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DENE HOLLOW. 
 
 Jl £Lobtl. 
 
 BY 
 
 MES. HENEY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EAST LTNNE." 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. 
 
 Publishers! in SDtDtnarp to It)er S@ajestp. 
 
 1872. 
 
 [All Rights Reserved.^ 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO., 
 
 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C. 
 
LOZJ^^ 
 
 S>f> 
 
 <;«>// 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 \3Kit fl)r jftrst. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGR 
 
 I. Sir Dene 1 
 
 II. Harebell Farm 12 
 
 III. Maria Owen 24 
 
 IV. An Episode in the Life of Mary Barber . . 34 
 V. The Shadow on the Hollow 56 
 
 VI. In St. Peter's Church 67 
 
 VII. Encountering the Storm ^ 
 
 VIII. Jonathan Drew's Midnight Ride .... 88 
 
 IX. Sir Dene's Perplexity 100 
 
 X. The Bailiff's Lodge HO 
 
 XL In the same Sfot H6 
 
 XII. The Morning Lream 121 
 
 XIII. At the Trailing Indian 133 
 
 XIV. Harebell Pond 148 
 
 XV. Only Sadness 154 
 
 XVI. Seen by Moonlight 163 
 
 XVII. Very Much of a Waif. 173 
 
 XVIII. Guests at Beechhurst Dene 182 
 
 XIX. Frightening the Pony 192 
 
 XX. Miss May 204 
 
 XXI. Driven from Harebell Farm 215 
 
 \3xxt tljr Js>crcmit. 
 
 XXII. After the Lapse of Years. 225 
 
 XXIII. Sir Dene's Repentance 236 
 
 XXIV. Sent to the Trailing Indian 246 
 
 XXV. Miss Emma Geach 258 
 
 XXVI. An Eventful Evening 260 
 
 XXVII. At Sir Dene's Secretaire 285 
 
 XX V III. Back from Bristol 296 
 
IV 
 
 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIX. Miss Emma gone 
 
 XXX. Selling out 
 
 XXXI. Better to have let the Doubt lie 
 XXXII. Seen through the Venetian Blinds 
 
 XXXIII. Been with the Old Squire in the Xi< 
 
 XXXIV. Over the Claret Cup 
 
 XXXV. An Arrival at the Trailing Indian 
 XXXVI. The Snow-storm . 
 XXXVII. At Beeckhurst Dene . 
 XXXVIII. A Dish of Tea at the Forge 
 XXXIX. The Wedding Bay 
 
 XL. The Last of Randy Black 
 XLI. With Sir Dene 
 XLII. The Ordering of Heaven . 
 XLIII. The New Master. . 
 XLIV. Conclusion .... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 306 
 314 
 
 321 
 333 
 346 
 355 
 362 
 372 
 379 
 389 
 399 
 411 
 422 
 433 
 441 
 452 
 
DENE HOLLOW 
 
 $art tljt dTtrst. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SIR DENE. 
 
 A fair scene. Kone fairer throughout this, the fairest of 
 all the Midland counties. "Winter had turned. The blue of 
 the sky was unbroken ; the sunshine shed down its bright 
 and cheering warmth ; it was the first day of real spring'. 
 
 Standing on a somewhat elevated road, as compared with 
 the ground in front, was a group of gentlemen talking ear- 
 nestly, and noting critically the points of the landscape 
 immediately around. They stood with their backs to the iron 
 gates of the lodge ; gates that gave admittance to a winding 
 avenue leading up to a fine old seat, Beechhurst Dene. Before 
 them — the ground descending slightly, so that they looked 
 down on it and saw all the panorama — were sunny plains, 
 and groves of towering trees and sparkling rivulets ; a 
 farm-house here and there imparting life to the picture. 
 The little village of Hurst Leet (supposed to be a corruption 
 of Hurst Hamlet) lay across, somewhat towards the right 
 as they gazed. Beyond it, at two or three miles' distance 
 was the city of Worcester, its cathedral very conspicuous, 
 on this clear day, as well as the tapering spire of the 
 church of St. Andrew's. Amidst other features of the 
 beautiful scenery, the eye, sweeping around the distant 
 horizon on all sides, caught the long chain of the Malvern 
 Hills; the white houses (very fow in those days) nestling at 
 their base like glittering sea-shells amidst moss. The hills, 
 rising up there, looked very close, not much further off than 
 "Worcester. They were more than double the distance — and 
 
 B 
 
2 Dene Hollow. 
 
 in a totally opposite direction. Nothing is more deceiving" 
 than perspective. 
 
 A quick walker taking the fields and the stiles ; that is, 
 direct as the crow flies ; might walk to the village of Hurst 
 Leet in ten minutes from the lodge gates of Beechhurst Dene. 
 But if he went by the road — as he must do if he had either 
 horse or vehicle — it would take him very considerably longer, 
 for it was a roundabout way, part of it very hilly. He would 
 have to turn to his left (almost as though he were going from 
 the village instead of to it) and sweep round quite three parts 
 of a circle : in short, make very much of what Tony Lumpkin 
 calls a circumbendibus. The question now occupying these 
 gentlemen was whether a straighter and nearer road should 
 not be cut, chiefly for the accommodation of the family resid- 
 ing at Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 The chief of the group, and most conspicuous of it, was 
 Beechhurst Dene's owner — Sir Dene Clanwaring. By the 
 Clanwaring family — and consequently by othei'S — it was 
 invariably pronounced Clannering : indeed, some of the 
 branches had long spelt it so. Sir Dene was a tall and fine 
 man of fifty years ; his features were noble and commanding, 
 his complexion was fresh and healthy. He was of fairly good 
 family, but nothing very great or grand, and had won his 
 baronetcy for himself after making his fortune in India. For- 
 tunes were made in those bygone days, when the East India 
 Company was flourishing-, quicker than they are in these. It 
 was nothing for the soldier, resident there for long years, to 
 unite with his duties the civilian's pursuits, so far as money- 
 making went ; and Dene Clanwaring had been one who did 
 this. He was a brave man, had won fame as well as money, 
 and at a comparatively early age he returned home for good, 
 with a fortune and a baronetcy. People told fabulous 
 tales of his wealth — as is sure to be the case — augmenting it 
 to a few millions. He himself could have testified that it was 
 about six thousand pounds a year, all told. 
 
 Looking out, on his return from India, for some desirable 
 place to settle down in for life, chance directed Sir Dene 
 Clanwaring to Beechhurst Dene in Worcestershire ; of which 
 county he was originally a native. "Whether it was the estate 
 itself that attracted him, or Avhether it was the accidental fact 
 that it bore his own name, Dene, certain it was that Sir Dene 
 searched no farther. He purchased it at once, .entailing it on 
 his eldest son, John Ingram Clanwaring, and his heirs for ever. 
 
Sir Dene. 3 
 
 Shortly after entering into possession of it, his wife, Lady 
 Clanwaring, died. Sir Dene — standing there in the road 
 before us to-day — is, as may be seen, in deep mourning. It is 
 ■worn for her. He was very fond of her, and the loss was 
 keenly felt. Close by his side is his second son, Geoffry ; a tall, 
 fair, golden-haired, pleasant looking young fellow, who is in 
 black also. Near to them bends an old and curious looking 
 little man, very thin and undersized ; his hard features are 
 pinched, his few grey hairs scanty. It is Squire Arde of the 
 Hall. He Avears a suit of pepper-and-salt ; breeches, waist- 
 coat, gaiters and coat ; with silver knee and shoe-buckles, and 
 a white beaver hat. Over his clothes is a drab great-coat of 
 some fluffy material, but the Squire has thrown it quite back, 
 and it seems to lodge on the tips of his narrow shoulders. The 
 only other individual, completing the party, is Jonathan Drew, 
 Sir Dene's bailiff; a hard man also, but a faithful, trustworthy 
 servant. Sir Dene took him over from the previous owner of 
 the estate, Mr. Honeythorn, and had already found his value. 
 Drew managed the land and the tenants well, though com- 
 plaints were murmured of his severity. He was turned sixty ; 
 a lean maypole of a man, in a long, fustian coat, and high- 
 crowned brown hat, looking altogether not unlike a scarecrow 
 in a corn-field. The bailiff was uncommonly ugly, and ap- 
 peared at the present moment more so than usual from an 
 access of ill-temper : which is plainly perceptible as he ad- 
 dresses his master. 
 
