"You think that Mr. Sheldon would let his stepdaughter marry a

penniless man?"

"I may not always be penniless. Besides, Mr. Sheldon has no actual

authority over Charlotte."

"But he has moral influence over her. She is very easily influenced."

"I am ready to hope even in spite of Mr. Sheldon's opposing influence.

You must not try to crush this one little floweret that has grown up in

a barren waste, Diana. It is my prison-flower."

Mrs. Sheldon came into the room as he said this. She was very cordial,

very eloquent upon the subject of her headache, and very much inclined

to go to the theatre, notwithstanding that ailment, when she heard that

Mr. Hawkehurst had been kind enough to bring her a box.

"Diana and I could go," she said, "if we can manage to be in time after

our six o'clock dinner. Mr. Sheldon does not care about theatres. All

the pieces tire him. He declares they are all stupid. But then, you

see, if one's mind is continually wandering, the cleverest piece must

seem stupid," Mrs. Sheldon added thoughtfully; "and my husband is so

very absent-minded."

After some further discussion about the theatres, Valentine bade the

ladies good afternoon.

"Won't you stop to see Mr. Sheldon?" asked Georgina; "he's in the

library with Captain Paget. You did not know that your papa was here,

did you, Diana, my dear? He came in with Mr. Sheldon an hour ago."

"I won't disturb Mr. Sheldon," said Valentine. "I will call again in a

few days."

He took leave of the two ladies, and went out into the hall. As he

emerged from the drawing-room, the door of the library was opened, and

he heard Philip Sheldon's voice within, saying,--

"--your accuracy with regard to the name of Meynell."

It was the close of a sentence; but the name struck immediately upon

Valentine's ear. Meynell!--the name which had for him so peculiar an

interest.

"Is it only a coincidence," he thought to himself, "or is Horatio Paget

on our track?"

And then he argued with himself that his ears might have deceived him,

and that the name he had heard might not have been Meynell, but only a

name of somewhat similar sound.

It was Captain Paget who had opened the door. He came into the hall and

recognised his _protégé_. They left the house together, and the Captain

was especially gracious.

"We will dine together somewhere at the West-end, Val," he said; but,

to his surprise, Mr. Hawkehurst declined the proffered entertainment.

"I'm tired out with a hard day's work," he said, "and should be very

bad company; so, if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to Omega-street and

get a chop."

The Captain stared at him in amazement. He could not comprehend the man

who could refuse to dine luxuriously at the expense of his fellow-man.

Valentine had of late acquired new prejudices. He no longer cared to

enjoy the hospitality of Horatio Paget. In Omega-street the household

expenses were shared by the two men. It was a kind of club upon a small

scale; and there was no degradation in breaking bread with the elegant

Horatio.

To Omega-street Valentine returned this afternoon, there to eat a

frugal meal and spend a meditative evening, uncheered by one glimmer of

that radiance which more fortunate men know as the light of home.

CHAPTER II.

VALENTINE'S RECORD CONTINUED.

_October 15th_. I left Omega-street for the City before noon, after a

hasty breakfast with my friend Horatio, who was somewhat under the

dominion of his black dog this morning, and far from pleasant company.

I was not to present myself to the worthy John Grewter, wholesale

stationer, before the afternoon; but I had no particular reason for

staying at home, and I had a fancy for strolling about the old City

quarter in which Matthew Haygarth's youth had been spent. I went to

look at John-street, Clerkenwell, and dawdled about the immediate

neighbourhood of Smithfield, thinking of the old fair-time, and of all

the rioters and merry-makers, who now were so much or so little dust

and ashes in City churchyards, until the great bell of St. Paul's

boomed three, and I felt that it might be a leisure time with Mr.

Grewter.

I found the stationer's shop as darksome and dreary as City shops

usually are, but redolent of that subtle odour of wealth which has a

mystical charm for the nostrils of the penniless one. Stacks of

ledgers, mountains of account-books, filled the dimly-lighted

warehouse. Some clerks were at work behind a glass partition, and

already the gas flared high in the green-shaded lamps above the desk at

which they worked. I wondered whether it was a pleasant way of life

theirs, and whether one would come to feel an interest in the barter of

day-books and ledgers if they were one's daily bread. Alas for me! the

only ledger I have ever known is the sainted patron of the northern

racecourse. One young man came forward and asked my business, with a

look that plainly told me that unless I wanted two or three gross of

account-books I had no right to be there. I told him that I wished to

see Mr. Grewter, and asked if that gentleman was to be seen.

The clerk said he did not know; but his tone implied that, in his

opinion, I could _not_ see Mr. Grewter.

"Perhaps you could go and ask," I suggested.

"Well, yes. Is it old or young Mr. Grewter you want to see?"

"Old Mr. Grewter," I replied.

"Very well, I'll go and see. You'd better send in your card, though."

I produced one of George Sheldon's cards, which the clerk looked at. He

gave a little start as if an adder had stung him.

"You're not Mr. Sheldon?" he said.

"No; Mr. Sheldon is my employer."

"What do you go about giving people Sheldon's card for?" asked the

clerk, with quite an aggrieved air. "I know Sheldon of Gray's Inn."

"Then I'm sure you've found him a very accommodating gentleman," I

replied, politely.

"Deuce take his accommodation! He nearly accommodated me into the

Bankruptcy Court. And so you're Sheldon's clerk, and you want the

governor. But you don't mean to say that Grewter and Grewter are--"

This was said in an awe-stricken undertone. I hastened to reassure the

stationer's clerk.

"I don't think Mr. Sheldon ever saw Mr. Grewter in his life," I said.

After this the clerk condescended to retire into the unknown antres

behind the shop, to deliver my message. I began to think that George

Sheldon's card was not the best possible letter of introduction.

The clerk returned presently, followed by a tall, white-bearded man,

with a bent figure, and a pair of penetrating gray eyes--a very

promising specimen of the octogenarian.

He asked me my business in a sharp suspicious way, that obliged me to

state the nature of my errand without circumlocution. As I got farther

away from the Rev. John Haygarth, intestate, I was less fettered by the

necessity of secrecy. I informed my octogenarian that I was prosecuting

a legal investigation connected with a late inhabitant of that street,

and that I had taken the liberty to apply to him, in the hope that he

might be able to afford me some information.

He looked at me all the time I spoke as if he thought I was going to

entreat pecuniary relief--and I daresay I have something the air of a

begging-letter writer. But when he found that I only wanted

information, his hard gray eyes softened ever so little, and he asked

me to walk into his parlour.

His parlour was scarcely less gruesome than his shop. The furniture

looked as if its manufacture had been coeval with the time of the

Meynells, and the ghastly glare of the gas seemed a kind of

anachronism. After a few preliminary observations, which were not

encouraged by Mr. Grewter's manner, I inquired whether he had ever

heard the name of Meynell.

"Yes," he said; "there was a Meynell in this street when I was a young

man--Christian Meynell, a carpet-maker by trade. The business is still

carried on--and a very old business it is, for it was an old business

in Meynell's time; but Meynell died before I married, and his name is

pretty well forgotten in Aldersgate-street by this time."

"Had he no sons?" I asked.

"Well, yes; he had one son, Samuel, a kind of companion of mine. But he

didn't take to the business, and when his father died he let things go

anyhow, as you may say. He was rather wild, and died two or three years

after his father."

"Did he die unmarried?"

"Yes. There was some talk of his marrying a Miss Dobberly, whose father

was a cabinet-maker in Jewin-street; but Samuel was too wild for the

Dobberlys, who were steady-going people, and he went abroad, where he

was taken with some kind of fever and died."

"Was this son the only child?"

"No; there were two daughters. The younger of them married; the elder

went to live with her--and died unmarried, I've heard say."

"Do you know whom the younger sister married?" I asked.

"No. She didn't marry in London. She went into the country to visit

some friends, and she married and settled down in those parts--wherever

it might be--and I never heard of her coming back to London again. The

carpet business was sold directly after Samuel Meynell's death. The new

people kept up the name for a good twenty years--'Taylor, late Meynell,

established 1693,' that's what was painted on the board above the

window--but they've dropped the name of Meynell now. People forget old

names, you see, and it's no use keeping to them after they're

forgotten."

Yes, the old names are forgotten, the old people fade off the face of

the earth. The romance of Matthew Haygarth seemed to come to a lame and

impotent conclusion in this dull record of dealers in carpeting.

"You can't remember what part of England it was that Christian

Meynell's daughter went to when she married?"

"No. It wasn't a matter I took much interest in. I don't think I ever

spoke to the young woman above three times in my life, though she lived

in the same street, and though her brother and I often met each other

at the Cat and Salutation, where there used to be a great deal of talk

about the war and Napoleon Bonaparte in those days."

"Have you any idea of the time at which she was married?" I inquired.

"Not as to the exact year. I know it was after I was married; for I

remember my wife and I sitting at our window upstairs one summer Sunday

evening, and seeing Samuel Meynell's sister go by to church. I can

remember it as well as if it was yesterday. She was dressed in a white

gown and a green silk spencer. Yes--and I didn't marry my first wife

till 1814. But as to telling you exactly when Miss Meynell left

Aldersgate-street, I can't."

These reminiscences of the past seemed to exercise rather a mollifying

influence upon the old man's mind, commonplace as they were. He ceased

to look at me with sharp, suspicious glances, and he seemed anxious to

afford me all the help he could. "Was Christian Meynell's father called

William?" I asked, after having paused to make some notes in my

pocket-book.

"That I can't tell you; though, if Christian Meynell was living to-day,

he wouldn't be ten years older than me. His father died when I was

quite a boy; but there must be old books at the warehouse with his name

in them, if they haven't been destroyed."

I determined to make inquiries at the carpet warehouse; but I had

little hope of finding the books of nearly a century gone by. I tried

another question.

"Do you know whether Christian Meynell was an only son, or the only son

who attained manhood?" I asked.

My elderly friend shook his head.

"Christian Meynell never had any brothers that I heard of," he said;

"but the parish register will tell you all about that, supposing that

his father before him lived all his life in Aldersgate-street, as I've

every reason to believe he did."

After this I asked a few questions about the neighbouring churches,

thanked Mr. Grewter for his civility, and departed.

I went back to Omega-street, dined upon nothing particular, and devoted

the rest of my evening to the scrawling of this journal, and a tender

reverie, in which Charlotte Halliday was the central figure.

How bitter poverty and dependence have made Diana Paget! She used to be

a nice girl too.

_Oct. 16th_. To-day's work has been confined to the investigation of

parish registers--a most wearisome business at the best. My labours

were happily not without result. In the fine old church of St. Giles,

Cripplegate, I found registries of the baptism of Oliver Meynell, son

of William and Caroline Mary Meynell, 1768; and of the burial of the

same Oliver in the following year. I found the record of the baptism of

a daughter to the same William and Caroline Mary Meynell, and further

on the burial of the said daughter, at five years of age. I also found

the records of the baptism of Christian Meynell, son of the same

William and Caroline Mary Meynell, in the year 1772, and of William

Meynell's decease in the year 1793. Later appeared the entry of the

burial of Sarah, widow of Christian Meynell. Later still, the baptism

of Samuel Meynell; then the baptism of Susan Meynell; and finally, that

of Charlotte Meynell.

