiling and reacting, they would surely demolish the frail framework of flesh and spirit—scatter the fire of intelligence—still the wondrous machinery of life. It sometimes is so, indeed, when grief can find no vent, that it paralyzes the brain and chills the life-blood; but, generally, relief is found for pent-up sorrow, and Mary Stauncy found it so in this her first great trouble.

The captain regained his composure and self-control in a few moments, and was able in some degree to calm his weeping wife. Seating her gently on his hard couch, and taking a place beside her, he broke the silence of that dreary cell, whose walls had so often listened to confessions and blasphemies, to cries of penitence and ravings of despair, by saying affectionately, 'Try to bear it, Mary. Little do I care myself; but I shall soon be unmanned and go mazed if you grieve so. Our destiny must be met, whatever it is; and though it come in such a shape as to cut us to the heart, it's better to yield than to struggle. Endeavour to be resigned, dearest, and strengthen spirit by your own calm endurance.'

'I will, James,' she replied. 'I feel better now.' For not only had the outburst of grief which such a meeting occasioned relieved her, but his plea for a fortifying example immediately roused the energies of her Christian spirit. 'It's sorrow indeed; but God can help me to act as I ought, and He will. I want strength to nerve my heart and wisdom to shape my counsel; and Mrs. Lloyd's last words to me were, "Remember, Mary, as thy day is, so shall thy strength be." The innocent may sometimes suffer with the guilty, and even for them, but justice shall surely prevail.'

'I am not innocent,' replied the captain in a firm but husky voice; 'I will not deceive you any longer, Mary. I scuttled the brig off Lundy, and Jim Ortop was in the hold watching me. It's a true bill; and as it has been found out, I must give in. What must be, must.'

'And why did you scuttle the brig, James?' his wife inquired, drawn off from her sad reflections by the unexpected disclosure, and having a new class of feelings excited.

'Because the merchant tempted me to do it, gave me money to do it, ordered me to do it, bound me by an oath to do it, and so made it my duty.'

'Duty, James! That's a strange word. It's no one's duty to do wrong, and that bad man must have spellbound you with his irreligious sophistry, to fasten such a thought on your mind. I see it all now. He beguiled you with that fifty-pound note. He made you believe that crime could be smothered by obedience. Well! that note will be a swift witness against him. It will tell its own tale of bribery, and the tempter will get his desert. I feel lighter of heart, James. There's some hope yet.'

'There's no hope, Mary. I have no witness, and he is a wealthy and influential man; besides, I couldn't turn king's evidence and peach, were it to save my life.'

'Peach, James! Is telling the plain truth peaching? Is clearing yourself from a foul blot peaching? Is your character and the good name of your children nothing? Is it of no consequence whether you are separated from us for ever or spared to bless us all your days? Do be yourself, James, and listen to your heart a little.'

'You're getting too warm, Mary. Your strong mind has gone in for the mastery over your sensitive spirit. There'll be a volcano of excitement, instead of a fountain of tears, and the one is as bad as the other in overcoming reason.'

'How you talk, James! Have I any wish or object that is not bound up in your happiness? What I say has reason as well as feeling in it. Your duty is to clear yourself, and to change places with the real criminal.'

'My duty is pre-engaged,' he replied, mournfully shaking his head. 'A vow is upon me. My tongue is bound by an oath which cannot be broken without letting loose a curse. To violate that vow would be an unpardonable sin, and make me the hopeless prey of the evil one. No, no, Mary, I'll take what comes rather than sell myself to perdition.'

'A delusion, James, a strong delusion to believe a lie. Your superstitious fears have been wrought upon, and he who is beguiling you the most is the father of lies. A wicked vow can never be binding. There's more sin, far more sin, in keeping than in breaking it. Whatever you may have said or done, the only way is to throw all off as a vile thing, instead of clenching the sin in the way you speak of. No one is bound by evil, to do evil, because he has sworn to it.'

'You and I see things differently, Mary. I have sins on my conscience which all the truth-speaking in the world wouldn't rid me of. To betray the merchant after what has passed between us when I took the oath, would utterly prevent me from hoping for God's mercy. I would rather the law should take its course, than add to the weight which oppresses me by doing violence to my conscience.'

'But there is no real evidence against you,' his wife replied, diverting his thoughts until a more auspicious moment occurred for pursuing her main argument; 'who would listen to Jim Ortop, when the mate and Pickard are so strong on your side?'

'You must not comfort yourself with that, Mary. There's more evidence than you think for. The Sarah Ann will speak herself. The poor dumb thing will be made to say, in spite of everything, "Guilty, guilty."'

'I ASK YOU TO SPARE YOURSELF FOR MY SAKE,' SAID MARY.

'And are you really going to give yourself up to justice, James, without one effort on your own behalf, or my behalf, or the children's behalf? Will you give your life for the life of such a deep-dyed villain as the merchant is? Will you hold your peace to spare him, and throw away a righteous chance of turning this fearful darkness into light? Oh, James, James! woe is me that I have seen this day! My poor heart will break with all this trouble. Is Phillipson dearer to you than your own Mary? Can you bear that your loved home should become a desolation, a place of weeping and reproach, of poverty and heart-stricken wretchedness? What shall I say to persuade you that wicked vows are only written in the sand, and that you are committing the worst of sins by concealment, when your life, and my life, and everything is at stake? And is this to be our parting, James? I cannot weep now. I am stunned, paralyzed. I feel as if my senses were fast going from, me, as though I must sink down and die. Have pity on me, James! On my knees I ask you to spare yourself for my sake, and to look up believingly to Him who will forgive you all. Don't let me leave you with a hopeless heart, or I shall go beside myself; and who will thank you for the sacrifice? Tell me, James, that you will not throw yourself away, and kiss me as the pledge of it.'

'Mary, my heart will break too,' replied the captain, sobbing, 'if you talk so. I dare not promise. A chain is about me which I cannot rend. What must be, must.' And then, to soothe her, he added, 'Nothing you have said shall be forgotten; and if we part to meet no more on earth, remember the merchant will provide for you—you may trust him in that, I know; and through the mercy of the Almighty we shall meet again soon, where the shadows of sin never darken and the tears of sorrow never fall.'

'Yours is a strange state of heart, James,' she answered. 'You think you are bound before God by a vow; and I think He cannot be pleased with you if you keep it. It's a false state of conscience, which your tempter has helped to bring about; but my prayer for you shall be that there may be light.'

'The time's up,' said the turnkey, considerately giving the notice without unfastening the door, and waiting still, that the last farewell might be spoken. A convulsive embrace—a nervous pressure of those marble lips—a burning tear on that pallid cheek—and again the tottering wife was treading that gloomy passage, emerging from the sepulchre of living men. Again the awe of solitude, made doubly impressive by the presence and absence of such a wife, settled down on the soul of the wretched prisoner.

CHAPTER XIII.

By order of the authorities, James Stauncy was removed from Exeter to London, and lodged in Newgate. According to the law of those times, it was necessary for him to be tried before the Lords of the Admiralty; and on the 25th of February, 1755, the case came on in Justice Hall, at the Old Bailey.

The court was crowded, as is usual on such occasions, by worthless idlers, by men and women whose curiosity and morbid interest in criminal cases bespoke a low mental and moral standard, and by a large number of respectable persons interested in mercantile law, some of whom knew about Mr. Phillipson, and had heard the rumour that he was in fact the guilty man.

No pains or money had been spared by Mr. Phillipson to secure an efficient counsel; and when the prisoner was placed at the bar and the trial commenced, there was not a countenance in that motley company of barristers, jurymen, witnesses, and on that did not give evidence of intense excitement. The captain looked pale and careworn, but he answered when appealed to, with a firm voice, 'Not guilty;' for though he had determined to give his life rather than break his vow by betraying his tempter, he would not publicly confess to a crime, when in his conviction, mistaken as it was, he had only discharged a duty.

Jim Ortop, on being sworn, related the facts of the case in a straightforward way; but, becoming sadly bewildered by a severe cross-questioning, the general opinion went in favour of the prisoner. The next witness, however, most effectually turned the scale. He was a short, thick-set man, who described himself as a diver in the employment of the Government. He stated that, having sailed in a diving-bell ship from Plymouth to Lundy, he was ordered, in company with another man now in court, to look for and examine the Sarah Ann, and found her on a sandy bottom in seven fathoms water. He went on to say that they discovered a hole in the side of the ship, which had been purposely bored, no doubt; and that he was prepared to swear the brig had been scuttled. This worthy searcher of the seas and revealer of marine mysteries could neither be twisted nor shaken by the clever counsel for the defence; and when the augur was held up to view, there was a confused hum of many voices in Stauncy's disfavour.

Mr. Mogford and the cook were next examined, but they could not directly oppose the evidence of the diver. They lauded the captain as he deserved to be lauded, extolled his seamanship during the storm, and declared it was utterly impossible for him to be guilty of the charge. The latter was particularly eloquent in his defence, and, when drawn out purposely by counsel, unfolded all the secrets of his heart as to the criminality of the merchant. So clear and truth-like were his assertions, so fervid and telling was his declamation, that the tide set in strong again on Stauncy's side, and the sympathies of the people were his from that time forward. So general was the conviction that he had been a deeply injured man, and was but a scapegoat for the merchant, that he was requested, at the special desire of the jury, to throw some light on Pickard's evidence; but he declined. The judge summed up therefore, and the twelve arbiters of his fate retired to consider their verdict. A buzz of earnest voices increased to an unmistakable clamour; and the cook, freed from the restraint of the witness-box, defamed the merchant in the strongest language he could command, vowing vengeance in terms which gained the sympathy of a multitude by no means unwilling to make a demonstration on the captain's behalf.

The jurymen returned; the usual form was observed, and the fatal word 'GUILTY' was uttered by the foreman.

There were those then present who felt more than Stauncy did when the verdict was announced. A flush of emotion for a moment suffused his cheek, but it passed quickly away; and, whilst others were weeping in sorrowful compassion, he stood calmly waiting the sentence of death.

'And that's the end of it!' said Mogford to the cook, as they left the court together. 'Why, Sam, he's as bad as a suicide. He ought to have turned king's evidence against that old rogue in Appledore. Why didn't he let it all out?'

'Can't tell, Mr. Mogford,' replied Pickard; 'it's unfathomable; but the end of it hasn't come yet. If those Lords of the Admiralty don't take notice of what I said, I'll swear information against the merchant, and feel certain that diver will bring him to judgment. Bales of broadcloth, Mr. Mogford! nothing but list, I'll lay my life; and if the cap'n held his tongue to screen that varnished hypocrite, I won't.'

'What do you mean, Sam?'

'I mean that Phillipson intended to kill two birds with one stone—to get a heavy insurance on the brig, which he consigned to the deep, and a heavy insurance on the sham cargo. It isn't the first time, neither, that them bales have done service in that way.'

'The dodger!' exclaimed the mate.

'The villainous scamp!' responded Sam warmly. 'His money and his station have guarded him so far, and no one has dared to whisper the truth without suffering for it; but let the wind set in another way, and you'll see that many of his prime supporters will turn out to be his prime foes. Opinions chop right round often.'

In consequence of his depositions, a second request was made to the Government by the insurance company concerned that the Sarah Ann might be again examined; and a couple of detectives were sent to Appledore to keep an eye on the merchant, who was in first-rate spirits when he heard the issue of the trial, and had no doubt any more of Stauncy's fidelity.

His rejoicing, however, was short. That bright gleam of sunshine was followed by portentous signs of a coming tempest in the persons of the two strangers, and the barometer of hope sank rapidly every hour. Those vigilant gentlemen appeared to take note of everything, and turned up everywhere. Without interfering with any one, they seemed to be minding everybody's business, and were specially attentive to the merchant's residence. No vessel left the port without being carefully scrutinized; nor could a 'butt' pass through the place without being favoured with an examination. They seemed gifted with ubiquity, and were set down at last by the merchant's conscience as spies on himself. This conviction grew into absolute assurance when a rumour reached him that the Sarah Ann was to be raised by order of the Government, and he began to tremble for his safety. Neither money nor friends could help him, as he foresaw, so that he was left to the exercise of his wits, on the acuteness of which he prided himself, and which had never failed him yet.

As a means of securing timely information, he despatched his son to Lundy in a yacht, and engaged the services of smugglers up and down the coast, to give him a sign in case of threatening appearances. A week had not passed after these precautions had been taken before the tub-shaped ship, which had aforetime excited the curiosity of the Appledore mariners when lying in the Pool, appeared off Lundy; but ere the waters were touched by the hive-shaped home of the divers, young Phillipson weighed anchor and stood in for Bideford Bar. The wind was unfavourable, and before he could pass the fair-way buoy a six-oared gig sped swiftly by, and landed a gentleman whose acquaintance we have already made at West Appledore. Mr. Cocks immediately put himself in communication with the detectives, who proceeded at once to mount guard at Mr. Phillipson's house; so that he felt himself a prisoner. He was too knowing, however, to take any notice of the new movement; and though his ingenuity was greatly taxed, he did not betray his uneasiness.

CHAPTER XIV.

Although the 5th of March had been appointed as the day for the execution of James Stauncy, for some reason not explained by the law annals of those times it was deferred to the 7th of May. The interval passed slowly and drearily, relieved, however, by the kindly visits of the Ordinary, specially by a visit from his cousin, and by a regular correspondence with his beloved wife—his last letter to her being still extant. At first he endeavoured to show that the course he had taken was the only one which could satisfy him or benefit her. He brought forward the argument of the merchant as his own—that an open confession would at least have been so far unavailable, for want of evidence, as to be no security against transportation for life, and added that by making the merchant an enemy he would have cut off all hope of support for herself and children. He besought her to forgive him, and to remember him always, promising to give heed to her counsel, and to seek the mercy of God through the Saviour. That he did this, his letters, as the fatal day approached, hear testimony; and touchingly and lovingly did she answer him, just hinting at her sad disappointment, without any upbraiding, and assuring him, though broken-hearted, of her hope in the care and sufficiency of a merciful Creator and Redeemer.

Before the month of March was quite run out, the captain's worthy relative, who had entertained him at his home in Clovelly after the loss of the brig, partly on foot, partly by waggon, partly by coach, accomplished that difficult thing in those days, a journey to London; designing, as far as possible, to be a minister of instruction and comfort to the condemned man. He found the captain so altered in appearance as to be scarcely recognizable, especially in his prison dress. Instead of the robust and ruddy man of former days, he saw before him a sallow, shrunken being, with hollow eyes and cheeks, and wretchedness traceable in every feature. In his inner man, however, but little change had at that time taken place, though he admitted with much humility and self-reproach that the more he considered it, the more inexplicable and insane his conduct appeared.

'You did very wrong, Stauncy,' said the cousin, 'in refusing to listen to your wife's advice. One duty cannot be performed by breaking another to perform it. If you thought it a duty to screen the merchant, you should have thought it a duty to screen yourself; and the love we owe to our neighbour must be regulated by the love we owe to ourselves. As Mary told you, it's a greater sin to keep a bad promise than to break it.'

'It may be, William,' replied the captain; 'but don't trouble me with that now. Things right in themselves become wrong whenever they are done in opposition to our convictions, and my conscience bid me do as I have done. I haven't any compunction to feel on that score; and what must be, must.'

'Don't say that, James; "what must be must" is as deplorably false in one sense as it is righteously true in another, and, with regard to conscience, your remark cuts two ways. A thing that is evil cannot be made good by any erroneous conceptions of ours respecting it. Our consciences frequently stimulate us to what is wrong, under the false notion that we are right. They are not safe guides without the light of life.'

'No doubt you're right, cousin, but a man must take his conscience as it is, and be faithful to it. If I saw as you did, I should reason in the same way.'

'I wish you had seen differently, James; but now the sentence cannot be reversed. If we form a wrong judgment of the quality of our actions, we form a wrong judgment of all associated with and resulting from them. But I will not say any more on that matter. I came up here not to argue with you on such points, but to show you God's argument when He says, "As I live, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked. Come now, and let us reason together: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool."' And so he went on to preach in a prison, as an apostle had done before him, the glorious gospel of the blessed God. Day after day he visited the cell, and read and conversed on that word which enlightens the eyes and converts the soul. Nor were his efforts unavailing. The truth as it is in Jesus came to the condemned seaman in demonstration of the Spirit. It dissipated darkness. It showed the way of life. It rectified false conceptions of right and wrong. It caused 'old things to pass away, and all things to become new.'

'What a mystery,' he said to his cousin, at their last interview, 'is the human heart! deceitful truly above all things. Worse than the man who makes a deity out of a log of wood, I created within me a false sense of duty and worshipped it. I truly deserve to suffer; and now I turn away from the mystery of my own ignorance and depravity, to the mystery of godliness—God in Christ reconciling the world unto Himself. What a comforting contrast to my case is the story of the cross! It was from no motive of affection that I, as guilty as Phillipson, stood in his place; but "God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, the Just for the unjust, to bring us to God." My only concern now is about Mary and the children; but with your word of promise I know I have your heart of affection, and you will look after them in my stead.'

The last night set in, and passed but tardily in the apprehension of the prisoner, who counted the hours with strangely mingled emotions, as they were told out by iron tongues in all directions, until the morning dawned, penetrating the cell with its golden light. A clearer sky or a brighter sun the face of nature never saw. A lovely May morning poured forth a flood of brightness on the scaffold, as though it would surround it with some token of heaven's mercy, whilst it bore so melancholy a testimony to earth's justice.

A noisy crowd, composed principally of the lowest and worst of characters, assembled to witness the sad spectacle. It might have been a holiday, so light and mirthful was the throng, so hearty was their laugh, so ribald their conversation. Instead of the impressive awe and the deterring fear which such an occasion ought to have brought with it, the looks, the words, the acts of that jostling mass were expressive only of reckless hardihood and of wanton inhumanity.

As the captain ascended the scaffold he was greeted with a yell by the crowd, but it did not discompose him; and there, in the bright light of early day, suffusing the scene with genial glow, he forfeited the life he might have preserved. His last words were words of intercession for Mary, for the little ones, for himself; and ere the final syllable left those trembling lips his spirit had fled from its earthly tabernacle. He was a mistaken man, who sacrificed himself on what he considered the altar of duty; but he was a renewed man, plucked by the hand of mercy as a brand from the burning.

On the outskirts of the crowd the kind-hearted cousin continued to linger, enduring much mental anguish as he gazed on the lifeless remains of his relative. He could scarcely realize the fact that he was attending an execution, and that James Stauncy was no more, and continued to pace up and down, lost in thought, until the body was removed.

'I've seen the last of him in this life, poor fellow,' he said aloud; 'and now farewell, till we meet in a better!'

With a heavy heart he turned his face westward, and, knowing that coach or waggon would overtake him some time, walked on until nightfall, and then took up his quarters in an inn by the roadside. Heated and wearied with his journey, the damp bed assigned him as his place of rest proved all the more fatal in its chilling effects; and ere he reached his home the checked tide of life had already begun to ebb. Feebler and feebler, shadowy and more shadowy, the poor man grew. The colour departed from his cheek, the lustre faded from his eye; and sooner than he had thought, when speaking of a reunion in another world, did a reunion take place; for when the autumn sun smiled blandly and benign on blooming gardens and golden fields, its mellow rays fell brightly on the sod which covered the reposing dust of William Hockeridge.

CHAPTER XV.

Within the last few years there was still to be seen in Appledore, as a broken overhanging background to the new quay, the remains of large brick buildings which in the middle of the last century constituted an extensive porter brewery. A brisk trade was carried on in this beverage, which in 1750 was as celebrated as Barclay's stout or Guinness's XX is now; and never a week passed that did not witness the shipping off of several cargoes. The whole concern belonged to Mr. Phillipson, who found it exceedingly profitable in augmenting his hoards, and was able, at this critical period of his history, to turn it to useful account in helping himself out of a difficulty.

'So they're ransacking the Sarah Ann again, are they?' Mr. Phillipson said, as his son made his appearance in the office. 'It's a done job, Ben, a done job; but I'll double on them, you'll see. Begin at once to take away the puncheons that stand in the outhouse. There's a vessel now lading that will run out next tide, and you can start in the yacht at the same time.'

'What are you going to do with the puncheons?' asked the son in astonishment.

'Do as I bid you, and ask no questions,' said the merchant. 'The bottle will uncork itself soon enough.'

Accordingly the son proceeded to fulfil his instructions. A truck arrived at the house, and a couple of empty puncheons were borne off towards the quay, after they had been carefully examined by the detectives on duty. In a short time two others followed them, and then two more, and two more, until suspicion was lulled, and the great man of the place felt confident and easy in ensconcing his person in one of the eighth pair, a few air-holes having been bored by his own hand in the top before it was fastened. His position was uncomfortable and humiliating; but he knew well enough how much was at stake, when he was borne away in that inglorious hiding-place, and lodged amongst a multitude of barrels in the hold of a vessel whose 'blue peter' streamed out in the wind.

As soon as possible she was swung out into the rising tide, and when the flood was sufficiently on was started for the bar, with a fair and brisk breeze. An hour after, the same track was pursued by Mr. Benjamin in his pleasure-boat, and, having overtaken the schooner off Hartland Point, he transferred himself to her deck, and proceeded to release his parent from his narrow prison-house below. They conversed for several hours on family and business matters, making such arrangements for the future as circumstances required; and amongst the last things which the moneyed runaway laid on the conscience of his son, was the duty of providing for Mary Stauncy.

'I charge you, Ben,' he said, 'as though it were my last charge, to take care of the widow and her children. Stauncy was faithful to me, and I'll be faithful to him. Nothing would make me more wretched than the thought of neglect in this matter. I should never be easy, living or dying, if I had any suspicion that you would not scrupulously fulfil my wish—I may say my command, Ben.'

'Of course,' the son replied, 'I'll attend to anything you say; I'm only steward at present, and your orders shall be obeyed.'

'Steward or proprietor, Ben, it doesn't matter. I charge you, as long as you live, to look after them, and to make provision, in case of anything happening to yourself.'

'Very well, sir, I'll not forget,' the son responded, as he jumped into a boat alongside; and, having returned to his yacht, he bore up for Clovelly.

To what part of the Continent that laden vessel steered, or where the merchant passed the remainder of his days, has never transpired. The manner of his life, the manner of his death, are unknown. That he never returned to England is certain; and it is to be hoped that solitude and reflection gave opportunity for some improvement in a character which the love of money had so thoroughly perverted.

The ship in which he escaped could not have been out of sight many hours, when the Dutchman, as the sailors called her, which had graced the Pool aforetime, cast anchor in her old quarters. The divers had brought to the light the so-called bales of broadcloth, on which a large insurance had been effected, but which in reality contained narrow lengths of a coarse material, measuring the quantity specified; and it transpired, in course of time, that similar packages had more than once been employed for fraudulent purposes by the Appledore merchant.