 " ' Make my duty to Sir Dene, Mr. Drew, please, and tell 
 him that I can't be turned out o' my house nohow ; I've got 
 the paper,' says she to me. ' Then, why don't you perduce the 
 paper, Mrs. Barber ?' says I, bantering at her. ' 'Cause I 
 can't find it, sir; I've mislaid it,' goes on she. ' Mislaid what 
 you've never had,' says I, as I flung away from her. And she 
 never did have it, Sir Dene," wound up Drew ; " don't you 
 believe it, sir. Obstinate old granny ! " 
 
 "When she sees that there are other cottages to be had; 
 when she knows that it will be to the advantage of all her 
 neighbours, I must say that I think it is unreasonable of her 
 to refuse to go out," remarked Sir Dene, his brow contracted, 
 his face severe just then. Accustomed all his life to command 
 he brooked no opposition to his will. 
 
 " Onreasonable, Sir Dene !" echoed Drew. " It's a sight 
 worse nor onreasonable : it's vicious." 
 
 The new road that Sir Dene purposed making to the village? 
 
4 Dene Hollow. 
 
 had been the subject of much planning and consideration be- 
 tween himself and his agent, Drew. One or two sites had 
 been thought of, but the best attainable — there could be no 
 doubt of it — the most convenient and the shortest was one 
 that would open nearly immediately opposite his own gates. 
 The line that would have to be cut through was his own pro- 
 perty, every field of it, every hedge ; and a footway, for a part 
 of the road, seemed to point out its desirability. If they cut 
 this line, it would be at quite a third less cost, both as to 
 money and trouble, than any other. Naturally, Sir Dene 
 wished it to be fixed upon ; and Drew, who was red-hot on 
 the new scheme, knowing it must improve the property, would 
 not tolerate any complaints against it. 
 
 But there was an obstacle. About a hundred yards down 
 the path just mentioned stood a cottage of the better class : a 
 dwelling of five rooms, with masses of yellow jasmine climb- 
 ing up its outer walls. It had once belonged to a farmer- 
 proprietor of the name of Barber, who came to it in right of 
 his wife. He had died in earlier life (several years ago now), 
 leaving his widow and two daughters. His affairs were found 
 to be in disorder — that is, he had died in hopeless debt. The 
 widow and daughters took immediate steps to extricate them- 
 selves and uphold their late father's integrity. The cottage, with 
 the bit of land attaching to it, was sold to Mr. Honeythorn, 
 then the owner of Beechhurst Dene, who had been long wish- 
 ing to possess it. Widow Barber remained in the occupancy 
 of the dwelling and one field as tenant, paying an easy yearly 
 rent ; and she said that Mr. Honeythorn had given her a 
 paper, or covenant, promising that she should not be turned 
 out while she lived. 
 
 To make the road in the track contemplated by Sir Dene 
 this cottage would have to come down, for the projected line 
 ran right through it. Drew, acting for Dene, served Mrs. 
 Barber with a formal notice to quit. Mrs. Barber met it by a 
 verbal refusal (civilly and tearfully delivered) to go out ; and 
 an assertion to the above effect : namely, that she held the 
 granted right to stay in the cottage for the term of her natural 
 life, and that she possessed a paper in Mr. Honeythorn's own 
 writing to confirm this right. In fact, this paper alone con- 
 stituted her right, for nothing in relation to it had been found 
 amidst Mr. Honeythorn's effects, though his executors had 
 searched minutely. Jonathan Drew told Mrs. Barber to her 
 face that there had never been any such paper, save in her 
 
Sir Dene. 5 
 
 imagination ; Mrs. Barber had retaliated, not only that there 
 Avas such a paper, but that Drew knew of it as well as she did, 
 for that he had known of it at the time it was given. How- 
 ever, Mrs. Barber, search as she would, could not find this 
 paper ; she had either lost or mislaid it, or else had never 
 possessed it. Matters, therefore, stood at this point, and Mrs. 
 Barber retained the notice to quit at Lady Day — which was 
 fast approaching. 
 
 The affair had vexed Sir Dene ; it was at length beginning 
 to enrage him. Fully persuaded — partly by Drew, partly by 
 the fact of absolute non-evidence — tLat no such right had ever 
 been conceded to the widow Barber, he could not see why the 
 old woman's obstinacy should be let stand in the way of his 
 plans. One dwelling-house was surely as good for her as 
 another ! But he had not quite fully decided on this thing : 
 he was standing out there now, talking it over with his son 
 and Drew, with a view to arrive at some decision. Squire 
 Arde had come up accidentally. 
 
 "It would be but the work of a month or two," cried Sir 
 Dene in his enthusiasm, standing with his arms on the fence, 
 and looking across to the village. " See, Mr. Arde, it seems 
 but a stone's throw." 
 
 " And nothing in the way of it but that dratted cottage ! " 
 put in Jonathan Drew. 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring was sending his good-natured blue eyes 
 roving here and there in the landscape, apparently in thought. 
 Presently he addressed his father. 
 
 " Would it not be possible, sir, to carry the cutting a few 
 yards on this side," moving his right hand, " and so leave the 
 cottage standing ? " 
 
 " No," replied Sir Dene. " The road shall be cut straight, 
 or not at all." 
 
 " If you was to make a in-and-out road, like a dog's leg, as 
 good stick to the old un, Mr. Geoffry," spoke up Drew. " Be- 
 sides, there'd be the stream in the way lower down. No : 
 there ain't no line but this — and Sir Dene'll hardly let a pig- 
 headed old widow stand in the light of it." 
 
 " There's the smoke a-sprouting out of her chimney," struck 
 in Squire Arde — who in familiar life was not very particular 
 in his mode of speech, after the fashion of many country 
 gentlemen of the period. 
 
 " A biling of her pot for dinner !" cried Drew. " Miserable 
 old cat ! " 
 
6 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " I mind me that something -was said about that paper at 
 the time," resumed the Squire. 
 
 " What paper ? " asked Sir Dene, sharply. 
 
 " The one given her by Honeythorn." 
 
 Sir Dene drew a long breath. He would never have com- 
 mitted an injustice in the teeth of facts. 
 
 " Was such a paper given to her ? " 
 
 " I don't know myself," replied Squire Arde, gazing out at 
 the smoke with his watery eyes. " Some talk on't was abroad. 
 'Twas said Tom Barber's widow had got such a paper — had 
 got it out of Honeythorn. On t'other hand, it might ha' been 
 all lies. Drew, here, ought to know which way 'twas." 
 
 " I've told Sir Dene which way 'twas — that there warn't 
 none," spoke Drew, tilting his hat up on his bald head. "Mr. 
 Honeythorn did nothing o' that kind without me — not likely 
 to. And if he had — put it that way — ought it to be binding 
 on Sir Dene ? Why in course not. Old Granny Barber's one 
 of them cantankerous idiots that thinks nobody's turn is to be 
 served but their own." 
 
 " Well, I must be going — or I shall not get there and home 
 again by two o'clock, and that's my dinner hour," observed 
 the Squire, pulling his light coat forward over his contracted 
 chest. " I have got a goose to pluck with Black, up at the 
 Trailing Indian. He was seen in my woods a night or two 
 ago ; and he'll have to tell me the reason why." 
 
 Drew threw back his long neck in a kind of mockery. 
 " If you can keep Randy Black out o' your woods, Squire, 
 you'll be cleverer nor other people." 
 
 "Well, I'm going up to him to have a try at it," was the 
 old man's answer. Good day to ye, Sir Dene." 
 
 " A moment yet, Squire Arde," said the baronet, detaining 
 him. " Tell me truly what your opinion on this subject is. 
 Should I turn the old woman out, or not ? " 
 
 But the curious little man seemed to shrink into himself at 
 the question ; to become smaller than ever, if that were pos- 
 sible ; as he avoided Sir Dene with a shake of the head. 
 
