"He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him
in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor him." Psa. xci, 15.
"Alas for hourly change! Alas for all
The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall,
Even as the beads of a told rosary!"
That very day Richard received a letter from Bishop Elliott. He was
going to the Holy Land and wished Richard to join him in Rome, and
then accompany him to Palestine. Richard preferred to remain at Hallam,
but both Elizabeth and Phyllis thought he ought to respond to the
Bishop's desire. He was an aged man among strangers, and, apart from
inclination, it seemed to be a duty to accede to his request. So rather
reluctantly Richard left Hallam, half-inclined to complain that
Elizabeth was not sorry enough to part with him. In truth she was
conscious of feeling that it would be pleasant to be a little while
alone with the great joy that had come to her; to consider it quietly,
to brood over it, and to ask some questions of her soul which it must
answer very truthfully.
People of self-contained natures weary even of happiness, if happiness
makes a constant demand upon them. She loved Richard with the first
love of her heart, she loved him very truly and fondly, but she was
also very happy through the long summer days sitting alone, or with
Phyllis, and sewing pure, loving thoughts into wonderful pieces of
fine linen and cambric and embroidery. Sometimes Phyllis helped her,
and they talked together in a sweet confidence of the lovers so dear
to them, and made little plans for the future full of true
unselfishness.
In the cool of the day they walked through the garden and the park
to see Martha; though every day it became a more perplexing and painful
duty. The poor woman, as time went by, grew silent and even stern.
She heeded not any words of pity, she kept apart from the world, and
from all her neighbors, and with heart unwaveringly fixed upon God,
waited with a grand and pathetic patience the answer to her prayers.
For some reason which her soul approved she remained in the little
chapel with her petition, and the preacher going in one day,
unexpectedly, found her prostrate before the communion table, pleading
as mothers only can plead. He knelt down beside her, and took her hand,
and prayed with her and for her.
Quite exhausted, she sat down beside him afterward and said, amid
heart-breaking sobs, "It isn't Ben's life I'm asking, sir. God gave
him, and he's a fair right to tak' him, when and how he will. I hev
given up asking for t' dear lad's life. But O if he'd nobbut clear
his good name o' the shameful deed! I know he's innocent, and God knows
it; but even if they hang Ben first, I'll give my Maker no peace till
he brings the guilty to justice, and sets t' innocent in t' leet o'
his countenance."
"'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence,' Martha, 'and the violent
take it by force.' Don't get weary. Christ had a mother, and he loved
her. Does he not love her still?"
"Thank you, sir, for that word. I'll be sure and remind him o' her.
I'd forget that there was iver any mother but me; or any son but my
son." "Say a word for all other weeping mothers. Think of them, Martha,
all over the world, rich and poor, Christian and heathen. How many
mothers' hearts are breaking to-day. You are not alone, Martha. A great
company are waiting and weeping with you. Don't be afraid to ask for
them, too. There is no limit to God's love and power."
"I'll pray for ivery one o' them, sir."
"Do, Martha, and you'll get under a higher sky. It's a good thing to
pray for ourselves; it's a far grander thing to pray for others. God
bless you, sister, and give you an answer of peace."
Very shortly after this conversation one of those singular changes
in public opinion, which cannot be accounted for, began to manifest
itself. After Clough's positive dying declaration, it was hardly to
be expected that his daughter Mary could show any kindness to her old
lover, Ben Craven. But week after week went by, and people saw that
she positively refused to speak to Bill Laycock, and that she shrank
even from his passing shadow, and they began to look queerly at the
man. It amounted at first to nothing more than that; but as a mist
creeps over the landscape, and gradually possesses it altogether, so
this chill, adverse atmosphere enfolded him. He noticed that old
acquaintances dropped away from him; men went three miles farther off
to get a shoe put on a horse. No one could have given a clear reason
for doing so, and one man did not ask another man "why?" but the fact
needed no reasoning about. It was there. At the harvest festivals the
men drew away from him, and the girls would not have him for a partner
in any rural game. He was asked to resign his place in the knur club,
and if he joined any cricket eleven, the match fell to the ground.