These were all the entries respecting the Meynell family to be found in

the registry. There was no record of the burial of Caroline Mary, wife

of William Meynell, nor of Christian Meynell, nor of Samuel Meynell,

his son; and I knew that all these entries would be necessary to my

astute Sheldon before his case would be complete. After my search of

the registries, I went out into the churchyard to grope for the family

vault of the Meynells, and found a grim square monument, enclosed by a

railing that was almost eaten away by rust, and inscribed with the

names and virtues of that departed house. The burial ground is

interesting by reason of more distinguished company than the Meynells.

John Milton, John Fox, author of the Martyrology, and John Speed, the

chronologer, rest in this City churchyard.

In the hope of getting some clue to the missing data, I ventured to

make a second call upon Mr. Grewter, whom I found rather inclined to be

snappish, as considering the Meynell business unlikely to result in any

profit to himself, and objecting on principle to take any trouble not

likely to result in profit. I believe this is the mercantile manner of

looking at things in a general way.

I asked him if he could tell me where Samuel Meynell was buried.

"I suppose he was buried in foreign parts," replied the old gentleman,

with considerable grumpiness, "since he died in foreign parts."

"O, he died abroad, did he? Can you tell me where?"

"No, sir, I can't," replied Mr. Grewter, with increasing grumpiness; "I

didn't trouble myself about other people's affairs then, and I don't

trouble myself about them now, and I don't particularly care to be

troubled about them by strangers."

I made the meekest possible apology for my intrusion, but the outraged

Grewter was not appeased.

"Your best apology will be not doing it again," he replied. "Those that

know my habits know that I take half an hour's nap after dinner. My

constitution requires it, or I shouldn't take it. If I didn't happen to

have a strange warehouseman on my premises, you wouldn't have been

allowed to disturb me two afternoons running."

Finding Mr. Grewter unappeasable, I left him, and went to seek a more

placable spirit in the shape of Anthony Sparsfield, carver and gilder,

of Barbican.

I found the establishment of Sparsfield and Son, carvers and gilders.

It was a low dark shop, in the window of which were exhibited two or

three handsomely carved frames, very much the worse for flies, and one

oil-painting, of a mysterious and Rembrandtish character. The

old-established air that pervaded almost all the shops in this

neighbourhood was peculiarly apparent in the Sparsfield establishment.

In the shop I found a mild-faced man of about forty engaged in

conversation with a customer. I waited patiently while the customer

finished a minute description of the kind of frame he wanted made for a

set of proof engravings after Landseer; and when the customer had

departed, I asked the mild-faced man if I could see Mr. Sparsfield.

"I am Mr. Sparsfield," he replied politely.

"Not Mr. Anthony Sparsfield?"

"Yes, my name is Anthony."

"I was given to understand that Mr. Anthony Sparsfield was a much older

person."

"O, I suppose you mean my father," replied the mild-faced man. "My

father is advanced in years, and does very little in the business

nowadays; not but what his head is as clear as ever it was, and there

are some of our old customers like to see him when they give an order."

This sounded hopeful. I told Mr. Sparsfield the younger that I was not

a customer, and then proceeded to state the nature of my business. I

found him as courteous as Mr. Grewter had been disobliging.

"Me and father are old-fashioned people," he said; "and we're not above

living over our place of business, which most of the Barbican

tradespeople are nowadays. The old gentleman is taking tea in the

parlour upstairs at this present moment, and if you don't mind stepping

up to him, I'm sure he'll be proud to give you any information he can.

He likes talking of old times."

This was the sort of oldest inhabitant I wanted to meet with--a very

different kind of individual from Mr. Grewter, who doled out every

answer to my questions as grudgingly as if it had been a five-pound

note.

I was conducted to a snug little sitting-room on the first-floor, where

there was a cheerful fire and a comfortable odour of tea and toast. I

was invited to take a cup of tea; and as I perceived that my acceptance

of the invitation would be accounted a kind of favour, I said yes. The

tea was very weak, and very warm, and very sweet; but Mr. Sparsfield

and his son sipped it with as great an air of enjoyment as if it had

been the most inspiring of beverages.

Mr. Sparsfield the elder was more or less rheumatic and asthmatic, but

a cheerful old man withal, and quite ready to prate of old times, when

Barbican and Aldersgate-street were pleasanter places than they are

to-day, or had seemed so to this elderly citizen.

"Meynell!" he exclaimed; "I knew Sam Meynell as well as I knew my own

brother, and I knew old Christian Meynell almost as well as I knew my

own father. There was more sociability in those days, you see, sir. The

world seems to have grown too full to leave any room for friendship.

It's all push and struggle, and struggle and push, as you may say; and

a man will make you a frame for five-and-twenty shillings that will

look more imposing like than what I could turn out for five pound. Only

the gold-leaf will all drop off after a twelvemonth's wear; and that's

the way of the world nowadays. There's a deal of gilding, and things

are made to look uncommon bright; but the gold all drops off 'em before

long."

After allowing the old man to moralise to his heart's content, I

brought him back politely to the subject in which I was interested.

"Samuel Meynell was as good a fellow as ever breathed," he said; "but

he was too fond of the tavern. There were some very nice taverns round

about Aldersgate-street in those days; and you see, sir, the times were

stirring times, and folks liked to get together and talk over the day's

news, with a pipe of tobacco and a glass of their favourite liquor, all

in a sociable way. Poor Sam Meynell took a little too much of his

favourite liquor; and when the young woman that he had been keeping

company with--Miss Dobberly of Jewin-street--jilted him and married a

wholesale butcher in Newgate Market, who was old enough to be her

father, Sam took to drinking, and neglected his business. One day he

came to me and said, 'I've sold the business, Tony,'--for it was Sam

and Tony with us, you see, sir,--'and I'm off to France.' This was soon

after the battle of Waterloo; and many folks had a fancy for going over

to France now that they'd seen the back of Napoleon Bonaparte, who was

generally alluded to in those days by the name of monster or tiger, and

was understood to make his chief diet off frogs. Well, sir, we were all

of us very much surprised at Sam's going to foreign parts; but as he'd

always been wild, it was only looked upon as a part of his wildness,

and we weren't so much surprised to hear a year or two afterwards that

he'd drunk himself to death upon cheap brandy--odyvee as _they_ call

it, poor ignorant creatures--at Calais."

"He died at Calais?"

"Yes," replied the old man; "I forget who brought the news home, but I

remember hearing it. Poor Sam Meynell died and was buried amongst the

Mossoos."

"You are sure he was buried at Calais?"

"Yes, as sure as I can be of anything. Travelling was no easy matter in

those days, and in foreign parts there was nothing but diligences,

which I've heard say were the laziest-going vehicles ever invented.

There was no one to bring poor Sam's remains back to England, for his

mother was dead, and his two sisters were settled somewhere down in

Yorkshire."

In Yorkshire! I am afraid I looked rather sheepish when Mr. Sparsfield

senior mentioned this particular county, for my thoughts took wing and

were with Charlotte Halliday before the word had well escaped his lips.

"Miss Meynell settled in Yorkshire, did she?" I asked.

"Yes, she married some one in the farming way down there. Her mother

was a Yorkshirewoman, and she and her sister went visiting among her

mother's relations, and never came back to London. One of them married,

the other died a spinster."

"Do you remember the name of the man she married?"

"No," replied Mr. Sparsfield, "I can't say that I do."

"Do you remember the name of the place she went to--the town or

village, or whatever it was?"

"I might remember it if I heard it," he responded thoughtfully; "and I

ought to remember it, for I've heard Sam Meynell talk of his sister

Charlotte's home many a time. She was christened Charlotte, you see,

after the Queen. I've a sort of notion that the name of the village was

something ending in Cross, as it might be Charing Cross, or Waltham

Cross."

This was vague, but it was a great deal more than I had been able to

extort from Mr. Grewter. I took a second cup of the sweet warm liquid

which my new friends called tea, in order to have an excuse for

loitering, while I tried to obtain more light from the reminiscences of

the old frame-maker.

No more light came, however. So I was fain to take my leave, reserving

to myself the privilege of calling again on a future occasion.

_Oct. 18th_. I sent Sheldon a statement of my Aldersgate-street

researches the day before yesterday morning. He went carefully through

the information I had collected, and approved my labours.

"You've done uncommonly well, considering the short time you've been at

the work," he said; "and you've reason to congratulate yourself upon

having your ground all laid out for you, as my ground has never been

laid out for me. The Meynell branch seems to be narrowing itself into

the person of Christian Meynell's daughter and her descendants, and our

most important business now will be to find out when, where, and whom

she married, and what issue arose from such marriage. This I think you

ought to be able to do."

I shook my head rather despondingly.

"I don't see any hope of finding out the name of the young woman's

husband," I said, "unless I can come across another oldest inhabitant,

gifted with a better memory for names and places than my obliging

Sparsfield or my surly Grewter."

"There are the almshouses," said Sheldon; "you haven't tried them yet."

"No; I suppose I must go in for the almshouses," I replied, with the

sublime resignation of the pauper, whose poverty must consent to

anything; "though I confess that the prosiness of the almshouse

intellect is almost more than I can endure."

"And how do you know that you mayn't get the name of the place out of

your friend the carver and gilder?" said George Sheldon; "he has given

you some kind of clue in telling you that the name ends in Cross. He

said he should know the name if he heard it; why not try him with it?"

"But in order to do that, I must know the name myself," replied I, "and

in that case I shouldn't want the aid of my Sparsfield."

"You are not great in expedients," said Sheldon, tilting back his

chair, and taking a shabby folio from a shelf of other shabby folios.

"This is a British gazetteer," he said, turning to the index of the

work before him. "We'll test the ancient Sparsfield's memory with every

Cross in the three Ridings, and if the faintest echo of the name we

want still lingers in his feeble old brain, we'll awaken it." My patron

ran his finger-nail along one of the columns of the index.

"Just take your pencil and write down the names as I call them," he

said. "Here we are--Aylsey Cross; and here we are again--Bowford Cross,

Callindale Cross, Huxter's Cross, Jarnam Cross, Kingborough Cross."

Then, after a careful examination of the column, he exclaimed, "Those

are all the Crosses in the county of York, and it will go hard with us

if you or I can't find the descendants of Christian Meynell's daughter

at one of them. The daughter herself may be alive, for anything we

know."

"And how about the Samuel Meynell who died at Calais? You'll have to

find some record of his death, won't you? I suppose in these cases one

must prove everything."

"Yes, I must prove the demise of Samuel," replied the sanguine

genealogist; "that part of the business I'll see to myself, while you

hunt out the female branch of the Meynells. I want an outing after a

long spell of hard work; so I'll run across to Calais and search for

the register of Samuel's interment. I suppose somebody took the trouble

to bury him, though he was a stranger in the land."

"And if I extort the name we want from poor old Sparsfield's

recollection?"