 " ISTo, no, Sir Dene Clanwaring — no good to ask me. I've 
 lived long enough to know that to thrust one's fingers into 
 one's neighbour's pic brings often nothing but heart-burning 
 in the long run. If I said to you ' turn her out,' and you came 
 to repent of it later, why you'd lay the blame on me. ' Arde 
 advised me ' you'd be muttering to yourself night and morning, 
 and give me anything but a blessing. Take t'other view. If 
 
Sir Dene. 7 
 
 I said to you ' don't turn her out ; make the road elsewhere,' 
 and you took the advice, you'd be ever hankering after this 
 track that you'd missed. The cottage -would become an eye- 
 sore ; you'd call yourself a fool, and a double fool, to have been 
 guided by old Arde. No, no. You must act upon your own 
 judgment, Sir Dene ; not mine. It's nothing to me. The 
 old roads have done for me my time, and they'll do to the end. 
 Good day." 
 
 He moved away with brisk steps towards the left, stooping 
 forward, as was his wont. Another minute, and there met 
 him three individuals : a gentleman and two young ladies. At 
 least, if not a gentleman he entirely looked like one. It was 
 Robert Owen ; a farmer who had but recently come to live in 
 the neighbourhood, renting a farm of Sir Dene. He was of 
 notable appearance. Sir Dene was a handsome man, but not 
 so handsome as Robert Owen. He would have been of distin- 
 guished presence amidst kings. Of noble height, slender and 
 upright, his face, with its clearly cut features of the highest 
 type, its pure complexion, bright even yet as a woman's, and its 
 very dark blue eyes, presented a picture beautiful to look upon. 
 But what caused him to be more remarkable than au<->-ht 
 else was the fact that he had a soft, silvery white beard, fall- 
 ing over his white top coat : and in those days beards were 
 very uncommon. In years he might have numbered about as 
 many as Sir Dene. His two daughters had inherited his 
 beauty — but not his height. Lovely girls they were, with 
 dimpled, blushing cheeks, and of modest, simple, retiring 
 manners ; generally called, both in this neighbourhood and the 
 one they had left, "the pretty Miss Owens." Mary, the elder 
 of them, had been a wife for some months now : George Arde, 
 a relative of the Squire, had married her. Maria, the 
 younger, was Miss Owen still. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Owen?" cried the Squire, carelessly. 
 
 Robert Owen touched his hat as he answered that he was 
 well — and "hoped the Squire was." None could be more 
 sensible than he of the social distance that lay between him 
 and Squire Arde; he was but a humble, working farmer. 
 The young ladies stood blushing ; Mary not venturing to speak, 
 unless the Squire should first notice her. They wore hooded 
 scarlet cloaks, the fashion in those days, and white straw gipsy 
 hats, their beautiful brown hair falling in curls underneath. 
 
 " It's you, is it ? " cried he, nodding to Mary. " How's 
 George ? " 
 
3 Dene Hollow, 
 
 " He is quite well, thank you, sir," she replied, with a slight 
 courtesy. 
 
 " OTer here ? " 
 
 "No, sir. He is at home. My father came into "Worcester 
 yesterday and brought me back : my mother's not well. 
 George is coming over for me to-morrow." 
 
 With a slight general nod from the Squire, to which the 
 young ladies courtesied and the farmer again touched his hat, 
 they pursued their respective Avays. The foot steps caused 
 Sir Dene and his party to turn their heads, which were still 
 bent over the fence. Jonathan Drew vouchsafed an un- 
 gracious nod to the farmer ; Sir Dene a more pleasant one ; 
 but Geoffry Clanwaring went up, spoke cordially to the faimier 
 in his free, good-natured way, and shook hands with Mrs. 
 Arde and Maria Owen. 
 
 It was but a slight episode. They went on, and Mr. 
 Geoffry Clanwaring returned to the fence again. 
 
 But Sir Dene had become tired of standing still ; perhaps 
 a little tired of his indecisiun. Saying something about 
 business at Hurst Lcet, he suddenly turned alone down the 
 narrow path before mentioned — which would take him 
 straight by the cottage in dispute. 
 
 Perhaps few cottages could boast less of a look-out in front. 
 This had none. The door nearly abutted on the path : there 
 was not more than a yard and a half of ground between, but 
 that little space was redolent of sweet-scented gillyflowers — 
 as they are called in Worcestershire. On the other side of the 
 path, the bank rose as perpendicularly as though it had been 
 a cutting ; a high bank, whose elm trees, towering above it, 
 threw the shadow of their branches over the cottage roof. 
 This fine grove of trees — which began at the top of the path, 
 opposite Sir Dene's gates — was the pride of Sir Dene's heart. 
 He'd not have had any one of the trees cut down for the 
 world. The cottage — as Sir Dene walked — lay on the right 
 hand, the bank and trees on his left. The door was standing 
 open as he passed, and he caught a vision of a plump old 
 woman inside it in grey stockings, who was stooping to skim 
 a pan of cream in the passage. 
 
 " Old Mother Barber," said Sir Dene to himself. 
 
 Old Mother Barber, hearing the footsteps, looked up. 
 When she saw whose they were, a tremor, as if an ice-shaft 
 had darted through her heart, took her, and she ran into her 
 kitchen like a frightened hare. She wore a short black gown 
 
Sir Dene. g 
 
 of rongli flannel cloth, its sleeves cut off at the elbow, a cotton 
 print handkerchief crossed upon her shoulders, the ends, back 
 and front, confined under her check apron, and a mob-cap, 
 tied round with black l'ibbon, the bow in front. What little 
 hair could be seen was grey. A cleanly looking but timorous 
 old woman, five or six years past seventy. To be turned out 
 of the cottage in which she was born, and had lived all her 
 life, seemed to her the very worst evil that could by possibility 
 fall on her in this world. The old cling to their resting- 
 places ; and it is in the nature of age to exaggerate dis- 
 comforts and misfortunes. 
 
 The kitchen- window at the back looked out upon a fair 
 scene : it was just as pleasant as the front was dull : sunny 
 plains near, Worcester in the distance. Also — morning after 
 morning, as that old woman awoke, her eyes had fallen on 
 the familiar Malvern hills (for she could catch a glimpse of 
 them slantwise from her own front chamber), on the white 
 dots of houses underneath, glistening in the early sun, and on 
 the sloping vale of wood and dale descending in one great 
 expanse. 
 
 "Lord, be good to me," she murmured, her hands crossed 
 upon her bosom, that was beating so fast underneath the 
 cotton handkerchief. "Let not my poor homestead be reft 
 from me while I live ! " 
 
 Her glance fell on her cherished out-door belongings ; on 
 the one pig in the sty ; on the cow in the meadow, by whose 
 produce, the milk, she was helped to exist ; on the patch of 
 cabbage and potato ground. The brook, winding along nearly 
 close to her back-door (and which brook, perhaps, caused Sir 
 Dene's difficulty in regard to taking the road a few yards 
 farther off, as his son had suggested, for the water, widening 
 into a stream lower down to feed the mill, might not be 
 interfered with) was dancing. in the sun, its gentle murmur- 
 ings falling lightly on the ear. Time had been when that 
 murmuring soothed her to peace ; latterly, since this horrible 
 fear had oppressed her, it seemed to suggest nothing but woe. 
 Suddenly, another sound drowned it — a sharp knock, as with 
 a stick, at the front door. Looking out of her kitchen, she 
 saw Sir Dene. 
 
 And whether she stood on her head or her heels, the poor 
 woman could not have told, had she lived to be a hundred. 
 The sight scared her senses away. At the most favourable of 
 times, and when she was a younger woman, she would havo 
 
io Dene Holloiv. 
 
 been struck into incapability at the presence of a great man 
 like Sir Dene Clanwaring : regarding him now as a powerful 
 enemy, it increased the feeling tenfold. Saying he had 
 stepped back to speak to her, he walked, of his own accord, 
 into the open small front room, or parlour, which had a 
 sanded floor, and a bright painted tea-tray lodged against the 
 side wall for ornament. She followed him in, courtesying and 
 shakino- visibly. Without any circumlocution, Sir Dene in- 
 quired whether she was in possession of the paper that she 
 professed to be. 
 
 What with the abrupt question and its nature, what with 
 her own startled fears and her innate timidity, Mrs. Barber 
 behaved like a lunatic. She could get out no answer at all. 
 When it did come, it was strangely hesitating, and given in a 
 whisper. 
 
