CHAPTER I.

Produced by Andrea Ball, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, produced

from images generously made available by the Canadian

Institute for Historical Microreproductions.

THE HALLAM SUCCESSION

BY

AMELIA E. BARR

AUTHOR OF "JAN VEDDER'S WIFE," "THE BOW OF ORANGE RIBBON,"

"FRIEND OLIVIA," ETC., ETC.

CONTENTS.

AMERICANS IN YORKSHIRE.

MARTHA CRAVEN'S TROUBLE.

RICHARD AND ELIZABETH.

WESLEY AND METHODISM.

ANTONY'S PLANS.

GOD CLEARS BEN CRAVEN.

CHRISTMAS.

RENEWAL OF THE COVENANT.

SEPARATION.

AT HOME AGAIN.

JOHN MILLARD.

THE PASSIONATE SHOT.

TEXAS AND LIBERTY.

RICHARD AT HALLAM.

MAY. A. D. 1836.

ANTONY AND HIS BRIDE.

THE SQUIRE'S DEATH.

ANTONY'S SIN.

ELIZABETH'S RESOLVE.

EVELYN.

ELIZABETH'S TRIAL.

LOVE COMFORTED.

ANTONY'S FATE.

SANTA FE EXPEDITION.

ELIZABETH IN TEXAS.

THE SUNSET OF LIFE.

TO

MY DEAR FRIEND,

SAM. EARNSHAW WILSON, ESQ.,

THIS TALE

IS, WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM,

INSCRIBED.

THE HALLAM SUCCESSION.

CHAPTER I.

"The changing guests, each in a different mood,

Sit at the road-side table and arise:

And every life among them in likewise

Is a soul's board set daily with new food.

"May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell

In separate living souls for joy or pain?

Nay, all its corners may be painted plain

Where Heaven shows pictures of some life well-spent."

Yorkshire is the epitome of England. Whatever is excellent in the

whole land is found there. The men are sturdy, shrewd, and stalwart;

hard-headed and hard-fisted, and have notably done their work in every

era of English history. They are also a handsome race, the finest

specimens extant of the pure Anglo-Saxon, and they still preserve the

imposing stature and the bright blonde characteristics of the race.

Yorkshire abounds in what is the typical English home--fine old halls

and granges, set in wooded parks, and surrounded by sweet, shady

gardens. One of the fairest of these homes is Hallam-Croft. There may

be larger halls in the West Riding, but none that combines so finely

all the charms of antiquity, with every modern grace and comfort. Its

walls are of gray stone, covered with ivy, or crusted with golden

lichens; its front, long and low, is picturesquely diversified with

oriel windows, gable ends, and shadowy angles. Behind is a steep,

craggy range of woody hills; in front, a terraced garden of great

extent; full of old-fashioned bowers, and labyrinth-like walks, and

sloping down to a noble park, whose oaks and beeches are of wonderful

beauty, and whose turf is soft as velvet and greener than any artist

ever dreamed of.

Fifty years ago the owner of this lovely spot was Squire Henry Hallam.

He was about sixty years of age, stout and fair and dressed in fine

drab broad-cloth, with a white vest, and a white cambric kerchief tied

loosely round his neck. His hat, drab also, was low-crowned and

broad-brimmed, and, as a general rule, he kept it on. In the holy

precincts of a church, or if the national anthem was played, he indeed

always bared his head; but, in the first case, it was his expression

of a religious sentiment, in the second he saluted his country, and,

in a measure, himself.

One evening in the early spring he was sitting upon a low sofa in the

room that was specially his own, mending some fishing tackle. A couple

of setter puppies were worrying each other on the sofa beside him,

and a splendid fox-hound leaned her muzzle on one of his broad knees,

and looked up into her master's face with sad reproachful eyes. She

was evidently jealous, and watching anxiously for some look or word

of favor. She had not long to wait. The puppies became troublesome;

he chided them, and put the bit of leather they were quarreling about

in his pocket. Then he patted the hound, and said: "There's a deal

o' difference between them and thee, Fanny, and it's a' in thy favor,

lass;" and Fanny understood the compliment, for she whimpered happily,

and thrust her handsome head up against her master's breast.