One September evening Elizabeth and Phyllis went to the village to
leave a little basket of dainties in Martha's cottage. They now seldom
saw her, she was usually in the chapel; but they knew she was grateful
for the food, and it had become all they could do for her in the hard
struggle she was having. The trees were growing bare; the flowers were
few and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy,
and twittered and complained, while the swallows were restless, like
those going a long journey. Singing time was over, life burning down,
it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little.
They left the basket on Martha's table and went quietly up the
street. In a few minutes they met the preacher, but he also seemed
strangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. At the chapel
gates there were five or six people standing. "We are going to have
a prayer-meeting," he said, "will you come in?"
"It will soon be dark," answered Elizabeth, "we must reach home as
quickly as possible."
Just then Martha Craven came out of the chapel. A sorrow nobly borne
confers a kind of moral rank. Her neighbors, with respect and pity,
stood aside silently. She appeared to be quite unconscious of them.
At Phyllis and Elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shook
her head mournfully. To the preacher she said, "It's t' eleventh hour,
sir, and no answer yet!"
"Go thy ways, Martha Craven. It will come! It is impossible thy prayers
should fail! As the Lord liveth no harm shall come to thee or to
thine!"
The plain little man was transfigured. No ancient prophet at the height
of his vision ever spoke with more authority. Martha bowed her head
and went her way without a word; and Elizabeth and Phyllis, full of
a solemn awe, stood gazing at the man whose rapt soul and clear,
prophetic eyes looked into the unseen and received its assurance. He
seemed to have forgotten their presence, and walked with uplifted face
into the chapel.
Elizabeth was the first to speak. "What did he mean?"
"He has had some assurance from God. _He knows."_
"Do you mean to say, Phyllis, that God speaks to men?"
"Most surely God speaks to those who will hear. Why should you doubt
it? He changeth not. When God talked with Enoch, and Abraham spoke
with God, no one was astonished. When Hagar wandered in the desert,
and saw an angel descend from heaven with succor, she was not
surprised. In those days, Elizabeth, men whose feet were in the dust
breathed the air of eternity. They spoke to God, and he answered them."
"Does Methodism believe that this intercourse is still possible?"
"Methodism knows it is possible. The doctrine of assurance is either
a direct divine interposition or it is a self-deception. It is out
of the province of all human reason and philosophy. But it is
impossible that it can be self-deception. Millions of good men and
women of every shade of mental and physical temperament have witnessed
to its truth."
"And you, Phyllis?"
"I know it."
How wonderfully certain moods of nature seem to frame certain states
of mind. Elizabeth never forgot the still serenity of that September
evening; the rustling of the falling leaves under their feet, the
gleaming of the blue and white asters through the misty haze gathering
over the fields and park. They had expected to meet the squire at the
gates, but they were nearly at home ere they saw him. He was evidently
in deep trouble; even Fanny divined it, and, with singular canine
delicacy, walked a little behind him, and forebore all her usual
demonstrations.
Antony was sitting at the hall fire. His handsome person was
faultlessly dressed, and, with a newspaper laid over his knee, he was
apparently lost in the contemplation of the singular effects made by
the firelight among the antlers and armor that adorned the wall. He
roused himself when the girls entered, and apologized for not having
come to meet them; but there was an evident constraint and unhappiness
in the home atmosphere. Even the "bit o' good eating," which was the
squire's panacea, failed in his own case. Antony, indeed, sat and
laughed and chatted with an easy indifference, which finally appeared
to be unbearable to his father, for he left the table before the meal
was finished.
Then a shadow settled over the party. Elizabeth had a troubled look.
She was sure there had been some very unusual difference between Antony
and his father. They soon separated for the night, Elizabeth going
with Phyllis to her for room a final chat. There was a little fire
there, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room,
and deepened all its pretty rose tints. This was to the girls their
time of sweetest confidence. They might be together all the day, but
they grew closest of all at this good-night hour.
They spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all Elizabeth's
suppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. In fact,
the squire had received one of those blows which none but a living
hand can deal, for there are worse things between the cradle and the
grave than death--the blow, too, had fallen without the slightest
warning. It was not the thing that he had feared which had happened
to him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. He
had been walking up and down the terrace with Fanny, smoking his pipe,
and admiring the great beds of many-colored asters, when he saw Antony
coming toward him. He waited for his son's approach, and met him with
a smile. Antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortness
of the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his whole
heart.