 She "believed " she had got such a paper somewhere — and 
 she hoped " his honour " would not be hard upon her. 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring curled his lip. An honourable man 
 himself, he regarded deception as the worst fault on earth. 
 This old woman before him was shaking from head to foot ; 
 her speech and manner were alike uncertain, and he believed 
 she was telling him a falsehood. From that moment he re- 
 garded the plea she had put forth, not as a mistake on her 
 part, but a pure invention. 
 
 " Look here, Mrs. Barber, he said, sternly. " The road I 
 purpose making will be of great benefit to myself and the 
 public : it ought not to be stopped by any private interests. 
 If you have the paper you speak of, bring it to me, and I will 
 consider it — though I do not promise, and do not at present 
 intend, mind, to be swayed by it. This is Tuesday : if, on 
 Friday, I have not the paper before me, I shall give orders 
 for the work to go on. Lady-Day will fall about a week 
 afterwards ; and I must request that you will be out of this 
 on, or before, that day when it shall come. Good morning, 
 ma'am." 
 
 She closed the door after him with trembling hands, when 
 he had got to a proper distance. And then she sat down on 
 the nearest seat — which happened to be a milk-pail turned 
 bottom upwards — and wiped her face with her apron. 
 
 Sir Dene Avent on down the path. In a short while it 
 widened considerably, and branched off into the open fields. 
 Had the cottage stood as low down as this, there would have 
 been no absolute necessity to raze it. But it stood where it 
 
Sir Dene. 1 1 
 
 did stand ; nothing more could be made of it than that. 
 Bearing to the right, after stepping over the little bridge, and 
 passing his bailiff's house, which was nearly hidden amidst 
 some trees, Sir Dene crossed a stile at the end of the field, 
 and the village was before him, the church lying rather far 
 beyond it. As he went by the village stocks (used often 
 then), the village doctor, James Priar — a little man in 
 spectacles, who looked ten years older than his real age, 
 which was but thirty — crossed his path. 
 
 " Have you decided about the new road, Sir Dene ? " the 
 doctor asked, when they had talked for a minute or two. 
 
 " Yes ; in a week's time from this you will see it begun," 
 was the baronet's firm answer, as he pursued his way. 
 
 Just a minute we must take, to follow Drew, before closing 
 the chapter. ISTot for any particular purpose as regards Mm, 
 but to afford the reader a little more insight into the locality. 
 
 Mr. Jonathan Drew, then, when his master quitted him, 
 and Geoffry Clanwaring had disappeared within his father's 
 gates, betook himself about his business. He pursued the 
 road to the right — in the opposite direction to that taken by 
 Squire Arde — and soon came to some farm-houses and 
 cottages. Some half mile, or more, from the gates of Beech- 
 hurst Dene, there stood back, on the left, a substantial stone 
 house, its front facing Hurst Leet, with good gardens and 
 farm buildings around it. This was Arde Hall. The road 
 here was open, and the village underneath the hall (under- 
 neath, so to say, for the ground still sloped a little) could be 
 more plainly seen. Here would have been the best spot to 
 make the new road, if one must have been made at all : but 
 Squire Arde, to whom the ground belonged, would as soon 
 have thought of making a bull-run. Jonathan Drew came to 
 a stand-still, as if tracing it out, for the road was what his 
 thoughts were running upon. 
 
 " Ay, this 'ud ha' been the right track to hollow it 
 through," ran his reflections. " Catch old Arde at it ! When 
 Sir Dene does it, though, Arde won't be back'ard to reap 
 the benefit. A downright good move it'll be for Sir Dene's 
 property. My old bones '11 be spared a bit, too, when I can 
 ride straight up, 'stead o' going round, or trapesing it afoot. 
 The Squire gets more niggardly as he grows older. "Wonder 
 who'll come in for his savings, and his estate ? Shouldn't 
 wonder but he'll leave all to a mad-house ! I'll lay a crown 
 on't. As to that cross-grained old stupe, Granny Barber, 
 
12 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 who's she, that she should put in her spoke again' the public 
 good ? One place is just as good as another, for the short 
 time she'll want a place at all. One foot must be in the grave 
 now, and t'other's hardly out on't." 
 
 With this, Mr. Drew brought his comments to a conclusion. 
 There was a pathway down to the village from hence, just as 
 there was nearer Beechhurst Dene ; and be appeared un- 
 decided whether or not to take it. But finally he continued 
 his Avay on the road. We need not follow him : the highway 
 took a sudden turn just above here, and branched off, between 
 rich posture lands and homesteads large and small, far away 
 from Hurst Leet. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HAREBELL FARM. 
 
 In turning to the left, on emerging from the gates of Beech- 
 hurst Dene, the road continued to run in a tolerably straight 
 line for about the third of a mile. It then branched off, 
 almost at right angles, in two directions : that to the right 
 being the continuance of the road ; that to the left soon be- 
 coming nothing but a solitary lane. We may have occasion 
 to follow the road later, so just now we will take the lane. 
 
 As dismal and shadowy a place at night, this Harebell 
 Lane, as you would care to enter. On the right, lying back, 
 stood a very moderately sized dwelling, with its fold-yard, 
 ricks, and barns. This was Harebell Farm, in the occupancy 
 of Robert Owen. Not far on, on the left, were two wooden 
 gates side by side ; one for carts, one for people on foot — they 
 were the back or side entrance to Beechhurst Dene. The 
 lane wound on, getting narrower and darker. Its banks were 
 tolerably high, its overhanging trees shut out the daylight. 
 But soon it widened considerably, in one part forming on the 
 right hand a capacious curve, in which lay a rather deep 
 pool, green with slime within and rushes without, and known 
 as " Hai^ebell Pond." A plantation of firs was fenced in on 
 the bank rising immediately above it. Altogether, in spite of 
 its space, this was the most dreary part of the lane. A few 
 yards onwards, the lane, narrowing again, took a sharp turn 
 to the right, and led direct to an inn of not too good reputa- 
 tion, called the Trailing Indian. The man keeping this 
 inn was named Randolf Black. His brother, Moses Black, 
 
Harebell Farm. 13 
 
 had died about a twelvemonth ago at Harebell Farm. They 
 had come strangers to the place some years back, evidently 
 moneyed men ; at any rate, flush of ready money ; and became 
 tenants of Mr. Honeytborn. Moses took Harebell Farm ; 
 Randolf the solitary public-house, known then as the 
 Plough, but which he re-named the Trailing Indian. 
 After a few years Moses Black died. Eandolf immediately 
 applied to Sir Dene Clanwaring (who had just become his 
 landlord through the purchase of Beechhurst Dene) to be 
 allowed to take the farm as well as the inn ; evincing un- 
 mistakable eagerness that it should be so. His character, 
 however, had developed itself by this time, and Sir Dene, in- 
 structed on the point, refused. Robert Owen then presented 
 himself to Sir Dene as a tenant for the farm, and to him it 
 was leased. A little beyond the Trailing Indian, Harebell 
 Lane was crossed by a high road, in fact, was terminated by 
 it ; and it was to the chance of the travellers on the highway 
 tuiming aside to the inn, that the Trailing Indian trusted — or 
 assumed to trust — for its support. 
 
 But we must go back to Harebell Farm. Entering at the 
 small wooden gate (that, and the large one by its side, looked 
 like twin brothers of those of Beechhurst Dene on the other 
 side of the lane) and passing round by the barns, the ricks, 
 and the fold-yard, we come to the front; for the dwelling 
 faced the opposite way. The house was full of angles ; the 
 red brick of which it was built had become dark and dingy 
 with age. A square patch of lawn and flower-garden was 
 before the door; beyond it stretched out the expanse o 
 meadow and corn-fields ; with the tips of the Malvern hills 
 bounding the horizon in the distance. 
 
 It was a day or two after the one mentioned in the last 
 chapter ; and the sky was as blue as then, and the sunshine 
 as bright. In a homely room, partaking somewhat of the 
 kitchen as well as of the parlour, save that cooking was not 
 done in it, sat Mrs. Owen after dinner; a delicate-looking 
 woman of low voice and gentle manners. She had on a warm 
 gown of purple stuff, a large collar of muslin-work — the mode 
 then — and white lace cap. Her feet rested on a footstool ; 
 her thin hands w T ere busy with a heap of stockings, sorting 
 "those that wanted darnino- from those that did not. At the 
 window, preparing to embroider a strip of fine cambric that 
 was to form a portion of an infant's cap, sat Maria Owen — 
 prettier without her bonnet even than with it. She wore a 
 
14 Dene He How. 
 
 dress of light, checked green silk, its sleeves finished with 
 a ruffle and a fall of lace just below the elbow. Her hair fell 
 in glossy curls ; her fresh, bright, dimpled face was something 
 good to look upon. The floor was of red brick — squares — but 
 a carpet covered it to the edge of the chairs ; the furniture, 
 plain, old, but of substantial mahogany, was polished to 
 brightness. This Avas the parlour in ordinary use ; there was 
 a handsomer one, called the best parlour, for high-days and 
 holidays. The terms dining-room and drawing-room were 
 too grand for a farm-house in those unpretentious days. 
 