At that moment his daughter, Elizabeth, entered the room. She had an

open letter in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleased

upon her face. "Father," she said, "there is a letter from America;

Richard and Phyllis are coming; and I am afraid I shall not know how

to make them happy."

"Don't thee meet troubles half 'way; they arn't worth th' compliment.

What is ta feared for, dearie?"

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

are Methodists."

The squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout "fly" he

was making, before he answered. "Surely to goodness, they'll nivver

be that! Sibbald Hallam, my uncle, was a varry thick Churchman when

he went to th' Carolinas--but he married a foreigner; she had plenty

o' brass, and acres o' land, but I never heard tell owt o' her religion.

They had four lads and lasses, but only one o' them lived to wed, and

that was my cousin, Matilda Hallam--t' mother o' these two youngsters

that are speaking o' coming here."

"Who did she marry, father?"

"Nay, I knowt o' th' man she married. He was a Colonel Fontaine. I

was thinking a deal more o' my own wedding than o' hers at that time.

It's like enough he were a Methodist. T' Carolinas hed rebelled against

English government, and it's nobbut reasonable to suppose t' English

Church would be as little to their liking. But they're Hallams,

whativer else they be, Elizabeth, and t' best I hev is for them."

He had risen as he spoke; the puppies were barking and gamboling at

his feet, and Fanny watching his face with dignified eagerness. They

knew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. "Be still

wi' you, Rattle and Tory!--Yes, yes, Fanny!--and Elizabeth, open up

t' varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. Where's

Antony?"

"Somewhere in the house."

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

There was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but Elizabeth was too much

occupied to notice it; and as the squire and his dogs took the road

to the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, and

went thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her brother. There was

no deeper motive in her thought than what was apparent; her cares were

simply those of hospitality. But when a life has been bounded by

household hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, and

since her mother's death, two years previously, there had been no

company at Hallam. This was to be Elizabeth's first effort of active

hospitality.

She found Antony in the library reading "The Gentleman's Magazine,"

or, perhaps, using it for a sedative; for he was either half asleep,

or lost in thought. He moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke.

One saw at a glance that he had inherited his father's fine physique

and presence, but not his father's calm, clear nature. His eyes were

restless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. Neither was

his voice quite pleasant. There are human instruments, which always

seem to have a false note, and Antony's had this peculiarity.

"Antony, I have a letter from Richard and Phyllis Fontaine. They are

going to visit us this summer."

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

"Come to the parlor, and I will give you a cup of tea, and read you

cousin Phyllis's letter."

The squire had never thought of asking Elizabeth why she supposed her

cousins to be Methodists. Antony seized at once upon the point in the

letter which regarded it.

"They are sailing with Bishop Elliott, and will remain until September,

in order to allow the Bishop to attend Conference; what does that mean,

Elizabeth?"

"I suppose it means they are Methodists."

The young man was silent a moment, and then he replied, emphatically,

"I am very glad of it."

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

Elthams--"

"I was thinking of the Hallams. After a thousand years of stagnation

one ought to welcome a ripple of life. A Methodist isn't asleep. I

have often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as I passed it.

I wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once!"

"Antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. Some people might imagine

you meant what you said. You know very well that the thousand years

of 'stagnation,' as you call it, of the Hallams, is a most respectable

thing."

"Very respectable indeed! That is all women think about--born

conservatives every one of them--'dyed in the wool,' as a Bradford

man would say."

"Why do you quote what Bradford men say? I cannot imagine what makes

you go among a crowd of weavers, when you might be at Eltham Castle

with gentlemen."

"I will tell you why. At Eltham we yawn and stagnate together. The

weavers prick and pinch me in a thousand places. They make me dream

of living."

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

He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Upon the whole, he rather liked

the look of astonishment in his sister's gray eyes, and the air of

puzzled disapproval in her manner. He regarded ignorance on a great

many matters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood.

"It is very good tea, Elizabeth, and I like this American news. I shall

not go to the Tyrol now. Two new specimens of humanity to study are

better than glaciers."

"Antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins--'two

new specimens of humanity'--they are Hallams at the root."

"I meant no disrespect; but I am naturally a little excited at the

idea of American Hallams--Americans in Hallam-Croft! I only hope the

shades of Hengist and Horsa wont haunt the old rooms out of simple

curiosity. When are they to be here?"

"They will be in Liverpool about the end of May. You have two weeks

to prepare yourself, Antony."

Antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousin

Phyllis Fontaine might be he had no idea. People could not in those

days buy their pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so that

Antony's imagination, in this direction, had the field entirely to

itself. His fancy painted her in many charming forms, and yet he was

never able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits than

those with which he was familiar--the brilliant blonde beauty and

resplendent health of his countrywomen.

Therefore, when the real Phyllis Fontaine met his vision she was a

revelation to him. It was in the afternoon of the last day of May,

and Hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for the

occasion. The sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden so

sweet and balmy. Heart's-ease were every-where, honeysuckles filled

the air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and the

chaffinches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chattering. The

squire, with his son and daughter, was waiting at the great open door

of the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped he

cried out, cheerily, "Welcome to Hallam!" Then there was a few minutes

of pleasant confusion, and in them Phyllis had made a distinct picture

on every mind.

"She's a dainty little woman," said the squire to himself, as he sat

calmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; "not

much like a Hallam, but t' eye as isn't charmed wi' her 'ell hev no

white in it, that's a' about it."

Antony was much interested, and soon sought his sister.

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

Elizabeth?"

"Yes; how perfectly she was dressed."

"That is a woman's criticism. Did you see her soft, dark eyes, her

small bow-shaped mouth--a beauty one rarely finds in English women--her

exquisite complexion, her little feet?"

"That is a man's criticism. How could you see all that in a moment

or two of such confusion?"

"Easily; how was she dressed?"

"In a plain dress of gray cloth. The fit was perfect, the linen collar

and cuffs spotless, the gray bonnet, with its drooping, gray feather

bewitching. She wore gray gloves and a traveling cloak of the same

color, which hung like a princess's mantle."

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

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

rooms."

"Did you notice Richard?"

"A little; he resembles his sister. Their foreign look as they stood

beside you and father was very remarkable. Neither of them are like

Hallams."

"I am so glad of it; a new element coming into life is like a fresh

wind 'blowing through breathless woods.'"

But Elizabeth sighed. This dissatisfaction with the old, and craving

for the new, was one of the points upon which Antony and his father

were unable to understand each other. Nothing permanent pleased Antony,

and no one could ever predicate of him what course he would pursue,

or what side he would take. As a general rule, however, he preferred

the opposition in all things. Now, the squire's principles and opinions

were as clear to his own mind as his own existence was. He believed

firmly in his Bible, in the English Constitution, and in himself. He

admitted no faults in the first two; his own shortcomings toward Heaven

he willingly acknowledged; but he regarded his attitude toward his

fellow-man as without fault. All his motives and actions proceeded

from well-understood truths, and they moved in consistent and admirable

grooves.

Antony had fallen upon different times, and been brought under more

uncertain influences. Oxford, "the most loyal," had been in a religious

ferment during his stay there. The spirit of Pusey and Newman was

shaking the Church of England like a great wind; and though Antony

had been but little touched by the spiritual aspect of the movement,

the temporal accusations of corruption and desertion of duty were good

lances to tilt against the Church with. It gave him a curiously mixed

pleasure to provoke the squire to do battle for her; partly from

contradiction, partly that he might show off his array of second-hand

learning and logic; and partly, also, for the delight of asserting

his own opinions and his own individuality.

Any other dispute the squire would have settled by a positive

assertion, or a positive denial; but even the most dogmatic of men

are a little conscientious about religious scruples. He had, therefore,

allowed his son to discuss "the Church" with him, but in some subtle

way the older man divined that his ideas were conviction; while

Antony's were only drifting thoughts. Therefore, the moral strength

of the argument was with him, and he had a kind of contempt for a

Hallam who could be moved by every Will-o'-the-wisp of religious or

Political opinions.