"Father, George Eltham and I are thinking of going into business
together."
"Whatever is ta saying? Business? What business?"
"Banking."
"Now, then, be quiet, will ta? Such nonsense!"
"I am in dead earnest, father. I cannot waste my life any longer."
"Who asks thee to waste thy life? Hev I iver grudged thee any thing
to make it happy? Thou hes hed t' best o' educations. If ta wants to
travel, there's letters o' credit waiting for thee. If ta wants work,
I've told thee there's acres and acres o' wheat on the Hallam marshes,
if they were only drained. I'll find ta money, if ta wants work."
"Father, I could not put gold in a marsh, and then sit down and wait
for the wheat to grow; and all the wheat on Hallam, unless it bore
golden ears, would not satisfy me. George and I are going into Sir
Thomas Harrington's for a few months. Lord Eltham has spoken to him.
Then George is to marry Selina Digby. She has fifty thousand pounds;
and we are going to begin business."
"Wi' fifty thousand pounds o' Miss Digby's money! It's t' meanest
scheme I iver heard tell on! I'm fair shamed o' thee!"
"I must put into the firm fifty thousand pounds also; and I want to
speak to you about it."
"For sure! How does ta think to get it out o' me now?"
"I could get Jews to advance it on my inheritance, but I would do
nothing so mean and foolish as that. I thought it would be better to
break the entail. You give me fifty thousand pounds as my share of
Hallam, and you can have the reversion and leave the estate to whom
you wish."
The squire fairly staggered. Break the entail! Sell Hallam! The young
man was either mad, or he was the most wicked of sons.
"Does ta know what thou is talking about! Hallam has been ours for
a thousand years. O Antony! Antony!"
"We have had it so long, father, that we have grown to it like
vegetables."
"Has ta no love for t' old place? Look at it. Is there a bonnier spot
in t' wide world? Why-a! There's an old saying,
"'When a' t' world is up aloft,
God's share will be fair Hallam-Croft.'
"Look at ta dear old home, and t' sweet old gardens, and t' great park
full o' oaks that hev sheltered Saxons, Danes, Normans--ivery race
that has gone to make up t' Englishman o' to-day."
"There are plenty of fairer spots than Hallam. I will build a house
far larger and more splendid than this. There shall be a Lord Hallam,
an Earl Hallam, perhaps. Gold will buy any thing that is in the
market."
"Get thee out o' my sight! And I'll tell Lord Eltham varry plainly
what I think o' his meddling in my affairs. In order to set up his
youngest son I must give up t' bond on t' home that was my fathers
when his fathers were driving swine, the born thralls of the Kerdics
of Kerdic Forest. Thou art no Hallam. No son o' mine. Get out o' my
sight wi' thee!"
Antony went without anger and without hurry. He had expected even a
worse scene. He sat down by the hall fire to think, and he was by no
means hopeless as to his demand. But the squire had received a shock
from which he never recovered himself. It was as if some evil thing
had taken all the sweetest and dearest props of love, and struck him
across the heart with them. He had a real well-defined heart-ache,
for the mental shock had had bodily sympathies which would have
prostrated a man of less finely balanced _physique_.
All night long he sat in his chair, or walked up and down his room.
The anger which comes from wronged love and slighted advantages and
false friendship alternately possessed him. The rooms he occupied in
the east wing had been for generations the private rooms of the masters
of Hallam, and its walls were covered with their pictures--fair, large
men, who had for the most part lived simple, kindly lives, doing their
duty faithfully in the station to which it had pleased God to call
them. He found some comfort in their pictured presence. He stood long
before his father, and tried to understand what he would have done
in his position. Toward daylight he fell into a chill, uneasy sleep,
and dreamed wearily and sadly of the old home. It was only a dream,
but dreams are the hieroglyphics of the other world if we had the key
to them; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are real
enough. "Poor Martha!" was the squire's first thought on rousing
himself. "I know now what t' heart-ache she spoke of is like. I'm
feared I heven't been as sorry as I might hev been for her."