A warrant was immediately obtained for his apprehension; but, to the dismay of the outwitted detectives, the culprit was nowhere to be found. A large reward was offered for his apprehension, but his hiding-place was never revealed, and probably was unknown to any save the members of his own family.

That family continued for some years to take a leading position in the little seaport and neighbourhood; but it gradually dwindled and became comparatively obscure. Its wealth was squandered; its houses and lands were mortgaged; its character sank lower and lower, and no one now remains to perpetuate the name, even, of that ancient and notable house.

CHAPTER XVI.

A heart that has tasted life's bitter waters is able to administer suitable solace to an afflicted soul; and hence it was that Grace Lloyd approved herself such an angel of mercy to Mary Stauncy when the news of the captain's execution reached the village. 'I'll step in,' she said to herself, 'before Mary hears of it from rougher tongues, and it may be that a little tender womanly comfort will prove a balm to her wounded spirit.'

On entering the house, she found her seated in the captain's arm-chair, with her children on 'crickets' beside her, reposing their heads on her lap, and looking up occasionally for a smile, which played mechanically for a moment around her lips, and then disappeared before a settled sadness, which had already given a new impression to her features. Cautiously and kindly did the good woman reveal to her the melancholy fact that she was a widow, and endeavoured to break the force of the shock by referring to her own trying experiences when left with six little ones to struggle for life. To her great surprise no very extraordinary emotion was manifested. The heart of the bereaved one seemed stunned; and when Grace bade her good-night, it was with the reflection, 'Would that she had wept! the strands of that fine mind will begin to unravel, unless she is wonderfully supported from above.'

And truly her vigorous nature, strengthened by a Divine hand, bore up marvellously. It is true she became, as people were pleased to call her, 'the melancholy widow,' so fixed and habitual was her dejection, so silent and reserved her demeanour; but every one respected as well as pitied her, and no one thought of treating her less considerately because of the stigma of the captain's end. In all probability she would have recovered something of her former cheerfulness in time, if the clouds had not returned again after the rain, and the sorrows of bereavement, like chasing billows, swept over her head once more. Her children sickened and died. Scarce three months had elapsed from the time of her great trouble, when the youngest fair one was taken away, and ten days after her sister followed her.

The afflicted woman was stricken to the earth, and the trembling balance which had given promise of adjustment was unable to right itself. Her reason reeled, and from that time forth she was all weakness or all wildness. At first, and for more than a twelve-month, she seemed constantly elevated, courting conversation, and carrying herself with an appearance of gaiety more pitiable than her previous despondency. There appeared to be no intermission to the pleasing fancies of her unsettled mind, and day after day was passed amid the imaginary life pictures which her disordered brain created. Every evening she arranged the tea-table, in expectation of Stauncy's return, and would converse with him, just as though he were present, until the church clock struck eleven, the hour at which he left her for his last voyage; when, bidding him farewell, she would retire to rest satisfied and happy.

In course of time, however, a change, a great change, took place. The smile departed from her countenance, and she became irritable and restless. Her conversation, instead of being marked by strange and even amusing fancies, became sarcastic and bitter. She looked on all around her as enemies, and treated them as such, scarcely tolerating the presence even of her old and faithful friend Grace Lloyd. Though comparatively young, she began to wear the appearance of an old woman; and as she talked to herself when walking abroad, and had a wild and threatening eye, the children shunned her as something to be dreaded. In one sense the strength and acuteness of her mind returned, but it was power displaced, and wielded by a nature that had become completely inverted. So smart, so truthful and revealing, so charged with knowingness and pungency, in many cases so personal were her utterances, that, amongst a people superstitiously disposed, she came at length to be regarded as a witch. They both courted and feared her; and when ten long years had passed away from the time of her husband's death, no one would have recognised in that sallow, shrunken, scowling woman, who kept every one at bay, the blithe, generous, high-minded wife of Captain Stauncy.

During the whole of those years Mr. Benjamin Phillipson most faithfully kept his father's charge. A weekly sum was allowed to the widow, sufficient to provide both necessaries and comforts; but suddenly the supply ceased, without any explanation being given. It was currently reported that, as the gentleman had married, the change was effected by his wife, who, ignorant of the facts of the case, considered that parish pay would be amply sufficient. Be that as it may, the lonely and avoided widow was left destitute at a time she especially needed assistance, and a change of residence was the first thing rendered necessary. A small cottage at the top of the village was taken for her by Grace Lloyd, who made herself responsible for the rent, and managed, by appealing to a few well-disposed friends, to add something to the workhouse allowance.

The wrong which had been done her was keenly felt by the forlorn widow, and bitterly did she execrate the name of Phillipson. Unfortunately everything went wrong with Mary in her new abode. She disliked it thoroughly, and, having the strongest repugnance to parish pay, would pass whole days without tasting food of any kind. From no hands but those of her old friend would she receive anything; and, what with insufficient support and the wearing influence of her excited mind, her health began visibly to decline. Grace Lloyd watched over her with a mother's tenderness, though often abused and repulsed. Whilst others forsook her, declaring that she had an evil eye, this constant friend stood by and shielded her, the memory of the past being an ever-living presence in her affectionate heart.

One fine bright morning, in the month of June 1766, having treated herself at breakfast to that Devonshire luxury, a potato cake, she took part of it to Mary, whom she found rocking herself in a high-backed chair, and looking unusually wild and haggard. 'I've brought you something warm for breakfast, Mary,' she said in a soothing voice, 'and I'll make you a cup of tea in a minute.'

'Keep your gifts for those who want them!' the widow replied hastily and with an angry look. 'The hawk flutters over the sparrow, but the eagle pounces on the hawk. If one world cannot bind a Phillipson, another can. I shall have a breakfast fit for a queen directly.'

'I am glad to hear it, Mary,' said Grace, willing to humour her fancy; 'but won't you take what your old friend has brought you first?'

'No,' she answered snappishly. 'You think I'm raving; but I tell you that old Phillipson came to me last night, and said, "Mary, you've been a neglected woman, but you shall be provided for again before the sun is high." I saw him with my own eyes. I heard him with my own ears. As sure as the lamp of day is lighted again this morning, so sure will his words come true.'

She had scarcely concluded these strange remarks when a tap was heard at the door, and Mrs. Benjamin Phillipson entered, followed by a footman carrying a large basket.

'Mary,' she said, 'I've brought you some nice nourishing things, and Mr. Phillipson will renew his weekly payments as before. I'm sorry you've not been comfortable lately, but we'll try to make you so.'

'False! false as ever!' replied the widow in a contemptuous tone; 'this is not your choice. You have come at a dead man's bidding, haven't you? A pleasant dream you must have had, and a visitor that won't be trifled with, or you wouldn't have been such an early bird. And now let me tell you what I see. The snow is on the ground, and Ben Phillipson is in his coffin. There is a midnight funeral. His two hounds sit at the posts of the churchyard gate, as the bier is borne slowly along, and whine for their master. A widow sits husbandless, then childless, then— Fine lady, depart the way you came, to him who sent you, and say the ban of heaven forbids his gifts.'

Remarkable as these coincidences must appear, they really occurred. The writer attempts no explanation. Possibly it was the very night when the old merchant, hiding in some foreign land, was summoned to his account. Of such coincidences many examples are on record, not in popular experience only, but in the books of medical science and philosophical observation. Certain also it is, that the young merchant endeavoured to ingratiate himself into Mary's good favour from that day, and would have supplied her with money enough to provide for every want, but she refused his assistance, and would never tolerate his presence.

The summer passed away. The snows of winter began to fall; but, bitterly cold and biting as the season was, a dense crowd assembled in Northam Churchyard one frosty night, to witness a funeral appointed for the hour of twelve. The moon shone faintly on the nodding plumes which adorned the hearse, and aided with its sombre light the solemnity of the scene, as the remains of Benjamin Phillipson were borne to their last resting-place. His two hounds sat at the gateway, and howled dismally as the sad procession walked toward the church, and near at hand was a diminutive woman, wrapped in a cloak, who laughed, and thanked them for their funeral ode. She tarried until the coffin had been lowered into the family vault, and then, talking wildly to herself, hasted to her home, and rocked herself into a frenzy.

The day passed, and Mary's door remained unopened. The night followed, but no light gleamed from her cottage window, and when morning dawned again the signs of life were still wanting. The door had been more than once tried by Grace Lloyd, but, becoming alarmed, and having secured the assistance of a neighbour, an entrance was effected through the window.

The high-backed rocking-chair was turned over, so that its top rested against the hatch, and across it, with her head downwards, lay Mary Stauncy, dead. How she came into that position there was no one to tell. The common belief was—and it lingers as a superstition to this day—that she had been roughly handled by the evil spirit with whom she had communion, and that in the struggle she had fallen over and perished. But wiser minds and tenderer hearts knew another interpretation. In a fit of delirium she had torn her garments, and paced the cottage floor a raving maniac. And as her hour came on, and the death-throe troubled her, she had leant for support on that rolling chair, overturning it as she fell. Thus died a woman whose character would have shone brighter and brighter but for the merchant's temptation and the captain's sin, and who perished untimely, as the pitiable victim of AN UNHOLY AND FATAL VOW.

THE FORGED WILL.

CHAPTER I.

In the yard of a third-rate inn, in a large market town of one of the Midland counties, stood a carrier's cart, ready to start for home. In large letters on its side was painted 'John Sparks, Carrier to Parker's Due and Stoney Gates.' Some of the passengers were seated; others were busy arranging their goods ready for transit; some were resting on their empty baskets, till the carrier appeared, talking over the events of the market, and comparing prices. The landlord was in and out perpetually, with a glass for one and a joke for another, looking with anxious (and, of course, benevolent) solicitude around, lest a customer should escape through want of care.

'Will John Sparks go to-night?' asked an old woman peevishly. Her question was not addressed to any one in particular; but the ostler, who was passing, answered, 'He's not in the best company for making haste at this present,' and nodded to a group of men standing at the entrance of the yard, to which group the busy landlord had made frequent visits, never going empty-handed.

A general murmur arose as this speech circulated among the passengers. 'Go and tell him to come, granny,' said one; 'he'll mind you; if he stays drinking there, we shall be upset, depend upon it.'

'And what's the use of my telling him?' replied the old woman. 'It's hard work I have to make him mind when he's sober; he'll only sauce me now he's the worse for liquor.'

'You should get him to take the pledge,' said the ostler; 'carriers' work is full of temptations, 'specially if a man's got a taste that way.'

While Granny Sparks was considering how to get John away from his companions, the thing was done by the arrival of a fish-basket, followed by a smart-looking maid-servant.

'Oh, not gone! that's well. Where's Mr. Sparks? I was kept so long, I was quite afraid of being too late. Put the fish in under that seat. Things there? oh, they must come out then; the fish must go in safe. Where's Mr. Sparks, I say? I should think the fish for the Hall is to have the proper place.'

It was soon made known to the speaker that Mr. Sparks was not far off, and, almost as soon, he was seen hurrying from his companions, with a somewhat blustering manner, which people are apt to put on when they expect a deserved rebuke, and want to get out of it.

'We'd a' ought to a' been on the road this half-hour, John,' muttered his granny.

'We're all right, Mr. Sparks,' cried those from inside. 'You may do what you like with my basket,' said several, who would not attempt to arrange themselves till the maid from the Hall had chosen her seat. 'I hope you will start at once,' said that damsel, who looked with superiority on those around; 'the fish is for dinner, and we are never later than eight.'

'Off at once, miss, when you're seated,' said John in as sober a tone as he could assume, and looking a thundering look at his granny, who imprudently kept up a low grumbling remonstrance on his behaviour. The luggage was soon settled, in defiance of all opposition, so that the fish had honourable stowage; and the Hall maiden, declaring, as she stepped jauntily up, that she could not abide the van, but it was a great convenience, took the seat at the front, and all was ready.

Sparks, a little steadied, was mounting, and the horse, which through the whole hurried scene had stood motionless, his head hanging down, as if dreaming of his own particular interests and affairs, awoke up and prepared to step forward. But patience was to be tried that day. In the entrance of the yard appeared a tall thin individual, dressed in sober and somewhat shabby clothes. He had his arms full of packages of all sorts and sizes, and an urchin followed, bearing a large basket.

'Deary me!' said Sparks, dropping the reins; 'if there isn't Shady Eggs. Well, to think of his being so late! Folks ought to be more considerate.'

'How excessive troublesome!' said the Hall servant, who had herself wasted so much time in the town that she had lost the early carrier, and run the risk of being too late with the fish for the second.

Meantime, 'Shady Eggs' advanced. 'I rejoice, Mr. Sparks, that you are yet here; be so good as to accommodate these articles. Young man,' he continued, to the boy with the basket, 'you can return; there is a small remuneration for your trouble.' The lad grinned, pocketed the remuneration, and the basket, etc., were with some difficulty placed in the van. Miss from the Hall kept up a continual series of shruggings: her dress was invaded in some way by every package that was put in, and there was as much vinegar in her expression as beer in that of Sparks.

'If you'd a' knowed of coming, Mr. Eggs, it's a pity you wasn't more for'ard,' she said tartly.

'It is a pity—I sit corrected,' he replied meekly, trying to put his long legs into the least inconvenient place.

'Nobody never quarrels with Mr. Eggs,' said the carrier good-humouredly. The maid looked scornful; but Shady acknowledged the courtesy by a bland smile. They had cleared the town, and were advancing at a reasonable pace up the road, pleasant hedges on either side, and green fields around and before them, when again they were brought to a halt. A traveller, who, sitting on a milestone, was apparently awaiting their arrival, stood up as they advanced, and cried out, 'Room?'

Sparks looked dubious; the maid said 'No;' but Shady Eggs, with a complacent look, suggested that with management room might be found. All the company, except the one objector, seemed willing to accommodate; they took their packages on their knees, and sat closer.

'How excessive awk'ard!' said the angry servant; 'I really cannot carry more than this; I must have room for this parcel on the seat.'

'Allow me to convey it for you, ma'am,' said the imperturbable Shady; and, taking it from her as gently as if it had been a baby, he placed it on his knees and encompassed it with his arms. It was indeed a fragile thing—enveloped in paper, like a light-brown cloud, and bearing a printed declaration that it came from Mrs. Davy's fashionable millinery establishment.

'It's our cook's bonnet,' condescended the maid, not vouchsafing to thank Shady any further. Shady looked affectionately at his delicate burden, as if the whole van should perish before it should come to grief, and the stranger was installed a passenger.

It was not very hard to read the characters of his fellow-passengers. On faces worn by labour and bronzed by exposure might be chiefly read family cares—questionings of mind, perchance, as to whether the 'second-handed shoes' would fit Tommy, or whether Eliza would like her new place. Some were enjoying the opportunity of canvassing village matters, and others slept through all the joggings of the van. Such as they were, he scrutinized all, and then fixed his keen grey eyes on Shady. An amused expression passed over his face as he noticed the grave care he bestowed on his charge. Turning to the driver, he began to question him as to the surrounding objects. Not a building escaped; he would know everything, and John was as communicative as any questioner could wish.

'That building in the distance, among trees,' said the stranger; 'it looks well—what is it?'

'What! you?' said Sparks. 'Why, that's the Jew, sir; we shall pass it—it's one of my places I stop at.'

'The Jew?' said the stranger.

'The Dew, sir,' interposed Shady, with a look of benevolent pity for Sparks' ignorance,—'Parker's Dew, as it is commonly, but erroneously called.' This was added with solemn importance.

'And what is the proper name?' asked the stranger.

Shady, with a conscious look round the van, that betrayed his self-satisfaction, replied, rather pompously, 'Par grâce de Dieu, sir, which, if, as I suppose, you are a French scholar' (another glance at the passengers), 'you are aware means, "By the grace of God."' The stranger nodded. 'Originally, sir,' continued Shady, drawing up his back to its full length, 'it was given by the Norman William to the founder of the family of De la Mark, in whose possession it has ever since continued. There were strange ideas of right in those days, as you, sir, if a student of history, must know, and that which men got by the violence of the sword they considered to be theirs by the grace of God. But whether the name was invented by the Conqueror, or given to the place by Mark de la Mark, the first lord of the manor, and founder of the distinguished line, I have not been able to discover.'

'What! have you ever tried?' said the stranger, laughing. The laugh was infectious; Sparks laughed, the Hall maid laughed, with something like scorn, and all the van grinned, though those at the back had not heard the conversation. Shady's equanimity was not broken; he surveyed all with a surprised—perhaps a little injured—but forgiving air, and was silent.

But the stranger had no wish to silence him. He plied him with numerous questions as to the place, its owner, etc., to all of which Shady replied with perfect good temper, but more reserve.

'You seem to know much about it; you live there, do you?'

'I have the honour to be a retainer of the family,' said Shady, with much dignity.

'In what capacity?' said the stranger, looking at the milliner's address on the package he carried. For the first time an answer was difficult, for many were the posts combined in one that Shady occupied.

'Librarian,' he would have said, or 'secretary,' for these he was; but he feared the van,—for he was well known to be also serving-man in chief, and figured at different times as tutor, valet, butler,—and at length he replied with calmness, 'I execute any commission I may be honoured with: I superintend the library, arrange the steward's books, etc.; sometimes I have the honour of assisting in the studies of my young lady.'

'And you does a bit of dressing for Sir Valary sometimes, doesn't you, Shady?' asked Sparks, who thought he might get up a good laugh at him with impunity, and so obtain the lead in the conversation, which he was impatient at Shady's engrossing.

The colour rose to the pale face, and an emotion of pain and reproach agitated it for a moment; but, soon recovering himself, he replied gently, 'Yes, I am sometimes so far favoured by Sir Valary, I am proud to say.'

'A sort of man of all work,' said the maid, with a sneer.

'Ah, I see,' cried the stranger at the same time; 'you are Sir Valary's right hand—not many either willing or able to fill so onerous a post. I congratulate you on being both.'

Gratitude danced in Shady's eyes; he said nothing, and the stranger now turned to Sparks. He inquired if he could obtain a lodging at Stoney Gates. Sparks told him it was only a village, with no house fit for any but a poor man to live in except the Hall.

'A lodging fit for a poor man will suit me,' said the stranger, 'if I can get it.'

'Well, sir,' said Sparks, 'then maybe granny might let you have the parlour; it's got a very handsome chest o' drawers as makes into a bed. Eh, granny?'

Mrs. Sparks demurred—she was afraid it wouldn't suit.

'Take me in to-night,' said the stranger; 'to-morrow I will tell you about it.' And so it was agreed. After which the maid from the Hall looked with ineffable contempt on him.

The branch road leading to Parker's Dew now came in sight, and Shady prepared to alight. He placed the bonnet tenderly on his vacant seat, and gathered his many goods from their various hiding-places. 'You can't carry them all,' said Sparks.

'I expected Robinson to be here,' replied the librarian.

'I'm here, please,' said a little lad, springing up from under the hedge.

'That is well, Robinson,' said he, with dignity; and, having nearly covered him with parcels, he took the basket, and, bowing courteously to the stranger, with a somewhat patronizing nod to Sparks, he took his way to 'the Jew.'

'Isn't he a speciment?' said Sparks to the stranger.

'A most benevolent spirit,' replied the stranger. And at the same time Biddy Sparks, who now sat next her grandson, administered a cautioning nudge.

'What are ye poking me for, granny?' he cried out. 'I suppose there's no purtickler harm in that; he is a speciment, and I maintains it.'

As if in defiance of her, he immediately began a long description of Shady's life and occupations, to which the stranger listened with interest.

'Is Sir Valary poor, then, that his man is so variously employed?' he asked.

'There it is,' replied Sparks; 'there's a deal of talk about it; he 'adn't a' ought to be poor; but what becomes of his money there's nobody knows. There's some as thinks—I tell 'ee what, granny, if you goes on for to poke me at that rate, you may just drive the van yourself. Why, how can I help folks talking? I'm sure I never said no harm of Sir Val'ry. You know, sir,' turning to the stranger, 'when people has queer ways they're bound to be called over; and there's a many as says'—

'John Sparks,' cried his grandmother, 'are you out of your senses to go and talk of Sir Val'ry in this way, and him the squire's own brother!' This was accompanied with a glance at the Hall maiden, intended to strengthen the warning.

'I meant no offence to the squire,' grumbled he; 'he's a gentleman, and no mistake; there's nobody about him but looks the better for it, is there, miss?' The Hall servant did not deign to reply, except with a faint smile. 'There's nobody at Brimble Hall as looks as if they'd breakfasted on tin-tacks, is there, miss? I knows as the squire has his vally, and his butler, and everything else in proper style, hasn't he, miss? And he haven't got Steward Bloodworth to rack the tenants, and pocket the rents neither,' said Sparks, who had now in this back-handed way delivered himself of the substance of what his granny had tried to make him keep in.

'Bloodworth!' said the stranger; 'what a very unpleasant name!'

'Him as 'as got it's a deal unpleasanter—I'm sure you'll hold wi' that, granny. Why, we had as pretty a bit of land, belonging to the Jew, as you'd wish to see, sir; and if that man didn't turn us out without why or wherefore, just because'—

'Never mind that,' said Biddy; 'forget and forgive.'

'How can I forget it, when I pass the land every time I goes to the Jew? and as to forgiving him, he haven't asked me. Why, sir,' turning to the stranger, 'if it hadn't 'a been that the squire—long life to him—took pity on us, and set me up in this van, and gave granny the cottage and garden we live in, she must 'a gone to the Union; we couldn't get a yard of land, and the stock went at ruin's price; so we had only enough to pay up rent and our little debts.'

'Then this steward has full power over the estates? I mean Sir Valary doesn't interfere?'

'You'll excuse me making so bold, sir,' said Biddy, 'but it ain't becoming of John to make free with anything about Sir Valary. Poor folks like us had best leave the quality alone; and in the van too,' she once more whispered to Sparks. The carrier whistled, laid his whip over his horse's back, and little more was said in the front of the van till a pair of handsome bronzed gates opening on a broad avenue appeared.

'Brimble Hall, sir,' said Sparks. 'Now, miss, will you please to unlight here, or go round?'

'Miss' would go round, for there was not even 'a Robinson' to help her, and she preferred going in at the kitchen entrance to carrying the fish.

Sparks now spent all his eloquence on the beauty of the Hall, and the benevolence of Squire Brimble, who was, as he said, the very pattern of a squire—such a landlord, such a master! there wasn't a man or woman in the neighbourhood but would run at his call. The remaining passengers, who chiefly lived at Stoney Gates and around, left the van; and the stranger and miss, with Spark and his granny, were alone.