But Elizabeth was greatly impressed by her brother's accomplishments,

and she loved him, and believed in him with all her heart. The Hallams

hitherto had no reputation for mental ability. In times of need England

had found them good soldiers and ready givers; but poets and scholars

they had never been. Antony affected the latter character. He spoke

several languages, he read science and German philosophy, and he talked

such radical politics to the old gardener, that the man privately

declared himself "fair cap't wi' t' young squire."

Yet after all, his dominant passion was a love of power, and of money

as the means by which to grasp power. Below all his speculations and

affectations this was the underlying thought. True, he was heir of

Hallam, and as the heir had an allowance quite equal to his position.

But he constantly reflected that his father might live many years,

and that in the probable order of things he must wait until he was

a middle-aged man for his inheritance; and for a young man who felt

himself quite competent to turn the axle of the universe, it seemed

a contemptible lot to grind in his own little mill at Hallam. He had

not as yet voiced these thoughts, but they lay in his heart, and

communicated unknown to himself an atmosphere of unrest and

unreliability to all his words and actions.

It was soon evident that there would be little sympathy between Richard

and Antony. Richard Fontaine was calm, dignified, reticent; never

tempted to give his confidence to any one; and averse to receive the

confidences of others; therefore, though he listened with polite

attention to Antony's aspirations and aims, they made very little

impression upon him. Both he and Phyllis glided without effort into

the life which must have been so new to them; and in less than a week,

Hallam had settled happily down to its fresh conditions. But nothing

had been just as Antony expected. Phyllis was very lovely, but not

lovely specially for him, which was disappointing; and he could not

help soon seeing that, though Richard was attentive, he was also

unresponsive.

There is one charming thing about English hospitality, it leaves its

guests perfect freedom. In a very few days Phyllis found this out;

and she wandered, unnoticed and undisturbed, through the long

galleries, and examined, with particular interest, the upper rooms,

into which from generation to generation unwelcomed pictures and

unfashionable furniture had been placed. There was one room in the

eastern turret that attracted her specially. It contained an old

spinet, and above it the picture of a young girl; a face of

melancholy, tender beauty, with that far-off look, which the French

call _predestinee_, in the solemn eyes.

It is folly to say that furniture has no expression; the small couch,

the faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twisted

attenuated legs, had an unspeakable air of sadness. One day she

cautiously touched the notes of the instrument. How weak and thin and

hollow they were! And yet they blended perfectly with something in

her own heart. She played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemed

as if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the conditions for

their reproduction. When she went back to her own room the influence

of the one she had left followed her like a shadow.

"How can I bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and she

flung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pink

chintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. There was a tap

at the door, and Elizabeth entered.

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

you?"

"I shall enjoy both your company and the tea. I think I have been in

an unhappy room and caught some of its spirit--the room with the old

spinet in it."

"Aunt Lucy's room. Yes, she was very unhappy. She loved, and the man

was utterly unworthy of her love! She died slowly in that room--a

wasted life."

"Ah, no, Elizabeth! No life is waste in the great Worker's hands. If

human love wounds and wrongs us, are we not circled by angels as the

stars by heaven? Our soul relatives sorrow in our sorrow; and out

of the apparent loss bring golden gain. I think she would know this

before she died."

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

Elizabeth looked steadily at Phyllis. She thought she had never seen

any face so lovely. From her eyes, still dewy with tears, the holy

soul looked upward; and her lips kept the expression of the prayer

that was in her heart. She did not wonder at the words that had fallen

from them. After a moment's silence, she said:

"My mother loved Aunt Lucy very dearly. Her death made a deal of

difference in mother's life."

"Death is always a great sorrow to those who love us; but for

ourselves, it is only to bow our heads at going out, and to enter

straightway another golden chamber of the King's, lovelier than the

one we leave."