"In that case you can start at once for the place, and begin your

search on the spot. It can't be above fifty years since this woman

married, and there must be some inhabitant of the place old enough to

remember her. O, by the bye, I suppose you'll be wanting more cash for

expenses," added Mr. Sheldon, with a sigh. He took a five-pound note

from his pocket-book, and gave it to me with a piteous air of

self-sacrifice. I know that he is poor, and that whatever money he does

contrive to earn is extorted from the necessities of his needier

brethren. Some of this money he speculates upon the chances of the

Haygarthian succession, as he has speculated his money on worse chances

in the past. "Three thousand pounds!" he said to me, as he handed me

the poor little five-pound note; "think what a prize you are working

for, and work your hardest. The nearer we get to the end, the slower

our progress seems to me; and yet it has been very rapid progress,

considering all things."

So sentimental have I become, that I thought less of that possible

three thousand pounds than of the fact that I was likely to go to

Yorkshire, the county of Charlotte's birth, the county where she was

now staying. I reminded myself that it was the largest shire in

England, and that of all possible coincidences of time and place, there

could be none more unlikely than the coincidence that would bring about

a meeting between Charlotte Halliday and me.

"I know that for all practical purposes I shall be no nearer to her in

Yorkshire than in London," I said to myself; "but I shall have the

pleasure of fancying myself nearer to her."

Before leaving George Sheldon, I told him of the fragmentary sentences

I had heard uttered by Captain Paget and Philip Sheldon at the Lawn;

but he pooh-poohed my suspicions.

"I'll tell you what it is, Valentine Hawkehurst," he said, fixing those

hard black eyes of his upon me as if he would fain have pierced the

bony covering of my skull to discover the innermost workings of my

brain; "neither Captain Paget nor my brother Phil can know anything of

this business, unless you have turned traitor and sold them my secrets.

And mark me, if you have, you've sold yourself and them into the

bargain: my hand holds the documentary evidence, without which all your

knowledge is worthless."

"I am not a traitor," I told him quietly, for I despise him far too

heartily to put myself into a passion about anything he might please to

say of me; "and I have never uttered a word about this business either

to Captain Paget or to your brother. If you begin to distrust me, it is

high time you should look out for a new coadjutor."

I had my Sheldon, morally speaking, at my feet in a moment.

"Don't be melodramatic, Hawkehurst," he said; "people sell each other

every day of the week, and no one blames the seller, provided he makes

a good bargain. But this is a case in which the bargain would be a very

bad one."

After this I took my leave of Mr. Sheldon. He was to start for Calais

by that night's mail, and return to town directly his investigation was

completed. If he found me absent on his return, he would conclude that

I had obtained the information I required and started for Yorkshire. In

this event he would patiently await the receipt of tidings from that

county.

I went straight from Gray's Inn to Jewin-street. I had spent the

greater part of the day in Sheldon's office, and when I presented

myself before my complacent Sparsfield junior, Sparsfield senior's tea

and toast were already in process of preparation; and I was again

invited to step upstairs to the family sitting-room, and again treated

with that Arcadian simplicity of confidence and friendliness which it

has been my fate to encounter quite as often in the heart of this

sophisticated city as in the most pastoral of villages. With people who

were so frank and cordial I could but be equally frank.

"I am afraid I am making myself a nuisance to you, Mr. Sparsfield," I

said; "but I know you'll forgive me when I tell you that the affair I'm

engaged in is a matter of vital importance to me, and that your help

may do a great deal towards bringing matters to a crisis."

Mr. Sparsfield senior declared himself always ready to assist his

fellow-creatures, and was good enough further to declare that he had

taken a liking to me. So weak had I of late become upon all matters of

sentiment, I thanked Mr. Sparsfield for his good opinion, and then went

on to tell him that I was about to test his memory.

"And it ain't a bad un," he cried, cheerily, clapping his hand upon his

knee by way of emphasis. "It ain't a bad memory, is it, Tony?"

"Few better, father," answered the dutiful Anthony junior. "Your

memory's better than mine, a long way."

"Ah," said the old man, with a chuckle, "folks lived different in my

day. There weren't no gas, and there weren't no railroads, and London

tradespeople was content to live in the same house from year's end to

year's end. But now your tradesman must go on his foreign tours, like a

prince of the royal family, and he must go here and go there; and when

he's been everywhere, he caps it all by going through the Gazette.

Folks stayed at home in my day; but they made their fortunes, and they

kept their health, and their eyesight, and their memory, and their

hearing, and many of 'em have lived to see the next generation make

fools of themselves."

"Why, father," cried Anthony junior, aghast at this flood of eloquence,

"what an oration!"

"And it ain't often I make an oration, is it, Tony?" said the old man,

laughing. "I only mean to say that if my memory's pretty bright, it may

be partly because I haven't frittered it away upon nonsense, as some

folks have. I've stayed at home and minded my own business, and left

other people to mind theirs. And now, sir, if you want the help of my

memory, I'm ready to give it."

"You told me the other day that you could not recall the name of the

place where Christian Meynell's daughter married, but you said you

should remember it if you heard it, and you also said that the name

ended in Cross."

"I'll stick to that," replied my ancient friend. "I'll stick to that."

"Very well then. It is a settled thing that the place was in Yorkshire?"

"Yes, I'm sure of that too."

"And that the name ended in Cross?"

"It did, as sure as my name is Sparsfield."

"Then in that case, as there are only six towns or villages in the

county of York the names of which end in Cross, it stands to reason

that the place we want must be one of those six."

Having thus premised, I took my list from my pocket and read aloud the

names of the six places, very slowly, for Mr. Sparsfield's edification.

"Aylsey Cross--Bowford Cross--Callindale Cross--Huxter's Cross--Jarnam

Cross--Kingborough Cross."

"That's him!" cried my old friend suddenly.

"Which?" I asked eagerly.

"Huxter's Cross; I remember thinking at the time that it must be a

place where they sold things, because of the name Huxter, you see,

pronounced just the same as if it was spelt with a cks instead of an x.

And I heard afterwards that there'd once been a market held at the

place, but it had been done away with before our time. Huxter's Cross;

yes, that's the name of the place where Christian Meynell's daughter

married and settled. I've heard it many a time from poor Sam, and it

comes back to me as plain as if I'd never forgotten it."

There was an air of conviction about the old man which satisfied me

that he was not deceived. I thanked him heartily for his aid as I took

my leave.

"You may have helped to put a good lump of money in my pocket, Mr.

Sparsfield," I said; "and if you have, I'll get my picture taken, if

it's only for the pleasure of bringing it here to be framed."

With this valedictory address I left my simple citizens of Barbican. My

heart was very light as I wended my way across those metropolitan wilds

that lay between Barbican and Omega-street. I am ashamed of myself when

I remember the foolish cause of this elation of mind. I was going to

Yorkshire, the county of which my Charlotte was now an inhabitant. My

Charlotte! It is a pleasure even to write that delicious possessive

pronoun--the pleasure of poor Alnascher, the crockery-seller, dreaming

his day-dream in the eastern market-place.

Can any one know better than I that I shall be no nearer Charlotte

Halliday in Yorkshire than I am in London? No one. And yet I am glad my

Sheldon's business takes me to the woods and wolds of that wide

northern shire.

Huxter's Cross--some Heaven-forgotten spot, no doubt. I bought a

railway time-table on my way home to-night, and have carefully studied

the bearings of the place amongst whose mouldy records I am to discover

the history of Christian Meynell's daughter and heiress.

I find that Huxter's Cross lies off the railroad, and is to be

approached by an obscure little station--as I divine from the

ignominious type in which its name appears--about sixty miles northward

of Hull. The station is called Hidling; and at Hidling there seems to

be a coach which plies between the station and Huxter's Cross.

Figure to yourself again, my dear, the heir-at-law to a hundred

thousand pounds vegetating in the unknown regions of Huxter's Cross cum

Hidling, unconscious of his heritage!

Shall I find him at the plough-tail, I wonder, this mute inglorious

heir-at-law? or shall I find an heiress with brawny arms meekly

churning butter? or shall I discover the last of the Meynells taking

his rest in some lonely churchyard, not to be awakened by earthly voice

proclaiming the tidings of earthly good fortune?

I am going to Yorkshire--that is enough for me. I languish for the

starting of the train which shall convey me thither. I begin to

understand the nostalgia of the mountain herdsman: I pine for that

northern air, those fresh pure breezes blowing over moor and

wold--though I am not quite clear, by the bye, as to the exact nature

of a wold. I pant, I yearn for Yorkshire. I, the cockney, the child of

Temple Bar, whose cradle-song was boomed by the bells of St. Dunstan's

and St. Clement's Danes.

Is not Yorkshire my Charlotte's birthplace? I want to see the land

whose daughters are so lovely.

CHAPTER III.

ARCADIA.

_November 1st_. This is Huxter's Cross, and I live here. I have lived

here a week. I should like to live here for ever. O, let me be rational

for a few hours, while I write the record of this last blissful week;

let me be reasonable, and business-like, and Sheldon-like for this one

wet afternoon, and then I may be happy and foolish again. Be still,

beating heart! as the heroines of Minerva-press romances were

accustomed to say to themselves on the smallest provocation. Be still,

foolish, fluttering, schoolboy heart, which has taken a new lease of

youth and folly from a fair landlord called Charlotte Halliday.

Drip, drip, drip, O rain! "The day is dark and cold and dreary, and the

vine still clings to the mouldering wall; and with every gust the dead

leaves fall:" but thy sweet sad verse wakes no responsive echo in my

heart, O tender Transatlantic Poet, for my heart is light and

glad--recklessly glad--heedless of to-morrow--forgetful of

yesterday--full to the very brim with the dear delight of to-day.

And now to business. I descend from the supernal realms of fancy to the

dry record of commonplace fact. This day week I arrived at Hidling,

after a tedious journey, which, with stoppages at Derby and Normanton,

and small delays at obscurer stations, had occupied the greater part of

the day. It was dusk when I took my place in the hybrid vehicle, half

coach, half omnibus, which was to convey me from Hidling to Huxter's

Cross. A transient glimpse at Hidling showed me one long straggling

street and a square church-tower. Our road branched off from the

straggling street, and in the autumn dusk I could just discover the dim

outlines of distant hills encircling a broad waste of moor.

I have been so steeped in London that this wild barren scene had a

charm for me which it could scarcely possess for others. Even the gloom

of that dark waste of common land was pleasant to me. I shared the

public vehicle with one old woman, who snored peacefully in the

remotest corner, while I looked out at the little open window and

watched the darkening landscape.

Our drive occupied some hours. We passed two or three little clusters

of cottages and homesteads, where the geese screamed and the cocks

crowed at our approach, and where a few twinkling tapers in upper

windows proclaimed the hour of bed-time. At one of these clusters of

habitation, a little island of humanity in the waste of wold and moor,

we changed horses, with more yo-oh-ing and come-up-ing than would have

attended the operation in a civilised country. At this village I heard

the native tongue for the first time in all its purity; and for any

meaning which it conveyed to my ear I might as well have been listening

to the _patois_ of agricultural Carthage.