Yet that very night, while the squire was suffering from the first
shock of wounded, indignant amazement, God had taken Martha's case
in his own hand. The turn in Ben's trouble began just when the
preacher spoke to Martha. At that hour Bill Laycock entered the village
ale-house and called for a pot of porter. Three men, whom he knew well,
were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. To one of them Bill
said, "It's a fine night," and after a sulky pause the man answered,
"It ails nowt." Then he looked at his mates, put down his pot, and
walked out. In a few minutes the others followed.
Laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. There was no
use fighting popular ill-will any longer. Mary would not walk on the
same side of the street with him. It was the evident intention of the
whole village to drive him away. He remembered that Swale had told
him there was "a feeling against him," and advised him to leave. But
Swale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value,
and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice. "And it's
Swale's doing, I know," he muttered; "he's been a-fighting for it iver
since. Well, I'll tak t' L300 he offers, wi' t' L80 I hev in t' house,
I can make shift to reach t' other side o' t' world, and one side is
happen as good as t' other side. I'll go and see Swale this varry
hour."
He was arrested by a peculiar sound in the cellar beneath his feet,
a sound that made him turn pale to the very lips. In a few moments
the door opened, and Tim Bingley stepped into the room.
"Thou scoundrel! What does ta want here?"
"Thou get me summat to eat and drink, and then I'll tell thee what
I want."
His tone was not to be disputed. He was a desperate man, and Laycock
obeyed him.
"Thou told me thou would go abroad."
"I meant to go abroad, but I didn't. I got drunk and lost my brass.
Thou'll hev to give me some more. I'll go clean off this time."
"I've got none to give thee."
"Varry well, then I'll hev to be took up; and if I'm sent to York
Castle, thou'lt hev lodgings varry close to me. Mak' up thy mind to
that, Bill Laycock."
"I didn't kill Clough, and thou can't say I did."
Bingley did not answer. He sat munching his bread and casting evil
glances every now and then at his wretched entertainer.
"What does ta want?"
"Thou hed better give me a fresh suit o' clothes; these are fair worn
out--and L20. I'll be i' Hull early to-morrow, and I'll tak' t' varry
first ship I can get."
"How do I know thou will?"
"Thou'lt hev to trust my word--it's about as good as thine, I reckon."
O but the way of the transgressor is hard! There was nothing else to
be done. Hatefully, scornfully, he tossed him a suit of his own
clothes, and gave him L20 of his savings. Then he opened the door and
looked carefully all around. It was near midnight, and all was so still
that a bird moving in the branches could have been heard. But Laycock
was singularly uneasy. He put on his hat and walked one hundred yards
or more each way.
"Don't be a fool," said Bingley, angrily; "when did ta iver know any
body about at this time o' night, save and it might be at Hallam or
Crossley feasts?"
"But where was ta a' day, Bingley? Is ta sure nobody saw thee? And
when did ta come into my cellar?"
"I'll tell thee, if ta is bad off to know. I got into Hallam at three
o'clock this morning, and I hid mysen in Clough's shut-up mill a' day.
Thou knows nobody cares to go nigh it, since--"
"Thou shot him."
"Shut up! Thou'd better let that subject drop. I knew I were safe
there. When it was dark and quiet, I came to thee. Now, if ta'll let
me pass thee, I'll tak' Hull road."
"Thou is sure nobody has seen thee?"
"Ay, I'm sure o' that. Let be now. I hevn't any time to waste."
Laycock watched him up the Hull road till he slipped away like a shadow
into shade. Then he sat down to wait for morning. He would not stay
in Hallam another day. He blamed himself for staying so long. He would
take any offer Swale made him in the morning. There would be neither
peace nor safety for him, if Tim Bingley took it into his will to
return to Hallam whenever he wanted money.
At daylight Dolly Ives, an old woman who cleaned his house and cooked
his meals, came. She had left the evening before at six o'clock, and
if any thing was known of Bingley's visit to Hallam, she would likely
have heard of it. She wasn't a pleasant old woman, and she had not
a very good reputation, but her husband had worked with Laycock's
father, and he had been kind to her on several occasions when she had
been in trouble. So she had "stuck up for Bill Laycock," and her
partisanship had become warmer from opposition.