Elizabeth scarce knew how to answer. She had never been used to discuss

sacred subjects with girls her own age; in fact, she had a vague idea

that such subjects were not to be discussed out of church, or, at

least, without a clergyman to direct the conversation. And Phyllis's

childish figure, glowing face, and sublime confidence affected her

with a sense of something strange and remote. Yet the conversation

interested her greatly. People are very foolish who restrain spiritual

confidences; no topic is so universally and permanently interesting

as religious experience. Elizabeth felt its charm at once. She loved

God, but loved him, as it were, afar off; she almost feared to speak

to him. She had never dared to speak of him.

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

loves?"

"Yes, I do. Love is the rock upon which our lives are generally built

or wrecked. Elizabeth, if I did not believe that the love of God

embraced every worthy earthly love, I should be very miserable."

"Because?"

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

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

"Once in class-meeting I asked this question. That was when I first

became aware that I loved John Millard. I am not likely to forget the

answer my leader gave me."

"What was it?"

"Sister Phyllis," he said, "ask yourself what will your love be to

you a thousand ages hence. Ask yourself if it will pass the rolling

together of the heavens like a scroll, and the melting of the elements

with fervent heat. Ask if it will pass the judgment-day, when the

secret thoughts of all hearts will be revealed. Dare to love only one

whom you can love forever."

"I have never thought of loving throughout all eternity the one whom

I love in time."

"Ah! but it is our privilege to cherish the immortal in the man we

love. Where I go I wish my beloved to go also. The thought of our love

severed on the threshold of paradise makes me weep. I cannot understand

an affection which must look forward to an irrevocable separation.

Nay, I ask more than this; I desire that my love, even there assuming

his own proper place, should be still in advance of me--my guide, my

support, my master every-where."

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

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

"What is the shadow, Phyllis?"

"Richard dislikes him so bitterly; and Richard is very, very near and

dear to me. I dare say you think he is very cool and calm and quiet.

It is the restraint which he puts upon himself; really Richard has

a constant fight with a temper, which, if it should take possession

of him, would be uncontrollable. He knows that."

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

Sunday, Phyllis."

"Why not? Methodists are not bigots; and just as England is my

mother-country, Episcopacy is my mother-Church. If Episcopacy should

ever die, Elizabeth, Methodism is next of kin, and would be heir to

all her churches."

"And Wesleyans and Methodists are the same?"

"Yes; but I like the old name best. It came from the pen of the

golden-mouthed Chrysostom, so you see it has quite an apostolic halo

about it."

"I never heard that, Phyllis."

"It is hardly likely you would. It was used at first as a word of

reproach; but how many such words have been adopted and made glorious

emblems of victory. It was thus in ancient Antioch the first followers

of Christ were called 'Christians.'"

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

"Richard told me it was used first in a pamphlet against Whitefield.

I do not remember the author, but he quoted from the pages of

Chrysostom these words, 'To be a Methodist is to be beguiled.' Of

course, Chrysostom's 'Methodist' is not our Methodist. The writer knew

he was unjust and meant it for a term of reproach, but the word took

the popular fancy, and, as such words do, clung to the people at whom

it was thrown. They might have thrown it back again; they did better;

they accepted it, and have covered it with glory."

"Why, Phyllis, what a little enthusiast you are!" and Elizabeth looked

again with admiration at the small figure reclining in the deep chair

beside her.

Its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite paleness

of Phyllis's complexion--that clear, warm paleness of the South--and

contrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. Her

dark, soft eyes glowed, her small hands had involuntarily clasped

themselves upon her breast. "What a little enthusiast you are!" Then

she stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for Elizabeth

was not emotional. Her feelings were as a still lake, whose depths

were only known to those who sounded them.

The conversation was not continued. Fine souls have an instinctive

knowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day the

limit of spiritual confidence had been reached. But it was Phyllis's

quicker nature which provided the natural return to the material life.

"I know I am enthusiastic, about many things, Elizabeth. The world

is so full of what is good and beautiful! Look at those roses! Could

flowers be more sweet and perfect? I always dream of happy things

among roses."

"But you must not dream now, dear. It is very near dinner-time. We

have had a very pleasant hour. I shall think of all you have said."