 Maria looked up to speak : some eagerness on her beautiful 
 face. "Mamma, how long do you think I shall be working 
 this cap ? " 
 
 " That depends, my dear, upon the time you are able to 
 give to it," Avas Mrs. Owen's answer. " You cannot neglect 
 your necessary home occupations for fancy Avork." 
 
 " Oh, I know that. I won't neglect anything. I should 
 like to get it done in two months." 
 
 " You have chosen so very intricate a pattern, Maria." 
 
 "But it will be all the more beautiful. I should not like 
 Polly to be buying a best cap. Rather than that, I would 
 tell her I am working this one : though I want it to be a 
 surprise. I think you can give me some old lace for it, 
 mamma." 
 
 " I shall see, Avhen the cap's finished — AA'hether it is 
 worth it." 
 
 Standing by the fire, having come in during this colloquy, 
 was a rather tall and someAvhat hard-featured Avoman, with a 
 strange look of perplexity on her sensible face. She wore the 
 costume of the day, a print gOAvn straight doAA r n to the ankles, 
 AAdiite stockings, and tied shoes. This Avas Mary Barber : the 
 faithful upper servant of the house — indeed, there AA r as but 
 oue maid kept besides — but regarded more as a friend than a 
 servant. Her features AA'ere Avell formed ; her hair, Avorn in 
 small curls on either side of her face beneath the cap-border, 
 was of a bright broAATi yet. What Mary Barber's age was, 
 could not be guessed from her appearance. At thirty years 
 of age she had looked middle aged ; she looked it still ; she 
 ■would probably look it for thirty years to come. Perhaps 
 she AA-as now not very much turned forty. Her mother was 
 the old woman you saw skimming the milk. 
 
 "Have you done that bit of ironing. Mary ? " asked 
 Mrs. Owen. 
 
Harebell Farm. 15 
 
 " "No, missis." 
 
 A shade of surprise passed over Mrs. Owen's features. 
 But she said nothing. 
 
 " I can't settle to anything, missis ; and that's the plain 
 truth," burst forth the woman, flinging up her hands. " It 
 is a cruel, wicked thing, that my poor old mother should come 
 to this when she's close upon her grave." 
 
 "It is very grievous to be turned out of one's home," 
 remarked Mrs. Owen, a sad, far off look in her lifted eyes. 
 
 " It's worse to have her word disputed: at least, I think it 
 so. Jonathan Drew told me to my face last night, missis, 
 that mother must be in her dotage to fancy she had ever had 
 the paper." 
 
 "But you told me Mr. Drew knew of her having the 
 paper." 
 
 " Mother says he knew of it ; she always said he did. I 
 wish Sir Dene Clanwaring had stayed where he was, afore 
 he'd ever come here to trouble us." 
 
 " When once your mother's out of the place — if she has to 
 go out — I daresay she won't mind it, Mary Barber," observed 
 the young lady. " One home is as good as another." 
 
 " Much you know about it, Miss Maria ! If you had to be 
 turned out of your home, you'd tell a different tale." 
 
 " Why I have been turned out of it. We all have. That 
 is, my father chose to leave. I can tell you, Mary Barber, I 
 was sad enough at the time : but I like this one best now." 
 
 Mary Barber gave a rather significant sniff, as if she 
 thought there might be some special cause for the young 
 lady's liking the new one best. 
 
 " Toil don't understand it, Miss Maria. The young can't 
 be expected to know how much old people become attached to 
 their homes, so that they seem like just a part of themselves, 
 and that it gets as hard to part with 'em as it is to part with 
 a limb. I am sure of this," concluded Mary Barber emphati- 
 cally, " that if mother is drove out, she'll go straight to the 
 graveyard." 
 
 Maria dropped her cambric in consternation. " Do you 
 mean that it would — kill her ? " she asked in a low tone. 
 
 " Just as certainly, Miss Maria, as that the Lord's looking 
 down upon us to note the injustice. And He ivill note it— if 
 it's done." 
 
 " Hush, Mary," interposed her mistress. " Let us hope for 
 the best. She may be let stay in it yet." 
 
16 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "Well, I'll hope it, missis, as long as I can: and I'll do 
 my best to further it. But it won't be none the nearer 
 coming to pass, for all that : I've not had these bad dreams 
 lately f,or nothing. And poor mother, always in distress, is 
 first and foremost in every one of 'em." 
 
 There was a short silence : the cuckoo clock against tho 
 wall ticking out lazily the minutes of the afternoon. Mary 
 Barber resumed. 
 
 " If it warn't for that bit of ironing, missis — and I know it 
 ought to be done when to-morrow's Friday and cleaning-day 
 — I'd ask you to spare me." 
 
 " What for ? " questioned Mrs. Owen. 
 
 " To go to Sir Dene Clanwaring," said the woman in a 
 decisive tone, and both her auditors looked up in amazement. 
 " When I was at mother's last night I told her to have one 
 good last hunt for the paper, and to send it me this morning 
 if she could find it. It hasn't come ; which is a pretty safe 
 sign that it's not found. But perhaps if we both go together 
 to Sir Dene, she and me, and I speak up quietly for her to 
 him — for she'd never have the courage to speak for herself — 
 he may listen to us, and let her stay. The ironing " 
 
 " I'll do the ironing for you, Mary," cried Miss Owen, 
 starting up with sweet good nature. " I'll go and set about 
 it now." 
 
 Mary Barber made ready for her errand ; and came down 
 stairs dressed in her best, surprising her mistress. A cin- 
 namon-brown gown of soft cashmere, and grey twilled-silk 
 shawl, with a handsome border of bright colours. She had 
 had the shawl for half her life, and it looked as good as new 
 now. The straw bonnet, of the " cottage " shape, had gay 
 ribbons on it. 
 
 " You have dressed yourself up, Mary ! " 
 
 " Yes, missis. If I had gone in my rags, Sir Dene mightn't 
 have looked twice at me. Dress goes down with all the 
 world. You'll wish me luck, ma'am." 
 
 But the word, rags, was merely a figure of speech. Mary 
 Barber was always neat to a degree. And as she turned out 
 at the back door, a folded handkerchief and her large cotton 
 umbrella in her hand — an invariable appendage when she had 
 on her best things, no matter how fine the weather — an 
 old slipper and a joyous laugh came after her froni Miss 
 Maria. 
 
 She went along at a brisk pace, drawing on her gloves. In 
 
Harebell Farm. 17 
 
 tlio fold-yard she met the farmer. He regarded the dressed- 
 up apparition with intense astonishment. 
 
 " Why, -where are you off to, Mary, -woman ? " 
 
 She told him where. Mr. Owen shook his head a little, as 
 if he had not much faith in the result of the expedition. 
 
 " You can try of course, Mary Barber. But great men like 
 Sir Dene don't choose to be dictated to, or thwarted in any 
 scheme they set their minds on." 
 
 " Si: Dene went as far as to say to mother that he'd delibe- 
 rate upon it if the paper could be found, master," she ob- 
 served, noting the signs. 
 
 " But the paper's not found. My opinion is, it would have 
 been better never to have said anything about the paper, as 
 it's not forthcoming." 
 
 " Why ! — surely, master, you are not supposing that there 
 never was any such paper ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 " I feel as sure as you do that the paper was given," he 
 answered ; " I heard speak of it at the time. But Sir Dene is 
 a stranger among us ; and, to assert such a thing to him, arid 
 in the same breath to plead inability to produce the paper, 
 gives a bad impression, you see." 
 