After changing horses, we went up hill, with perpetual groanings, and

grumblings, and grindings, and whip-smacking and come-up-ing, for an

indefinite period; and then we came to a cluster of cottages, suspended

high up in the sharp autumn atmosphere as it seemed to me; and the

driver of the vehicle came to my little peephole of a window, and told

me with some slight modification of the Carthaginian _patois_ that I

was "theer."

I alighted, and found myself at the door of a village inn, with the red

light from within shining out upon me where I stood, and a battered old

sign groaning and creaking above my head. For me, who in all my life

had been accustomed to find my warmest welcome at an inn, this was to

be at home. I paid my fare, took up my carpet-bag, and entered the

hostelry.

I found a rosy-faced landlady, clean and trim, though a trifle floury

as to the arms and apron. She had emerged from a kitchen, an

old-fashioned chamber with a floor of red brick; a chamber which was

all in a rosy glow with the firelight, and looked like a Dutch picture,

as I peeped at it through the open doorway. There were the most

picturesque of cakes and loaves heaped on a wooden bench by the hearth,

and the whole aspect of the place was delicious in its homely comfort.

"O," I said to myself, "how much better the northern winds blowing over

these untrodden hills, and the odour of home-made loaves, than the

booming bells of St. Dunstan's, and the greasy steam of tavern chops

and steaks!"

My heart warmed to this Yorkshire and these Yorkshire people. Was it

for Charlotte's sake, I wonder, that I was so ready to open my heart to

everybody and everything in this unknown land?

A very brief parley set me quite at ease with my landlady. Even, the

Carthaginian _patois_ became intelligible to me after a little

experience. I found that I could have a cosy, cleanly chamber, and be

fed and cared for upon terms that seemed absurdly small, even to a

person of my limited means. My cordial hostess brought me a meal which

was positively luxurious; broiled ham and poached eggs, such as one

scarcely hopes to see out of a picture of still life; crisp brown cakes

fresh from that wonderful oven whose door I had seen yawning open in

the Flemish interior below; strong tea and cream--the cream that one

reads of in pastoral stories.

I enjoyed my banquet, and then opened my window and looked out at the

still landscape, dimly visible in the faint starlight.

I was at the top of a hill--the topmost of an ascending range of

hills--and to some minds that alone is rapture. To inhale the fresh

night air was to drink deeply of an ethereal beverage. I had never

experienced so delicious a sensation since I had stood on the grassy

battlements of the Chateau d'Arques, with the orchards and gardens of

sunny Normandy spread like a carpet below my feet.

But this hill was loftier than that on which the feudal castle rears

its crumbling towers, and the landscape below me was wilder than

verdant Normandy.

No words can tell how I rejoiced in this untrodden region--this

severance from the Strand and Temple Bar. I felt as if my old life was

falling away from me--like the scales of the lepers who were cleansed

by the Divine Healer. I felt myself worthier to love, or even to be

loved by, the bright true-hearted girl whose image fills my heart. Ah,

if Heaven gave me that dear angel, I think my old life, my old

recklessness, my old want of principle, would drop away from me

altogether, and the leper would stand forth cleansed and whole. Could I

not be happy with her here, among these forgotten hills, these widely

scattered homesteads? Could I not be happy dissevered eternally from

billiard-room and kursaal, race-ground and dancing-rooms? Yes,

completely and unreservedly happy--happy as a village curate with

seventy pounds a year and a cast-off coat, supplied by the charity of a

land too poor to pay its pastors the wage of a decent butler--happy as

a struggling farmer, though the clay soil of my scanty acres were never

so sour and stubborn, my landlord never so hard about his rent--happy

as a pedlar, with my pack of cheap tawdry wares slung behind me, and my

Charlotte tramping gaily by my side.

I breakfasted next morning in a snug little parlour behind the bar,

where I overheard two carters conversing in the Carthaginian _patois_,

to which I became hourly more accustomed. My brisk cheery landlady came

in and out while I took my meal; and whenever I could detain her long

enough, I tried to engage her in conversation.

I asked her if she had ever heard the name of Meynell; and after

profound consideration she replied in the negative.

"I don't mind hearing aught of folks called Meynell," she said with

more or less of the _patois_, which I was beginning to understand; "but

I haven't got mooch memory for nee-ams. I might have heard o' such

folks, and not minded t' nee-am."

This was rather dispiriting; but I knew that if any record of Christian

Meynell's daughter existed at Huxter's Cross, it was in my power to

discover it.

I asked if there was any official in the way of a registrar to be found

in the village; and found that there was no one more important than an

old man who kept the keys of the church. The registers were kept in the

vestry, my landlady believed, and the old man was called Jonas Gorles,

and lived half a mile off, at the homestead of his son-in-law. But my

landlady said she would send for him immediately, and pledged herself

to produce him in the course of an hour. I told her that I would find

my way to the churchyard in the mean time, whither Mr. Gorles could

follow me as soon as convenient.

The autumnal morning was fresh and bright as spring, and Huxter's Cross

seemed the most delightful place on earth to me, though it is only a

cluster of cottages, relieved by one farmhouse of moderate pretensions,

my hostelry of the Magpie, a general shop, which is also the

post-office, and a fine old Norman church, which lies away from the

village, and bears upon it the traces of better days. Near the church

there is an old granite cross, around which the wild flowers and

grasses grow rank and high. It marks the spot where there was once a

flourishing market-place; but all mortal habitations have vanished, and

the Huxter's Cross of the past has now no other memorial than this

crumbling stone.

The churchyard was unutterably still and solitary. A robin was perched

on the topmost bar of the old wooden gate, singing his joyous carol. As

I approached, he hopped from the gate to the low moss-grown wall, and

went on singing as I passed him. I was in the humour to apostrophise

skylark or donkey, or to be sentimental about anything in creation,

just then; so I told my robin what a pretty creature he was, and that I

would sooner perish than hurt him by so much as the tip of a feather.

Being bound to remember my Sheldon even when most sentimental, I

endeavoured to combine the meditative mood of a Hervey with the

business-like sharpness of a lawyer's clerk; and while musing on the

common lot of man in general, I did not omit to search the mouldering

tombstones for some record of the Meynells in particular.

I found none; and yet, if the daughter of Christian Meynell had been

buried in that churchyard, the name of her father would surely have

been inscribed upon her tombstone. I had read all the epitaphs when the

wooden gate creaked on its hinges, and admitted a wizen little old

man--one of those ancient meanderers who seem to have been created on

purpose to fill the post of sexton.

With this elderly individual I entered the church of Huxter's Cross,

which had the same mouldy atmosphere as the church at Spotswold. The

vestry was an icy little chamber, which had once been a family vault;

but it was not much colder than Miss Judson's best parlour; and I

endured the cold bravely while I searched the registries of the last

sixty years.

I searched in vain. After groping amongst the names of all the

nonentities who had been married at Huxter's Cross since the beginning

of the century, I found myself no nearer the secret of Charlotte

Meynell's marriage. And then I reflected upon all the uncertainties

surrounding that marriage. Miss Meynell had gone to Yorkshire, to visit

her mother's relations, and had married in Yorkshire; and the place

which Anthony Sparsfield remembered having heard of in connection with

that marriage was Huxter's Cross. But it did not by any means follow

that the marriage had taken place at that obscure village. Miss Meynell

might have been married at Hull, or York, or Leeds, or at any of the

principal places of the county. With that citizen class of people

marriage was a grand event, a solemn festivity; and Miss Meynell and

her friends would have been likely to prefer that so festive an

occasion should be celebrated anywhere rather than at that forgotten

old church among the hills. "I shall have to search every register in

Yorkshire till I light upon the record I want," I thought to myself,

"unless Sheldon will consent to advertise for the Meynell marriage

certificate. There could scarcely be danger in such an advertisement,

as the connection between the name of Meynell and the Haygarth estate

is only known to ourselves."

Acting upon this idea, I wrote to George Sheldon by that afternoon's

post, urging him to advertise for descendants of Miss Charlotte Meynell.

Charlotte! dear name, which is a kind of music for me. It was almost a

pleasure to write that letter, because of the repetition of that

delightful noun.

The next day I devoted to a drive round the neighbourhood, in a smart

little dog-cart, hired on very moderate terms from mine host. I had

acquainted myself with the geography of the surrounding country; and I

contrived to visit every village church within a certain radius of

Huxter's Cross. But my inspection of mildewed old books, and my heroic

endurance of cold and damp in mouldy old churches, resulted in nothing

but disappointment.

I returned to my "Magpie" after dark a little disheartened and

thoroughly tired, but still very well pleased with my rustic quarters

and my adopted county. My landlord's horse had shown himself a very

model of equine perfection.

Candles were lighted and curtains drawn in my cosy little chamber, and

the table creaked beneath one of those luxurious Yorkshire teas which

might wean an alderman from the coarser delights of turtle or

conger-eel soup and venison.

At noon the following day a very primitive kind of postman brought me a

letter from Sheldon. That astute individual told me that he declined to

advertise, or to give any kind of publicity to his requirements.

"If I were not afraid of publicity, I should not be obliged to pay you

a pound a week," he remarked, with pleasing candour, "since

advertisements would get me more information in a week than you may

scrape together in a twelvemonth. But I happen to know the danger of

publicity, and that many a good thing has been snatched out of a man's

hands just as he was working it into shape. I don't say that this could

be done in my case; and you know very well that it could not be done,

as I hold papers which are essential to the very first move in the

business."

I perfectly understand the meaning of these remarks, and I am inclined

to doubt the existence of those important papers. Suspicion is a

fundamental principle in the Sheldon mind. My friend George trusts me

because he is obliged to trust me--and only so far as he is

obliged--and is tormented, more or less, by the idea that I may at any

moment attempt to steal a march upon him.

But to return to his letter:

"I should recommend you to examine the registries of every town or

village within, say, thirty miles of Huxter's Cross. If you find

nothing in such registries, we must fall back upon the larger towns,

beginning with Hull, as being nearest to our starting-point. The work

will, I fear, be slow, and very expensive for me. I need scarcely again

urge upon you the necessity of confining your outlay to the minimum, as

you know that my affairs are desperate. It couldn't well be lower water

than it is with me, in a pecuniary sense; and I expect every day to

find myself aground.

"And now for my news. I have discovered the burial-place of Samuel

Meynell, after no end of trouble, the details of which I needn't bore

you with, since you are now pretty well up in that sort of work. I am

thankful to say I have secured the evidence that settles for Samuel,

and ascertained by tradition that he died unmarried. The _onus

probandi_ would fall upon any one purporting to be descended from the

said Samuel, and we know how uncommonly difficult said person would

find it to prove anything.

"So, having disposed of Samuel, I came back to London by the next mail;

Calais, in the month of November, not being one of those wildly-gay

watering-places which tempt the idler. I arrived just in time to catch

this afternoon's post; and now I look impatiently to your Miss

Charlotte Meynell, of Huxter's Cross.--Yours, &c. G.S."

I obeyed my employer to the letter; hired my landlord's dog-cart for

another day's exploration; and went further afield in search of Miss

Charlotte's marriage-lines. I came home late at night--this time

thoroughly worn out--studied a railway guide with a view to my

departure, and decided on starting for Hull by a train that would leave

Hidling station at four o'clock on the following afternoon.