Sparks pointed out the stables with great pride to the stranger, telling him the squire was the man for a horse. 'It's well worth getting up early to see him start for the hunt. He's as good a sight as sunrise,' was his concluding speech as he turned in the direction of the back premises, and brought the van to the servants' door. Here he was encountered by the cook.

'A pretty time of night, John Sparks!' she cried. 'Where's the fish? I thought you'd broke down on the road.'

'Why ever didn't you come by the other van?' she cried to the maid, who had now dismounted; 'I'm sure you hadn't so much to do but what you might; and madam has been wondering at you ever so, for the young ladies wanted their things; and I'm sure I don't know what the squire'll say at waiting all this time for dinner.'

'It's a rale love of a beauty,' said the maid, handing the bonnet to the angry cook; 'I had to wait while they finished it.'

'Ah,' said she in a mollified tone, 'those shopkeepers are so troublesome. I told Phipps to put it to madam that you were sure to be kept for something;' and, calling the scullery maid to fetch the fish, she carried off the bonnet that had wrought so happy a change in her disposition.

No one noticed the stranger, who, however, quietly saw and heard everything, and who only left the van to take possession of his humble lodging at Biddy Sparks. A shabby portmanteau and a large portfolio made up his luggage, and, having seen what appliances Biddy could afford, he speedily dismissed her to procure any supper at hand, and arranged them himself in somewhat military order, and, throwing open the window, told her not to be alarmed if she heard him early in the morning, for it was his custom to rise with the dawn.

CHAPTER II.

When the stranger was fairly settled down in the humble dwelling of Mrs. Sparks, he seemed well pleased with his quarters.

'He've been brought up hard, granny,' said John; 'that's how he's so contented.'

'I don't believe it, John; he's the rale gentleman, only he've got the sense to come down to his means.'

At this juncture their lodger appeared, and cut short the conference. He has been partially described. To finish the portrait, the reader must add to his penetrating grey eyes a mouth indicating great decision of character, a head finely formed, with hair changing to grey. In the vigour of his expression, carriage, and manner, you would read his age to be thirty; but the worn look of his cheek, his furrowed brow, and his changing hair put many years on him: he might be forty or forty-five. Leaning over the garden gate with a paper in his hand, he nodded pleasantly to John, who was gardening, while his grandmother kept watch lest he should slip from his work.

'This Parker's Due that you told me of,' he said, 'how shall I find it by walking?'

John and his granny, having almost quarrelled about the nearest way, gave him a direction at last, as plain as a Chinese puzzle.

'Bring me a jug of milk, Mrs. Sparks, and some of your good brown bread; I see I have a long walk before me, and must be fortified.' Wouldn't he have some bacon, or wait for her to make a pan pudding with two or three eggs? No, he would not; he drank the milk, and putting the bread in his knapsack, took his iron-ended staff, or spud, and was opening the gate when two young ladies rode up, and, dismounting, the younger, who was exceedingly handsome, threw the bridle with an air of condescension into his hands. The elder, less beautiful, but pleasant-looking, hesitated to follow her example, and regarded him inquiringly.

Biddy Sparks came out, calling, 'John, John;' but John, reckoning on her having a longer talk with her lodger, and being tired of digging, had escaped to the Brimble Arms.

'Oh, ladies, I'm never so sorry—please, sir—I beg a hundred pardons, miss—couldn't I hold the horses, sir?—where can John be gone? You seen him here this minute, sir?'

Biddy knew well where he was gone, but did not hint at it, for fear of injuring his character before the ladies. The stranger, meantime, quietly tethered the horses securely to the strong fence, and, raising his cap to the young ladies, said to Biddy, 'I will find your grandson, and send him; they will stand quite safely,' looking at the horses, and then turned towards the inn, where he expected to see him.

Miss Brimble watched him out of sight; but her sister Flora scarcely allowed him to be beyond hearing before she asked who he was, adding, 'I thought it was one of the farm people.'

'He's my lodger, miss, and quite a gentleman, for all he's put up here,' said Biddy. 'Please walk in, ladies. The chickens are all alive, Miss Flora—I'm proud to say I haven't lost one; you'll please to come and look at them; and belike Miss Brimble will look at the beautiful pictures as Mr. Jobson have put up in the parlour.'

'Beautiful indeed!' said Miss Brimble, standing before a rough water-colour drawing of an extensive country scene. 'Oh, Flora, look! how exceedingly clever!' she exclaimed, and pointed out the merits of distance, colour, etc. Flora had no doubt it was all true, but did not examine it with much interest. While Miss Brimble stood before it in silent admiration, she went with Biddy to visit her chickens, plying her with innumerable questions about her lodger.

'Jobson—what a name! poor old man! I daresay he's some map-maker, or surveyor, or that kind of thing. And so he plays the flute? Why, how entertaining he must be! And you don't know where he came from, nor where he is going, nor what he wants here, nor how long he is going to stay? Well, if he had but a better name, he would be delightfully mysterious; but Jobson—and Matthew Jobson, too—there's no harmonizing that with mystery.'

Miss Brimble had well surveyed, not only the drawing described but several others,—some unintelligible to a common eye, from their roughness,—and seemed disinclined to leave them, when Flora returned from her visit to her pet chickens. As they rode through the long narrow lane that formed with its overhanging boughs an avenue almost private to the Hall, Flora upbraided her sister with not having visited her pets—' the sweetest little creatures in the world,' she said.

'Who can this person be?' said Miss Brimble, musingly, and not noticing her sister's reproaches.

'Oh, some poor old broken-down artist—or—or—but what does it signify? I do believe, Charity, you are more interested in him than in my little darlings.'

'I wish,' said Miss Brimble, 'I had asked more questions of Biddy about him.'

'Don't be unhappy,' said Flora; 'I asked every conceivable question while you were looking at those things on the wall. His name is Matthew Jobson; he gets up at some unearthly hour—four or five—after sleeping on a mat on the floor, miserable man, with his window open; when the milk comes in, he drinks one long draught, and eats brown bread, and that's his breakfast; then he shuts himself up in the parlour, and makes those smudges and scratches—I should call them—but of course you know best; then he starts off with hard-boiled eggs and brown bread, and walks no one knows where, and doesn't return till evening, and finishes the day with a solo on the flute, and some more bread and milk. Well, stop—I haven't done; he is undoubtedly very poor, but very honest, for he pays his reckoning every evening, which makes Biddy afraid he won't stay very long. He gives John the best advice—he knows everything, and has been everywhere—there!'

'I wonder if he would give drawing-lessons,' said Charity.

'Not to me,' said Flora; 'not even to be able to do those wonderful things that you admire so would I take lessons of such a sharp-looking old man.'

'Old!' said Miss Brimble; 'he's not old; I was quite struck with his appearance and manner; I believe he's a gentleman in reduced circumstances.'

'Gentleman Jobson,' said Flora.

'As for that, I think Jobson quite as good a name as Brimble.'

'I admit it—how could it be worse? but please to remember we are not bona fide Brimbles, as papa says; woe worth the day that turned us out of honourable "De la Marks" into people so ignoble!'

The ride ended, and the story of the stranger was soon told to the family. Squire Brimble, who was the essence of indulgent fathers, promised to see him, and ascertain if Charity's wish could be accomplished.

Accordingly, the next morning he set off to Stoney Gates to fulfil his promise. He found Mrs. Sparks at her wheel before the door, and the stranger leaning against the large walnut tree, sketching her. Mr. Brimble advanced with an air of easy kindness. 'Mr. Jobson, I believe.' The stranger, with a half-suppressed smile, returned his bow. 'My name is Brimble. I live at yon old red house. My daughters were here yesterday, and had the pleasure of seeing a drawing of yours which they admired exceedingly.' Again the stranger bowed. 'May I have the pleasure of seeing it?'

'By all means, if you will find it a pleasure;' and they entered the house together. Mr. Brimble walked to the largest drawing. He had no doubt Charity was right, and admired it in nearly the same terms in which she had praised it to him; but he wondered whether Flora might not be right—smudge and scratch.

'There's something very extraordinary in genius,' he said. 'It seems to make people forget the ordinary things of life. You, for instance, are so interested in your art, that I daresay you are insensible to half that you are exposed to in this queer place.'

'Queer place!' said the stranger; 'I wish genius may never fare worse. What can a man enjoy more than ease and sumptuous abundance?' and he seated himself carelessly on his portmanteau, while he pushed the only chair towards Mr. Brimble.

The squire answered with a chuckle. Biddy Sparks' lodger revelling in ease and sumptuous abundance! The stranger smiled at his merriment, and said, 'If you had passed through what some travellers have,—I speak not of myself,—you would call this accommodation fit for a prince.'

The tone and manner which accompanied these words convinced Mr. Brimble that the person before him was no starved-out son of genius, that fed ill from an empty pocket; and as the conversation continued he became more and more impressed with the feeling that he was a gentleman who wanted no help, and, moreover, a man of highly gifted and cultivated mind. A thorough lover of ease in mind and body, Mr. Brimble enjoyed nothing more than amusement without the cost of exertion; he was quite elated at the idea of having found a pleasant companion in so near a neighbour, whose company could be enjoyed without the bondage of ceremony. On the other hand, the stranger, keen in the perception of character, had at a glance read that of his visitor; kindness and candour were its leading features: the effect was mutual satisfaction.

At last, being satisfied that the stranger was travelling merely from amusement, and lived as he did from preference, the squire said, with a frank smile, as he proffered his snuff-box, 'Well, now for the truth. I came here fancying that you were a poor genius, at your wits' end for money, and I intended asking you to give lessons to my daughter; but, as I happen to be wrong in everything but the genius, instead of that come and dine with us to-day. We shall be alone, I believe; but even then we may hope to be as entertaining as Sparks and his granny.'

The stranger smiled, but shook his head. He glanced at his dress. 'I have no means of making a toilet here,' he said, 'and couldn't appear thus before ladies.'

'Nonsense!' said Mr. Brimble; 'you are fit for court. Mrs. Brimble and my children are quite indifferent to such matters; you are an idle man, and you've no excuse. Walk down with me now, and make a long day of it.' The stranger, still declaring that he could not then accept his hospitality, added that he would gladly walk with him, and they left the house together.

'This avenue, you see,' said the squire, 'amounts to a private road. None but our own people intrude on it; so that my daughters can ride or walk to their favourite haunts in the village and around it, without any fear of molestation, without the tediousness of an attendant. We are all for liberty; it is as much our delight as if we had been born birds of the air. Anything like etiquette—when it is constraint—is our torment. Now you see that little pathway that opens into a very pretty little wood, where there are all sorts of rustic gimcracks put together to please the ladies, who by the way seldom go there,—dove-house, hermitages, labyrinths, and so on. Over yonder hill lies the Dew, a fine old place going to ruin; the estate at one point joins mine, or would, but for a trout stream. Are you an angler? Capital! then we shall have some sport together. I preserve, or pretend to do, but I'm poached on most unmercifully, and can't help myself. There's the house—"Hall," we call it—a good place enough. But before we go in, I must take you round my stables; I have just bought a hunter, high price—you shall judge him,' etc.

Thus Mr. Brimble talked; while the stranger, when his turn came, amused and interested the squire with his anecdotes of persons, places, and things. 'Why, you've been everywhere,' he cried, 'and know all the world! Here's my purchase,' as they entered the stable; and he was soon listening with the deepest admiration to his companion's strictures on the hunter, and the peculiarities of the Arab and other horses; but when a suggestion was made as to an improvement in ventilating the stables, the squire was rather nettled. He was sure nothing could be better than his own plan; he'd no doubt Mr. Jobson might be right as to stables of other climates; but, etc. And in much vehemence did he continue the argument, till he found himself walking under the windows of the room in which the ladies were accustomed to sit during the morning.

Suddenly stopping, and forgetting stables and all connected with them, he pointed to Charity, who was sitting at one of them, and said, 'There's your pupil that was to have been. Let us go in. Mr. Jobson—Mrs. Brimble and my daughters. Ah, Miss Cruden! I didn't see your carriage. How's the doctor? My dear, Mr. Jobson is a friend of our old friend General Topham.'

'Scarcely a friend,' said the stranger, returning the salutation of the ladies with grave but frank courtesy.

'Well, well, you served with him somewhere, didn't you? or saw him, or something; I don't remember exactly what it was. We've been over so much ground that I've forgotten half the things you told me.'

The stranger gave a brief but interesting account of his last interview with the general, whom he incidentally described so graphically as to leave no doubt of his acquaintance with him. When this had come to an end, the squire seemed rather nervous lest the conversation should flag, and trotted out his new friend with the most scientific jockeyism, plying him with questions as to the Levant, America, and every place on which they had touched during their morning conversation.

The stranger seemed to suffer this tax upon his conversational powers rather than to enjoy it; he saw Mr. Brimble's motive, which was to gain for him the favour of his family, and, appreciating his kindness, fell in with his wish. Charity and Flora exchanged glances; the former looked triumphant—she had been right in her conjecture. Flora listened to him for a little time, but very soon joined her mother and Miss Cruden in the discussion of some new crochet patterns, giving only an occasional exclamation when any circumstance of particular interest was narrated. Mr. Jobson seemed equally ignorant of the indifference of the trio, and of the deep interest with which Charity listened to him. The squire was the centre of his notice, and he was evidently pleased with the gratification he was affording him. Dame Sparks' criticism, that he knew everything, seemed nearer the truth than such criticisms generally are.

At the luncheon, of which he could not with courtesy refuse to partake, he delighted the squire by giving him the history of almost every known wine, and charmed the ladies, one and all, with descriptions of foreign fruits and flowers. Every object suggested some fresh ground on which to display his boundless information, and the ease with which the remarks passed from topic to topic, and the perfect simplicity of his manner, so free from conceit, gave a tenfold charm to all. When he had left,—for he declined positively to remain the day, sorely to Mr. Brimble's disappointment,—a discussion concerning him naturally arose among the ladies, while the squire accompanied him, as he said, off the grounds.

'Oh, mamma, what a man!' said Flora; 'isn't he worse than a dictionary? I should get a brain fever if I heard him talk every day.'

'Where does he come from?' asked Miss Cruden—a rather elderly lady, with grey hair and gold spectacles and thin, sharp features.

'That remains to be proved,' said Mrs. Brimble.

'Come from!' cried Flora; 'why, he's like the man in the fairy tale, that came in at a hundred doors at once.'

'Mr. Brimble,' said his wife impressively, and turning with a confidential air to Miss Cruden, 'is so exceedingly imprudent, so easily deceived, that any one might take him in—any one that can talk.'

'There's no question about this person being able to talk,' said Miss Cruden; 'but why do you suppose he has been taken in now?'

'Tell me what a gentleman fit to be introduced here, and a friend of General Topham's, should do at Biddy Sparks'.'

'Biddy Sparks'!' said Miss Cruden, raising her eyebrows under her spectacles; 'that is indeed a singular lodging for a gentleman.'

'Oh, but he's a genius, mamma,' said Flora, 'and lives on bread and milk, and never goes to bed. I only hope, if papa brings him here again, he'll make him bring his flute; I should think we had come to an end of his geography.'

'I hope,' said Mrs. Brimble, 'if your papa does bring him here again, it will be with a letter of introduction, without which no one ought to be received here.'

'But, mamma, the man has had an introduction without a letter,' said Flora; 'and if it pleases papa, what does it signify? He won't run away with any of us—certainly not with me. I don't know about Charity,' she said, suddenly turning round and looking at her sister, who had not yet spoken. 'She was rather moonstruck about him this morning; but whether he's a gentleman or not, Char, I'm positive he's old, and he's got the most frizzly little whiskers I ever saw; in fact, to me he is very much like his pictures.'

'And to me too,' said Charity.

'His pictures!' said Miss Cruden; 'pray, what are they like?'

'Oh, stop, Char!' said Flora; 'do let me tell first. You know, Miss Cruden, there's a long blue uneven smudge—that's a "distance;" then there are'—

'Flora,' cried her sister, 'how can you be so foolish? Miss Cruden is fond of drawing; the best way would be to ask for her to see them, and judge for herself; they are full of spirit and feeling.'

'What is his name?' said Miss Cruden; 'I did not hear.'

'Ah! that's the melancholy part of it,' said Flora. 'Char can't make that better—Jobson, undeniable Jobson. Here's papa; now, mamma, find out about the letter of introduction. I should rather enjoy his turning out an impostor, because Char looks so triumphant.'

Mr. Brimble had indeed appeared, but he remained in a hesitating manner on the walk, as if undecided about rejoining the ladies. The truth was that, upon reflection, he felt he had committed what his wife would call a most imprudent action. He hardly shaped her censure into a definite form; but any form would be unpleasant enough. He knew her first question would be, 'credentials,' and none had he to give; in fact, he had nothing but the stranger's word as a guarantee for his respectability. Poor Mr. Brimble! he abhorred a lecture; yet he was always carelessly exposing himself to one. With the consoling remembrance that Miss Cruden's presence would break the force of the attack, he ventured on the enemy.

'Couldn't prevail on him to turn back,' he said (looking anywhere but at Mrs. Brimble). 'A positive fellow when he's once made up his mind, I can see; but he has promised to come when he returns from a few days' ramble; and, in the meantime, you, Char, are welcome to any of his sketches that you think worth copying; he has a large portfolio, which you may ransack at pleasure during his absence.'

'Did he bring letters of introduction?' asked Mrs. Brimble, with significant dryness.

'I didn't require any,' said her husband carelessly, less uneasy at the conflict now he was fairly in for it.

'Your imprudence, Mr. Brimble, does surprise me, though it ought not to do so, considering my long experience of it.'

'Imprudence, imprudence! what imprudence?' inquired the squire quickly; 'am I to welcome no one to my house who does not bring a certificate? Isn't it my habit to call on all new-comers?'

'Very few gentlemen would expect to be called on in this person's circumstances; and I must say'—

'Now, there's your mistake, Mary. You think you must say; but you mustn't say; for once, my imprudence will come to no harm, at any rate. He's a gentleman,—a most agreeable, clever fellow, and a great acquisition to us in our dull quarters.'

'Don't you remember that account in the paper,' said Mrs. Brimble, turning to Miss Cruden, 'of a very clever man, who introduced himself under false pretences into a family, and an extensive robbery was the consequence?'

'No, she does not; though she is trying to get up a reminiscence to accommodate you, I can see. But if she does, it proves nothing; there's no analogy. To begin, this man didn't introduce himself; I sought him, and, to cut it short, Mary, I have indubitable proof that he is a gentleman.'

Mrs. Brimble looked up for the proof that thus cut her short; but the squire, feeling he had the advantage in asserting which he would have lost in proving,—for his conviction lay only in his innate perception of gentle birth and high breeding,—kept on high ground, and, declaring it was not endurable that they should waste the day in the house during such glorious weather, invited them to follow him to the shrubberies to look at his improvements there.

Miss Cruden immediately proceeded to fold into its proper creases a large square of cambric she was hemming for the doctor; Mrs. Brimble looked offended, and disinclined to accede to the proposal. Flora threw down her work, wondering she could have stayed in so long; and Charity, as she followed her, questioned why the stranger should have remembered her and her love for art. Her sister, as if answering her thoughts, said carelessly, while adjusting her hat, 'How kind it was of papa to ask that you might see those things! for of course he asked, though he is willing that the credit should lie with "the admirable Jobson." It's just like him, dear kind heart!' and she hastened after him into the shrubbery.

CHAPTER III.

It is time to introduce the reader to Parker's Dew and its inmates. We cannot do this better than by following Shady Higgs and his companion on their way from the van.

'Anything occurred in my absence?' asked the librarian in a tone of condescension.

'No,' said Robinson, rather sullenly; 'only the pigs has got into the garden and turned up the flowers.'

'Untoward creatures! Have they made much havoc?'

'They's made a plenty of mess; they's been a-devouring of the cabbages, and Mrs. Gillies were in a fine way because you never looked after them afore you went.'

Now Robinson was not often guilty of such direct violations of duty towards dignity; but his patience had been tried by long waiting under the hedge, and Mrs. Gillies had unjustly punished him for the offence of the marauding pigs. He was, moreover, so laden with parcels that he was obliged to walk with a precision ill according with his taste or age, lest some of them should be dislodged altogether; therefore in respect of temper he was in a poor way.

SHADY EGGS HAS A PRINCIPLE TO MAINTAIN.

Shady, whose weak point was sensitiveness in this particular, was divided in his mind between vexation at the misbehaviour of the pigs and discomfort at the republican tone of the lad whom he had long been trying to improve into a character worthy of the honour of serving in the family of De la Mark. He determined to pass by the pigs, and, turning to his companion, said, 'How often, child, am I to exhort you to remember the respect due to your superiors, whether in age, station, or any good conditions?' Perhaps Robinson was not decided as to the required number of times; at any rate, he did not answer, nor was his expression promising. 'Listen,' said the librarian, 'while I repeat a form of words which would have been a becoming answer to my question; and in the first place you should have begun with "No, sir," or "No, Mr. Higgs;" say that, and remember it is for your own good that I enforce this principle on you.' Robinson may not have believed in the philanthropy of his preceptor, or he was heroically indifferent to his own interests; he walked on in dogged silence. '"No, sir," or "No, Mr. Higgs,"' said the librarian, standing still, and looking firmly at the young incorrigible; for, gentle as a lamb at all other times, when Shady had, as he considered, a principle to maintain, or a duty to perform, he was a very lion. Robinson saw that he must give in, and muttered in a low tone, 'No, Mr. Higgs.' 'It is well,' said the librarian; and, considering the better part of valour to be discretion, he conceded the rest of the speech, content with the conquest gained, adding in a more gentle tone, 'I hope in time to cure you of the slaughter of the aspirate, so offensive to a cultivated ear and so general in this place. It is indeed wonderful how letters are subverted and substituted for one another by the careless and ignorant. Take Higgs, for instance: what name more simple? yet do they indiscriminately render it, "Eggs and Iggs, Heggs and Higgs."' Robinson interrupted this meditation by letting fall one of his parcels. 'I fear,' said the librarian, picking it up and laying it carefully in its place, 'the corners of a book which I have purchased for you may have been injured, Robinson.' Robinson looked as if he could bear the calamity. 'There's a knife in that parcel also,' continued Shady, 'with many blades, which I intended for you when your improvement deserved it.'

'Thank'ee, Mr. Higgs, sir,' said Robinson, the knife going straight to his heart; and, as his hands were not at liberty to touch his cap or pull his hair, he made the most deferential nod his circumstances would permit.