 Mr. Owen was in his usual working attire — for he took a 
 very active part amidst his men : drab breeches and gaiters, 
 and a drab coat. In his younger days, Robert Owen was 
 fond of pleasure ; had been what would now be called fast, 
 seduced to it perhaps by his remarkable beauty. He would 
 neglect his business to follow the hounds, to take a morning's 
 shooting, to kill time, and spend money in many other ways. 
 Debts had accumulated, and he had been ever since a crippled 
 man in means. Instead of remaining a gentleman farmer, he 
 had been obliged to degenerate into a working one, always 
 pulled back by want of capital. None could regret that 
 early improvidence more than he : but unfortunately regrets 
 don't undo these things. He had taken this new farm, hoping 
 to do better at it than he had at the old one, the lease 
 of which was out. Mrs. Owen had been quite willing to 
 leave the old home. They had lost their youngest son in it, 
 Thomas, a very promising youth, under distressing circum- 
 stances ; and while she stayed in it she could not forget her 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Mary Barber will not succeed," was Mr. Owen's mental 
 thought as he stroked his fine white beard in abstraction, and 
 his eyes followed her through the gate to the lane. " The old 
 
 c 
 
IS Dene Hollow. 
 
 woman has no doubt inadvertently destroyed that paper : and 
 without it, she has no legal case." 
 
 " Well, mother, is it found? " began Mary Barber, entering 
 her mother's home and kitchen without ceremony. 
 
 Mrs. Barber was bending over the fire, on which stood a 
 large saucepan full of potato peelings that she was boiling for 
 her fowls. She turned her head. 
 
 " Lawk a clay ! " was her exclamation as the vision of her 
 smart daughter burst on her astonished view. " Whatever 
 be you decked out for, like that, Mary ? 'Taint the wake." 
 
 u No; but missis has gave me a holiday," replied Mary, 
 sitting down on the wooden chair, which she dusted first 
 with a cloth. " Have you found the paper, mother ? " 
 
 Poor Mrs. Barber shook her head. " I've looked for it till 
 I can look no longer : above stairs and below. I looked till 
 I went to bed, Mary ; where I got no sleep all night ; and at 
 daylight I was up, looking again. It'll wear me out, child ; 
 it'll wear me out." 
 
 Lifting the saucepan on the hob, lest its contents should 
 burn whilst she ceased stirring, she dropped on a low wooden 
 stool, and hid her face in her hands. Mary Barber was 
 looking more cross than compassionate. 
 
 " To leave the place where I've lived all my life ! To see 
 my bits o' furniture turned out, sold perhaps — for where am 
 I to put 'em ? — these very pots and pans even " (ranging her 
 eyes on the hanging tins) " that I've kept as bright as silver ! 
 My poor cow, my fowls, the pig in its sty — Mary, I'd rather 
 the gentlefolks would kill me outright." 
 
 " Now look here, mother," said Mary — who never wasted 
 the slightest time or sympathy upon sentiment. " That 
 paper is in the house, or ought to be ; and if it is, it must be 
 found. First of all — where did you put it ? " 
 
 " Where did I put it ? " repeated Mrs. Barber, rather 
 listlessly, for just at the moment her thoughts were running 
 on abstract matters. " When I was looking in the press this 
 morning— and that'll have to go along o' the other things, 
 Mary ! Oh, woe's me ! " 
 
 " Just carry your mind, back, mother " — with a slight 
 stamp of the umbrella — " to that back time when it was 
 given you. Who brought it here ? " 
 
 " Who brought it here ? — why, Squire Honey thorn himself. 
 He came in and sat down in this kitchen in that very 
 chair of your poor father's. I remember being vexed because 
 
Hai-ebell Farm. 19 
 
 I'd not got on my best black with the crape bottom to it,; 
 a bombazine it was, three shillings a yard. A grand dress- 
 maker at Worcester made it, and " 
 
 "Abont Mr. Honeythorn, mother," interrupted Mary 
 Barber, bringing her np. 
 
 " Well, he came in — I can see his pigtail now, hanging 
 over the back o' the chair. The money for the house and 
 land Avas paid over to Lawyer Haynes, he said, and he had 
 brought to me himself the promise in his own hand that I 
 should not be turned from the place while I lived. A great 
 rogue that Haynes was ! He buttered his own pocket 
 smartly while he settled with your poor father's creditors." 
 
 "Mother, there's the afternoon slipping on. Where did 
 you put the paper then ?" 
 
 "In my best tea-caddy," said the old woman, promptly. 
 " All my papers of consequence be kept in there ; and nobody 
 has never had the key of it but me. That same day, after 
 I'd locked it up, Jonathan Drew looked in to say the money 
 w r as paid — not knowing his master had been here before him. 
 I told him of the promise I had got, and he said it was no 
 news to him. Squire Honeythorn had told him he should 
 give it." 
 
 " Have you seen the paper since then ? " 
 
 " Yes, many a time. I've looked at it when I've unlocked 
 the caddy for other papers." 
 
 " Will you let me look, mother ? Maybe, it's there still." 
 
 Mrs. Barber was a little offended at this, asking her 
 daughter if she thought she had no eyesight; but finally 
 consented. The tea-caddy, a japanned one, had stood on tho 
 parlour mantelpiece, its middle ornament, as long as Mary 
 could remember. Mary's keen grey eyes searched every 
 paper — chiefly consisting of the half-yearly receipts for her 
 rent — but the missing paper was not there. 
 
 " You must have put it somewhere else yourself, mother." 
 
 " I suppose I must. There was a great talk one winter of 
 the highwaymen being about, and I know I got in a worrit 
 lover my caddy o' papers, and hid 'em away in places. But I 
 always thought I put 'em all back again later." 
 
 "Well, there seems nothing for it but to beg grace of Sir 
 Dene Clanwaring, as we've got no proof to show of any right. 
 And that's where I am going, mother, and what I've made 
 nyself smart for. You must come with me." 
 
 But the astounding proposition put Mrs. Barber into a 
 
ro Dene Hollow. 
 
 tremor — go to Sir Dene Clan-waring ! — and Mary found it was 
 of no use urging it. So she departed alone. In the narrow 
 pathway, almost close to the cottage, stood Jonathan Drew 
 and a couple of men ; the latter with a measuring-chain in 
 their hands. Mrs. Barber saw them from her door, and turned 
 as white as death. 
 
 " What be you a doing ? " demanded Mary Barber, as she 
 was passing them. 
 
 " Only a-measuring out o' the ground, a bit," said Jonathan 
 Drew. 
 
 "For the new hollow they talk of? " 
 
 " There's nothing else we should be a measuring of it for," 
 was his retort. And Mary Barber walked on. 
 
 Crossing the high road, she entered the gates, and proceeded 
 np the avenue between the fine old trees. Beech hurst Dene 
 was an ancient red brick mansion, roomy, old-fashioned, com- 
 fortable, and withal handsome both outside and in. It stood 
 in the midst of its park, ornamental gardens immediately 
 around it. Mary Barber had been there more than once in 
 Mr. Honeythorn's time, and knew it well. Avoiding the grand 
 front entrance, she bore round to her right, to the familiar one 
 used by the servants, tenants, and, in fact, often by the family 
 themselves. Just on this side, the look-out of the house seemed 
 confined, so many trees and shrubs were crowded about. A 
 pathway led direct to the gate in Harebell Lane : and Mary 
 Barber would have made that her way of entrance at first, but 
 for having to go to her mother's. A parlour, with a bay 
 window opening to the ground, faced this way, and Mary saw 
 Sir Dene sitting in it. Knocking at the open side door with 
 her umbrella, she asked a footman if she could be allowed to 
 see his master. The servant did not happen to know her. 
 He told Sir Dene a lady was asking to see him : " leastways 
 a respectable-looking woman, that might be a farmer's wife." 
 
 Sir Dene admitted her. But when she introduced herself 
 as Mary Barber, and he found she was the widow Barber's 
 daughter, come to bother him about the new cutting, he felt 
 anything but pleased. Something had occurred that afternoon 
 to vex Sir Dene : it had nothing to do with the matter in 
 question ; but it served to put him out of temper. However, 
 he was civil enough to ask her to sit down, and did not refuse 
 to hear her. It was a small room, the floor covered with 
 matting : Sir Dene chiefly received his tenants here, and other 
 business people. 
 