I went to bed tired in body and depressed in spirit. Why was I so sorry

to leave Huxter's Cross? What subtle instinct of the brain or heart

made me aware that the desert region amongst the hills held earth's

highest felicity for me?

The next morning was bright and clear. I heard the guns of sportsmen

popping merrily in the still air as I breakfasted before an open

window, while a noble sea-coal fire blazed on the hearth opposite me.

There is no stint of fuel at the Magpie. Everything in Yorkshire seems

to be done with a lavish hand. I have heard Yorkshiremen called mean.

As if meanness could exist in the hearts of my Charlotte's countrymen!

My own experience of the county is brief; but I can only say that my

friends of the Magpie are liberality itself, and that a Yorkshire tea

is the very acme of unsophisticated bliss in the way of eating and

drinking. I have dined at Philippe's; I know every dish in the _menu_

of the Maison Dorée; but if I am to make my life a burden beneath the

dark sway of the demon dyspepsia, let my destruction arrive in the

shape of the ham and eggs, the crisp golden-brown cakes, and undefiled

honey, of this northern Arcadia.

I told my friendly hostess that I was going to leave her, and she was

sorry. She was sorry for me, the wanderer. I can picture to myself the

countenance of a London landlady if informed thus suddenly of her

lodger's departure, and her suppressed mutterings about the

ill-convenience of such a proceeding.

After breakfast I went out to take my own pleasure. I had done my duty

in the matter of mouldy churches and mildewed registries; and I

considered myself entitled to a holiday during the few hours that must

elapse before the starting of the hybrid vehicle for Hidling.

I sauntered past the little cluster of cottages, admiring their

primitive aspect, the stone-crop on the red-tiled roofs, that had sunk

under the weight of years. All was unspeakably fresh and bright; the

tiny panes of the casement twinkled in the autumn sunlight, birds sang,

and hardy red geraniums bloomed in the cottage windows. What pleasure

or distraction had the good housewives of Huxter's Cross to lure them

from the domestic delights of scrubbing and polishing? I saw young

faces peeping at me from between snow-white muslin curtains, and felt

that I was a personage for once in my life; and it was pleasant to feel

one's self of some importance even in the eyes of Huxter's Cross.

Beyond the cottages and the post-office there were three roads

stretching far away over hill and moorland. With two of those roads I

had made myself thoroughly familiar; but the third remained to be

explored.

"So now for 'fresh fields and pastures new,'" I said to myself as I

quickened my pace, and walked briskly along my unknown road.

Ah, surely there is some meaning in the fluctuations of the mental

barometer. What but an instinctive consciousness of approaching

happiness could have made me so light-hearted that morning? I sang as I

hastened along that undiscovered road. Fragments of old Italian

serenades and barcarolles came back to me as if I had heard them

yesterday for the first time. The perfume of the few lingering

wild-flowers, the odour of burning weeds in the distance, the fresh

autumn breeze, the clear cold blue sky,--all were intensely delicious

to me; and I felt as if this one lonely walk were a kind of renovating

process, from which my soul would emerge cleansed of all its stains.

"I have to thank George Sheldon for a great deal," I said to myself,

"since through him I have been obliged to educate myself in the school

of man's best teacher, Solitude. I do not think I can ever be a

thorough Bohemian again. These lonely wanderings have led me to

discover a vein of seriousness in my nature which I was ignorant of

until now. How thoroughly some men are the creatures of their

surroundings! With Paget I have been a Paget. But a few hours

_tête-à-tête_ with Nature renders one averse from the society of

Pagets, be they never so brilliant."

From moralising thus, I fell into a delicious day-dream. All my dreams

of late had moved to the same music. How happy I could be if Fate gave

me Charlotte and three hundred a year! In sober moods I asked for this

much of worldly wealth, just to furnish a nest for my bird. In my

wilder moments I asked Fate for nothing but Charlotte.

"Give me the bird without the nest," I cried to Fortune; "and we will

take wing to some trackless forest where there are shelter and berries

for nestless birds. We will imitate that delightful bride and

bridegroom of Parisian Bohemia, who married and settled in an attic,

and when their stock of fuel was gone fell foul of the staircase that

led to their bower, and so supplied themselves merrily enough till the

staircase was all consumed, and the poor little bride, peeping out of

her door one morning, found herself upon the verge of an abyss.

"And then came the furious landlord, demanding restitution. But close

behind the landlord came the good fairy of all love-stories, with

Pactolus in her pocket. Ah, yes, there is always a providence for true

lovers."

I had passed away by this time from the barren moor to the regions of

cultivation. The trimly-cut hedges on each side of the way showed me

that my road now lay between farm lands. I was outside the boundary of

some upland farm. I saw sheep cropping trefoil in a field on the other

side of the brown hedgerow, and at a distance I saw the red-tiled roof

of a farm-house.

I looked at my watch, and found that I had still half an hour to spare;

so I went on towards the farm-house, bent upon seeing what sort of

habitation it was. In a solitary landscape like this, every

dwelling-place has a kind of attraction for the wayfarer.

I went on till I came to a white gate, against which a girlish figure

was leaning.

It was a graceful figure, dressed in that semi-picturesque costume

which has been adopted by women of late years. The vivid blue of a

boddice was tempered by the sober gray of a skirt, and a bright-hued

ribbon gleamed among rich tresses of brown hair.

The damsel's face was turned away from me, but there was something in

the carriage of the head, something in the modelling of the firm full

throat, which reminded me of--

But then, when a man is over head and ears in love, everything in

creation reminds him more or less of his idol. Your pious Catholic

gives all his goods for the adornment of a church; your true lover

devotes his every thought to the dressing up of one dear image.

The damsel turned as my steps drew near, loud on the crisp gravel. She

turned, and showed me the face of Charlotte Halliday.

I must entreat posterity to forgive me, if I leave a blank at this

stage of my story. "There are chords in the human heart which had

better not be wibrated," said Sim Tappertit. There are emotions which

can only be described by the pen of a poet. I am not a poet; and if my

diary is so happy as to be of some use to posterity as a picture of the

manners of a repentant Bohemian, posterity must not quarrel with my

shortcomings in the way of sentimental description.

CHAPTER IV.

IN PARADISE.

We stood at the white gate talking to each other, my Charlotte and I.

The old red-tiled roof which I had seen in the distance sheltered the

girl I love. The solitary farm-house which it had been my whim to

examine was the house in which my dear love made her home. It was here,

to this untrodden hillside, that my darling had come from the prim

modern villa at Bayswater. Ah, what happiness to find her here, far

away from all those stockbroking surroundings--here, where our hearts

expanded beneath the divine influence of Nature!

I fear that I was coxcomb enough to fancy myself beloved that day we

parted in Kensington-gardens. A look, a tone--too subtle for

definition--thrilled me with a sudden hope so bright, that I would not

trust myself to believe it could be realised.

"She is a coquette," I said to myself. "Coquetry is one of the graces

which Nature bestows upon these bewitching creatures. That little

conscious look, which stirred this weak heart so tumultuously, is no

doubt common to her when she knows herself beloved and admired, and has

no meaning that can flatter my foolish hopes." This is how I had

reasoned with myself again and again during the dreary interval in

which Miss Halliday and I had been separated. But, O, what a hardy

perennial blossom hope must be! The tender buds were not to be crushed

by the pelting hailstones of hard common sense. They had survived all

my philosophical reflections, and burst into sudden flower to-day at

sight of Charlotte's face. She loved me, and she was delighted to see

me. That was what her radiant face told me; and could I do less than

believe the sweet confession? For the first few moments we could

scarcely speak to each other, and then we began to converse in the

usual commonplace strain.

She told me of her astonishment on seeing me in that remote spot. I

could hardly confess to having business at Huxter's Cross, so I was

fain to tell my dear love a falsehood, and declare that I was taking a

holiday "up at the hills."

"And how did you come to choose Huxter's Cross for your holiday?" she

asked _naïvely_.

I told her that I had heard the place spoken of by a person in the

city--my simple-minded Sparsfield to wit.

"And you could not have come to a better place," she cried, "though

people do call it the very dullest spot in the world. This was my dear

aunt Mary's house--papa's sister, you know. Grandpapa Halliday had two

farms. This was one, and Hyley the other. Hyley was much larger and

better than this, you know, and was left to poor papa, who sold it just

before he died."

Her face clouded as she spoke of her father's death. "I can't speak

about that without pain even now," she said softly, "though I was only

nine years old when it happened. But one can suffer a great deal at

nine years old."

And then, after a little pause, she went on to speak of her Yorkshire

home.

"My aunt and uncle Mercer are so kind to me; and yet they are neither

of them really related to me. My aunt Mary died very young, when her

first baby was born, and the poor little baby died too: and uncle

Mercer inherited the property from his wife, you see. He married again

after two years, and his second wife is the dearest, kindest creature

in the world. I always call her aunt, for I don't remember poor papa's

sister at all; and no aunt that ever lived could be kinder to me than

aunt Dorothy. I am always so happy here," she said; "and it seems such

a treat to get away from the Lawn--of course I am sorry to leave mamma,

you know," she added, parenthetically--"and the stiff breakfasts, and

Mr. Sheldon's newspapers that crackle, crackle, crackle so shockingly

all breakfast-time; and the stiff dinners, with a prim parlor-maid

staring at one all the time, and bringing one vegetables that one

doesn't want if one only ventures to breathe a little louder than

usual. Here it is Liberty Hall. Uncle Joe--he is aunt Dorothy's

husband--is the kindest creature in the world, just the very reverse of

Mr. Sheldon in everything. I don't mean that my stepfather is unkind,

you know. O, no, he has always been very good to me--much kinder than I

have deserved that he should be. But uncle Joe's ways are _so_

different. I am sure you will like him; and I am sure he will like you,

for he likes everybody, dear thing. And you must come and see us very

often, please, for Newhall farm is open house, you know, and the

stranger within the gates is always welcome."

Now my duty to my Sheldon demanded that I should scamper back to

Huxter's Cross as fast as my legs would carry me, in order to be in

time for the hybrid vehicle that was to convey me to Hidling station;

and here was this dear girl inviting me to linger, and promising me a

welcome to the house which was made a paradise by her presence.

I looked at my watch. It would have been impossible for me to reach

Huxter's Cross in time for the vehicle. Conscience whispered that I

could hire my landlord's dog-cart, and a boy to drive me to Hidling;

but the whispers of conscience are very faint; and love cried aloud,

"Stay with Charlotte: supreme happiness is offered to you for the first

time in your life. Fool that would reject so rare a gift!"

It was to this latter counsellor I gave my ear. My Sheldon's interests

went overboard; and I stayed by the white gate, talking to Charlotte,

till it was quite too late to heed the reproachful grumblings of

conscience about that dog-cart.