'As to the book,' resumed Shady, 'it is not of a character to please you as yet; I had a prospective view in purchasing it, when your mind— But I see you wish to speak.'

'I was just a-going to ask, Mr. Higgs, sir, how many blades there was in the knife?'

Rather disconcerted that the knife should engross the whole of his mind, he gave him first a little lecture on the superior value of that which he seemed to disregard, adding at the end, 'There are four blades, a buttonhook, and a corkscrew.' Oh, how light from that moment was Robinson's load! not that he had the least use for a buttonhook or a corkscrew; but to be the owner of a knife of such multifarious powers was to him a new idea of happiness. In the fulness of his gratitude he volunteered much fresh information, carefully putting 'Mr. Higgs, sir,' whenever an opportunity occurred.

Mr. Bloodworth had been at the Dew, and had high words with Miss De la Mark, and Sir Valary had been very ill, and Mrs. Gillies had wished Mr. Higgs back again twenty times. Altogether it had been a day of commotion at the Dew, from Sir Valary down to his pigs.

'Sacrilegious man!' said Shady, turning whiter with indignation, as the lad repeated some expressions dropped by Bloodworth in the courtyard. 'Had you spoken of this sooner,' he continued, 'we might have hastened.'

'You see, Mr. Higgs, sir, it's impossible to do unpossibilities, and I can't hasten with all these things,' said the lad, whose head came out of his parcels like that of a tortoise from its shell; ''sides, he's gone now, and Sir Valary's better, and miss was in the garden quite comfortable when I came away.'

Shady nevertheless pressed on, in agitated expectation, until they reached the place. It was a large, dark, irregular pile, on a thickly-wooded eminence—a landmark conspicuous for many miles round. All that remained of the original castle was one tower, which was called Sir Mark's Tower, in honour of the founder of the family; the remainder had been raised by several of his descendants, to repair the decay of accident and time; and each seemed to have built according to his own age, without reference to what had been before him. Sir Mark's Tower, with a part of one side of the quadrangle, formed the dwelling of the present possessor; part of the remainder was an ivy-covered ruin; while a long and dreary-looking portion, containing the state rooms, portrait gallery, armoury, and library, was given up to darkness and silence, being carefully boarded, barred, and bolted. The great entrance had not been approached for many years; the stately avenue of limes had interwoven their branches and formed an extended archway. To Sir Valary and his daughter was reserved a private doorway in the tower, while the retainers (as Shady was pleased to style himself, Mrs. Gillies, the steward, and Robinson), together with all comers, had ingress and egress by the outer courtyards and kitchen entrance. It was not, however, to the kitchen of former days that Shady now hastened; a small servitors' hall attached to it better answered the purposes of their economy.

Mrs. Gillies scarcely waited for his entrance to pour out a medley of abuse and lamentation concerning her master, her young lady, and the steward, finishing up with an angry avowal that Shady was never in the way when he was wanted. Shady, exhausted with his day of fasting and fatigue, pained by the occurrences in his absence, and somewhat discomfited by the undeserved castigation he was receiving, seated himself in the corner to wait until the high wind should have passed.

Nothing tires a passionate temper like letting it have its way; Shady had often tried the force of non-resistance, and depended on it now, for staying the torrent before Robinson's appearance. As at other times, he was right. Mrs. Gillies, subsiding, passed from a scolding to a declarative tone, and from that to one of ordinary talk, which finally warmed into kindness, as she saw the inoffensive librarian sit silently fanning himself, with an air of patient dejection.

'Why, you look as if Bloodworth had blew at you, and had the best of it too,' she said.

'I have not broken fast since I left, and am weary and hungry,' replied Shady.

'Then it is high time to eat,' said the housekeeper; and, quickly unloading Robinson, who had just appeared, and despatching him with his evening meal to the ancient kitchen, she hastened to spread the table, recounting in cooler temper the events of the day.

There was nothing new in substance, for Robinson had told as much; but of course each fact was given with particularity.

'It's a strange thing to me, Shady,' she said, 'that Sir Valary, so high as he is, can bear with Bloodworth. It's easy to say he's used to him; but if he forgives the things that man said to-day there's more than use that he depends on. He was daring to-day beyond what I ever saw him; if Sir Valary had not fainted when he did, I believe he would not have left; but he saw staying was of no use, and he was afraid, too, of Miss Marjory. She said but a word or two, but he couldn't stand her looks.'

'Sacrilegious man!' cried Shady, shuddering more than once. His anxiety was appeased by learning that Sir Valary had not awoke since he took the sleeping-draught. Miss De la Mark had been sitting at his door for the last hour, watching.

'I haven't been able to get her to eat nor drink; she's as pale as a ghost, and trembles like a leaf; but I don't think it's fear she shakes with.'

Poor Shady! it was too much for him. Bloodworth was the only human being he regarded with dislike; notwithstanding his arrogant assumption, he was well known to be a man of low origin, who owed all his fortune to the family he served. If his insolence had been confined to those of his own rank, it would have been worthy only of contempt; but the indignation of the librarian knew no bounds when the dignity of De la Mark was tarnished by his insolent bearing and free speech; it was one of the very few subjects that deprived him of his habitual serenity.

Whatever were his own views as to the secret of Bloodworth's impunity, he listened without replying to many of Mrs. Gillies' half-hinted suspicions. 'Time will reveal all things,' he said. 'And now I must enter in my books the moneys expended. I must see, too, that those rebellious animals are properly secured; and if I can in a measure repair the damage they have done'—

'Mr. Higgs, sir,' said Robinson, appearing at the door with his empty cup and platter, 'please, sir, don't you want me to go and help to look arter them pigs?'

'Ah!' said Shady, smiling benignantly on him; 'I must leave your lesson to-night, Robinson.'

'It don't signify,' said Robinson cheerfully.

'No?' said Shady.

'Not for once, you know, Mr. Higgs, sir,' said the lad, who felt he had been too accommodating. Suddenly recollecting, the librarian guessed his drift, and, placing the knife in his hands, told him that nothing but learning was really worth desiring.

CHAPTER IV.

A few words are needful concerning Sir Valary and his daughter. Sir Valary, known to be as proud as any who had ever borne his name, lived a life of extraordinary seclusion and self-denial. For many years he had banished from his home every sound of mirth, every vestige of social comfort. His servants, who had, at the death of Lady De la Mark, been greatly reduced in number, had gradually become fewer, until every female office was represented by Mrs. Gillies, a old and greatly-attached domestic, while Shadrach Higgs, with his boy Robinson, whom he had pressed into the service, held the same comprehensive post in the other sex.

What had caused so great a change—for at one time Parker's Dew, or Castle De la Mark, as it was called, was noted for its courtly splendour and unbounded hospitality—no one knew. Some attributed it to the early death of Lady De la Mark; others to the influence of Bloodworth. Squire Brimble, who seldom allowed himself to speak of his brother, when he did give an opinion said, 'It's the love of money—that's enough to account for anything.'

The growing infirmities of Sir Valary had kept him long a prisoner in his chamber, at the door of which now, as described by Mrs. Gillies, sat his daughter Marjory. There was nothing heroine-like in her appearance. Low in stature and plain in feature, she owed all her attraction to the force of her character and the peculiarity of her early training. Indomitable courage shone in her dark eyes, and patience, the result of a deeply-exercised spirit, gave a sweet calm to her face. Her dress was, from necessity, somewhat singular. For a long period she had been limited to her mother's wardrobe, and, careless of the fashion in which the garments were made, she wore them without change, as her mother had left them.

'He sleeps so long!' said Marjory, her pale face resting against the chamber door.

'I've known him sleep longer, miss,' said Mrs. Gillies, peering up the spiral staircase. 'If you'd just please to taste these fresh cakes that Shady has brought in, and the chocolate, that's drying up from standing these hours, I should be thankful;' and she displayed the cakes, the choice of which had exercised greatly Shady's discriminating powers. Marjory, prevailed on, left her to watch. 'You know, miss,' said the faithful creature, 'if you take ill, we have no power to keep off that man when he comes; and one way we're all alike, for the highest can't do without eating and drinking, no more than the lowest.' Marjory did not at all, at that moment, feel exalted above the conditions of humanity. Bloodworth's behaviour had convinced her that he possessed some secret militating against her father's honour, and that this was the source of the power he exercised over him.

The loneliness in which she had been reared had made her very self-reliant. She had borne much personal inconvenience in silence; and if it had been only for herself that she had now to suffer or to do, she would not have been slow in her plan of acting; but it seemed necessary that some one, more equal than she was to cope with the steward, should step in between him and her father, for whose very life she trembled, if such excitement as he had that day suffered should be renewed. Yet, if her suspicions were correct, how could she, without treading on dangerous ground, take any one into her counsels? and, indeed, who was there to whom she could refer? To her uncle, her natural protector after her father, she had been a stranger for many years; and she had grown from childhood to womanhood with no other companion than her father. One there was, indeed, and to him she inclined to open her heart, and that one was Dr. Cruden, the high-minded and skilful physician, who was the sole visitor of gentle blood at Parker's Dew.

Filled with painful conflict, she resumed her seat at the chamber-door. A slight noise was gratefully heard by her, and, entering, she found the long sleep had produced its usual effect of refreshing calm. Sir Valary smiled gently on her, and, as if forgetful of the distressing occurrences of the morning, received with pleased readiness all her tender endeavours to restore and amuse him; and thus passed the evening peacefully away.

Several days followed in the same calm. Sir Valary and his daughter seemed with equal care to avoid the name of Bloodworth, and both were secretly thankful when the evening closed, without his presence having embittered the day.

One morning, Marjory, receiving Shady's promise not to go beyond earshot of her father, prepared for one of those long rambles in the surrounding woods which never failed to procure for her rest and relaxation of mind. Her book-learning was small. In the great book of nature, that lay before her, she was an ardent student. Shady, who fondly considered himself, in some sort, her preceptor, had endeavoured to inspire her with a love of heraldry, and was never tired of expatiating on the endless genealogies connected with the tree of De la Mark. But though she loved to wander among the portraits of her ancient house, dimly lighted up by the few sunbeams that could struggle through a loosened shutter here and there, her thoughts were wholly given to those people of the past that looked grimly from the wall, while he was trying to explore and expound their heraldic bearings. She knew most of the faces by heart; but her head was little encumbered with the technicalities of which he was so proud. Shady had plodded through the elements of botany, that he might usher her also into it. She soon learned with avidity all he could teach her, and, unaided by other help than her own affection for the pursuit, became well accomplished in it. But we must follow her in her walk.

Her mind had been too much exercised of late to allow her to give thought to anything but one reigning subject. Her case for wild flowers remained unused, as she passed musingly through the tangled wood. When at a little distance from the house, she was arrested once or twice by sounds of rustling amongst the branches. The once carefully-arranged paths were now so ill kept that they were in some parts difficult to penetrate. No stranger ever intruded there. She supposed it to be some woodman gathering brushwood, and passed carelessly on; but, coming suddenly on a cleared space, from which, through an opening in the trees, appeared a fine and extensive view of the country around, she saw whence the sounds had proceeded.

The reader does not need a second description—it was the strange lodger from Stoney Gates. He was apparently surveying the scene with artistic purpose, his implements lying on the turf, and he was arranging a piece of broken timber to form a seat of convenient height and situation.

The meeting was one of mutual and equal surprise. Each surveyed the other steadily, and in silence; but the stranger, soon recovering himself, lifted his cap with courtly propriety, for he needed nothing to tell him he was in company with gentle blood. Marjory returned the salutation, and was passing onward; but a sense of inhospitality detained her; she lingered, and said hesitatingly, 'You are a draughtsman?' He bowed. 'You are going to put down some of our scenery?' Again he assented. 'Would you not like to have the Castle De la Mark in your foreground, with this fine country behind?'

'I have been trying to get that,' he replied; 'but the house is so surrounded I can find no favourable standing-ground.'

'I will lead you to one,' she said; and, making her way with easy rapidity through the thicket, she emerged on a spot favourable in every way to the accomplishment of the design. The graceful dexterity with which she overcame all the obstacles of the labyrinth struck him with admiration. 'She is worthy of an American forest,' he thought.

When they stood face to face upon the spot sought for, a slight exclamation of surprise burst from the stranger, which was answered with a smile of satisfaction from Marjory. There was pride in her heart and triumph in her eye, as she turned exultingly to the scene before them, upon which they both gazed silently. Suddenly she asked, 'Who could put this down?' and looked at him for an answer; but his eyes were fixed, not on the landscape—they were busily and intently studying her face. He withdrew them in some little confusion, and the blood of De la Mark crimsoning her cheek warned him that to win patronage he must woo it discreetly. He thanked her, in most deferential terms, for having given him the opportunity of trying, but agreed that the subject was one to mock art. His voice and bearing were so remote from intrusion or unbecoming forwardness, that Marjory was willing to believe the look that had offended her was one of natural and excusable curiosity. She allowed him, therefore, to make one or two remarks on various points around before she left him.

As she was turning away, the stranger, still uncovered, said, 'I have had the honour of speaking to Miss De la Mark?' She looked assent, and they parted, he to pursue his task, and she to wonder who, among the few persons whose faces were familiar to her, continually floated in her memory while she was in company with the stranger.

In this short interview, in which so little had been said, a great advance had been made by each in the favour of the other. The fire of her eye and the freedom of her step, her genuine dignity and self-respect, untinged by affectation, all betokened a character which had great charms for the stranger, while his sympathy with her, so evident in those slight indications of look and bearing which are to be felt but not described, had won upon her strangely; so that in truth they were both far more intimate from this few minutes in the wilderness than months of drawing-room proprieties would ever have made them. What a sudden check he had given to the current of her thoughts! All that had so deeply interested her fell aside, and, by some inexplicable attraction, he took its place.

Again the crashing of the distant boughs as she wandered homeward struck her ear, and it was with somewhat of disappointment that, after a minute or two of watching and waiting, she saw the faithful Shady struggling through the thicket to reach her.

If his young lady would only condescend to walk in the paths where the trees did not meet right over, trusting she would pardon him for saying so, it would be far less perilous for limbs and their coverings to pursue her. Indeed he made a rueful figure; for although he had guarded his dress, by turning it up or turning it down, as circumstances recommended the precaution, he had met with sundry tears and scratches, as though he had been at war with all the under-wood he had encountered. Marjory smiled at his expostulations and his appearance, but, suddenly remembering his promise, inquired why he had left her father.

Shady assured her that Dr. Cruden was with Sir Valary, and would remain till his return, for he wished to see Miss De la Mark, and had sent him in pursuit of her.

'Then,' said Marjory, 'Mr. Higgs, there is a stranger in the wood; he is drawing on my favourite seat—drawing the place, you see; and I wish—I should like you—to—just to say—if he would wish to draw any of the interior you can lead him through it.'

Shady stared. 'I invite a stranger to the Dew, madam!' he said slowly.

'No, no,' said Marjory emphatically; 'of course ha will not be intruded on my father nor on me; he greatly admires the place, and it seems unkind not to allow him to enjoy the pleasure fully. It is little we do in hospitality, Mr. Higgs; we may at least show this poor favour to strangers; and this is no ordinary person, but a man of birth and high taste, as you will see, I am sure.' An appeal on the score of hospitality could not be made to a more ready ear than that of Shadrach Higgs. How had he mourned in time past over the silent halls and untrodden doorways of Parker's Dew, when his large heart would have welcomed the whole world! But time and use had reconciled him to all; and now to introduce a visitor seemed as strange a work to him as it had once been to exclude one.

While he was gathering up his thoughts to make a suitable, respectful protest against the imprudence of doing what, if Sir Valary heard of it, might give him umbrage, Marjory had vanished. Shady looked after her disconsolately. Not having been able to resign his commission, he felt it imperative on him to fulfil it, and with troublous cogitations on the matter, and earnest hopes that the stranger would not fall in with the invitation, he scrambled on towards the place. While he was engaged in his contest with the bushes, he thought only of how best to escape them; but when he stood in the presence of the stranger, whom he immediately recognised, a feeling of vexation that he should appear in a style so inconsistent with the dignity of De la Mark mingled with it.

On seeing him, the stranger, who seemed to have been of Marjory's mind, and had thrown aside his sketch as unsuccessful, accosted him as an old friend. 'What! the librarian! I am fortunate indeed! Are you seeking your lady? She was here, but left a little ago.'

Shady, in as collected and proper a form as he could get up for the occasion, told him that he had met his young lady, and delivered her invitation.

The stranger started up at once. 'We will lose no time, Mr. Higgs; nothing would give me greater delight;' and immediately he began, in a manner which Shady well remembered, a series of questions as to every part of the dwelling, the order in which it was kept, and so on. While he endeavoured to answer these becomingly, an under-current of thought occupied Shady. Various schemes he devised and rejected for keeping the stranger out of sight and hearing of any of the household, without allowing him to discover that he was there by stealth. Under other circumstances he could have discoursed with delight on the wonders and glories of Parker's Dew—to him an untiring subject. Then again, the incongruities of ancient grandeur and present meanness forced themselves upon him, and an uneasy consciousness arose, of the effect they would have in diminishing the stranger's reverence for the noble house in whose honour his heart was bound up.

'Why, it is in ruins!' exclaimed the stranger, coming abruptly on one side of the quadrangle.

'That portion is,' said Shady; 'the exact reason I cannot tell, but there is a tradition'—

'It has been in decay for many years,' said the stranger, not waiting for the tradition; 'this, I presume, is the chapel?'

'It is;' and now did Shady, with all the formality of a grave court official, introduce him respectively to the armoury, the picture gallery, and the library; that is to say, he pointed to their positions.

The stranger surveyed all with the deepest interest. 'Did I understand,' said he, 'that I was to be allowed to see the interior of these places?'

'The library,' said Shady, 'being my particular department, I carry the key of the side entrance; the other keys are in Sir Valary's room, but I can readily obtain them. There is no worthier part of the building, in my humble estimation, than this,' he said, placing the small key in the lock of a low door, to enter which they were obliged to stoop.

'Where are we?—in a tomb?' said the stranger.

'No,' said Shady, 'though indeed we are among the dead; wait, if you please, till I kindle the lantern.'

CHAPTER V.

Familiar as he was with every crevice of his dearly-loved resort, having closed the door on the inside, Shady without difficulty lowered a large lantern, that hung from the centre of the roof, and lit two of the candles ranged within it. By degrees the stranger's eyes, at first dazzled by daylight, were able to discern something of what was around. The walls, the roof, and the floor, were all of dark polished oak—the roof richly carved; books and vellum rolls in antique cases, all of the same dark wood, left little of the walls uncovered. Amid objects so sombre, the feeble rays of the lantern, which Shady had now drawn up, were of little use.

'I never saw a better effect of darkness,' said the stranger; 'but is there no possibility of letting daylight in here? I would rather read some of these books by the sun than by yonder lantern.'

Shady pointed out to him that the windows, high and small, were boarded up.

'This,' said his companion, pointing to a library ladder, 'this would reach one; if I loosened a board I could easily replace it; may I do so?'

Shady demurred. It would take time; he had already been too long from his duties—Sir Valary might require him; not adding his conviction, that Mrs. Gillies would rate him soundly for not being in time to carry in the dinner—a service he always performed.

'Leave me,' said the stranger; 'trust me with this key, or lock me in; there is much here that I should like to examine; come to me when you will, when you can; an hour, or hours hence, will do for me.'

Again there was a conflict in Shady's mind; the inhospitality of locking him up among paper and vellum, at a time when his own appetite was reminding him that nature required support of another kind, was repugnant to his feelings; yet, to have him so secured was a convenience of which he saw the value. After a short pause, he said he would return as quickly as he could, and, locking the door on the outside, went somewhat nervously to present himself to the housekeeper. Happily for him, the lengthened stay of Dr. Cruden had saved him from wrath on account of his protracted absence.

'I am glad you are come,' said Mrs. Gillies; 'it is a long talk the doctor is having to-day, and there's Robinson been all the time holding his horse, and nobody to clean a knife, for the little there is to cut.'

Shady quietly began gathering up the knives, intending to release Robinson from his post, when Dr. Cruden and Miss de la Mark, in deep conversation, crossed the courtyard and met him at its entrance. In a moment of weakness he slipped the knives into his pocket, as he could, and with a low bow stood deferentially until they had passed. They had scarcely done so when the doctor turned suddenly round, saying, 'Why, here is Higgs; you could not have a better person than Higgs.'

'How could I forget him?' said Marjory.

'HIGGS, I WANT SOME PRIVATE TALK WITH YOU,' SAID THE DOCTOR.

'Higgs,' said the doctor, 'I want some private talk with you; we can neither be overlooked nor overheard here,' he continued, looking round.

'Entirely secluded, sir, from all observation,' said Higgs, with another low bow.

'Here, then,' said the doctor, pointing to an ancient cross, surmounting some broad stone steps, 'let us sit here;' and placing Miss De la Mark on the higher step, and seating himself by her side, he pointed to the lower one, telling Shady to sit down. Shady preferred standing, for two reasons; one was, that it seemed little less than treason in him to sit in such a presence; the other, he had apprehensions as to the kind of cushion his pocket would afford, with its present contents.

'You must come close,' said the doctor; 'we don't want what we say to be caught by the birds of the air.'

'The library, Dr. Cruden,' said Marjory; 'shall we go to the library?'

How unfortunate! During the many years that Shady Higgs had been librarian, he had never received an order connected with his post that he did not hail with delight. Now he fell back, and looked almost reproachfully at Marjory, she having been the means of bringing them into the dilemma in which he now stood. But the doctor did not observe his looks. 'By all means, the library,' he said; 'we are sure to be safe there;' and assisting Marjory down, he led her with a quick step towards it, Shady following irresolutely. Opening the door, he expected to hear the stranger's voice immediately, in salutation; but all was silent, and the glimmer of the lantern nowhere revealed a human form. No boards appeared to have been removed; and as Shady nervously cast his eyes into the remoter parts, where the shadows were the thickest, he was equally perplexed and relieved to find nothing but vacancy. 'He must be in the room,' he thought, 'but where?'

'Now, Higgs,' said the doctor, 'you keep your favourite haunt lighted: I wish I could hope it was dusted; we are at any rate safe now. I want you to answer me some questions. You have a grandmother?'

'Softly,' said Shady, looking round.

'Well, I'm not going to say any harm of her,' said the doctor; 'so you need not be afraid of her coming. Where is she?'

Shady looked with an expression of innocent surprise. 'My grandmother Elizabeth?' he asked.

'Yes; commonly called Bet Eggs,' said the doctor.

'Is she not dead?' his large eyes dilating with a questioning look, which Dr. Cruden could not quite understand.

'Ay; is she, or is she not? that is the point.'