But the thing she thought most persistently of was Richard Fontaine's

temper. Was it possible that the equable charm and serenity of his

mood was only an assumed one? As she went to the dining-room she saw

him standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. In the same

moment he raised his head and stood watching her approach. It seemed

to him as if he had never seen her before. She advanced slowly toward

him through the level rays of the westering sun, which projected

themselves in a golden haze all around her. Those were not the days of

flutings and bows and rufflings innumerable. Elizabeth's dress was a

long, perfectly plain one, of white India mull. A narrow black belt

confined it at the waist, a collar of rich lace and a brooch of gold at the

throat. Her fair hair was dressed in a large loose bow on the crown,

and lay in soft light curls upon her brow. Her feet were sandaled,

her large white hands unjeweled and ungloved, and with one she lifted

slightly her flowing dress. Resplendent with youth, beauty, and

sunshine, she affected Richard as no woman had ever done before. She

was the typical Saxon woman, the woman who had ruled the hearts and

homes of his ancestors for centuries, and she now stirred his to its

sweetest depths. He did not go to meet her. He would not lose a step

of her progress. He felt that at last Jove was coming to visit him.

It was a joy almost solemn in its intensity and expectation. He held

out his hand, and Elizabeth took it. In that moment they saw each

other's hearts as clearly as two drops of rain meeting in air might

look into each other if they had life.

Yet they spoke only of the most trivial things--the dogs, and the

weather, and Richard's ride to Leeds, and the stumbling of Antony's

horse. "We left the Squire in the village," said Richard. "A woman

who was apparently in very great trouble called him."

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

"I think so."

"It must have been Martha Craven. I wonder what is the matter!" and

they walked together to the open door. The squire had just alighted

from his horse, and was talking earnestly to his favorite servant.

He seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep either

Sorrow of joy to himself. "Elizabeth! my word, but I'm bothered!

Here's Jonathan Clough murdered, and Ben Craven under lock and key

for it!"

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

"Not he! I'd be as like to do it mysen. Thou must go thy ways and see

Martha as soon as iver t' dinner is eat. I s'all stand by Martha and

Ben to t' varry last. Ben Craven murder any-body! Hee! I crack't out

laughing when I heard tell o' such nonsense."

In fact, the squire had been touched in a very tender spot. Martha

Craven's mother had been his nurse, and Martha herself, for many years,

his wife's maid and confidential servant. He felt the imputation as

a personal slander. The Cravens had been faithful servants of the

Hallams for generations, and Clough was comparatively a new-comer.

Right or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand by an

old friend, but he had not a doubt of Ben's innocence.

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

"I've been to see Israel Potter, and I've bound him to stand up for

Ben. What Israel doesn't know 'bout law, and what Israel can't do with

t' law, isn't worth t' knowing or t' doing. Then I went for t' Wesleyan

minister to talk a bit wi' Martha, poor body? She seemed to want

something o' t' kind; and I'm bound to say I found him a varry

gentlemanly, sensible fellow. He didn't think owt wrong o' Ben, no

more than I did."

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

"May be they'll be more cap't yet, son Antony. I'll ask neither cat

nor Christian what door to knock at. I wish I may nivver stand at a

worse door than Mr. North's, that's a'. What say you to that, then?"

"I say you are quite right, father."

"I'm nivver far wrong, my lad; nobody is that lets a kind heart lead

them, and it would be against nature if I didn't stand up for any

Craven that's i' trouble."

Phyllis, who was sitting beside him, laid her hand upon his a moment,

and he lifted his eyes and met hers. There was such a light and look

of sympathy and admiration in them, that she had no need to say a word.

He felt that he had done the right thing, and was pleased with himself

for doing it. In a good man there is still a deal of the divinity from

which he has fallen, and in his times of trial his heart throbs upward.

Dinner was insensibly hurried, and when Elizabeth rose Phyllis followed

her. "I must go with you dear; if Martha is a Methodist she is my

sister, and she has a right to my sympathy and my purse, if it is

necessary to her."

"I shall be glad. It is only a pleasant walk through the park, and

Antony and Richard can meet us at the park gates. I think you will

like Martha."