My Charlotte--yes, I boldly call her mine now--my dear is great in

agriculture. She enlightened my cockney mind on the subject of upland

farms, telling me how uncle and aunt Mercer's land is poor and sandy,

requiring very little in the way of draining, but producing by no means

luxuriant crops. It is a very picturesque place, and has a certain

gentlemanlike air with it pleasing to my snobbish taste. The house lies

in a tract of open grass-land, dotted here and there by trees, and

altogether of a park-like appearance. True that the mild and useful

sheep rather than the stately stag browses on that greensward, and few

carriages roll along the winding gravel road that leads to the house.

I felt a rapturous thirst for agricultural knowledge as I listened to

my Charlotte. Was there a vacancy for hind or herdsman on Newhall farm,

I wondered. What is the office so humble I would not fill for her dear

sake? O, how I sighed for the days of Jacob, that first distinguished

usurer, so that I might serve seven years and again seven years for my

darling!

I stayed by the white gate, abandoning all thought of my employer's

behests, unconscious of time--unconscious of everything except that I

was with Charlotte Halliday, and would not have resigned my position to

be made Lord Chancellor of England.

Anon came uncle Joe, with a pleasant rubicund visage beaming under a

felt hat, to tell Lotta that dinner was ready. To him I was immediately

presented.

"Mr. Mercer, my dear uncle Joseph--Mr. Hawkehurst, a friend of my

stepfather's," said Charlotte.

Two or three minutes afterwards we were all three walking across the

park-like sward to the hospitable farm-house; for the idea of my

departing before dinner seemed utterly preposterous to this friendly

farmer.

Considered apart from the glamour that for my eyes must needs shine

over any dwelling inhabited by Charlotte Halliday, I will venture to

say that Newhall farm-house is the dearest old place in the world. Such

delightful old rooms, with the deepest window-seats, the highest

mantelpieces, the widest fireplaces possible in domestic architecture;

such mysterious closets and uncanny passages; such pitfalls in the way

of unexpected flights of stairs; such antiquated glazed

corner-cupboards for the display of old china!--everything redolent of

the past.

In one corner a spinning-wheel, so old that its spindle might be the

identical weapon that pierced Princess Sleeping Beauty's soft white

hand; in another corner an arm-chair that must have been old-fashioned

in the days of Queen Anne; and O, what ancient flowered chintzes, what

capacious sofas, what darling mahogany secretaries and bureaus, with

gleaming brazen adornments in the way of handles!--and about everything

the odour of rose-leaves and lavender.

I have grown familiar with every corner of the dear old place within

the last few days, but on this first day I had only a general

impression of its antiquated aspect and homely comfort. I stayed to

dine at the same unpretending board at which my Charlotte had sat years

ago, elevated on a high chair, and as yet new to the use of knives and

forks. Uncle Joe and aunt Dorothy told me this in their pleasant

friendly way; while the young lady sat by, blushing and dimpling like a

summer sea beneath the rosy flush of sunrise. No words can relate how

delightful it was to me to hear them talk of my dear love's childhood;

they dwelt so tenderly upon her sweetness, they dilated with such

enthusiasm upon her "pretty ways." Her "pretty ways!" ah, how fatal a

thing it is for mankind when Nature endows woman with those pretty

ways! From the thrall of Grecian noses and Castilian eyes there may be

hope of deliverance, but from the spell of that indescribable witchery

there is none.

I whistled my Sheldon down the wind without remorse, and allowed myself

to be as happy as if I had been the squire of valley and hillside, with

ten thousand a year to offer my Charlotte with the heart that loves her

so fondly. I have no idea what we had for dinner. I know only that the

fare was plenteous, and the hospitality of my new friends unbounded. We

were very much at ease with one another, and our laughter rang up to

the stalwart beams that sustained the old ceiling. If I had possessed

the smallest fragment of my heart, I should have delivered it over

without hesitation to my aunt Dorothy--pardon!--my Charlotte's aunt

Dorothy, who is the cheeriest, brightest, kindest matron I ever met,

with a sweet unworldly spirit that beams out of her candid blue eyes.

Charlotte seems to have been tenderly attached to her father, the poor

fellow who died in Philip Sheldon's house--uncomfortable for Sheldon, I

should think. The Mercers talk a good deal of Thomas Halliday, for whom

they appear to have entertained a very warm affection. They also spoke

with considerable kindness of the two Sheldons, whom they knew as young

men in the town of Barlingford; but I should not imagine either uncle

Joseph or aunt Dorothy very well able to fathom the still waters of the

Sheldon intellect.

After dinner uncle Joe took us round the farm. The last stack of corn

had been thatched, and there was a peaceful lull in the agricultural

world. We went into a quadrangle lined with poultry sheds, where I saw

more of the feathered race than I had ever in my life beheld

congregated together; thence to the inspection of pigs--and it was

agreeable to inspect even those vulgar querulous grunters, with

Charlotte by my side. Her brightness shed a light on all those common

objects; and O, how I longed to be a farmer, like uncle Mercer, and

devote my life to Charlotte and agriculture!

When uncle Joe had done the honours of his farm-yards and

threshing-machinery, he left us to attend to his afternoon duties; and

we wandered together over the breezy upland at our own sweet wills, or

at _her_ sweet will rather, since what could I do but follow where she

pleased to lead?

We talked of many things: of the father whom she had loved so dearly,

whose memory was still so mournfully dear to her; of her old home at

Hyley; of her visits to these dear Mercers; of her schooldays, and her

new unloved home in the smart Bayswater villa. She confided in me as

she had never done before; and when we turned in the chill autumn

gloaming, I had told her of my love, and had won from her the sweet

confession of its return.

I have never known happiness so perfect as that which I felt as we

walked home together--home--yes; that old farm-house must be my home as

well as hers henceforward; for any habitation which she loved must be a

kind of home for me. Sober reflection tells me how reckless and

imprudent my whole conduct has been in this business; but when did ever

love and prudence go hand-in-hand? We were children, Charlotte and I,

on that blessed afternoon; and we told each other our love as children

might have told it, without thought of the future. We have both grown

wiser since that time, and are quite agreed as to our imprudence and

foolishness; but, though we endeavour to contemplate the future in the

most serious manner, we are too happy in the present to be able to

analyse the difficulties and dangers that lie in our pathway.

Surely there must be a providence for imprudent lovers.

The November dews fell thick, and the November air was chill, as we

walked back to the homestead. I was sorry that there should be that

creeping dampness in the atmosphere that night. It seemed out of

harmony with the new warmth in my heart. I pressed my darling's little

hand closer to my breast, and had no more consciousness of any

impediments to my future bliss than of the ground on which I

walked--and that seemed air.

We found our chairs waiting for us at aunt Dorothy's tea-table; and I

enjoyed that aldermanic banquet, a Yorkshire tea, under circumstances

that elevated it to an Olympian repast.

I thought of the Comic Latin Grammar:

"Musa, musae, the gods were at tea;

Musae musam, eating raspberry jam."

I was Jove, and my love was Juno. I looked at her athwart the misty

clouds that issued from the hissing urn, and saw her beautified by a

heightened bloom, and with a sweet, shy conscious look in her eyes

which made her indeed divine.

After tea we played whist; and I am bound to confess that my divinity

played execrably, persistently disdaining to return her partner's lead,

and putting mean little trumps upon her adversary's tricks, with a

fatuous economy of resources which is always ruin.

I stayed till ten o'clock, reckless of the unknown country which

separated me from the Magpie, and then walked home alone, under the

faint starlight, though my friendly host would fain have lent me a

dog-cart. The good people here lend one another dog-carts as freely as

a cockney offers his umbrella. I went back to Huxter's Cross alone, and

the long solitary walk was very pleasant to me.

Looking up at the stars as I tramped homeward, I could but remember an

old epigram:--

Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies,

My love should shine on you like to the sun,

And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

I had ample leisure for reflection during that long night-walk, and

found myself becoming a perfect Young--Hervey--Sturm--what you will, in

the way of meditation. I could not choose but wonder at myself when I

looked back to this time last year, and remembered my idle evenings in

third-rate _cafés_, on the _rive gauche_, playing dominoes, talking the

foul slang of Parisian bohemia, and poisoning my system with

adulterated absinthe. And now I feast upon sweet cakes and honey, and

think it paradisiac enjoyment to play whist--for love--in a farm-house

parlour. I am younger by ten years than I was twelve months ago.

Ah, let me thank God, who has sent me my redemption.

I lifted my hat, and pronounced the thanksgiving softly under that

tranquil sky. I was almost ashamed to hear the sound of my own voice. I

was like some shy child who for the first time speaks his father's name.

CHAPTER V.

TOO FAIR TO LAST.

In my confidences with my dear girl I had told her neither the nature

of my mission in Yorkshire, nor the fact that I was bound to leave

Huxter's Cross immediately upon an exploring expedition to nowhere in

particular, in search of the archives of the Meynells. How could I

bring myself to tell her that I must leave her?--how much less could I

bring myself to do it?

Rendered desperately unmindful of the universe by reason of my

all-absorbing happiness, I determined on giving myself a holiday

boldly, in defiance of Sheldon and the Sheldonian interests.

"Am I a bounden slave?" I asked myself, "that I should go here or there

at any man's bidding, for the pitiful stipend of twenty shillings a

week?"

It is to be observed that the rate of hire makes all the difference in

these cases; and while it is ignominious for a lawyer's clerk to hasten

to and fro in the earning of his weekly wage, it is in no way

dishonourable for the minister of state to obey the call of his chief,

and hurry hither and thither in abnegation of all his own

predilections, and to the aggravation of his chronic gout.

I wrote to my Sheldon, and told him that I had met with friends in the

neighbourhood of Huxter's Cross, and that I intended to give myself a

brief holiday; after which I would resume my labours, and do my

uttermost to make up for wasted time. I had still the remnant of my

borrowed thirty pounds, and amongst these northern hills I felt myself

a millionaire.

Three thousand pounds at five per cent--one hundred and fifty pounds a

year. I felt that with such an income assured to us, and the fruits of

my industry, Charlotte and I might be secure from all the storms of

life. Ah, what happiness it would be to work for her! And I am not too

old to begin life afresh; not too old for the bar; not too old to make

some mark as a writer on the press; not too old to become a respectable

member of society.

After having despatched my letter to Sheldon, I made off for Newhall

farm with all speed. I had received a sort of general invitation from

the kindest of uncles and aunts, but I contrived with becoming modesty

to arrive after Mr. Mercer's dinner-hour. I found Charlotte alone in

the dear old-fashioned parlour, aunt Dorothy being engaged in some

domestic operations in the kitchen, and uncle Joseph making his usual

after-dinner rounds amongst the pig-styes and the threshing-machines. I

discovered afterwards that it was Miss Halliday's wont to accompany her

kind kinsman in this afternoon investigation; but to-day she had

complained of a headache and preferred to stay at home. Yet there were

few symptoms of the headache when I found her standing in the

bow-window, watching the path by which I came, and the face of Aurora

herself could scarcely be brighter or fresher than my darling's

innocent blushes when I greeted her with the privileged kiss of

betrothal.