'I have been given to believe she died,' said Shady, quite forgetting the stranger, in the interest this question had excited in him.

'Do you believe it?' asked the doctor.

'Why should I not?'

'No evasions,' said the doctor, rather sharply; 'answer me plainly. Is she living?'

'Sir,' said Shady, glancing at Marjory, 'at another time I might speak of this—'

'This time—now,' said the doctor; 'the truth is, Higgs, she is not dead, and you know it, and you know why her existence is concealed, and you know—'

'Sir,' said Shady drawing himself to his full height, 'pardon me if I am wanting in duty, that I contradict you. I know nothing of what you have said.'

'Has Bloodworth never spoken to you concerning her?'

'It is seldom we converse, and never with my will, excepting on the household business.'

'How many years is it since you saw her?'

'Twenty—when she crossed the sea, to wait on some noble lady following her husband.'

'How long since you received the report of her death?'

'I think it may be about a twelvemonth.'

'Well, you have at least reason to doubt the truth of that report?' He was silent.

'Higgs,' said the doctor, 'you have now an opportunity of proving the truth of your fidelity and affection to Sir Valary. It is of the utmost importance to ascertain, whether your grandmother is alive or dead. What light can you throw upon the matter?'

'Well, if I offend my young lady's ears in what I say, the blame be far from me,' he answered, with a sigh. 'When my grandmother Elizabeth had finished the work of nursing my young lady, an ill feeling was raised against her by some means in the breast of my gracious lady, her honourable mother. I well remember, though I was then but a youth, her tears and complaints—yes, and bitter vows of vengeance too, against the one that had done her this wrong. I grieved for her, for, though she was harsh and choleric in temper, she had well supplied the place of parents to me, and I was grateful. A place was provided for her, and the disgrace in which she left was unknown to any, save the few concerned in it. I well remember her words the last time I saw her.'

'What were they?' said the doctor quickly.

'She told me (my young lady will pardon me), she had more power to injure than her enemies had power to injure her; and nothing but her love for my young lady would have kept her quiet. "If they desert you," she said, "I will come back before they expect, and do right to the wronged."'

'Anything else?'

'Much of the same sort.'

'And how did you get the account of her death?'

'It was reported in the neighbourhood, some time before a letter came from Dusseldorf, written by the person in whose house she died, and containing certificates of her death from the doctor and a Lutheran minister.'

'Did you credit these reports?'

'I did.'

'But have you had anything since to shake your confidence in them?'

'Last summer,' said Shady, 'my young lady will remember the visit of a German pedlar?'

Marjory assented. 'Looking among his wares for a suitable offering for my young lady for the next New Year's Day, I found a small purse of beads, bearing on one side the initials E. H., and on the other side the crest of De la Mark; the snap and the trimmings were new; but by the beadwork I recognised it was no other than a purse given in days of favour by my Lady De la Mark to my grandmother. I questioned the pedlar as to how he became possessed of it. He told me he had bought it, with some other trifles, of an aged woman who was in difficulty and wanted to raise money. I then asked him to describe the person, and how long it was since he had seen her. His description differed from what she was at our parting—'bent and feeble' for strong and upright, 'snow-white hair' for raven black; but years and sorrow may have done this. He had seen her some ten months back. Since then, I confess a vague suspicion has crossed my mind as to the truth of her death.'

'And how was it you did not name this?'

'It never arose to more than suspicion; her things, no doubt, passed into other hands after her death, if she died. I love quietness, and would not make marvels.'

'Do you think Bloodworth had any hand in the offence taken by Lady De la Mark?'

'Bloodworth is a sacrilegious man,' said Shady; 'his evil deeds known are enough. I would not lay suspicions at his door.'

'Well, Higgs, I tell you it is of the greatest consequence that your grandmother, if living, should be produced; and I believe you are the most likely person to find her. Will you go over to the place where she is said to have died, and ascertain for us the facts, finding out, if possible, the persons who signed the certificate, and, indeed, all facts necessary for substantiating either her death or her life? and in the meantime keep your mission a perfect secret from every one. I will prepare everything. You will be sent with a message to me when I am ready for you, and the cause of your detention must be known to no one.'

Shady was aghast, and far too much surprised to answer.

'This is settled, then. So far, so good,' said the doctor, rising. 'Now, Mr. Shady, let us out of this black hole.'

Marjory looked doubtingly, as Shady stooped down to unfasten the door; she felt that Dr. Cruden was mistaken, and that many things conspired to make him unfit for the important mission imposed on him. A book falling at her feet startled her into a slight cry.

'What! are your books alive, Higgs?' said the doctor, picking it up, 'flying about the place like bats.'

Shady instantly recollected the stranger. While he was debating as to the course he should pursue, a voice from the top of the room, which Marjory recognised, said, 'Pardon the intrusion of a friend;' and the stranger descended the ladder. A more curious group can hardly be imagined than that on which the light of the lantern now fell; the slight, small form of Marjory, her face pale with fatigue, anxiety, and now with something like terror; the parchment-like visage of Dr. Cruden, his periwig and hat both rather displaced by stooping for the book; Shady, the very picture of astonishment and mortification; and the stranger, the only one of the whole who appeared noways discomfited by his presence among them.

'Mr. Higgs, don't distress yourself; you have done good service to the house of De la Mark this day, though inadvertently,' said the stranger. 'I don't fear receiving a full pardon from you, madam, and from you, sir,' bowing to them respectively, 'when I have disclosed a few facts. Shall we return to the council table?'

The doctor, putting one hand through the breast of his waistcoat, and the other under his coat tails, his favourite attitude in delivering a lecture, surveyed him from head to foot. Regardless of the scrutiny, he placed himself at the table, and began thus; 'Elizabeth Higgs is dead—I saw her burial.'

They looked incredulous, but none spoke.

'I was in Dusseldorf at the time, and knew the Lutheran minister who attended her. She died in peace with all men, and fervently desiring a blessing on the infant she had left,' bowing to Marjory, 'and praying heartily for her grandson. I happened to be confined to the house from an accident at the time, and saw much of her, for we lodged under the same roof. A little kind sympathy with her sufferings from a fellow countryman opened her heart, and she unburdened it to me of every secret that had distressed her—a revelation I have never confided to human ear, and will not, until it shall be for the benefit of those whom it concerns. But rest satisfied; she is dead, and your mission useless.'

The doctor's surprise at all that he had just heard had prevented him from interrupting the stranger with any questions; but now that he saw he had told all that he meant to tell, he said, 'You will excuse me, sir; it is possible that all you have advanced may be perfectly correct; and I am far from wishing to offend you or any gentleman in so near a point as doubting veracity; but you will please to remember that the subject having been so amply discussed in your hearing, and you being a perfect stranger to us, it is natural that we should look for something—some confirming evidence—before trusting implicitly to you; and also, it would be pleasant to know who our informant is, and, I may add, how he came to drop upon us so opportunely.'

The stranger, looking calmly and steadily at him, replied, 'For my presence here, I refer you to Miss De la Mark. I am a world-wide wanderer, without a settled home as yet. I can give you no proof that I have advanced the truth now. I do not blame you for being sceptical; but, according to human maxims, you may believe me, since I have no interest in deceiving you.'

If he would only trust the doctor with some of Bet Eggs' revelations. The stranger shook his head. 'In due time, when I am wanted, you may depend upon me: it is not whim, but necessity, that keeps me silent.'

'Answer me one thing,' said the doctor. 'Did the widow Higgs confine herself to her own history, or—or—'

'Come, Mr. Higgs,' said the stranger, 'advance—I shall beg for a night's lodging in yonder gallery.'

'He is impenetrable,' thought the doctor.

'I think the portrait of the nurse is hanging there, isn't it, carrying an infant?'

His three hearers exchanged glances quickly.

He smiled. 'There,' he said, 'is evidence for you.'

'Strange,' said Dr. Cruden; and Shady advanced to the door. All attempts on the part of the doctor to induce the stranger to return to his house and become his guest were unavailing.

'No,' he replied; 'I will be Sir Valary's guest, though he shall not know it. My plaid is an excellent soldier's bed, and I shall sleep soundly among the shadows of the house of De la Mark.'

'I really believe he is a true man,' said the doctor to Marjory, as they walked towards the tower, Shady following to obtain the keys.

'There is a frankness in his manner,' replied Marjory, 'that quite fascinated me when I first met him.'

CHAPTER VI.

Shady's perplexities were great. How to account to Mrs. Gillies for his long absence, without raising her woman's curiosity, he knew not; and the knives! he thought, 'Yes, I have the knives,' putting his hand to his pocket. While the domestic difficulties were being overcome, we will follow the stranger. He had told Shady not to hurry himself with the key, for the fresh air, and a stroll among the ruins, would better accord with his taste than to be again immediately immured in dust and semi-darkness. While examining a curious archway, he heard horse hoofs, and looking down saw a man dismount, fasten his horse to a tree, and climb the bank through a place where the wall was very low, and would permit scaling easily. He soon cleared the wall, and stood upon the loose stones within the quadrangle.

The stranger had time to observe him, being hidden in the shadow of the archway; there was nothing remarkable in his appearance; his dress was plain, his age a little more or less than sixty. The stranger, quitting the archway, advanced to meet him, looking fixedly upon his face while he spoke.

'Mr. Anthony Bloodworth, I think?' The horseman started, but replied in the affirmative.

'I am glad,' said the stranger. 'I have long had this to deliver, and am glad to be rid of it;' and he placed in his hands a small paper parcel; 'but,' he said, before he relinquished his hold of it, 'there is some receipt or acknowledgment that I must have.'

'What is it? what is it?' asked Bloodworth; 'I must see it before I can give a receipt.'

'The receipt is written out for you—you have but to sign it.' Bloodworth opened the packet, which contained two papers, with a letter.

He glanced continually from the paper to the stranger, and at last, in a husky voice, asked him how long it had been in his possession.

'I see,' he continued; 'you were acquainted with my correspondent.'

'Yes,' said the stranger, carelessly, 'I knew him well.'

'Have you been long about here?' asked Bloodworth, who was beginning to put the papers into his pocket.

The stranger produced a small ink-horn, saying, 'The receipt, if you please.'

'I don't know,' said Bloodworth; 'I would rather convey an important document in another way. Why, if charged with this for me, did you wait to meet me here, instead of seeking me at my own dwelling?'

The stranger held the ink-horn. 'Sign the receipt, man,' he said, not deigning to answer the question.

With much reluctance he drew out the papers, and doing as the stranger bade him, delivered the document into his hands.

'What brings you here?' he said, looking nervously at him.

'What brings you here?' said the stranger.

'My business,' answered Bloodworth doggedly.

'And I was brought here by your business and my pleasure.'

'Had you any message?' asked the steward, cowed by the stranger's manner.

'No other than I have delivered; but tell me how long do you mean to pursue this work? Take my advice; repent, and make a clean breast of it, or you will be caught in your own toils.'

'Then he has betrayed me,' said Bloodworth, 'and you know all.'

'I know enough to advise you this.'

At this moment Shady approached with the key; he made a sort of gesture to the steward, as destitute of respect or cordiality as it could well be, and, turning to the stranger, proffered the key and his guidance.

'This gentleman,' said the steward, in a lamb-like tone, which Shady was greatly surprised to hear, 'is a friend of mine, Mr. Higgs, and as soon as I have waited on Sir Valary I shall be glad to show him the few curiosities we have.' He was continuing his civil address, when the stranger, laying his hand on Shady's shoulder, pointed to the gallery, and left him without reply.

Whatever the papers were that Bloodworth had received, it was evident they had greatly altered the state of feeling in which he had crossed the wall. His leaden eyes were then as quiet as stagnant water—now his whole visage was agitated; he passed his hand nervously over his face, went towards the tower, and returned, as if in uncertainty. He had ridden round in order to avoid Dr. Cruden, whom he had been told in the village was at the Dew, little expecting what he had met with.

Guilt makes a coward; he feared every one he met. Robinson, who was sitting on the stone steps of the [** Transcriber's note: missing line of text?] cross carving devices on a stick with his new knife, looked with amazement at him, as he saluted him with kindness, and told him gently where to find his horse.

Entering the kitchen, he spoke in the same tone to Mrs. Gillies, inquiring with respect and concern after Sir Valary and his daughter. Mrs. Gillies, to whom the sight of him was wormwood, could not help being struck with his altered tone, and put it down to repentance for his late misbehaviour. He asked for water, complained of weariness, and altogether stirred up something less akin to hatred than she was accustomed to feel for him. 'You have had company to-day, Mrs. Gillies?' Supposing he meant Dr. Cruden, Mrs. Gillies nodded.

'I'm afraid you were not prepared for him.'

'As for that,' she said quickly, 'we are not allowed enough to keep the house going at any time; however, he is a plain man, and never eats nor drinks.'

'Dr. Cruden, you mean?'

'Who else comes here?' said the housekeeper.

By various indirect questions, he ascertained that, so far as Mrs. Gillies knew, the only person of the household to whom the stranger had introduced himself was Shady Higgs.

'The house ill kept!' said Bloodworth, after a pause. 'Mrs. Gillies, I fear that my good intentions towards Sir Valary and the well-being of his estate have gotten me a poor name, that I ill deserve.'

'Well, I hope you don't deserve all that is said of you,' she answered blandly; 'there's many as say the money that ought to go for the proper keeping of the house, as Sir Valary's house ought to be kept, is worse than sunk in the sea. I know for my part, I'd rather be the poorest on earth than rich with such gains; and if it was not for the love to Sir Valary and my young lady, I'd sooner be in a close cottage, with bread enough and no care, and nothing expected from me, than be in a corner of a great place like this, with such stint allowance. Why, you may believe me, if I wasn't to contrive and to contrive, and keep us three down here at a very near rate, I could never make what I have enough to serve Sir Valary and my young lady, even as well as I do serve them. The world is changed a good deal, for the housekeeper of Parker's Dew to be put to the shifts I am; and since you give me the liberty to speak, Mr. Bloodworth,' she continued, growing eloquent on the strength of the steward's silence, 'I may tell you, that if things go on much longer, there is them that will look into it, and know the reason why; and I've heard as much as that, and a little more too.'

'IF THINGS GO ON MUCH LONGER, THERE IS THEM THAT

WILL LOOK INTO IT.'

Bloodworth sat perfectly silent; he may have heard all the housekeeper's oration, or he may not; probably the latter, for he looked abstracted, and, taking his hat, said, 'I have a little work outside—some one to speak to—you need not let Sir Valary know that I am here, until my return; and for the matter of stint, Mrs. Gillies, you will be pleased to remember that I am but a servant like yourself; I have not the ordering of Sir Valary's mind about his money.'

'What has come to the man?' said the housekeeper, as she watched him through the heavy stone window: 'I never thought to hear him own himself a servant; something has taken him down since he was last here.'

With his head bent down, and his hands folded behind his back, he walked slowly towards the spot where he had left Shady and the stranger. He met the former advancing towards the tower.

'What have you done with Mr. Vandercroft?' he said, looking sharply up.

'Mr. ——?' Shady asked, not catching the name.

'My friend, whom I left with you; I wish to see him.'

'The gentleman is in the portrait gallery,' said Shadrach, 'and has no desire for company.'

'Not for yours, perhaps.'

'You are correct, Mr. Bloodworth, for he requested me to go; but I did not take it to be personal, as he desired to be locked in, that none might intrude.'

'Where's the key?'

'The key?' said Shady, looking at him calmly.

'Yes, the key,' repeated Bloodworth, his natural fierceness returning; 'I tell you I wish to see him.'

'You can see him,' said Shady, looking up as if calculating, 'at eleven o'clock to-morrow, if you will ride so far.'

Bloodworth could scarcely speak for emotion, but controlling himself said, 'Shady, my friend, you are disposed to be pleasant, but do not trifle with me just now. Let me have the key; I must see this man; what reason did he give you for saying he would not see me?'

'I do not know that you were in his thoughts at all,' said Shady calmly, 'when he said he wanted no intruders; but I believe I know his reason for seeking seclusion.'

'You do?' said Bloodworth, his lips growing white, and his eyes fixed earnestly upon him.

'Yes, he preferred to be alone.'

'Is that all? Then give me the key.'

'I am under promise.'

'Give me the key!' said Bloodworth, choking with ill-concealed passion.

'Nay, then, if you are bent on it, I must return with you and explain, and leave the gentleman, whose name I could not catch, to arrange with you according as he is affected.'

The cool determination with which Higgs said this exhausted the remains of the steward's temper, and he demanded the key in violent language, Shady remaining perfectly unmoved, though his face became serious, and expressed as much aversion as he could feel.

'It is better that your venom should fall upon the unworthy,' he said, with a placidity that only exasperated the railer. How far the altercation would have proceeded is doubtful, but, happily for Higgs, it was suddenly closed by Dr. Cruden.

'Mr. Bloodworth, I was told, when at a short distance from the house, that you must have entered it about the time that I left; now I particularly wish to have some conversation with you, so I turned my horse. Higgs, it is private business,' he said, nodding to Shady, who, with an air of much satisfaction, left the steward with one far better able, as he felt, to cope with him than himself.

The doctor looked at his watch. 'I have already spent some hours here, Mr. Bloodworth, and am far beyond my usual time for dinner; but I am so deeply interested in the affairs of your master, that I am determined if possible to come to an understanding with you as to—that—in fact, pray, Mr. Bloodworth, what is the meaning of all this? I find Sir Valary suffering from severe nervous shocks, owing entirely to your interviews with him. Though known to be one of the richest men in the county, and possessing as liberal a heart as a gentleman of his station ought to have, his household, I find, is limited to bare necessities, and even the young lady his daughter has no command of money. What does it all mean, Mr. Bloodworth? I must tell you in plain English that the whole is laid at your door.'

All this was said in the heat and rapidity of indignation, and it was about the last kind of attack that the doctor had meditated making. He had ridden back hastily, and had settled as he rode what would be the wisest way of handling the steward, so as to get at the secret. 'I must take him quietly,' he said to himself, 'make no charges, suspect nothing;' and he had even prepared the opening of his harangue; but the sight of Bloodworth, his face inflamed with passion, looking much as Marjory had described him on his last visit to Sir Valary, had completely thrown him off his balance, and all his wise resolutions went to the winds. The steward felt the advantage of his position, and said somewhat sullenly, if Sir Valary had any complaint to make of him, he would hear it from himself; he was answerable to no one else; and with regard to the expenditure of the household, he was not responsible for that; but Sir Valary was not the only rich man in the world that chose rather to live like a poor one; however, it was not his duty to interfere in such matters; he supposed Sir Valary had a right to spend or save without accounting to any one.

'Well, well, well, well,' said the doctor, vexed with himself for his rashness, 'I spoke hastily; but you must know, Bloodworth, that you are the talk of the country, and that people consider you have obtained such an influence over Sir Valary, that you can get him to consent to anything, and, therefore, all the hard measures with tenants, and the penurious way in which he lives, are ascribed to you.'

Bloodworth shrugged his shoulders. 'I never cared much for what people said of me,' he answered.

'Very good,' said the doctor; 'it's a fine thing to have a clear conscience; but what I want to know is, why latterly your visits have excited him so strangely?'

After a short pause, Bloodworth, who kept his eyes fixed on the ground all the time, scarcely raising them, said, 'Sir Valary is very much altered lately; things that did not fret him fret him now; the business that I am obliged to tell him makes him furious—that is no fault of mine.'

'But your own behaviour the last time?' said the doctor, in a voice which showed that Bloodworth's words had not been without some effect.

'Well, I was wrong, and I own it; I am a bad temper; I get ill-will every way; there is not a tenant that wouldn't shoot me if he could; the people at the house hate me worse than a dog; the squire has no name bad enough for me—and all because I follow out Sir Valary's directions; and then when I go to him to tell him what I've done, and find him take everything the wrong way, it puts me off, and I forget myself; I did last time, I know it, and I am sorry for it.'

He said this with an air of so much candour, with something so like injured innocence, that he quite won the doctor, who was a far better adept in detecting the evil workings of the body than the secret mischiefs of the mind.

'But,' he said, considerably mollified, 'you have been in Sir Valary's secrets for many years; can't you now help us to deliver his mind from some very oppressive burden—we know not what—that lies on it? Don't you know of anything which leads him to this strange way of living, which it would be better for his friends also to know?'

'Supposing I did, sir,' said Bloodworth, 'have I any right to betray my master's confidence? But can you suppose, sir, that he would tell me anything except about money matters, that he would keep from Miss De la Mark, or from you?'

What could the doctor say to so much reason? 'It is really very mysterious,' he said, after a pause. 'Well, as I've undertaken Sir Valary's medical condition, you cannot wonder that I am in every way interested for his health; and I assure you I tremble to think of his having such another attack as the last one you left him in.'

'You see, sir,' said Bloodworth, very well satisfied with the victory he had gained, 'I get sore at heart sometimes; but I promise you to do my best to tell him as little to vex him as I can; and I hope I'll learn to keep my own temper as I ought to do; and if you would be so good as to make my peace with my young lady, sir, I should be glad;' and so they parted, the doctor going towards the house with a mixed feeling.

'The man speaks fair enough; but then, here is this about Bet Eggs. If I could have asked him about that—I almost wish I had; it was on the tip of my tongue; however, it was as well to keep it in. I'll have a little talk with Marjory, and calm her feelings towards him.'

Bloodworth meantime stood watching him as he went. 'If I could dispose of all my troubles as easily as this,' he thought, 'I shouldn't have much to fear;' and a bitter and derisive smile for a moment rested on his features. To obtain the key of the portrait gallery was now his business. When he returned to the tower in search of Shady, he found the librarian quietly resting in one of the deep windows, arranging some plants for his young lady, while awaiting the call of Sir Valary.

'Higgs, I hope you've come to your senses.'

Shady smiled.

'Come, I've been hindered long enough; let me have that key.'

Shady immediately produced it. 'You will return it to me, Mr. Bloodworth, when you have done with it, as it is my office to lay all the keys on Sir Valary's table at night.'

'Higgs,' said the steward, as he clutched the key. 'I have been a good friend to you and yours; are you joining with the rest against me?'

Shady, raising his eyebrows, looked at him without answering.

'I say, are you going to turn against me?' he repeated.

'Not that I am aware of,' said Shady.

'You'll all know better some day.'

'That I believe, in most things. For myself, I hope it sincerely; but in this particular I do not quite see your meaning.'

'Yes, you do; you don't take me in with your mock simplicity. You know how I've helped you, and your grandmother before you.'

'I am no mocker, Mr. Bloodworth,' said Shady with dignity; 'and I deny that you have ever helped me; how you helped my grandmother Elizabeth you best know.'