Harebell Farm. 21 
 
 Mary Barber sat bolt upright on the extreme edge of the 
 chair : her folded handkerchief and umbrella in her hand, her 
 back to the window. Sir Dene was on the other side of the 
 table, near the fire, his open desk before him. He listened to 
 what she had to say, without once interrupting her. 
 
 " Do you. think this paper, that you talk of, ever had any 
 existence ? " he asked then — and his tone bore a kind of 
 suppressed scorn, which caused Mary Barber's hard checks 
 to flush. 
 
 " I am sure it had, sir." 
 
 "Did you ever see it, Mrs. Barber? " 
 
 "No, sir; never," was the straightforward answer. "My 
 mother did not show it to me. And I never heard that my 
 sister saw it, either," she added, in her honesty. "Neither 
 of us was at home then. Father's affairs took a good while 
 to arrange after his death ; and before they were settled, my 
 sister Hester and I had gone out to relieve mother of our keep 
 and make our own way in the world. I went to service ; 
 Hester married." 
 
 "Does she — your sister — profess to remember anything of 
 this promise ? " 
 
 " She has been dead some years, sir." 
 
 " Don't you think it a strange thing that your mothei 
 should not have kept more cai^efully a paper of the impor- 
 tance she appears to attach to this ? " 
 
 " My opinion is, sir, she has kept it too carefully, and put 
 it into some out-of-the-way place for safety, that she can't 
 now remember," was Mary Barber's independent answer. 
 " There's no doubt she was scared with fear because of the 
 highwaymen ; and the best of us are liable to forgetfulness, 
 especially when we grow old." 
 
 "I cannot say more than I have done," cried Sir Dene, 
 impatiently. " Produce the paper, and its merits shall be ex- 
 amined. I am in ignorance as to what weight it carried, or 
 was intended to carry. Of course, if it conferred the right 
 legally that you seem to fancy — which I think almost an im- 
 possibility — we must submit it to a lawyer, and take his 
 opinion ; but I strongly suspect it was not legally worth the 
 paper it was written upon." 
 
 " Mr. Honeythorn would not trifle with my mother, sir." 
 
 " As to Mr. Honeythorn, I don't doubt that his bare word, 
 passed, would have been good for him to act upon to tho 
 end of his life, without need of document to confirm it. But 
 
22 Dene Hollow. 
 
 what bound him could never be meant to bind me. No, 
 ma'am, nor be expected to, in any sort of reason." 
 
 The manners in those past days were far more courtly than 
 they are now. Sir Dene Clanwaring thought nothing of ad- 
 dressing Mary Barber as " ma'am," and did not do it ironically. 
 
 " I'm afraid you'll go on with this dreadful thing, sir," she 
 said, her grey eyes fixed upon him. 
 
 " Dreadful thing ! It will be a very good thing." 
 
 " Not for my mother. She has been a good woman, sir ; 
 her cup of sorrow brimfull." 
 
 " I should say she must be an obstinate one, Mrs. B irber. 
 She would be as well in another cottage as this — and there 
 are plenty to be had for the seeking." 
 
 " She cannot live long, sir,'' pleaded Mary Barber. 
 " She " 
 
 "As to that, she may live as long as I," was the interrup- 
 tion. " She is a tough, healthy, hearty woman, and may last 
 for ten or fifteen, ay, for twenty years to come." 
 
 " She is in her seventy-sixth year, Sir Dene. Oh, sir, spare 
 her ! Don't turn her out to die. I'd make bold to ask, sir, 
 how you would like to be turned out of a home where you'd 
 lived all your days, when you shall be as old as she is. She 
 was born in it ; it was her father's before her ; and she 
 brought up her children in it, Hester and me. Sir, I know 
 you are one of the high gentlefolks of the land, and it's not 
 becoming of me to dare to speak to you in this free way. 
 Heaven knows, I'd only do it for poor mother's sake." 
 
 " I thought the property belonged to your father," observed 
 Sir Dene, on whom the pleading cry appeared to make no 
 impression. 
 
 " No, sir ; to my mother ; she was Hester Drew. When 
 she married Thomas Barber she went home to her house, 
 which was reversing the order of things in ordinary. Father 
 had nothing of his own, and he was somehow a bad manager; 
 not fortunate. When he died, and it was found affairs were 
 bad, there seemed nothing for it but selling the property, so 
 that folks should be paid, and my sister and I turned out at 
 once. Squire Honeythorn was sorry for mother, and he gave 
 her the promise we tell of." 
 
 " Is your mother any relation to Drew, my bailiif ? " asked 
 Sir Dene, noting the coincidence of the name. 
 
 "His father and mother's father wcro second or third 
 cousins, sir — nothing to speak of." 
 
Harebell Farm. 23 
 
 "Has your mother any income of her own?" 
 
 " Not a penny, sir. She sacrificed all she had to pay 
 father's debts. The sale of her milk and poultry meets her 
 rent, perhaps a bit over; and she has 'tatoes and other garden 
 stuff' ; and her pig, which makes bacon to last her the year. 
 And for the rest, I help her to a bit o' tea and that, and 
 Hester's family to other trifles. We shall never let her starve, 
 sir, whatever betides." 
 
 "At her age she ought to be glad at the prospect of being 
 relieved from the care of a cow and pig," remarked Sir 
 Dene. 
 
 " It is her great pleasure to be active, sir ; the back is 
 generally fitted to the burden. Mother is hale and hearty 
 
 yet." 
 
 " She is," pointedly acquiesced Sir Dene. " I have just 
 said so, Mrs. Barber." 
 
 He looked at his watch. Mary Barber took the hint and 
 rose. Sir Dene politely opened the door for her. 
 
 She stood still, and curtsied to him. And then — as she was 
 actually passing out — turned round, and clasped her gloved 
 hands in a beseeching attitude, holding the great umbrella by 
 one little finger. 
 
 " Oh, sir, I hope you'll please to think kindly of it ! I 
 could hardly pray harder to God — as He hears and knows — 
 than I'm praying for this boon to you. She has no one 
 living to take her part but me, or to speak a word for her. 
 Be merciful to her, sir, in this her old age, and let her be ! 
 She may not stand in your way long. God will be sure to 
 reward you for it, Sir Dene ! and she will pray for blessings 
 on you every night and morning of the few poor years of her 
 remaining life." 
 
 Hard, matter-of-fact Mary Barber had never spoken such 
 words in her days ; never perhaps been so near to be moved 
 by emotion. After they came forth she stood a moment 
 looking at him, expecting perhaps some hojjeful answer. 
 But none came. Sir Dene Clamvaring steeled alike his car 
 and his heart. 
 
 " I am sorry this should have occurred, Mrs. Barber. In 
 entering upon a fresh estate, one has to look I suppose for 
 disputes and vexations. If I gave in to this exaction, others 
 would no doubt arise : therefore, I must make a stand in my 
 own defence. Good afternoon, ma'am." 
 
 Mary Barber, feeling that she had bitterly failed, went 
 
24 Dene Hollow. 
 
 straight back to her mother's cottage. There, her bonnet and 
 shawl taken off, her gown-skirt and sleeves turned up, and 
 the biggest apron tied round her that the place afforded, she 
 instituted a thorough search for the missing paper. And 
 found it not. 
 
 But Sir Dene Clanwaring, even while he gave her the last 
 decisive answer, said to himself in his heart of hearts that he 
 would sleep upon it. As he did. 
 
 And a very heavy sleep it was. For he dropped off the 
 instant he got into bed, and was woke up in the morning by 
 his hot water. During the process of shaving, he decided that 
 Mrs. Barber, nee Drew, was what his bailiff, her distant rela- 
 tive, was fond of calling her — an obstinate, cantankerous, 
 troublesome old woman, who must not be allowed to stand in 
 the light of himself and her neighbours. 
 
 And that the road should be made. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MARIA OWEN. 
 
 It was a wild night. Clouds chased each other across the 
 sky, darkening the face of the moon; the wind dashed alono- 
 in fitful gusts with a rush and a whirl, dying away in wailino- 
 moans. 
 
 Stealing up Harebell Lane with steps that seemed to fear 
 their own echo, went two men, carrying between them a 
 bulky parcel, to all appearance remarkably heavy for its size. 
 They had smock frocks thrown over their ordinary attire, and 
 hats slouched low on their faces. A casual passer-by would 
 have taken them for labourers, tramping home with tired feet 
 after a day's ploughing : a keener observer, if accustomed to 
 live amidst rustics, might have seen how uneasily those smock 
 frocks sat, and divined by instinct that they were assumed for 
 a purpose. 
 