We sat in the bow-window talking till the twilight shadows crept over

the greensward, and the sheep were led away to their fold, with

cheerful jingling of bells and barking of watchful dog. My dearest girl

told me that our secret had already been discovered by the penetrating

eyes of aunt Dorothy and uncle Joseph. They had teased her

unmercifully, it seemed, all that day, but were graciously pleased to

smile upon my suit, like a pair of imprudent Arcadians as they are.

"They like you very much indeed," my Lotta said joyously; "but I

believe they think I have known you much longer than I really have, and

that you are very intimate with my stepfather. It seems almost like

deceiving them to allow them to think so, but I really haven't the

courage to tell the truth. How foolish and bold they would think me if

they knew how very short a time I have known you!"

"Twenty times longer than Juliet had known Romeo when they met in the

Friar's cell to be married," I urged.

"Yes, but that was in a play," replied Charlotte, "where everything is

obliged to be hurried; and at Hyde Lodge we all of us thought that

Juliet was a very forward young person."

"The poets all believe in love at first sight, and I'll wager our dear

uncle Joe fell over head and ears in love with aunt Dorothy after

having danced with her two or three times at an assize ball," said I.

After this we became intensely serious, and I told my darling girl that

I hoped very soon to be in possession of a small fixed income, and to

have begun a professional career. I told her how dear an incentive to

work she had given me, and how little fear I had for the future.

I reminded her that Mr. Sheldon had no legal power to control her

actions, and that, as her father's will had left her entirely to her

mother's guardianship, she had only her mother's pleasure to consult.

"I believe poor mamma would let me marry a crossing-sweeper, if I cried

and declared it would make me miserable not to marry him," said

Charlotte; "but then, you see, mamma's wishes mean Mr. Sheldon's

wishes; she is sure to think whatever he tells her to think; and if he

is strongly against our marriage--"

"As I am sure he will be," I interjected.

"He will work upon poor mamma in that calm, persistent, logical way of

his till he makes her as much against it as himself."

"But even your mamma has no legal power to control your actions, my

love. Were you not of age on your last birthday?"

My darling replied in the affirmative.

"Then of course you are free to marry whom you please; and as I am

thankful to say you don't possess a single sixpence in your own right,

there need be no fuss about settlements or pin-money. We can marry any

fine morning that my dear girl pleases to name, and defy all the stern

stepfathers in creation."

"How I wish I had a fortune, for your sake!" she said with a sigh.

"Be glad for my sake that you have none," I answered. "You cannot

imagine the miserable complications and perplexities which arise in

this world from the possession of money. No slave so tightly bound as

the man who has what people call 'a stake in the country' and a balance

at his banker's. The true monarch of all he surveys is the penniless

reprobate who walks down Fleet-street with his whole estate covered by

the seedy hat upon his head."

Having thus moralized, I proceeded to ask Miss Halliday if she was

prepared to accept a humbler station than that enjoyed by her at the

Lawn.

"No useful landau, to be an open carriage at noon and a family coach at

night," I said; "no nimble page to skip hither and thither at his fair

lady's commands, if not belated on the way by the excitement of tossing

halfpence with youthful adventurers of the byways and alleys; no trim

parlour-maids, with irreproachable caps, dressed for the day at 11

o'clock A.M.--but instead of these, a humble six-roomed bandbox of a

house, and one poor hardworking slavey, with perennial smudges from

saucepan-lids upon her honest pug-nose. Consider the prospect

seriously, Charlotte, and ask yourself whether you can endure such a

descent in the social scale."

My Charlotte laughed, as if the prospect had been the most delightful

picture ever presented to mortal vision.

"Do you think I care for the landau or the page?" she cried. "If it

were not for mamma's sake, I should detest that prim villa and all its

arrangements. You see me so happy here, where there is no pretence of

grandeur--"

"But I am bound to warn you that I shall not be able to provide

Yorkshire teas at the commencement of our domestic career," I remarked,

by way of parenthesis.

"Aunt Dorothy will send us hampers of poultry and cakes, sir, and for

the rest of our time we can live upon bread and water."

On this I promised my betrothed a house in Cavendish or Portman-square,

and a better-built landau than Mr. Sheldon's, in the remote future.

With those dear eyes for my pole-stars, I felt myself strong enough to

clamber up the slippery ascent to the woolsack. The best and purest

ambition must surely be that which is only a synonym for love.

After we had sat talking in the gloaming to our hearts' content, aunt

Dorothy appeared, followed by a sturdy handmaid with lighted candles,

and a still sturdier handmaid with a ponderous tea-tray. The two made

haste to spread a snow-white cloth, and to set forth the species of

banquet which it is the fashion nowadays to call high tea. Anon came

uncle Joseph, bringing with him some slight perfume from the piggeries,

and he and aunt Dorothy were pleased to be pleasantly facetious and

congratulatory in their conversation during the social meal which

followed their advent.

After tea we played whist again, aunt Dorothy and I obtaining a

succession of easy victories over Charlotte and uncle Joe. I felt

myself hourly more and more completely at home in that simple domestic

circle, and enjoyed the proud position of an accepted lover. My

Arcadian friends troubled themselves in nowise as to the approval or

disapproval of Mr. and Mrs. Sheldon, or with regard either to my

prospects or my antecedents. They saw me devoted to my dear girl, they

saw my dearest pleased by my devotion, and they loved her so well that

they were ready to open their hearts without reserve to the man who

adored her and was loved by her, let him be rich or poor, noble or

base-born. As they would have given her the wax-doll of her desire ten

or twelve years ago without question as to price or fitness of things,

so they now gave her their kindly smiles and approval for the lover of

her choice. "I know Phil Sheldon is a man who looks to the main

chance," said uncle Joe, in the course of a discussion about his

niece's future which dyed her cheeks with blushes in the present; "and

I'll lay you'll find him rather a difficult customer to deal with,

especially as poor Tom's will left all the money in Georgy's hands,

which of course is tantamount to saying that Sheldon has got the

disposal of it."

I assured uncle Joe that money was the very last thing which I desired.

"Then in that case I don't see why he shouldn't let you have

Charlotte," replied Mr. Mercer; "and if she's cheated out of her poor

dad's money, she shan't be cheated out of what her old aunt and uncle

may have to leave her by-and-by."

Here were these worthy people promising me an heiress with no more

compunction than if they had been offering me a cup of tea.

I walked homeward once more beneath the quiet stars. O, how happy I

was! Can happiness so perfect, joy so sinless, endure? I, the

friendless wanderer and penniless Bohemian, asked myself this question;

and again I paused upon the lonely moorland road to lift my hat as I

thanked God for having given me such bright hopes.

But George Sheldon's three thousand pounds must be mine before I can

secure the humblest shelter for my sweet one; and although it would be

bliss to me to tramp through the world barefoot with Charlotte by my

side, the barefooted state of things is scarcely the sort of prospect a

man would care to offer to the woman he loves. So once more to the

chase. One more day in this delicious island of the lotus-eaters,

Newhall farm; and then away!--hark forward!--tantivy!--and hey for the

marriage-lines of Charlotte Meynell, great-granddaughter of Matthew

Haygarth, and, if still in the flesh, rightful heiress to the one

hundred thousand pounds at present likely to be absorbed by the

ravening jaws of the Crown! One more day, one more delightful idle day,

in the land where it is always afternoon, and then away to Hidling in

the hybrid vehicle, and thence to Hull, from Hull to York, from York to

Leeds, then Bradford, Huddersfield--_toute la boutique!_

The rain beats against the diamond panes of my casement as I write. The

day has been hopelessly wet, so I have stayed in my snug little chamber

and occupied myself in writing this record. Foul wind or weather would

have little power to keep me from my darling; but even if it had been a

fine day, I could not with any grace have presented myself at Newhall

farm for a third afternoon. To-morrow my immediate departure will

afford me an excuse for presenting myself once more before my kind

uncle and aunt. It will be my farewell visit. I wonder whether

Charlotte will miss me this afternoon. I wonder whether she will be

sorry when I tell her that I am going to leave this part of the

country. Ah, shall we ever meet again under such happy auspices? Shall

I ever again find such kind friends or such a hospitable dwelling as

those I shall leave amidst these northern hills?

CHAPTER VI.

FOUND IN THE BIBLE.

_November_ 3 _d_. The most wonderful event has befallen--surely the most

wonderful that ever came to pass outside the realms of fiction. Let me

set down the circumstances of yesterday coolly and quietly if I can. I

invoke the placid spirit of my Sheldon. I invoke all the divinities of

Gray's Inn and "The Fields." Let me be legal and specific,

perspicacious and logical--if this beating heart, this fevered brain,

will allow me a few hours' respite.

The autumn sunshine blessed the land again yesterday. Moorland and

meadow, fallow and clover-field, were all the brighter for the steady

downfall of the previous day. I walked to Newhall directly after

breakfast, and found my dearest standing at the white five-barred gate,

dressed in her pretty blue jacket, and with ribbons in her bonny brown

hair.

She was pleased to see me, though at first just a little inclined to

play the _boudeuse_ on account of my absence on the previous day. Of

course I assured her that it had been anguish for me to remain away

from her, and quoted that divine sonnet of our William's to the like

effect:

"How like a winter hath my absence been!"

and again:

"O, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify."

Equally of course my pet pretended not to believe me. After this little

misunderstanding we forgave each other, and adored each other again

with just a little more than usual devotion; and then we went for a

long ramble among the fields, and looked at the dear placid sheep, who

stared at us wonderingly in return, as if exclaiming to themselves,

"And these are a specimen couple of the creatures called lovers!"

We met uncle Joe in the course of our wanderings, and returned with him

in time for the vulgar superstition of dinner, which we might have

forgotten had we been left by ourselves. After dinner uncle Joe made

off to his piggeries; while aunt Dorothy fell asleep in a capacious old

arm-chair by the fire, after making an apologetic remark to the effect

that she was tired, and had been a good deal "tewed" that morning in

the dairy. "Tewed," I understand, is Yorkshire for "worried."

Aunt Dorothy having departed into the shadowy realm of dreams,

Charlotte and I were left to our own devices.

There was a backgammon board on a side-table, surmounted by an old

Indian bowl of dried rose-leaves; and, _pour nous distraire_, I

proposed that I should teach my dearest that diverting game. She

assented, and we set to work in a very business-like manner, Miss

Halliday all attention, I serious as a professional schoolmaster.

Unfortunately for my pupil's progress, the game of backgammon proved

less entertaining than our own conversation, so, after a very feeble

attempt on the one side to learn and on the other to teach, we closed

the board and began to talk;--first of the past, then of the future,

the happy future, which we were to share.

There is no need that I should set down this lovers' talk. Is it not

written on my heart? The future seemed so fair and unclouded to me, as

my love and I sat talking together yesterday afternoon. Now all is

changed. The strangest, the most surprising complications have arisen;

and I doubt, I fear.

After we had talked for a long time, Miss Halliday suddenly proposed

that I should read to her.

"Diana once told me that you read very beautifully," said this

flatterer; "and I should so like to hear you read--poetry of course.

You will find plenty of poems in that old bookcase--Cowper, and

Bloomfield, and Pope. Now I am sure that Pope is just the kind of poet

whose verses you would read magnificently. Shall we explore the

bookcase together?"