'Ah! there it is, there's the gratitude I get,' said Bloodworth, who felt that Shady was in no spirit to be tampered with. 'I wish I'd never seen one of your name!' he growled, as he was leaving the apartment.

'Mr. Bloodworth,' said Shady, with a slight cough, 'you'll excuse my calling you back, but I should be sorry to forget my duty, through any natural rising of the heart against your very unmerited and unexpected attack, and therefore, in order to save you unnecessary trouble, may I ask whether you require that key for the same purposes which induced you to demand it before?'

'Of course I do,' said Bloodworth quickly.

'Ah!' said Shady, 'I guessed it might be so; then permit me to say that the gentleman whose name I could not catch is no longer there.'

'Not there!'

'No,' said Shady, again turning to his plants; 'having pledged myself to preserve him in privacy, and concluding that you would again demand the key, I informed him of my dilemma—which was that I must fail in respect either to him or to you; upon which he departed.'

'Which way?' muttered the steward, as soon as he could control his voice to utter the words.

'I didn't think he would wish to be followed,' said Shady coolly, 'and therefore did not observe him.'

'Let him go!' said the steward, with an oath, throwing the key to Shady; 'I'll remember you for this!'

'And I'll do my best to forget you for this,' said Shady, rubbing his leg, against which the key had struck with some force. 'In some way or other, I fear he is a bad man. How pleasant to turn to these innocent things!' tenderly looking at the flowers, 'after contention with the rude passions of men—yes, and even of women,' he mentally added, as Mrs. Gillies crossed his mind.

CHAPTER VII.

'The fact is, Jobson,' said Mr. Brimble, 'there's a skeleton cupboard in every man's house, and mine hasn't escaped that ugly piece of furniture.'

The squire was at his dinner-table, which the ladies had not long left, and at which the stranger had that day been a guest.

'I married to please myself, and not my father, and he took an effectual way of showing me that he had that view of it, by disinheriting me. It did not happen to be of any consequence, as far as the money went, for Mrs. Brimble had more than we wanted. I was obliged to part with my name, and take hers, before I could lay hold of her property; but as I have no sons, that is a trifle. When a man gets to grey hairs, he knows what a name is worth; though I believe the girls would rather be poor De la Marks than rich Brimbles—at least they fancy so now; but money is a vastly comfortable thing, Jobson, and glory without it is very hungry work.'

'You had another brother?' said the stranger, moving aside the wine which the squire pushed towards him.

'I had,' said the squire sorrowfully; 'did you ever hear of him?'

'Yes; I knew one who was intimate with him abroad; he was strongly attached to you.'

'Attached!' said the squire, with an agitated voice; 'we had but one heart. He ought now to be at Parker's Dew; instead of that—there,' said the squire, emptying his glass; 'I won't say any more, and I give myself great credit. Come,' he continued cheerfully, 'who was it that knew Eustace?'

'A stranger to you,' was the reply; 'but, Mr. Brimble, I knew your brother myself.'

'Hah!' said the squire starting; 'knew him, and you never told me.'

'No,' said the stranger; 'the truth is, I loved him, and you reminded me of him so much, when first I saw you, that I should have found it difficult to speak of him.'

'They always thought us alike,' said the squire gently, leaning his head down to hide the tears that filled his eyes. 'Well'—stretching out his hand—'we have now indeed a bond of union. Tell me all you remember about him.'

'All I remember of him?' said the stranger, with a smile, grasping the proffered hand; 'I cannot do that to-night; it is now'—

A violent ringing and the sudden entrance of a servant put a stop to the conversation, 'Dr. Cruden, sir, has just come from Parker's Dew, and wishes to see you alone. I have shown him into your room.'

'I am alone,' said the squire; 'tell him I've only a particular friend with me, and the wine's on the table. He's one of the best little fellows in the world, the doctor is,' he said, as the door closed; 'but he's continually croaking at me about a reconciliation with that fellow that turned poor Eustace out of his place to get into it. Every time he starves himself into a low fever, he comes here telling me he is going to die. I won't see him alone.'

The servant re-entered, 'Dr. Cruden, sir, cannot see you in the presence of anybody; his compliments, and he will not detain you.' And, having received no answer, the man respectfully closed the door.

'Don't you go to the ladies yet, Jobson,' said the squire, as he reluctantly followed the servant. 'I shall soon dispose of the doctor's confab, and send him into the drawing-room for some music, and then you and I can finish our wine and our talk together.'

'My dear sir,' said Dr. Cruden, as soon as he saw him, 'I've something most important to communicate.'

'I'm very sorry for it; people should never talk of important things at this time of night—it's the way to get nightmare, and you ought to know that. Come now, put it off till to-morrow; they are all in fine order for music in the drawing-room; and there's your sister, that you haven't seen for this fortnight, and your bed is ready always. Come now,' laying his hand upon his shoulder, with a heartiness that shook the doctor's frame, but not his purpose.

'My good friend,' he said solemnly, 'I do assure you what I have to say cannot be put off; your brother is ill, seriously ill.'

'So he has been once a fortnight, regularly, for the last three years, according to your account.'

'I beg you to be serious,' said the doctor, shaking his head; 'I question if he will recover this attack.'

'Oh, you are a capital hand at questioning; but what do you want me to do?'

'I want you'—said the doctor slowly; 'but you will promise me to be calm?' he said, laying his hand on the squire's arm, for he could not reach his shoulder.

'Now, don't be impressive,' said the squire, 'but out with it. I'll forgive him, send him anything, do anything for him but go there.'

'The very thing I wish you to do,' said the doctor.

'Pshaw, nonsense! What! turn out at this time of night, to see a man that you kill regularly with every full moon—not I. Now, doctor, you know I've no illwill towards him, old screw as he is—and that is not saying the worst of him. And as to poor little Marjory, I would do for her as for my own child; but I haven't forgotten how you served me before. I said then that while he lived I'd never darken the doors of Parker's Dew.'

'My dear squire,' said the doctor, 'I can assure you he was entirely innocent of that; I believe Bloodworth was at the bottom of it.'

'I wish he were at the bottom of the sea.'

'We can't spare him just yet, to go so far,' said the doctor drily; 'but now let me tell you, we have made a little progress into an important discovery. All Sir Valary's strange conduct, I think, may be accounted for. There is a mystery which we are beginning to unravel, and I hope with your help'—

'Come and have some wine,' said the squire. 'I unravel a mystery! cut it up, that's my advice.'

'Dear, dear,' said the doctor, much vexed, 'you will spoil everything by your impetuosity. I tell you the truth; I think Sir Valary will die unless his mind is relieved. Bloodworth must be discharged from the stewardship, and we have no means of getting rid of him.'

'Shoot him!' said the squire angrily.

'Shoot him, and send him to the bottom of the sea! That would be a severe dismissal.'

'No more than he deserves,' muttered the squire.

'Let us keep to common sense,' said the doctor. 'I feel sure that if you would come to see him, Sir Valary would hold out to you the right hand of brotherly fellowship. I do assure you he is a poor, shattered creature; and if you would but befriend that poor girl now, by helping him to get rid of Bloodworth, you would be thankful for having done it all the days of your life. Come now,' he continued, seeing that the squire was relenting, 'I have scarcely been at home for these three days; I have come in my own chaise now, thinking to save time, to take you back at once. Every hour is of consequence,' he said quickly, in answer to the squire's unpromising look and shrug.

'Come and have a glass of wine, and we'll talk about it, and I'll introduce you to Jobson; he was an intimate friend of poor Eustace. We were just talking about him when you came.'

The doctor made a faint protestation that he wanted neither wine nor Mr. Jobson; but when once Mr. Brimble had entered upon action it was not a little that could stop him; so, with a sigh of regret, he followed the squire to the dining-room. What occurred there shall appear in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VIII.

'Mr. Cruden—Mr. Jobson, an intimate friend of poor Eu. Now, doctor, draw to the fire—the nights are getting quite chilly;' and the squire rang the bell.

'Have the horses taken from the doctor's chaise, and let them be well attended to.'

'My dear sir, no, no!' urged the doctor, attempting to stop the order.

'Why, man, you would never disgrace yourself by taking those poor brutes back again to-night: the merciful man is kind to his beast.'

'But I must go back,' cried the doctor.

'Well, then, put the greys in when the doctor is ready. One of our fellows can take yours back to-morrow—they shan't go away to-night; I'll answer for it they have done enough for to-day. So, now, sit down, and tell me your story; but first taste this claret—it's the king of my cellar at present. Jobson says it's excellent; but I can't make him drink any.'

The doctor gave himself up in despair for the time being, feeling that there was no possibility of stemming the tide; so he sat down in silence, filled with chagrin, taking little notice of Mr. Jobson, whose back was towards the light, obscuring his face. This circumstance, the difference in his dress, and the absence of all idea of seeing him there, together with the perturbation of his spirits, prevented immediate recognition of the stranger on the part of the doctor.

'So Bloodworth has been at his tricks, has he? Well, I'm glad there is an idea of ousting him; but you will never get it done. The best thing that could be done for Valary would be to bankrupt him, and send him to the Union; he would live better there, and so would all his family, than they do in that grim old place: it has never been the same since he had it.'

'Come, come,' said the doctor, giving a glance at the stranger; 'it is neither the time nor the place to take up old grievances.'

'Not the time? Why, hasn't his gruel disagreed with him, and made his conscience troublesome, and sent you to fetch me out to quiet it! I say it's just the time. As to the place, it's a very comfortable one, and the only thing to make such an uncomfortable subject tolerable; so begin at once. Don't wink towards Jobson,' he added, with a mischievous laugh; 'he may as well know what all the world knows.'

As to being angry with the squire, it was impossible under the greatest provocation; he managed to keep all personal ill-feeling at bay; he overcame every one with a certain frank benevolence that was irresistible.

The doctor and the stranger joined in the laugh, and for the first time the former looked fairly at the latter; he was struck with doubt and surprise.

'You'll excuse me,' he said; 'has Mr. Jobson been long with you?'

The stranger placed himself in the light and bowed, enjoying the effect of his silent answer.

'Well, this is marvellous,' said the doctor. 'I shall begin to believe I have been in fairyland.'

'Ha, ha, ha! a bright set of fairies you have been among,' said the squire. 'Somebody said they had worn out all their clothes, and Val had made them take to the old armour. Fancy fairies flying about in old armour!' and again he laughed. But the doctor's face grew more and more solemn—a fact which only increased the squire's merriment.

'Sir,' said the doctor with earnest gravity, 'may I ask who you are?'

'Now, that's your way of putting a question. I should have said, "When I have asked, will you tell me?"' said the squire, not recovered from his laugh.

'Oh, really, squire, this is very ill-timed,' said the doctor; 'and—and I may say unfeeling. I beg your pardon, but really it is'—

'As to unfeeling,' said Mr. Brimble, now serious, 'I've told you I don't believe a word about Valary's dying; he'll outlive us all—the worst always stay till the last; he will starve his own party out of the world, and then remain to plague us. You may shake your head; you are not the only man that shakes his head when there is nothing in it.'

'I believe I must turn you out of the conference, and take to Mr. Jobson,' said the doctor good-humouredly, for gravity, he saw, was of no avail. 'I wish I could starve you into a sober mind.'

'Sober nonsense!—drink some claret: I'm sure you must want some, for there's nothing but sawdust in Valary's cellar, I'll answer for it.'

'Well, now, listen to me,' said the doctor. 'I know I have given some false alarms; but this is no false alarm; and I promise you, if I am proved an ignoramus this time, to let things go as they will hereafter without interfering. As to seeing poor Marjory wither away without stirring a hand to help, or raising a voice for her, that man is not a man who could do it.'

'I honour you. Chivalry for ever! And poor little Madge, that I haven't spoken to since she was a few inches long, shall have help, and we'll all go to their rescue—say to-morrow morning.'

'Ah! that's of no use. Sir Valary had a bad fit yesterday. If another should come, his mind may not be clear, and he wishes for reconciliation: he does, I am convinced.'

'Ah! but you have a happy knack of being convinced of whatever you happen to wish. Now, I daresay you were quite convinced that I should return with you to-night.'

'Till I saw you, I confess,' said the doctor somewhat ruefully; 'but I might have known better.'

'Of course you might; hasn't he had the same fits for years, and is his intellect any the worse?'

The stranger interposed. 'You'll excuse my speaking' (to Mr. Brimble); 'but what if Dr. Cruden were to give a narrative of the facts that brought him to-night? If you'd give a patient hearing, you might judge whether the doctor's anxiety has magnified the necessity for prompt measures.'

'Capital plan,' said the squire. 'Go on, doctor; I'll listen. Jobson, pass the wine: it'll be a new story to you, but an old one to me; but mind, facts—no mysteries: they're altogether out of my way.'

'Well, there is a mystery now at Parker's Dew,' said the doctor.

'No doubt, and that is how Valary ever got there,' said the squire quickly.

'I believe you are right; and, as this gentleman is a friend of yours, and was the friend of your brother, perhaps I may speak about that very thing before him?'

The stranger rose to leave the room.

'Sit down,' said the squire, holding his arm. 'Go on, doctor.'

'The facts, then, are these. A short time since, Bloodworth went to the Dew and saw Sir Valary, and whatever passed between them had such an effect on him that he was placed in a most critical situation. During his rambling state of mind, when the violence of the attack was passing, Marjory noticed that he repeatedly asked for Elizabeth Higgs. You remember her, squire?'

'Old Bet? of course,' said the squire, with a nod.

'"She is dead, long ago dead, father," said Marjory, over and over again; but he moaned out, "No, she is not; she will rob you of everything," or something to that effect.'

'He ought to be ashamed of himself,' said the squire; 'old Bet was as honest as the day; but he fancies every one is like himself and Bloodworth.'

'Pray, don't!' expostulated the doctor. 'Well, when he was quite well and calm, Marjory told him of this; he looked vexed, at first, that he had disclosed so much, but afterwards confessed to her that there were reasons why the life or death of that woman was a matter of great importance to him, and that he had lately heard she was living; and Marjory gathered that Bloodworth had told him so. The first time I was alone with Sir Valary after Marjory had told me this,—which was on the very day that she met with you, sir,—I gently led the way to the subject, having first discovered, through the medium of Mr. Jobson, who knew the old woman, that she was really dead.'

'What! knew Bet Eggs?' said the squire, 'Why, Jobson, I shall get quite afraid of you, and begin to talk about fairies myself.'

'It was not very remarkable, when you know how the acquaintance was brought about,' said the stranger, smiling.

'Go on, doctor,' said the squire, who was beginning to get interested.

'Well, as I said, I led to the subject indirectly—gently.'

'Leave you alone for finessing,' said the squire; 'now, I should have gone straight at him at once.'

'And missed your aim, squire—I knew better. Very gently I got him to talk of old times, and then I brought the woman Higgs upon the carpet, and mentioned, just incidentally, that I had met with a person who had actually seen her buried—not assuming, you understand me, that Sir Valary had any interest in her death, nor even hinting at such a thing.'

'Well,' said the squire, 'go on.'

'Well, he didn't speak at first; he became much agitated, which I pretended not to notice; and after I had changed the subject, and he had recovered, he said, "Are you sure of that woman's death? I heard lately that she was living." I told him I believed there was no doubt of it, but if he had any interest in her, as an old servant, I would get indubitable proof for him. He said quickly, "I wish you could." Now this gentleman, my informant, has been the object of my search ever since, but I could get no clue to him. I was afraid of making direct inquiry, lest I should excite suspicion in Bloodworth, who has been very uneasy and changed in his manner lately. Yesterday morning he went to the Dew, and had a long interview with Sir Valary, the result of which was the severest attack I ever saw him in. I really can't see what Bloodworth has to do with it; the man is reasonable enough to speak to; but Sir Valary's state last night, and the whole of to-day, plainly indicates that there must be interference—that Sir Valary must be treated as incapable of conducting his own affairs, and Bloodworth made accountable to others, or else altogether ejected.'

'Now, do you see,' said the squire, when the doctor had finished, 'I have had this story, almost word for word, except Bet Eggs, over and over again; Valary quarrels with Bloodworth, gets into a rage, has a fit, and frightens them all. Well, that is as far as the play has gone yet. Now comes the second part. Bloodworth comes, begs pardon, is forgiven, and they are thicker than ever. I tell you, doctor, I would as soon interfere between a man and his wife as between those two.'

'You are hard to convince,' said the doctor. 'Mr. Jobson, you seem an authority with Mr. Brimble. I wish you would say a word; at any rate, I wish you would give me some evidence that Sir Valary will believe, of the death of that woman.'

The stranger fixed his eyes for a moment on the fire, then turning to the squire said, 'The death of that woman is of importance—at least, so Sir Valary thinks. Bloodworth is a desperate villain, as I have good reason to know.'

'You!' said the squire, almost breathless.

'Yes, I have known him for many years, though I never saw him till lately.'

'Well,' said the squire, throwing back his head and putting his hands in his pockets, 'I give you up.'

'Don't do that; you have shown such generosity in taking me almost entirely on my own testimony, that you must not stumble at trifles.'

'You are an odd fellow,' said the squire, looking at him; 'but I believe in you.'

'Do you know this?' asked the stranger, taking a miniature from his pocket.

'Know it!' said the squire; 'why, it's Eu; I remember the case. It was done before he was married.'

A knock at the door, and the entrance of a servant with a note, almost made the squire angry. 'What does this mean?' he said, looking at the address.

'What! —— Vandercroft, Esquire! What did you bring it here for?'

The servant said it was for the gentleman who lodged at Biddy Sparks'.

'THIS IS FROM SHADY EGGS. I SHALL READ IT ALOUD.'

Mr. Brimble looked inquiringly at the stranger, who immediately took the note. 'Leave it with me,' he said to the servant. 'This,' he continued, 'is from Shady Eggs. I shall read it aloud.'

'"RESPECTED SIR,—I trust you will excuse the incorrectness of putting a dash before your name, also any mistake I may have made in spelling it, should it be erroneously written. I have to inform you that Mr. Bloodworth, the steward to Sir Valary de la Mark, has pertinaciously endeavoured to discover your address, which I have, to the best of my poor ability, kept from him. If you desire to avoid an interview with him, as I divined was the case from your manner in the portrait gallery, I warn you that he now knows of your abode; that is, if it continues to be in the apartments at Mrs. Sparks', which you bespoke when I had the honour of being with you in the public vehicle. I do not love to interfere in other men's matters; and truly, with no malice to Mr. Bloodworth, but with respectful consideration for you, I write these few lines,

"And am, your servant to command,

"SHADRACH HIGGS.

'"I send this by a trusty messenger, who will return it to me if you are not to be found."'

'Higgs all over,' said Dr. Cruden.

'Stop,' said the squire; 'let us begin at the beginning. What makes him call you Vandercroft?'

'It is not the first name,' said the stranger, 'that has been gratuitously assigned to me, over and above that with which my parents honoured me.'

'Then your name is not Vandercroft?' said Dr. Cruden.

'No.'

'Why, then, assume it?'

'I did not; Bloodworth bestowed it on me through a natural misconstruction of his, and I did not think it worth while to undeceive him.'

'Capital!' said the squire. 'I'll wager anything that you are not Jobson.'

The stranger smiled.

'Are you?' asked the squire eagerly.

'According to you and Biddy Sparks I am.'

'According to me! why, you told me it was so.'

'On the contrary, it was you told me.'

'Why,' said the squire, starting from his seat, 'don't you remember that morning?'—

'Perfectly,' interrupted the stranger,—'when you addressed me as Mr. Jobson.'

'Well, you never contradicted me.'

'A man hasn't lived to grey hairs,' said the stranger, with a smile, pointing to the changing colour of his own, 'without knowing the worth of a name, as you observed just now; and as you were satisfied with Jobson, it quite contented me.'

'But how did Biddy get hold of it?'

'Like many others, Biddy is satisfied with slight evidence; she saw "Matthew Jobson" on the brass plate of a portmanteau which by an accident I had exchanged for my own in travelling, and she settled the matter at once without question.'

Mr. Brimble, holding the miniature in his hand, looked alternately at it and the stranger, while Dr. Cruden asked, 'Will you favour us with your true name?'

The stranger looked at the squire and replied, 'I think my uncle knows it—Eustace De la Mark.'

'I did know it,' said the squire, almost breathless; 'I did know it—I was sure of it; even while I called him Jobson I felt drawn to him. My dear boy, what right have you with grey hairs?' he said, affectionately grasping both his hands; 'and why have you served us in this way?'

'I have a very long story to tell,' said Eustace—no longer 'the stranger'—after the first agitation had passed; 'but it is of the utmost importance, remember, that I should not be known to any but yourselves for the present. My intention was to remain altogether concealed for some time yet; but I could not withstand it,' he said, again grasping his uncle's hand.

'You'll let me tell my wife? Up to this moment she believes you an impostor, and me a dupe.

'Let her think so still; the longer she is deceived the more complete the triumph will be.'

'Well, I may tell Char, at all events. How delighted she will be! she has never doubted you a minute.

A smile of satisfaction brightened the face of Eustace.

'No;' he said; 'let me have the pleasure of telling her myself, at some future time.'

'Pooh!' said the squire, who hated secrets; 'I almost wish I didn't know it; I must tell somebody.'

'When you have heard what I have to tell you, you will see the importance of secrecy; and, to prevent you from indiscretion, I think, with Dr. Cruden, if Sir Valary is indeed so very ill, we had better all three go to Parker's Dew; and on our journey you shall have a full account of all my history. You know Sir Valary believes me to be dead?'

'Not a bit of it,' said the squire; 'and I never believed it.'

'I give you my honour he does,' said Dr. Cruden.

'Have it your own way; but, Eu, is it necessary to go to-night? why not start the first thing in the morning? You know they have no beds, no supper; I doubt if they have even a rushlight.'

'It is growing late,' said Dr. Cruden; 'if we had gone when I first came'—

'I should not have found my nephew,' said the squire, looking with beaming affection on Eustace.

'You anticipate me, squire, but not correctly; I meant we should have had time to go without alarming them at so unseasonable an hour as we should now arrive at.'

'All right; then you think it is better to go to-morrow morning?'

'I am sorry for the delay.'

'Its importance,' said Eustace, 'depends on Sir Valary's state. Is he expecting my uncle?'

'Oh no; and he has nothing to fear from Bloodworth to-night. I trust, indeed, he will be kept calm till morning; and on the whole, perhaps'—

'Beaten, fairly beaten,' said the squire. 'Now that is settled; so draw close, and, Eustace, begin.'

CHAPTER IX.

'Need I remind you,' began Eustace, 'of my father's high, indomitable spirit?