It was at best a rude kind of liking, for she never failed to tell
any unkind thing she heard about him. She had, however, nothing fresh
to say, and Bill felt relieved. He ate his breakfast and went to his
forge until ten o'clock. Then he called at Swale's. He fancied the
lawyer was "a bit offish," but he promised him the money that night,
and with this promise Bill had to be content. Business had long been
slack; his forge was cold when he got back, and he had no heart to
rekindle it. Frightened and miserable, he was standing in the door
tying on his leather apron, when he saw Dolly coming as fast as she
could toward him.
He did not wait, but went to meet her. "Whativer is ta coming here
for?"
"Thou knows. Get away as fast as ta can. There hev been men searching
t' house, and they hev takken away t' varry suit Bingley wore at Ben
Craven's trial. Now, will ta go? Here's a shilling, it's a' I hev."
Terrified and hurried, he did the worst possible thing for his own
case--he fled, as Dolly advised, and was almost immediately followed
and taken prisoner. In fact, he had been under surveillance, even
before Bingley left his house at midnight. Suspicion had been aroused
by a very simple incident. Mary Clough had noticed that a stone jar,
which had stood in one of the windows of the mill ever since it had
been closed, was removed. In that listless way which apparently trivial
things have of arresting the attention, this jar had attracted Mary
until it had become a part of the closed mill to her. It was in its
usual place when she looked out in the morning; at noon it had
disappeared.
Some one, then, was in the mill. A strong conviction took possession
of her. She watched as the sparrow-hawk watches its prey. Just at dusk
she saw Bingley leave the mill and steal away among the alders that
lined the stream. She suspected where he was going, and, by a shorter
route, reached a field opposite Laycock's house, and, from behind the
hedge, saw Bingley push aside the cellar window and crawl in. He had
tried the door first, but it was just at this hour Laycock was in the
ale-house. The rector was a magistrate; and she went to him with her
tale, and he saw at once the importance of her information. He posted
the men who watched Laycock's house; they saw Bingley leave it, and
when he was about a mile from Hallam they arrested him, and took him
to Leeds. Laycock's arrest had followed as early as a warrant could
be obtained. He sent at once for Mr. North, and frankly confessed to
him his share in the tragedy.
"It was a moment's temptation, sir," he said, with bitter sorrow, "and
I hev been as miserable as any devil out o' hell could be iver since.
T' night as Clough were shot, I had passed his house, and seen Mary
Clough at t' garden gate, and she hed been varry scornful, and told
me she'd marry Ben Craven, or stay unmarried; and I were feeling bad
about it. I thought I'd walk across t' moor and meet Clough, and tell
him what Mary said, and as I went along I heard a shot, and saw a man
running. As he came near I knew it was Bingley i' Ben Craven's working
clothes. He looked i' my face, and said, 'Clough thinks Ben Craven
fired t' shot. If ta helps me away, thou'lt get Mary. Can I go to thy
cottage?' And I said, 'There's a cellar underneath.' That was all.
He had stole Ben's overworker's brat and cap from t' room while Ben
was drinking his tea, and Ben nivver missed it till Jerry Oddy asked
where it was. At night I let him burn them i' my forge. I hev wanted
to tell t' truth often; and I were sick as could be wi' swearing away
Ben's life; indeed I were!"
Before noon the village was in an uproar of excitement. Laycock
followed Bingley to Leeds, and both were committed for trial to York
Castle. Both also received the reward of their evil deed: Bingley
forfeited his life, and Laycock went to Norfolk Island to serve out
a life sentence.
The day of Ben's release was a great holiday. Troubled as the squire
was, he flung open the large barn at Hallam, and set a feast for the
whole village. After it there was a meeting at the chapel, and Ben
told how God had strengthened and comforted him, and made his prison
cell a very gate of heaven. And Martha, who had so little to say to
any human being for weeks, spoke wondrously. Her heart was burning
with love and gratitude; the happy tears streamed down her face; she
stood with clasped hands, telling how God had dealt with her, and
trying in vain to express her love and praise until she broke into
a happy song, and friends and neighbors lifted it with her, and the
rafters rang to
"Hallelujah to the Lamb,
Who has purchased our pardon!