Now if there is any manner of beguiling an idle afternoon, which seems

to me most delightful, it is by the exploration of old bookcases; and

when that delight can be shared by the woman one fondly loves, the

pleasure thereof must be of course multiplied to an indefinite amount.

So Charlotte and I set to work immediately to ransack the lower shelves

of the old-fashioned mahogany bookcase, which contained the entire

library of the Mercer household.

I am bound to admit that we did not light upon many volumes of

thrilling interest. The verses of Cowper, like those of Southey, have

always appeared to me to have only one fault--there are too many of

them. One shrinks appalled from that thick closely-printed volume of

morality cut into lengths of ten feet; and beyond the few well-worn

quotations in daily use, I am fain to confess that I am almost a

stranger to the bard of Olney.

Half a dozen odd volumes of the _Gentleman's Magazine_, three or four

of the _Annual Register_, a neatly-bound edition of _Clarissa Harlowe_

and _Sir Charles Grandison_ in twelve volumes, Law's _Holy Call to a

Serious Life_, _Paradise Lost_, _Joseph Andrews_, _Hervey's

Meditations_, and _Gulliver's Travels_, formed the varied contents of

the principal shelves. Above, there were shabbily-bound volumes and

unbound pamphlets. Below, there were folios, the tops whereof were

thickly covered with the dust of ages, having escaped the care of the

handmaidens even in that neatly-appointed household.

I knelt down to examine these.

"You'll be covered with dust if you touch them," cried Charlotte. "I

was once curious enough to examine them, but the result was very

disappointing."

"And yet they look so delightfully mysterious," I said. "This one, for

instance?"

"That is an old history of London, with curious plates and maps; rather

interesting if one has nothing more amusing to read. But the perennial

supply of novels from Mudie's spoils one for that kind of book."

"If ever I come to Newhall again, I shall dip into the old history. One

is never tired of dead and gone London. But after Mr. Knight's

delightful book any old history must seem very poor. What is my burly

friend here?"

"O, a dreadful veterinary-surgeon's encyclopaedia--_The Farmer's

Friend_ I think it is called; all about the ailments of animals."

"And the next?"

"The next is an odd volume of the _Penny Magazine_. Dear aunt Dorothy

is rich in odd volumes."

"And the next,--my bulky friend number two,--with a cracked leather

back and a general tendency to decay?"

"O, that is the Meynell Bible."

The MEYNELL BIBLE! A hot perspiration broke out upon my face as I knelt

at Charlotte Halliday's feet, with my hand resting lightly on the top

of the book.

"The Meynell Bible!" I repeated; and my voice was faintly tremulous, in

spite of the effort I made to control myself. "What do you mean by the

Meynell Bible?"

"I mean the old family Bible that belonged to my grand-mamma. It was

her father's Bible, you know; and of course he was my

great-grandfather--Christian Meynell. Why, how you stare at me,

Valentine! Is there anything so wonderful in my having had a

great-grandfather?"

"No, darling; but the fact is that I--"

In another moment I should have told her the entire truth; but I

remembered just in time that I had pledged myself to profound secrecy

with regard to the nature and progress of my investigation, and I had

yet to learn whether that pledge did or did not involve the observance

of secrecy even with those most interested in my researches. Pending

further communication with Sheldon, I was certainly bound to be silent.

"I have a kind of interest in the name of Meynell," I said, "for I was

once engaged in a business matter with people of that name."

And having thus hoodwinked my beloved with a bouncer, I proceeded to

extract the Bible from its shelf. The book was so tightly wedged into

its place, that to remove it was like drawing a tooth. It was a

noble-looking old volume, blue with the mould of ages, and redolent of

a chill dampness like the atmosphere of a tomb.

"I should so like to examine the old book when the candles come in," I

said.

Fortunately for the maintenance of my secret, the darkness was closing

in upon us when I discovered the volume, and the room was only fitfully

illuminated by the flame that brightened and faded every minute.

I carried the book to a side-table, and Charlotte and I resumed our

talk until the candles came, and close behind them uncle Joe. I fear I

must have seemed a very inattentive lover during that brief interval,

for I could not concentrate my thoughts upon the subject of our

discourse. My mind would wander to the strange discovery that I had

just made, and I could not refrain from asking myself whether by any

extraordinary chance my own dear love should be the rightful claimant

to John Haygarth's hoarded wealth.

I hoped that it might not be so. I hoped that my darling might be

penniless rather than the heir to wealth, which, in all likelihood,

would create an obstacle strong enough to sever us eternally. I longed

to question her about her family, but could not as yet trust myself to

broach the subject. And while I doubted and hesitated, honest

blustering uncle Joe burst into the room, and aunt Dorothy awoke, and

was unutterably surprised to find she had slept so long.

After this came tea; and as I sat opposite my dearest girl I could not

choose but remember that gray-eyed Molly, whose miniature had been

found in the tulip-wood bureau, and in whose bright face I had seen the

likeness of Philip Sheldon's beautiful stepdaughter. And Mr. Sheldon's

lovely stepdaughter was the lineal descendant of this very Molly.

Strange mystery of transmitted resemblances! Here was the sweet face

that had bewitched honest, simple-minded Matthew Haygarth reproduced

after the lapse of a century.

My Charlotte was descended from a poor little player girl who had

smiled on the roisterous populace of Bartholomew Fair. Some few drops

of Bohemian blood mingled with the pure life-stream in her veins. It

pleased me to think of this; but I derived no pleasure from the idea

that Charlotte might possibly be the claimant of a great fortune.

"She may have cousins who would stand before her," I said to myself;

and there was some comfort in the thought.

After tea I asked permission to inspect the old family Bible, much to

the astonishment of uncle Joe, who had no sympathy with antiquarian

tastes, and marvelled that I should take any interest in so mouldy a

volume. I told him, with perfect truth, that such things had always

more or less interest for me; and then I withdrew to my little table,

where I was provided with a special pair of candles.

"You'll find the births and deaths of all poor Molly's ancestors on the

first leaf," said uncle Joe. "Old Christian Meynell was a rare one for

jotting down such things; but the ink has gone so pale that it's about

as much as you'll do to make sense of it, I'll lay."

Charlotte looked over my shoulder as I examined the fly-leaf of the

family Bible. Even with this incentive to distraction I contrived to be

tolerably business-like; and this is the record which I found on the

faded page:

"Samuel Matthew Meynell, son of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. March

9, 1796, baptised at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in this city.

"Susan Meynell, daughter of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. June 29,

1798, also baptised in the same church.

"Charlotte Meynell, second daughter of the above Christian and Sarah,

b. October 3, 1800, baptised at the above-mentioned church of St.

Giles, London."

Below these entries, in blacker ink and in a different hand-writing--a

bold, business-like, masculine caligraphy--came the following:

"Charlotte Meynell married to James Halliday, in the parish church of

Barngrave, Yorks. April 15, 1819.

"Thomas Halliday, son of the above James and Charlotte Halliday, b.

Jan. 3d, 1821, baptised in the parish church of Barngrave, Feb. 20 in

the same year.

"Mary Halliday, daughter of the above-named James and Charlotte

Halliday, b. May 27th, 1823, baptised at Barngrave, July 1st in the

same year."

Below this there was an entry in a woman's penmanship:

"Susan, the beloved sister of C. H., died in London, July 11, 1835.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged.

"I came to call sinners, and not the righteous, to repentance."

This record seemed to hint vaguely at some sad story: "Susan, the

beloved sister;" no precise data of the death--no surname! And then

those two deprecating sentences, which seemed to plead for the dead.

I had been led to understand that Christian Meynell's daughters had

both died in Yorkshire--one married, the other unmarried.

The last record in the book was the decease of James Halliday, my dear

girl's grandfather.

After pondering long over the strangely-worded entry of Susan Meynell's

death, I reflected that, with the aid of those mysterious powers Hook

and Crook, I must contrive to possess myself of an exact copy of this

leaf from a family history, if not of the original document. Again my

duty to my Sheldon impelled me to be false to all my new-born

instincts, and boldly give utterance to another bouncer.

"I am very much interested in a county history now preparing for the

press," I said to my honoured uncle, who was engaged in a hand at

cribbage with his wife; "and I really think this old leaf from a family

Bible would make a very interesting page in that work."

I blushed for myself as I felt how shamefully I was imposing upon my

newly-found kinsman's credulity. With scarcely any one but uncle Joe

could I have dared to employ so shallow an artifice.

"Would it really, now?" said that confiding innocent. "Well, I suppose

old papers, and letters, and such like, are uncommonly interesting to

some folks. I can't say I care much about 'em myself."

"Would you have any objection to my taking a copy of these entries?" I

asked.

"My word, no, lad; not I. Take half a dozen copies, and welcome, if

they can be of any use to you or other people. That's not much to ask

for."

I thanked my simple host, and determined to write to a stationer at

Hull for some tracing-paper by the first post next morning. There was

some happiness, at least, in having found this unlooked-for end to my

researches. I had a good excuse for remaining longer near Charlotte

Halliday.

"It's only for my poor Mary's sake I set any value on that old volume,"

the farmer said, presently, in a meditative tone. "You see the names

there are the names of her relations, not mine; and this place and all

in it was hers. Dorothy and I are only interlopers, as you may say, at

the best, though I brought my fortune to the old farm, and Dorothy

brought her fortune, and between us we've made Newhall a much better

place than it was in old James Halliday's time. But there's something

sad in the thought that none of those that were born on the land have

left chick or child to inherit it." Uncle Joseph fell for a while into

a pensive reverie, and I thought of that other inheritance, well-nigh

fifty times the value of Newhall farm, which is now waiting for a

claimant. And again I asked myself, Could it be possible that this

sweet girl, whose changeful face had saddened with those old memories,

whose innocent heart knew not one sordid desire--could it be indeed she

whose fair hand was to wrest the Haygarthian gold from the grip of

Crown lawyers?

The sight of that old Bible seemed to have revived Mr. Mercer's memory

of his first wife with unwonted freshness.

"She was a sweet young creature," he said; "the living picture of our

Lottie, and sometimes I fancy it must have been that which made me take

to Lottie when she was a little one. I used to see my first wife's eyes

looking up at me out of Lottie's eyes. I told Tom it was a comfort to

me to have the little lass with me, and that's how they let her come

over so often from Hyley. Poor old Tom used to bring her over in his

Whitechapel cart, and leave her behind him for a week or so at a

stretch. And then, when my Dorothy, yonder, took pity upon a poor

lonely widower, she made as much of the little girl as if she'd been

her own, and more, perhaps; for, not having any children of her own,

she thought them such out-of-the-way creatures, that you couldn't

coddle them and pet them too much. There's a little baby lies buried in

Barngrave churchyard with Tom Halliday's sister that would have been a

noble young man, sitting where you're sitting, Mr. Hawkehurst, and

looking at me as bright as you're looking, perhaps, if the Lord's will

hadn't been otherwise. We've all our troubles, you see, and that was

mine; and if it hadn't been for Dorothy, life would not have been worth

much for me after that time--but my Dorothy is all manner of blessings

rolled up in one."