Few words were spoken by the two girls as they went in the amber

twilight across the green, green turf of the park. Martha saw them

coming and was at her door when they stepped inside the fragrant patch

which she called her garden. She was a woman very pleasant to look

at, tall and straight, with a strong ruddy face--and blue eyes, a

little dim with weeping. Her cotton dress of indigo blue, covered with

golden-colored moons, was pinned well up at the back, displaying her

home-knit stockings and low shoes fastened with brass latchets. She

had on her head a cap of white linen, stiffly starched, and a checkered

kerchief was pinned over her ample bosom.

Even in her deep sorrow and anxiety her broad sweet mouth could not

forget its trick of smiling. "Come this ways in, Joy," she said to

Elizabeth, at the same moment dropping a courtesy to Phyllis, an

old-fashioned token of respect, which had no particle of servility

in it.

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

"Well, I'm sure I'm right suited at meeting her. Mother used to talk

above a bit about Sibbald Hallam as crossed t' seas. She looked for

him to come back again. But he nivver came."

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

your trouble."

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

Phyllis nodded brightly and took her hand.

"Well I nivver! But I'm fain and glad! And as for trouble, I'll not

fear it. Why should I, wi' t' love o' God and t' love o' man to help

me?"

"When did it happen, Martha?"

"Last night, Miss Hallam. My Ben and Jonathan Clough wern't as good

friends as might be. There's a lass at t' bottom o' t' trouble; there's

allays that. She's a good lass enough, but good 'uns mak' as much

trouble as t' bad 'uns sometimes, I think. It's Jonathan's daughter,

Mary. She's ta'en Ben's fancy, and she's ta'en Bill Laycock's fancy,

too. T' lass likes my Ben, and Clough he liked Laycock; for Laycock

is t' blacksmith now, and owns t' forge, and t' house behind it. My

Ben is nobbut Clough's overlooker."

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

between them."

"T' lad's none to blame for that. Clough is makkin' some new kind o'

figured goods, and t' men are all hired by t' twelvemonth, and bound

over to keep a quiet tongue i' their mouths about t' new looms as does

t' work. Two days ago Clough found out that Tim Bingley hed told t'

secret to Booth; and Clough wer' neither to hold nor bind. He put

Bingley out o' t' mill, and wouldn't pay him t' balance o' t' year,

and somehow he took t' notion that Ben was in t' affair. Ben's none

so mean as that, I'm sure."

"But Bingley is a very bad man. My father sent him to the tread-mill

last year for a brutal assault. He is quite capable of murder. Has

no one looked for him?"

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

"Then Clough is still alive?"

"Ay, but he'll die ere morning. T' magistrates hev been wi' him, and

he swears positive that Ben Craven shot him."

"Where was Ben last night?"

"He came from t' mill at six o'clock, and hed a cup o' tea wi' me.

He said he'd go to t' chapel wi' me at eight o'clock; and after I hed

washed up t' dishes, I went to sit wi' Sarah Fisher, who's bad off

wi' t' fever; and when I came back Ben was standing at t' door, and

folks wer' running here, and running there, and all t' village was

fair beside itseln. We wer' just reading a bit in t' Bible, when

constables knocked at t' door and said they wanted Ben. My heart sank

into my shoes, Miss Hallam, and I said, 'That's a varry unlikely thing,

lads; you're just talking for talking's sake.' And Jerry Oddy said,

'Nay, we bean't, dame; Jonathan Clough is dying, and he says Ben

Craven shot him.' Then I said, 'He'll die wi' t' lie on his lips if

he says that, thou tell him so.' And Jerry Oddy said, 'Not I, dame,

keep a still tongue i' thy mouth, it'll mebbe be better for thee.'"

"Martha! How could you bear it?"

"I didn't think what I wer' bearing at t' time, Miss Hallam; I wer'

just angry enough for any thing; and I wer' kind o' angry wi' Ben

takkin' it so quiet like. 'Speak up for thysen, lad,' I said; 'hesn't

ta got a tongue i' thy head to-neet?'"

"Poor Ben! What did he say?"