We will praise him again
When we pass over Jordan."
If we talk of heaven on earth, surely they talk of earth in heaven;
and if the angels are glad when a sinner repents, they must also feel
joy in the joy and justification of the righteous. And though Martha
and Ben's friends and neighbors were rough and illiterate, they sang
the songs of Zion, and spoke the language of the redeemed, and they
gathered round the happy son and mother with the unselfish sympathy
of the sons and daughters of God. Truly, as the rector said, when
speaking of the meeting, "There is something very humanizing in
Methodism."
"And something varry civilizing, too, parson," answered the squire;
"if they hedn't been in t' Methodist chapel, singing and praising God,
they 'ud hev been in t' ale-house, drinking and dancing, and varry
like quarreling. There's no need to send t' constable to a Methodist
rejoicing. I reckon Mary Clough'll hev to marry Ben Craven in t' long
run, now."
"I think so. Ben is to open the mill again, and to have charge of it
for Mary. It seems a likely match."
"Yes. I'm varry glad. Things looked black for Ben at one time."
"Only we don't know what is bad and what good."
"It's a great pity we don't. It 'ud be a varry comfortable thing when
affairs seemed a' wrong if some angel would give us a call, and tell
us we were a bit mistaken. There's no sense i' letting folks be
unhappy, when they might be taking life wi' a bit o' comfort."
"But, then, our faith would not be exercised."
"I don't much mind about that. I'd far rather hev things settled. I
don't like being worritted and unsettled i' my mind."
The squire spoke with a touching irritability, and every one looked
sadly at him. The day after Antony's frank statement of his plans,
the squire rode early into Bradford and went straight to the house
of old Simon Whaley. For three generations the Whaleys had been the
legal advisers of the Hallams, and Simon had touched the lives or
memory of all three. He was a very old man, with a thin, cute face,
and many wrinkles on his brow; and though he seldom left his house,
age had not dimmed his intellect, or dulled his good-will toward the
family with whom he had been so frequently associated.
"Why-a! Hallam! Come in, squire; come in, and welcome. Sit thee down,
old friend. I'm fain and glad to see thee. What cheer? And whativer
brings thee to Bradford so early?"
"I'm in real trouble, Whaley."
"About some wedding, I'll be bound."
"No; neither love nor women folk hev owt to do wi' it. Antony Hallam
wants me to break t' entail and give him L50,000."
"Save us a'! Is t' lad gone by his senses?"
Then the squire repeated, as nearly as possible, all that Antony had
said to him; after which both men sat quite still; the lawyer thinking,
the squire watching the lawyer.
"I'll tell thee what, Hallam, thou hed better give him what he asks.
If thou doesn't, he'll get Hallam into bad hands. He has thought o'
them, or he would nivver hev spoke o' them; and he'll go to them,
rather than not hev his own way. Even if he didn't, just as soon as he
was squire, he'd manage it. The Norfolk Hallams, who are next to him,
are a poor shiftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. Now dost thou
want to keep Hallam i' thy own flesh and blood? If ta does, I'll tell
thee what to do."
"That is the dearest, strongest wish I hev; and thou knows it, Whaley."
"Then go thy ways home and tell Antony Hallam he can hev L50,000, if
he gives up to thee every possible claim on Hallam, and every possible
assistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave as
thou wishes."
"He'll do that fast enough."
"Then thou choose a proper husband for thy daughter and settle it upon
her. Her husband must take the name o' Hallam; and thy grandchildren
by Elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by Antony."
"Elizabeth has chosen her husband. He is a son of my aunt, Martha
Hallam; the daughter of Sibbald Hallam."
"What does ta want better? That's famous!"
"But he's an American."
"Then we must mak' an Englishman o' him. T' Hallams must be kept up.
What's his name?"
"Fontaine."
"It's a varry Frenchified name. I should think he'd be glad to get
rid o' it. Where is he now? At Hallam?"
"He is in t' Holy Land somewhere."