'No, no,' said the squire hastily; 'he was the finest'—

'Now, squire,' said Dr. Cruden, laying his hand gently on his knee, 'let us agree, before Mr. De la Mark begins, that there shall be no interruptions, or we shall not finish to-night.'

'Go on,' said the squire.

'He could never brook the stern temper of my grandfather, and constant contention created serious disaffection between them.'

'That was all through Bloodworth,' said the squire; 'he was at the bottom of it all; he is a very'—

'Now, do hush,' said the doctor in a deprecating tone.

'Go on, Eu,' said the squire impatiently.

'He married—that you know—and I was born before he was twenty-one.'

'Yep, you must be pretty near thirty by this time.'

'I am thirty-five.'

'Why, that makes me fifty-three. How time flies! Well, lad!'

'You are aware that the discovery of his marriage was the cause of the final rupture.'

'Ah! Eu was wrong there; I was but a boy then, and did not understand things, and took his part through thick and thin; but it was a very foolish thing to fly in the old man's face that way.'

'Squire, squire,' said the doctor, 'what right have you to talk?'

'Well, that's true; but I thought he would get over mine, and Mary's property made it of little consequence, as far as money went.'

Eustace took the miniature from his uncle, and, opening the case on the other side, showed the portrait of a lady. 'That was my mother,' he said quietly.

'Ay, to the life; yes, she was a lovely creature, and as good as she was beautiful. Eu was perfectly right to marry her; but then he should have waited a little.'

'Bloodworth hurried him into it,' said Eustace, 'by telling him, in confidence, of another match which Sir Eustace had determined to effect between him and some lady distantly connected with his family.'

'Now, Eu,' said the squire, rising in his chair, 'if you expect me to keep my temper, don't mention that—pshaw! nonsense!' pushing away the doctor's hand—'that fellow's name more than you can help.'

'No. My father left his birthplace with a parent's curse ringing in his ears.'

'Shocking, shocking!' said the squire.

'You know nay mother,' continued Eustace, 'scarcely outlived my birth.'

'Poor Eu! Poor girl!' sighed the squire.

'At that time my father, as he afterwards told me, broken down with grief, wrote to Sir Eustace, entreating a reconciliation and a revocation of his curse.'

'I'll answer for it, my father never had that letter. I know he was hard, but he could not have stood that.'

'An answer came to it, written by Bloodworth, who complained bitterly of being made the medium of so painful a message. It was to the effect that Sir Eustace would pardon and receive him upon condition of his marrying again immediately, according to his choice; and it was couched in such arbitrary terms, so devoid of all natural feeling, so insulting to my mother's memory, and casting such unworthy reflections on my father's motive for making the advance, that he spurned the thought of replying to it. In that letter, too, Bloodworth confirmed what he had often insinuated in his former letters—that his brothers had helped to embitter the mind of Sir Eustace against him.'

'Oh, my dear sir,' said the doctor, laying his hand on Mr. Brimble, 'what is the use of chafing so? Pray, pray be pacified!'

The squire leant back in his chair in silence.

'I must tell you, my dear uncle, that my father did not believe it of you,—you were then about seventeen or eighteen,—and he could not credit that selfish interest could so have altered your heart, full of affection as he had left it, in the very bloom of youth. But, you excepted, he determined to forget all England and devote himself to me. My mother's slender fortune, and an estate to which he became entitled when of age'—

'Yes, Itterdale,' interrupted the squire.

'Left him by old Jasper Honeyman, some fiftieth cousin of my mother's—this enabled him to live at ease, though not in affluence. He converted the estate into money, and, without any settled home, wandered from country to country as inclination led him.'

'Eu, I could never understand why he did not write to me,' cried the squire, 'especially as we were in the same box; he married for love a woman of high family; I, for something of the sort, a woman of no particular "family,"'—involuntarily glancing round at the door,—'and glorious fortune, so we both came under the ban; he knew it, and I am puzzled to this day to know why he remained silent.'

'I am afraid of telling you the cause,' said Eustace.

'Go on,' said the squire, clenching his fist, and flushing with indignation.

'Yes; he was wholly deceived by that man, who wrote, adjuring him to be patient, entreating him to communicate all his proceedings to him, mourning over the conduct of his unnatural relatives, and promising'—

'Now don't, pray don't!' said the squire; 'if you love me, don't!'

'At last came the announcement of the death of Sir Eustace, and of his will, by which you and my father were disinherited, and Parker's Dew, with all other property, was left to Sir Valary.'

'Eu,' said the squire, starting up, 'I never believed in that will. I saw my father not long before his death; he entirely forgave me, and told me it lay sore on his heart that he could not see Eu before he closed his eyes. I gathered from what he said—but he was too ill to talk much—that he had tried to get at him for years, but without success. That will was a forgery!' continued the squire, striking the table with a vehemence that made the glasses dance.

'My father did not think so. We were in Rome when we received the news, and he determined on returning to England, that he might see you and find the truth of what he had heard. I was then eighteen, and rejoiced in the prospect of seeing my own country—the only one in Europe that I had not visited; but after a three days' illness my father fell a victim to malaria, and I was so ill as to be reported dead.'

'Of course,' said the squire; 'everybody said you were.'

'I think I should have justified the report, if it had not been for an excellent Protestant clergyman, who felt deeply for me, having just buried his wife in the same disease; he became a father to me, though I had no other claim upon his sympathy than needing it.'

'Where is he now?' asked the squire eagerly.

Eustace was silent.

'Ha!' said the squire; 'go on.'

'Like me, he was, as far as human ties go, alone in the world, and determined to spend the remainder of his life as a missionary in the East. I resolved to accompany him; for when we paid our last visit to the little Protestant burial-place, which contained the two who had been all to us on earth, it seemed as if nature and heaven had marked us out for companions. Eight years we wandered together through the East, he by his life and preaching teaching Christianity, I learning it. I cannot pretend to enter now into the labours and pleasures of those eight years. His health broke down. He died at Beirut, on our return westward, and again I was alone. Now my heart yearned for England. Was I to wander a stranger through life with mere chance companions? I embarked on board a vessel bound for Alexandria, intending to shape my course finally to my own country; but a doctor from Frankfort, our fellow-traveller through part of Syria, who had shown great kindness to my friend in his illness, and had skilfully soothed his sufferings, being my fellow-passenger now, won so upon my regard, which was before his, from gratitude, that I was induced to change my purpose, and try the Western world, where he designed to settle. Seven long years I spent in the two Americas, till, weary of the wide, wide world, I once more determined on seeking a home in the hearts of some who, strange to me, yet seemed to beckon me from the distance. It was you, uncle.'

'Ay, my lad; if I had known your whereabouts, I should have done more than beckon, I can tell you.'

'It happened, singularly enough, that the Frankfort doctor and I became again passengers in the same vessel. He had married an American lady, and was taking her home to Fatherland, preferring the small gains he expected to get in Dusseldorf, where he had a connection, to any amount of money away from it.'

'In the right of it!' said the squire. 'I would rather live on bread and cheese in England than have all the treasures of the Great Mogul in any other country.'

'You never did live on bread and cheese, squire,' said the doctor, with a smirk.

'Again his importunity overcame me,' continued Eustace, 'and for a time I deferred coming to England, and went instead with him to a country, many scenes in which were familiar to me, all my early education having been in Germany. Fascinated with old associations, I wandered about from place to place, as memory led me, feeling a happier nearness to my father there than I did when standing beside his grave. One day the fall of an old house in Dusseldorf, to which I had for a short time returned, induced me, with many passers-by, to assist in examining the ruins, lest any unfortunates should have been buried under them. Here I met with an accident, and was too much injured to speak. As a stranger, I was carried to the nearest hotel, I may call it. As soon as I could give an account of myself, my friend the doctor was sent for, and by his advice I was not moved to his house, but remained there under his care. Hearing that a pious Lutheran minister was visiting a sick woman in the same house, I requested to see him. In the course of conversation he told me he wished he could understand and speak English well, for the poor woman he was visiting, he said, was much restrained by feeling him to be foreign, and his words had less weight with her than they thought they otherwise would. "She is much troubled in mind," he said, "and I would thankfully give her relief."

'I immediately offered, as soon as I should be sufficiently recovered, to visit her for him; and I did so. I saw she had not very long to live, and had a burdened conscience; but I little suspected what she was about to confide to me. She had been nurse in the family of Sir Valary, having previously lived for many years with Sir Eustace. She revealed to me the whole of Bloodworth's villainy, in which she was deeply implicated, and gave me all the history of his contrivance to keep her away—of what she had suffered in banishment and in leaving Lady De la Mark and her infant—in fact, she left nothing untold, her great anxiety being to know if there were any pardon for sin like hers. She seemed reckless of exposure, and declared that if she lived she would willingly receive any punishment, provided she might have a hope of mercy hereafter. Her gratitude, when I disclosed to her who I was, was beyond bounds. She said she thought that having been permitted to restore me to my rights in so strange a manner was almost like a merciful assurance that there was pardon for her.'

OLD BET REVEALS THE WHOLE OF BLOODWORTH'S VILLAINY.

'Poor old Bet!' said the squire; 'I don't know what she did, but I'll answer for it, Bloodworth put her up to it.'

'And what was it?' said the doctor, breathless with interest.

'That I cannot divulge just now, and it is equally necessary that Bloodworth knows nothing of me until I convict him.'

'Let us go to-night,' said the squire.

'Too late, too late now!' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'Will you let me ask Mr. De la Mark'—

'He is Sir Eustace,' exclaimed the squire, 'and Valary has no right at Parker's Dew, and I always said so!'

'It is quite true, uncle; but at present I prefer to waive the honour; his infirmity, perhaps nearness to death, and poor Marjory's forlorn condition, have kept me back from taking any steps for the recovery of my rights. Of course I have taken legal means; but they are yet in abeyance. My intention in coming to England was to see those who would now be forced to acknowledge me as kin, without apprising them of the obligation.'

'Then the will is an absolute forgery?' said the doctor.

'An absolute forgery,' was the reply.

'And Sir Valary knows it?'

'He has known it for many years; but he did not at the time of taking possession.'

'Well, I'm glad of that, for the honour of the family,' said the squire huskily.

'And for his conscience' sake,' said the doctor.

'Well, it makes it a shade lighter. Pray, does Bloodworth know you are living?'

'He is uncertain about it; he has had glimpses of me now and then, but has not been able to follow me up.'

'And Valary—does he know it?'

'He also is uncertain. Bloodworth holds me over him, as nurses frighten children with spectres; and no doubt the attacks from which he has lately suffered have been in some way connected with the failure of their plans to ascertain the fact.'

'How came Bloodworth to call you Mr.—what was it?' asked the doctor.

'I purposely obtained a draft for him from a person in Dusseldorf with whom he has invested some of his ill-gotten gains. I was able to do this through the information given me by the woman Higgs. Vandercroft was the name of the person to whom the draft had been committed, and, not knowing that I was his substitute, he naturally gave the name to me. He had never received communications of the kind in so careless and open a manner, and became alarmed, I saw at once.'

CHAPTER X.

'My dear,' said Mr. Brimble, 'our being so late is entirely Mr. Jobson's fault. He has been telling us such astonishing things that all we have heard before from him has vanished into what Char calls, "blue distance." Eh, Char?' he continued, putting his arm fondly round her; 'wouldn't you have enjoyed being in my waistcoat pocket? Miss Cruden,' he added, addressing that lady, 'your brother has been almost as bad as Jobson, and I shall turn him over to you for correction.'

Mrs. Brimble looked stately, so far as her peevishness would allow her; Mora was half asleep over some embroidery—Miss Cruden, rather more than half, and hardly awoke to reply.

'Valary is very ill,' said the squire, advancing to his wife, 'and we are going in a body to see him to-morrow morning, first thing.'

'What do you mean by going in a body?'

'Why, I mean Eu and I and the doctor.'

'I?' exclaimed Mrs. Brimble.

'You—no,' said the squire, recollecting himself, 'Jobson I meant.'

'A strange mistake!' said the lady superciliously. 'You said, "you and I and the doctor."'

'Now, Mary,' said the squire in a whisper, 'just look at him, as he is standing between the two girls; isn't he a fine, handsome fellow? did you ever see any one like him?'

'Dear me, Mr. Brimble! I never saw any one like him but Saunders, our last footman, and he had just the same kind of nose. I see nothing particular in him; and I think it very forward of him to talk to the girls when there is Miss Cruden by.'

The squire laughed; he was afraid of going further; but Mrs. Brimble had not finished. 'Indeed, Mr. Brimble, your indiscretion is beyond everything. Here is a perfect stranger, who, because he happens to be agreeable to you, and is able to talk, is made quite at home among us, and we are expected to treat him like a friend. If you have no regard for your daughters, I have; it surprises me, after all the cautions I have given you, and the number of things I have saved you from, that you will not learn prudence.'

'My dear, you have enough for us all. It's seldom that more than a fair share of wisdom falls to the lot of any family, and you have monopolized all that was intended for the Brimbles. But tell me,' he said, trying to be grave, though the many mischievous twinkles of his eye ought to have betrayed him to so keen a judge of appearances as Mrs. Brimble considered herself to be,—'tell me, Mary, do you really look on Jobson as an impostor?'

'Mr. Brimble,' returned the lady, with an impressive shake of the head, 'I say nothing, but as to proof of the contrary, why, with me there is none, and there is a something about him that is very much Like an adventurer. I may be wrong—I would not be uncharitable; but'—

'Then you wouldn't advise me to let him visit here? in short, you would have me cut him?'

'All I desire is caution, Mr. Brimble. He has a manner I do not admire, and I think I may be allowed to be a judge of such things.'

'Well, I will be careful. He has rather a designing look, now I come to examine him,' said the squire, putting up his eyeglass; 'and he seems to me to be just now taking the bearings of Bessie Cruden's cap. I think I must go and put her on scent of danger.'

'Ah! you will be surprised one day, Mr. Brimble, and then you will remember my words, as you have often done before.'

'Well, Mary, if I'm wrong this time, you shall be right without question for ever, and administer lynch law to your heart's delight; but if I should be right, what then? It's just possible, though, he may turn out an adventurous "footman"—some spirited Saunders, as you fancy.'

'Charity!' said the lady impatiently, as she saw the object of her suspicion approaching her daughter. 'Mr. Brimble, pray go and entertain your guest, and send Charity to me—I wish to speak to her.'

The squire obeyed, and so did Charity, very reluctantly. Florence, having heard from Dr. Cruden of the intended expedition to Parker's Dew, assailed him with innumerable questions as to what was the matter—what would happen if Sir Valary died, where Marjory would go, etc.; and there was much wonderment among all the ladies as to the merits of the case, when they separated for the night.

* * * * *

In a room, dimly lighted by the early sun, streaming through narrow windows in a heavy wall, sat the sick man, with Marjory at his side.

'It is growing into day, Marjory,' he said in a feeble voice, raising himself from his half-recumbent posture.

Marjory, tenderly kissing his forehead, prepared the draught which Dr. Cruden had left for her father to take on his awaking.

Poor Marjory! all night she had been watching; every sound had made her heart beat. It might be Dr. Cruden; he promised to return—promised to bring her uncle; but the night had worn away; her father, sleeping and waking, had on the whole been more restful, more at ease, than she could have hoped. 'Something has kept him away,' she thought; but fatigue and anxiety, added to disappointment, had for the time quelled much of her dauntless spirit.

'Yours has been a dreary life, my child,' said the old man—old, not by years, but through the ravages of an embittered spirit; 'your youth buried in this gloomy place—no companionship'—

'No companionship!' exclaimed Marjory, nearly letting the medicine fall in her surprise.

More groaning out his feelings than addressing her, the old man continued, 'I have many sins on my head—my greatest—my love for you—drove me to— Alas! what a delusion! I see it now; he was right. I have been cruelly unjust—I have crushed your youth.'

'Who is right? who dares to say so? Cruel! are you not the very life of my heart, my father—my own, own father?' cried Marjory, closely embracing him.

'It has been delusion—strange delusion—fears for your future have driven me hither and thither. Oh, conscience! oh, the wrongs that I have done! Marjory, I implore you, beware of sin; poverty cannot make a hell, sin can. If I had resisted the tempter, I should not have been thus—blighted, cursed!'

Never had Marjory heard words like these from her father's lips. The suspicions she had allowed herself in were faint, compared with these vague confessions. Lost in pain and wonder, she mingled her tears with his, entreating him to be comforted, and to remember how precious to her was his love, how burdensome life would be without it. After a short pause, she said in a gentle tone, 'Father, dear father, have you any secret trouble on your mind? will you hide it from me—from Marjory?'

Sir Valary was long silent; while Marjory fondly smoothed the long white locks that strayed upon his shoulder. 'Perhaps, father, while the world counts you rich, you are poor, or you fear to be so, for my sake.'

Sir Valary laid his hand upon her head as she knelt by his side, but made no reply.

'I hear footsteps,' said Marjory, opening the door.

'Mistress Gillies, madam, entreats you so far to consider your health as to retire for a short time for refreshment, allowing me to take your place. I should not have left it till now to proffer my unworthy services, but I feared disturbing either your or my honoured master's sleep. I have been some time assuring myself that I heard your voices.'

Poor Shady had the whole of that night made the passage his chamber, sitting bolt upright with his back near his master's door, fearing that Marjory might require help before it could be rendered, unless he were a wakeful watcher.

Marjory saw plainly enough that something more than the request he had made had brought him, and immediately guessed that the doctor and her uncle had arrived.

'Where?' she said quietly, as she passed from the room, Sir Valary having entreated her to obey the summons of Mrs. Gillies.

'In the hall below,' replied Shady in the same tone.

Much exhausted, she gathered up her spirits, and, descending the stairs, had her hand upon the door, when Mrs. Gillies, who was awaiting her, lifted it off hastily. 'Are they not there?' said Marjory in surprise.

Instead of answering, the housekeeper laid her finger on her lips, and, taking Marjory's hand, led her through the passage that led to the kitchen. She followed unresistingly, too weary almost for curiosity. When safe within her own precincts, the housekeeper said, 'My dear young lady, Bloodworth is in the hall; he has got Shady's books and many papers, and wants to see Sir Valary as soon as he can; for he says he has a long journey before him, and has nothing but pleasant news, and that everything is going well, and Sir Valary will not be fretted, and many more fine speeches; so I thought it was better to leave him quiet, for I knew Dr. Cruden would be as good as his word, and be here soon, and then his chance of doing mischief would be over. I have turned the key outside the door, without his knowing it.'

Mrs. Gillies was so pleased with her own adroitness that she scarcely noticed the colourless lips and sunken eyes of Marjory at first. 'Ah!' cried she; 'here am I chattering, and you too ill to listen.'

Warmth, restoratives, and an hour's rest brought back some colour, some sign of life, some spirit in the eye of Marjory, and the first return of power took her again to the side of her father. His head, a little on one side, rested on the back of his chair, and his eyes were closed as though in sleep. Shady had arranged his pillow, adjusted the room, and, with all the ingenuity of affection, tried to give an air of cheerfulness and comfort to the apartment. With his usual deferential bow he left the room as she entered it, determined, whatever might come, that if the doctor did not appear till midnight, Bloodworth should not have access without him to Sir Valary. Marjory sat down silently in her old place at her father's feet, leaning her head upon his knee, having told Shady not to allow them to be disturbed until Dr. Cruden's arrival. 'It cannot be long,' she said, 'before he comes.'

A gentle sigh escaped the sleeper. 'He is awaking,' said Marjory, kissing the hand that lay close beside her cheek; but sleep seemed to return again, no other sound followed; and, resting her face against him, while she clasped the hand in her own, overcome with weariness she slept.

CHAPTER XI.

'Take the chaise down to the inn,' said the squire.

'That is advisable,' said Dr. Cruden. 'I never bring a servant here.'

'I haven't seen poor Shady for a long time,' said the squire. 'He's a good fellow, but has lived so long alone that strange faces would scare him; and as to horses, I would not trust one in such a miserable wilderness of starvation for the world. How are we to get in? In my time we went in and out at the front door like other folks; the last time I came, you took me through the little door in the tower.'

'I think it would be more prudent if we entered the kitchen way—Sir Valary is less likely to hear us;' for the doctor knew perfectly well that when the squire meant to be exceedingly quiet he carried a considerable amount of bustle, which seemed as necessary to him as his breath.

'All right; we might have a worse place than the kitchen at breakfast-time, and I should think we must all of us be pretty nearly ready for a second. What a miserable place it is!' he continued, as they entered the courtyard; 'doesn't it look as if it had had the nightmare for the last fifty years? Well, stone walls are not worth crying about; but I can't say this is a very promising introduction to the home of your ancestors, Eu.'

Mrs. Gillies, who had seen their advance, met them, making her lowest curtsey to the squire, for whom, in common with all, she entertained a hearty regard.

'What! you haven't forgotten me then!' he said good-humouredly.

'Forgotten you, sir!' was the reply. A few questions put them in possession of all they wanted to know concerning Sir Valary, and of more than they expected in respect of Bloodworth's opportune visit.

'Capital! we can settle the whole affair at once; I like finishing up. Now, how shall we proceed?'

'My advice is that I go in to Sir Valary directly he awakes, and prepare him for an interview with you. By degrees we must unfold the cause of our visit as he is able to bear it, and'—

'And then Eu is to come in. I see.' Shady, who had been listening at Sir Valary's door for sounds within and sounds without, heard the squire's voice, and, gently descending, made his appearance among them. Bloodshot eyes from a sleepless night had not increased the vivacity of his countenance.

'Shady,' said the squire, shaking him kindly by the hand, 'why, what have they been doing to you? I hope your master does not look as bad as you do.'

'He is tranquilly sleeping,' said Shady, moved to tears by the squire's kindness. 'I have but now left his door, and there is not the sound of a breath within; but Miss De la Mark requested that when Dr. Cruden arrived he might be taken to the chamber.'

'Good,' said the squire; 'I am glad we are going to proceed to action. Go, doctor; tell him to cheer up, and he'll soon come right again.'

The doctor was halfway up-stairs before the squire's parting charge was over. Mr. Brimble and his nephew were engaged in such conversation as their circumstances naturally suggested, questioning Shady on points on which he could perchance throw light. The doctor returned, looking exceedingly pale.

'What! back already!' said the squire.

'My dear friend,' he replied, unable to restrain his tears, 'it is all over; such a scene may I never witness again!'

Exclamations of shocked surprise burst from Sir Eustace and his uncle, while Shady stood transfixed and seemed ready to faint.

'Come,' said the doctor; and he returned, leading the way to the chamber of death.