"He said, 'Thou be still, mother, and talk to none but God. I'm as

innocent o' this sin as thou art;' and I said, 'I believe thee, my

lad, and God go wi' thee, Ben.' There's one thing troubles me, Miss

Hallam, and it bothered t' squire, too. Ben was in his Sunday

clothes--that wasn't odd, for he was going to t' chapel wi' me--but

Jerry noticed it, and he asked Ben where his overlooker's brat and cap

was, and Ben said they wer' i' t' room; but they wern't there, Miss

Hallam, and they hevn't found 'em either."

"That is strange."

"Ay, its varry queer, and t' constables seemed to think so. Jerry

nivver liked Ben, and he said to me, 'Well, dame, it's a great pity

that last o' t' Cravens should swing himsen to death on t' gallows.'

But I told him, 'Don't thee be so sure that Ben's t' last o' t'

Cravens: Thou's makkin' thy count without Providence, Jerry;' and I'm

none feared," she added, with a burst of confidence; "I'll trust in

God yet! I can't see him, but I can feel him."

"And you can hold fast to his hand, Sister Martha; and the darker it

gets, you can cling the closer, until the daylight breaks and the

shadows flee away."

"That I can, and that I will! Look there, my dearies!" and she pointed

to a little blue and white tea-pot on the high mantle-shelf, above

the hearth on which they were sitting. "Last night, when they'd taken

Ben away, and I couldn't finish t' psalm and I couldn't do much more

praying than a little bairn thet's flayed and troubled in t' dark

night, I lifted my eyes to thet tea-pot, and I knew t' words thet was

on it, and they wer' like an order and a promise a' in one; and I said,

'There! thet's enough, Lord!' and I went to my bed and slept, for I

knew there 'ud be a deal to do to-day, and nothing weakens me like

missing my sleep."

"And did you sleep, Martha?"

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

Then Phyllis took a chair and stood upon it, and carefully lifted down

the tea-pot. It was of coarse blue and white pottery, and had been

made in Staffordshire, when the art was emerging from its rudeness,

and when the people were half barbarous and wholly irreligious--one

of half a dozen that are now worth more than if made of the rarest

china, the Blue Wesley Tea-pot; rude little objects, yet formed by

loving, reverential hands, to commemorate the apostolic labors of John

Wesley in that almost savage district. His likeness was on one side,

and on the other the words, so often in his mouth, "_In God we

trust._" Phyllis looked at it reverently; even in that poor

portraiture recognizing the leader of men, the dignity, the

intelligence, and the serenity of a great soul. She put it slowly back,

touching it with a kind of tender respect; and then the two girls went

home. In the green aisles of the park the nightingales were singing,

and the sweet strength of the stars and the magic of the moon touched

each heart with a thoughtful melancholy. Richard and Antony joined

them, and they talked softly of the tragedy, with eloquent pauses of

silence between.

On the lowest terrace they found the squire--Fanny walking with quiet

dignity beside him. He joined Elizabeth and Richard, and discussed

with them the plans he had been forming for the unraveling of the

mystery. He had thought of every thing, even to the amount of money

necessary.

"Have they no relations?" asked Richard, a little curiously. It seemed

to him that the squire's kindness was a trifle officious. However lowly

families might be, he believed that in trouble a noble independence

would make them draw together, just as birds that scatter wide in the

sunshine nestle up to each other in storm and cold. So he asked, "Have

they no relatives?"

"She has two brothers Ilkley way," said the squire, with a dubious

smile. "I nivver reckoned much on them."

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

"Nay, I don't. You're young, Richard, lad, and you'll know more some

day; but I'll tell you beforehand, if you iver hev a favor to ask,

ask it of any body but a relation--you may go to fifty, and not find

one at hes owt o' sort about 'em."

They talked for half an hour longer in a desultory fashion, as those

talk who are full of thoughts they do not share; and when they parted

Richard asked Elizabeth for a rose she had gathered as they walked

home together. He asked it distinctly, the beaming glance of his dark

eyes giving to the request a meaning she could not, and did not,

mistake. Yet she laid it in his hand, and as their eyes met, he knew

that as "there is a budding morrow in the midnight," so also there was

a budding love in the rose-gift.