"Is he a parson?"
"No, he's a planter; and a bit o' a lawyer, too."
"Whativer does he want in t' Holy Land, then?"
"He's wi' a Bishop."
"Ay? Then he's pious?"
"For sure; he's a Methodist."
"That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Methodist. He saved more 'an
a bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built main
part o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. There nivver
was a better or thriftier holder o' Hallam. Ay, ay, there's a kind
o' fellowship between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will do
uncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think."
"If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi' him,
thinks ta?"
"I wouldn't try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon or
later thy son Antony will take his own way, no matter where it leads
him. Thou hes t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settle
this thing while thou hes. It's a deep wound, but it's a clean wound
yet; cut off t' limb afore it begins to fester and poison t' whole
body. And don't thee quarrel wi' him. He's a man now, and there hes
to be a' mak's o' men to do t' world's work. Let Antony be; he'll mebbe
be a credit to thee yet."
"I don't believe, Whaley, thou understands what a sorrow this is to
me."
"Don't I? I've got a heart yet, Hallam, though thou'd happen think
I've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old; but I'll tell
thee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou hes, just tak' a
look at them thou hesn't. I nivver gave thee a bit o' advice better
worth seven-and-sixpence than that is."
"What does ta mean?"
"I'll tell thee. Thou's fretting because Antony wants to go into
business, and to get hold o' as much gold and honor as iver he can
put his hands on. Now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he could
get hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fields
and gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' month o' hell.
Wouldn't that be worse?"
"Ay, it would."
"And they who hanker after an earldom'll be varry like to pick up some
good things on t' road to it. When ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee,
turn round and sail wi' t' wind."
"Thou sees, Whaley, I hev saved a good bit o' money, and I gave Antony
t' best education Oxford could hand over for it; and I reckoned on
him getting into Parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir there, and
building up t' old name wi' a deal o' honor."
"Varry good; but _strike t' nail that'll go!_ What is t' use o'
hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get mebbe
t' weight o' t' blow on thy own finger-ends. Go thee home and talk
reasonably to thy son. He's gotten a will o' his own--that's a way
wi' t' Hallams--and he'll tak' it. Mak' up thy mind to that."
"But children ought to obey their fathers."
"Ought hesn't been t' fashion since iver I remember; and t' young
people o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Commandment--happen that's
t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that I
asked for wi' the keeping o' it."
The squire pondered this advice all day, keeping apart from his family,
and really suffering very keenly. But toward evening he sent for his
son. As Antony entered his room he looked at him with a more conscious
and critical regard than he had ever done before. He was forced to
admit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting their
physical peculiarities. They were mostly splendid animals, with faces
radiant with courage and high spirits and high health. Antony's face
was clearer and more refined, more complex, more suggestive. His form,
equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, not
so aggressively erect. One felt that the older Hallams would have
walked straight up to the object of their ambition and demanded it, or,
if necessary, fought for it. One was equally sure that Antony had the
ability to stoop, to bow, to slide past obstacles, to attain his object
by the pleasantest road possible.
He met his father with marked respect and a conciliating manner;
standing, with one hand leaning on the central table, until told to
sit down.
"Thou can hev what ta wants on thy own terms, son Antony."
"Thank you, sir."
"Nay, I want no thanks. I hev only made t' best o' a bad job."
"I hope you may live to see that it is not a bad job, sir. I intend
no dishonor to our name. I am as proud of it as you are. I only desire
to make it a power and an influence, and to give it the honor it
deserves."
"Ay, ay; thou's going to light thy torch at t' sun, no doubt. I hev
heard young men talk afore thee. There is Squire Cawthorpe--he was
at college wi' me--what a grand poem he was going to write! He's master
o' Bagley fox hounds now, and he nivver wrote a line as I heard tell
o'. There's Parson Leveret! He was going to hand in t' millennium,
and now he cares for nowt i' t' world but his tithes and a bottle o'
good port. Howiver, there's no use talking. Whaley will manage t'
business, and when thou art needed he'll go up to London to see thee.
As long as thou art young Squire Hallam I shall continue thy allowance;
when thou hest signed away thy birthright thou wilt hev L50,000, and
nivver another penny-piece from Hallam."