Leaning in his chair, his attitude unchanged, his eyes still closed, rested all that remained of Sir Valary De la Mark, while Marjory, with the hand still clasped in hers, slept that heavy sleep which nature sometimes claims to repair extreme exhaustion.

'This is too much!' said the squire; 'how shall we get her away?'

'Leave me, leave me,' replied the doctor. 'I will do it.'

Willingly Mr. Brimble relinquished to him the task, and the doctor, gently releasing the cold hand from Marjory's grasp, raised her from her father's side.

'My dear child,' he said tenderly, 'you must not remain here now. Your uncle is come, and we need to be alone with—in this room; and you shall lie down, my dear—Mrs. Gillies—rest on me—this way;' and he attempted to lead her from the room, but Marjory was now awake, and resisted the movement at first. 'Need I leave him?' she whispered. 'I have slept, I am quite strong now, and he must be better, for he has slept so long.'

Importunity at last prevailed. She consented to go for a while. 'But let me see him first,' she said; just one look. He was so calm, so peaceful, when he first sank into sleep. How could I sleep when I ought to have been watching him?'

Finding it vain to resist, the doctor yielded, and she advanced.

Not a cry—not a word—but one long settled look of horror and despair. She stood motionless before the body.

* * * * *

'Leave me to deal with him,' said Eustace. 'But you,' turning to the doctor, 'had better be with me. We will spare you, my dear uncle; there is no necessity to arouse your feelings by bringing you in contact with him.'

'Good!' said the squire, who had been leaning silently on the window-frame, looking out on the neglected garden, and living over again the scenes of his youth. There had never existed any brotherly affection between him and Sir Valary; entire contrariety of character, and the treatment of Eustace, which the squire had always attributed to him, had early separated them, and the influence of Bloodworth had succeeded in keeping them apart, even to the end. It was not grief for the dead, therefore, that gave the saddened expression to his fine manly countenance. There were, no doubt, regrets, but they were for Eustace, whom he had dearly loved. But there were uneasy thoughts—unwelcome reminders—that he alone remained of that generation, and that he too must die.

From subjects pointing this way Mr. Brimble ever studiously turned. He had faced death often in the pursuit of pleasure, for he was still so fearless a rider that his escapes while hunting were often the marvel of the neighbourhood.

Yet to see the destroyer close, in calmness and quiet, was more than he could bear! indeed, if truth were told, that ever joyous face was sometimes but a mask hiding gloomy, heart-sickening misgivings. He had a deep-seated respect for religion. He fully, honestly, intended one day to be ready to die, and hoped, or thought he did, to go to heaven, when he could no longer live on earth. But that day he put off as an evil day, and avoided everything that reminded him of its necessity. It was, therefore, very acceptable to him to be released from a scene that was every way adverse to his comfort.

'If I could be of any use,' he said; 'but I am no man of business, and as to poor Madge, I couldn't see her yet; I should only make her worse.'

Ah! it is at such times that the truth of human nature comes out. The squire was benevolent to a proverb—open-handed as the day, kind as a father—up to a certain point, in earthly relationships and dealings, blameless. Yet, after all, his was a most refined selfishness. He enjoyed the happiness of others, for it unconsciously helped to make his own, and this gave the glowing colours to his universally admired character. But to deny himself, to suffer with others, to descend into darkness with them, and bear their sorrows—oh no! Yet this shrinking from the griefs of others was looked on as a finishing mark of his great amiability. Thus, even in regard to his fellow-men, his love was one-sided; and in regard to the higher love, without which all earthly excellencies are vain, his heart had it not. Every mile that took him from Parker's Dew lightened his spirit, for his constant habit of suppressing all painful or serious thoughts had made the effort a very easy one.

The heavy walls and high windows of the apartment in which Bloodworth had remained forgotten had prevented him from hearing the hurry and confusion of the last two or three hours, and he was chafing with rage against the housekeeper and Shady for their insolence in thus detaining him, if done purposely, when the door opened and the doctor and Sir Eustace entered. Various emotions in turn took the place of anger, but fear was predominant. He looked with a cowering, questioning expression, but was silent.

'Mr. Bloodworth,' said Dr. Cruden, 'your accounts will be required—your late master's affairs'—

The doctor always failed in a set speech: he could get no further. The shock, compassion for Marjory, sympathy with the heart-stricken Shady and the faithful housekeeper, had left him no time to feel; but now that he came to announce the death of his friend, whose sickness he had so long anxiously watched, and for whom he had from boyhood had a very sincere attachment, he was overcome.

Bloodworth's eyes moved quickly from one to the other. He was by no means taken by surprise. He had long expected it. He had intended to make his final visit to his master that morning, hoping so to profit by it as to remove all fear and establish his future fortunes.

'Am I to understand,' he said, 'that Sir Valary'—

'You understand aright,' said Sir Eustace, interrupting him. 'And now, sir, where is the original will of Sir Eustace De la Mark? Understand me. By the original will, I mean that which was set aside to make way for the instrument that put your late master in possession of his father's property, to the exclusion of his brother. Are you prepared to produce it?' he continued, waving his hand, as he saw that Bloodworth was about to assert a denial.

'Really,' said the steward, pale with terror, but trying to recover his effrontery, 'this is very strange conduct. Sir Valary, whom I have served so faithfully for so many years, and for whom I have sacrificed my comfort and earned a bad name, is no longer alive to protect me, and therefore I am to be attacked with base charges,—unjust charges,—and that by strangers. Where is Mr. Brimble? I know that he is executor to Sir Valary; I always begged that he would make him so. He is the proper person to inquire into all the affairs, and I hold myself answerable to him, and to no one else.'

'You talk beside the mark,' said Sir Eustace coolly; 'you will certainly be called upon to account for your stewardship. But you know perfectly well that the estates which Sir Valary was supposed to possess did not belong to him. We need not waste words; the will to which you were last a witness was a forgery. You are now required to produce that for which it was substituted, and which I know is not destroyed.'

'I will take my oath,' said Bloodworth after a pause, 'that I saw that will signed by Sir Eustace's own hand, and that I was a true witness to the signature. There was indeed a previous will,' he continued, rather reassured by the silence that followed this declaration, 'to which I and my fellow-witness in the last both subscribed also. Sir Eustace suddenly had another one drawn up, in consequence of certain reports that reached him concerning his two sons.'

'Who drew up the will?'

'Nicholas Harris, a clerk of mine bred to the law.'

'Where is he to be found?'

'That would be unimportant,' said Bloodworth carelessly; 'he died, however, shortly afterwards.'

'Bloodworth,' said Sir Eustace, 'the deed was soon done, and will take little time to confess. Make a clean breast, and say who signed that second will that you attested?'

'Sir Eustace De la Mark.'

CHAPTER XII.

The three had up to this point been standing; but Sir Eustace, motioning to Bloodworth to be seated, beckoned Dr. Cruden to stand before them; then, placing a pen in the steward's hand, he guided it with his own, and wrote in large letters on a piece of blank paper that lay on the table, 'Eustace De la Mark,' the steward passively submitting to the movement.

'Whose signature?' he asked, fixing his eyes on Bloodworth. The steward trembled violently, and was about to rise, but Sir Eustace held his arm. 'Shall we make another will and let Sir Valary sign it? A pen in a dead man's hand has been found a pliant writer before now.'

There was no answer, for the culprit could not trust his voice; but an exclamation of horror and surprise burst from the doctor.

'It was so,' said Sir Eustace; 'I have the confession in full of the woman Higgs, dictated on her deathbed, and taken down and witnessed by the clergyman and surgeon who attended her—a strange device for quieting conscience and cloaking perjury. Your partner in crime, every way less guilty than yourself, saw through the flimsy cheat, and heartily repented.'

'I never heard of such shocking wickedness!' said the doctor, holding up his hands; 'oh dear, dear—no wonder my poor friend—oh, horrible!' he said, turning his back on Bloodworth. The scornful sneer with which the steward noticed this movement quickly gave way to an assumption of boldness.

'I don't know you,' he said fiercely. 'I am not to be brow-beaten for a crazy woman's ravings—got out of her, perhaps, by some impostor to get money out of Sir Valary while he was alive, or out of the son of him that was disinherited; but the will was proved and never questioned. Let me pass, I say,' he said, trying to get towards the door; 'I have much to do. Mr. Brimble is executor to Sir Valary, and I will account to him.'

'The business is in the hands of the law,' said Sir Eustace, 'as you will shortly be. You will have more help in preparing your papers than you desire.'

'You can't search my house, you have no warrant. Oh, let me go—I promise—yes, only let me go—I will indeed'—

'Confess?' asked Sir Eustace. 'It is needless.'

'No, no, explain it, and—and'—

'Give up the will. That may as well be taken from its hiding-place; the law employs expert seekers.'

'Fool that I have been!' cried the steward, who now saw his true position—that he was without hope of escape.

'It is well that you know that,' said Sir Eustace; 'there is hope that you may seek for wisdom.'

But the steward rocked to and fro in his chair, his violent passions venting themselves in choking imprecations on his own folly.

Hoping little from him in this state, Sir Eustace beckoned the doctor to the door, intending to leave him awhile; but the paroxysm had passed, and, starting up, he looked fixedly on Sir Eustace.

'Tell me one thing,' he said; 'are you employed by the son of the last Sir Eustace?' Sir Eustace nodded assent. 'Then if I were to disclose the truth of everything'—

'Needless—it is disclosed; have I not told it but now?'

'Ay! but how it came about, and—and'—

'My dear Sir Eustace,' said the doctor, who thought his companion looked inflexible, and who was extremely and anxiously curious to know the particulars of the wonderful story, 'let him speak; let him tell it all. I long to have my poor dear friend's memory cleared. I'm sure he never could have known of such unnatural wickedness.'

Nothing of this speech came to the ears of Bloodworth but the title of him who was addressed. He looked fixedly at him, and then, falling on his knees, entreated pardon, repeatedly promising to reveal all.

Tenderness for Sir Valary's memory, and the feelings of his cousin Marjory, who had not shown any sign of recovery from the shock of his death, with a natural desire to spare the honour of his name, made Sir Eustace willing to pass with as little notoriety as possible through the strange revelations that must be made in order to put him in possession of his rights. He saw the importance of having Bloodworth's free and unconstrained testimony in order to obtain this, and conditionally promised his pardon.

The long story that followed must be told in few words. The second will was executed and signed after death, as described, by Bloodworth's contrivance, in order that Sir Valary might succeed to the whole property. His motive was to open to himself a source of wealth otherwise unattainable. For some time after Sir Valary's succession he kept the dead signature an entire secret; when all things were well established and going smoothly, and a daughter was born, in whom, after the death of his wife, all his affections were centred, pretending to be pricked by conscience, he revealed it. Sir Valary's first impulse was to seek out his brother's heir and make restoration, but the steward artfully represented that the reported death of the young man must be true, or he would have sought refuge in England when left alone; again, the portionless state of his infant daughter was adroitly brought before him, and in a moment of weakness he relented, and promised to conceal the strange forgery.

This placed him wholly in Bloodworth's power. At one time he would work on his gratitude, declaring it was love for him that led him to the deed; at another, talk of conscience, and hint at the need of a public confession, wringing from him some costly gift, either to repay his service or to calm his conscience. The death of the widow Higgs, who, while she lived, was a terror to him, lest she should turn betrayer, was a great relief to Sir Valary, and to rob him of this Bloodworth had thrown doubt on its truth. The malady from which he suffered was greatly aggravated by the conflicts of his mind, which became clouded and weakened by the ravages of the disease. The steward had already obtained large sums of money, which he had invested in foreign property, to avoid suspicion, and it was his hope that morning to obtain the assignment of a valuable deposit, in return for which he intended to give up the original will to his master, over whom he had long held it as a scorpion whip, and quit with his then sufficient gains a place that would soon be stripped of its attraction; for with Sir Valary he knew would die his hope of further fortune. The true will established, and Sir Eustace De la Mark acknowledged as the rightful possessor of Parker's Dew, his rule must be considered as of the past.

Sir Valary's funeral was, according to an urgent request in his will, private; and to this will, which was attested by Shady Higgs and Mrs. Gillies, was appended a desire in his own hand that his tenants, if any had suffered wrong, should be righted; that they should be made to understand, in common with all, that his rigid economy had been occasioned by a desire to realize an honourable portion for his daughter, after such sums as had been expended by him out of the property had been repaid to his brother's son, whenever he should appear.

'This,' it concluded with saying, 'being the only way left me to repair a great wrong done, and to blot out the disgrace that I have unwittingly brought on the name of De la Mark.'

All the injustice the tenants had suffered, all extortions, were with one consent laid to Bloodworth's door, and Sir Valary was heartily forgiven by all, from his nephew downwards. Great was the rejoicing that welcomed Sir Eustace. Once more the 'Dew' would be what the old inhabitants of the place remembered it. Nay, it promised to surpass its former grandeur; for, simple and unostentatious as Sir Eustace was in his personal habits and tastes, he spared nothing in restoring the home of his ancestors. It was the delight of the squire to look over his plans, suggest improvements, and extol those already made. It seemed as if he had indeed found a son in Sir Eustace, who was able to interest him in all things; such subjects, even, as Charity seldom dared to enter on, came with acceptance from him.

'What shall we do when the Dew is finished?' said the squire to the ladies, as he looked at the drawing-room timepiece; 'already, you see, we lose him day after day; he promised faithfully to be here by seven.'

'Then he will be here,' said Mrs. Brimble, confidently; and scarcely had she said so when he entered. Most heartily was he greeted.

'Where's Char?' said the squire, looking round; 'she was here just now. I want her to see the plan of the new windows in Sir Mark's Tower. Eu has brought them to-night.'

'She will, I think,' said Mrs. Brimble, 'spend the evening with poor Marjory, whom we cannot prevail on to leave her room.'

'She seems to me to be always chosen,' said the squire, in a tone of displeasure, as he glanced at Flora.

'Yes, papa dear, she is,' said Flora; 'that's just it. Marjory likes me very well for five minutes, but at the end of that time I'm quite sure she neither sees nor hears me, though she is looking straight at me, and I am talking as fast as I can. I'm sure I can't think how Charity manages it—she can amuse her a whole evening.'

'It is not fair,' said the squire, 'that we should always lose Char in this way. Couldn't you brush up a few subjects, Flo?'

'Why, papa, there are so many interdicted, and they happen to be the very ones that come most naturally—the improvements at the Dew, and the way you tease mamma about cousin "Jobson." Of course one must not say anything about these, for fear of hurting her feelings, and reminding her; and music makes her melancholy. I'll go now with pleasure,' she said, rising, 'and send Char down; but—but—she'll go to sleep, and so shall I.'

Mrs. Brimble interposed. 'Charity had earnestly begged to spend the evening with her; and indeed,' she said, 'strange as it may seem, though Charity is so serious, she has a wonderful way of making everybody lively.'

'That is the reason we want her here,' said the squire.

While Flora Brimble was apparently never so happy as in the society of her cousin, whom, like her father, she found a great addition to their family party, Charity was restrained in her manner towards him, and seemed tacitly to avoid even speaking of him, availing herself of the plea of Marjory's preference for her company to quit the family circle when he was there.

CHAPTER XIII.

'Well, Dr. Cruden,' said Mrs. Brimble, 'what is your opinion of the improvements going on at the Dew? Mr. Brimble will not take us till all is complete.'

'The place will be charming, and so transformed that poor Marjory will not know it. Sir Eustace has an excellent taste, has he not, squire?'

'He's excellent every way, except that he has a sort of Saunders look sometimes, Mary thinks.'

'We are none of us infallible, Mr. Brimble; and, so exposed to mistakes as we have been by your imprudence, it was necessary I should be cautious.'

'Quite,' said the squire, who was watching with his eyeglass through a side window something that attracted him, and he immediately left the room.

'I think Eustace will be a valuable person in that position, doctor,' continued the lady, looking up from her work-frame, on which she was embroidering the arms of De la Mark for a chair for her nephew.

'I feel sure of it,' said the doctor.

'We shall miss him very much when he settles at the Dew. I hope he will marry well.'

'I don't know any one better able to choose a good wife, madam, and he is worthy of the best; therefore his marriage will doubtless give satisfaction.'

'I daresay, like all young men in his position, he has been married to more young ladies than one by the country gossips.'

'Not unlikely,' said the doctor.

'I have not heard any reports,' said Mrs. Brimble; 'but of course people would be delicate in speaking to me.'

'Oh yes, very properly so,' said the doctor, not in the least divining the lady's tactics.

'I suppose,' said Mrs. Brimble carelessly, looking very intently on some shades of wool, as if her whole heart were fixed upon making a right choice, 'you have never heard anything hinted, doctor?'

'I cannot say I have not. My sister, in her numerous visits, falls in with such reports, and she has told me of several; but I think none likely, though, indeed, one lady that I am not at liberty to name would shine in married life.'

Mrs. Brimble got quite out of sorts with her wools, and had to tumble her basket over for some time before she was calm enough to ask the doctor for the lady's name, which of course she did not wish to know from idle curiosity, but out of pure disinterested affection for her dear nephew.

'I hope I am not doing wrong,' said the doctor, 'in mentioning the Honourable Amelia Groves.'

'Oh, you need not fear my mentioning it,' said Mrs. Brimble quickly; 'but that will never come to anything. I know the kind of girl he ought to marry—some one with spirit, lively and amusing, and if I know anything of Eustace, his choice is nearly made, if not quite.'

'Oh,' said the doctor, 'I am sure you ought to tell me.'

'If you have not had a guess that way yourself, doctor, I would rather not.'

The doctor looked up at the ceiling, crossed and uncrossed his legs, leant his head upon his hand, rubbed his forehead, and went through all the various manoeuvres which imply deep thought, finishing the process by guessing one of the Miss Punters.

'I am a bad hand at guessing,' he said, finding that Miss Punter was not well received. 'At one time I thought it not unlikely that poor little Marjory would be his choice, but I think now he never felt anything for her but deep pity; and as to her, poor girl, her heart is buried with her father, whom I fear she will shortly follow.'

'I thought people never died of grief, doctor.'

'Grief is a strong consumer, madam; but Marjory inherits from her mother that terrible disease that laid her in an untimely grave.'

The squire, re-entering, turned the conversation. 'Eu tells me that he must return to-night, and that you go with him, and he wants me to go too; he says he has capital quarters there, so I think of sending one of the fellows on with some dogs—eh, Mary? only for a day or so, you know.'

Flora came into the room just in time to hear the announcement, and protested loudly against it, denouncing her cousin Eu in no very measured terms for his unreasonable proposal.

'You little vixen!' said the squire; 'isn't it enough for your mother to sit there harrowing my heart with her looks, but I must stand your tongue too? How would it be if we all went?'

'Oh, lovely!' said Flora; 'how I should like it!'

'Highly incorrect,' said Mrs. Brimble.

'My dear Mary, if you would be so very correct, you must abide by being uncomfortable. Let us share the honours; you shall be correct, and Flo and I will be comfortable. Flo, we'll go—we'll have rooms at the De la Mark Arms, and we can rough it there for a night.'

The horror of Mrs. Brimble at such a proposal was too much for the squire, and, taking the doctor's arm, with a mischievous laugh he left the room.

'I'm sure papa has got something in his head,' said Flora; 'see how he's talking, too, in the garden with Dr. Cruden; he is so delighted! What can it be?'

While Flora and her mother were watching and wondering, Charity was learning the secret that so perplexed them. She had been reading to Marjory, and a gentle tap at the door introduced, to her great surprise, her cousin Eustace. He so strongly recalled Marjory's most painful feelings that it was sometimes beyond her strength to be long in his society. To-day she felt weaker than usual, and left the room soon after he entered it.

An awkward silence ensued, then a few remarks as to her state. At length Eustace, breaking through the restraint, said, 'Cousin Charity, I fear I have driven Marjory away, and yet I cannot regret it; indeed, my purpose was to see you; yes, and to see you alone—a privilege I have sometimes thought you studiously avoided giving me. I wanted to ask you one question. Is the kind feeling with which you regarded me when I was poor Jobson quite gone?'

Charity was silent; but a glance at her satisfied Eustace that he had nothing to fear.

About half an hour afterwards Eustace joined his uncle, telling him that he had received Charity's consent, for which he had asked permission to plead, and that there was now no necessity to punish him with a secret.

The squire shook him warmly by the hand, and lost no time in taking advantage of his liberty.

CHAPTER XIV.

'Who's ready for Parker's Dew?' said the squire, entering the drawing-room. 'Now is your time to see it, for I have just heard a grand secret—there is going to be a wedding.'

'Oh, I am so glad!' said Flora. 'Who is it?'

'Well, that is very good-natured,' said the squire, 'considering you have nothing to do with it; and yet we are all deeply interested in it. Now guess who it is. I am sure it's worth a guess.'

'Oh, it's cousin Eu, of course,' said Flora.

'Ay, but the lady, Flo, the lady'—

Mrs. Brimble looked up nervously.

'Miss Punter,' and 'the Honourable Amelia Groves,' died upon her lips.

'What! give it up without a guess?' said the squire, looking at them both.

'I know whom he ought to have married,' said Flora, with a little toss of her head.

'You?' said the squire.

'Me!' said Flora; 'he would have despised me before a month was up, as Marjory does in five minutes. Oh, no, he is beyond me, besides being too old.'

After a little more teasing, in which the squire did not spare Mrs. Brimble's penetration, the secret was out; and a day of much rejoicing it was at Brimble Hall.

It was arranged that, on the marriage taking place, Marjory should occupy rooms fitted up for her at Parker's Dew, as her own independent home; but she did not live to see their completion.

'By the grace of God, you know, Shady,' said Sir Eustace, when fairly settled, 'as you once interpreted to me, we have all things;' and constantly had Shady proof that his master knew this. As home steward and librarian, he reigned supremely happy in his paradise, but never so happy as when labouring under Sir Eustace's direction for the improvement of the poor around.

Mrs. Gillies was now truly the housekeeper of Parker's Dew, with a goodly retinue of underlings.

Squire Brimble, as years advanced and the influence of his son-in-law increased, lost the dark clouds that had at times obscured his sunshine, and enjoyed a far more solid happiness than he had known in the most joyous days of his youth.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

THE BLACK TROOPERS

THE BLACK TROOPERS.

CHAPTER I. A MEETING—THE RIDE ROUND THE RUN.

CHAPTER II. 'OLD MAN TOBY.'

CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT ATTACK.

CHAPTER IV. THE CONFESSION.

CHAPTER V. PREPARATIONS FOR PURSUIT.

CHAPTER VI. ON THE TRAIL.

CHAPTER VII. THE END OF THE CHASE.

CAPTAIN STAUNCY'S VOW.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE FORGED WILL.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

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