"That is just and right."
"And sooner thou leaves Hallam, and better it will be for both o' us,
I'm sure. It hurts me to my heart to see thee; that it does,"--and
he got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears that
forced themselves into his eyes.
"Shake hands with me, father."
"Nay, I'd rather not."
He had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept them
there, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his large
blue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. Antony watched him
a moment, and then approached him.
"Forget, sir, what I am going to do. Before I leave Hallam give me
your hand, father, as you would give it to your son Antony."
The squire was not able to resist this appeal. He sunk into his chair
and covered his face, saying mournfully: "O, Antony! Antony! Thou hes
broken my heart."
But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay
so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement
of dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, and he was
alone--as really a bereaved father as if he stood at an open grave.
Antony's adieu to Phyllis was easily made, but his parting with his
sister hurt him in his deepest affections. Whatever of unselfish love
he felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the
very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a long
conference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion,
leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thing
to witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyllis was unhappy
without being able to weep with her uncle and cousins. But it is one
blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the
duties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squire
washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and
lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by
the change. And Elizabeth had to rouse herself and take thought for
her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in
order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable.
And the courtesies of eating together made a current in the tide of
unhappy thought; so that before the meal was over there had been some
smiles; and hope, the apprehender of joy, the sister of faith, had
whispered to both father and sister, "Keep a good heart! Things may
be better than they appear to be."
As the squire rose from the table, he said: "Now, Elizabeth, I hev
something varry particular to say to thee. Phyllis will bide by herself
an hour, and then we'll hev no more secrets, and we'll try to be as
happy as things will let us be."
Elizabeth was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say;
but she was placed in a very unhappy position. She did what was kindest
and wisest under the circumstances, accepted without remonstrance the
part assigned her. The young are usually romantic, and their first
impulses are generously impracticable ones. Elizabeth was not wiser
than her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. For the first
few minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thing
to refuse to stand in her brother's place. But her good heart and good
sense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit.
Yet she was quite aware that her succession would be regarded by the
tenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. They would look upon
Richard and herself as supplanters; Richard's foreign birth would be
a constant offense; her clear mind took in all the consequences, and
she felt hurt at Antony for forcing them upon her.
She sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainly
trying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position.
"Thou must know what thou art doing, Elizabeth," he said, "and must
take the charge wi' thy eyes open to a' it asks of thee."
Then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand the
value of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and young
plantation of wood. "It's a grand property, and Antony was a born fool
to part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' finer ones in
t' bush. Does ta understand its value?"
"I am sure I do."
"And thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land?"
"I love every rood of it."
"Then listen to me. Thy mother gave thee L5,000. It was put out at
interest on thy first birthday, and I hev added a L100 now and then,
as I could see my way clear to do so. Thou hes now L22,000 o' thy
own--a varry tidy fortune. If ta takes Hallam thou must pay down a'
of this to Antony. I'll hev to find t' other L28,000 by a mortgage.
Then I shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o'
Hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. That will take time to do wisely,
and it will be work enough for me for t' balance or my life. But I'll
leave thee Hallam clear if God spare me five years longer, and then
there'll be few women i' England thou need envy."
"Whatever I have is yours, father. Do as you think best. I will try
to learn all about the estate, and I promise you most faithfully to
hold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me."
"Give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. I don't say as a lass can
iver be to Hallam what Antony should hev been; but thou'rt bound to
do thy best."
"And, father, Antony is very clever. Who can tell what he may do? If
a man wants to go up, the door is open to wit and skill and industry.
Antony has all these."
"Fair words! Fair words, Elizabeth! But we wont sell t' wheat till
we have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. He's gotten
more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't like
such ways!"
"If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own
interest. He knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure."
"Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is a
bad road until I'm safe off it."
"We may as well hope for the best. Antony appeared to understand what
he was doing."
"Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed
who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbut
talking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more
'an a bit lonely, I'm feared."
A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rector
was sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singing
at the piano. She looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finished
her hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious
father and sister:
"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."
"Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she
did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless
chambers with confidence and peace.