 " Bear your own weight o' the load, Geach, and be hanged 
 to ye," growled one, who was short and compact, to his taller 
 companion. 
 
 " And don't I bear it ? You be shot !" carelessly retorted 
 the other, whose accent was somewhat superior. 
 
 The parcel was more like a bundle, its outside coverino- of 
 dirty canvas, and might have been supposed to contain gar- 
 ments, rather untidily rolled up together. In the stout cord 
 
LI aria Owen. 25 
 
 that confined it were left two loops at either end, by -which 
 the men carried it. 
 
 " Change hands." 
 
 They had gone a few paces further when Gcach said this, 
 and were close to the gates leading into Beechhurst Dene. 
 Voices and steps, as if advancing from the Dene, at this mo- 
 ment became audible ; and the men, who were in the act of 
 changing hands, started. A moment's pause to listen : then 
 Geach pushed his comrade into the ditch under the hedge, 
 without the smallest compunction, and the bundle upon him. 
 
 "Keep dark for your life, Robson ! " he breathed. " Hide 
 it, man; hide it. Hang that moon ! " 
 
 The offending moon, left bright by a departing cloud, was not 
 apostrophised by any so innocent a word as " hang ;" but the 
 language really used by these men could not be allowed to 
 appear in polite literature. Possibly believing he was too tall 
 for any hedge or ditch to conceal him, Geach noiselessly leaped 
 to the other side of the lane, and then went on with a bent, 
 sauntering gait, whistling a rustic song. Two people emerged 
 from the grounds of Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 " Good night t'ye, master," he said in the Worcestershire 
 tone. 
 
 " Good night, my man," heartily responded Geofiry Clan- 
 waring, who made one ; the other being Simmons, his father's 
 young gamekeeper. And they passed down the lane out of 
 sight and hearing. 
 
 With some grumbling and granting, the man called Robson 
 got out of the ditch : which, fortunately for him, was tolerably 
 dry. Taking the pareel between them as before, they stole 
 on, Robson growling still. 
 
 " Tell ye what it is, Geach," he muttered. " This here lane 
 ain't the place it used to be. What with these here new folks 
 at the Dene and their crowd o' servants, and that dratted 
 farmer in Mosy Black's farm, I'll be smothered if I call it safe." 
 
 "Where's the danger ?" airily responded Geach. 
 
 " The danger ! Take to-night. If them two had pounced 
 upon us afore we'd time to get it away, they might ha' turned 
 curious eyes on it. One was Sir Dene's son ; t'other was the 
 keeper. I know'd 'em by their voices." 
 
 " Well ? They'd have seen a bundle of — anything — done 
 up with apparent looseness, and two poor tired labourers, 
 tramping home to their night's rest. What of that ? Before 
 there can be any danger, there must be suspicion, Robson : 
 
26 Dene Hollow 
 
 and I'll take ray oath there's none of that abroad yet. You 
 were always a croaker." 
 
 " I don't care ; I'm right," grumbled Robson. " The way 
 here is not the lone way it was ; and danger may come." 
 
 " Better hold your tongue just now. There may be ears 
 behind that hedge of Owen's." 
 
 It was good advice, and they went on in silence. By the 
 pond, Geach again demanded to change hands. He was a 
 very tall, up-right, and apparently strong young man; yet his 
 arms seemed to get tired quickly. Robson remarked upon it. 
 
 " I had a bad fall a week ago, and my bones haven't done 
 aching yet," explained Geach in a whisper. 
 
 What with the natural gloominess of the lane, and the 
 densely black cloud covering the moon, it had been for some 
 minutes safely dark. There occurred a sudden change to light 
 as they were changing hands : the moon shone out in all her 
 brightness, causing the open part, where they now stood, 
 to be almost as light as day. Robson, his mind not altogether 
 at ease and his eyes roving everywhere, suddenly saw some 
 object leaning over the fence above the pond. Was it a man? 
 Starting back a step involuntarily, he hissed forth a low signal 
 of caution. Geach was always prepared. He pushed the 
 bundle entirely into the arms of his companion — who slightly 
 staggered under the unexpected weight — and began whistling 
 again, as they walked on like two unconcerned rustics. 
 
 Yes, it was a man. And one they recognised. There shone 
 the seal-skin cap, tipped with white fur, and the whiter beard 
 of Robert Owen. He was evidently looking at them; watch- 
 ing them openly. They would have gone on, pretending not 
 to see him, but that a rather sharp cough took Mr. Oavcu at. 
 the same moment ; and they could not assume not to hear. 
 Geach stopped his whistling, and turned to sj^eak. 
 
 " If ye please, master, can ye tell us whether we be in tho 
 right road for Bransford ? " 
 
 " For Bransford ? Why, that's a long way off," returned 
 Mr. Owen. " You'll have to wind about a bit, my men, and 
 traverse some cross-country before you get to Bransford. 
 Where d'ye come from ? " 
 
 " Worcester last." 
 
 " Worcester ! Then, why did you not take the Bransford 
 road direct — if it's Bransford you want? " 
 
 "Missed our way. Thank ye, master." 
 
 Resuming his whistling, and giving a pull to his hat 
 
Maria Owen. 27 
 
 by way of salutation, Geach -walked, on. Robson had not 
 stopped. 
 
 Mr. Owen stretched himself over the fence to look after 
 them, nntil they were hidden by the winding- of the lane. 
 Geach knew, almost by intuition, that they were being watched. 
 A very emphatic curse broke from his lips. 
 
 " What did I tell ye ? " whispered Robson. " The Trailing 
 Indian's not as safe as it was. It may have to shift its 
 quarters." 
 
 " Shift its quarters be stifled ! " retorted Geach. " Black 
 can take care of himself ; and of you too." 
 
 " Well, it's a new thing to be watched like this in Harebell 
 Lane. I don't stomach it, Geach ; I can tell ye that." 
 
 A short while, and they arrived at that solitary hostelrie : 
 a low, two-storied old house with gables, and a dangling sign- 
 board : it was on the left-hand side of the lane as they walked 
 up. The turnpike road, that ran crossways and terminated 
 the lane, was within view. It has already been said that the 
 Trailing Indian professed to derive its support from chance 
 travellers passing up and down it. 
 
 Save for one candle, put to stand in a casement window, 
 the inn presented a dark appearance — which for an inn looked 
 most inhospitable. Entering the yard, letting* the parcel fall 
 gently on the ground, Geach gave three distinct knocks on 
 the side door, and then tapped at the window. The candle 
 was removed from the casement, and a man's head came 
 out. 
 
 "Who's that knocking at my window ?" 
 
 " Me and Robson. Open the door, Randy." 
 
 Mr. Black hastened to do so. Amidst his friends — and foes 
 too — his Christian name was familiarly converted into Randy : 
 it came easier to the lips than " Randolf." He was a tall 
 swarthy man of five or six and thirty, with a sinister look in 
 his dark face. Catching up the bundle in his arms, he led the 
 way through passages to a remote room, closed in with shut- 
 ters : not the room of general entertainment, one entirely 
 private to himself. The men took off their smock frocks, and 
 the landlord called about him. A little woman, very pretty 
 once, but pale, sad-eyed, and struck into meekness by terror 
 long ago, came forward, in answer to his call. It was Mrs. 
 Black. 
 
 "Get supper at once — pork chops and mashed pota- 
 toes ; and put a good log on the parlour fire," said Black, 
 
23 Dene Hollow. 
 
 imperiously. " Don't be a month over it, now : and come and 
 knock at the door when supper's ready." 
 
 Save for an ostler, who slept over the stables, and was on 
 very close terms with his master, no servant was kept. The 
 ostler would give help at odd jobs sometimes, otherwise Mrs. 
 Black had to do all the domestic work. It was not over- 
 burthening in a general way ; bona fide travellers at the inn 
 were few and far between. For all the profit they brought, 
 its master might have starved. 
 
 The inn had a bad reputation, though the suspicions cast on 
 it were but of a vague nature. Stout sailors and boatmen 
 occasionally made their way to it from barges coming up the 
 Severn, striking across the country from the river by night ; 
 and it was thought their inflated appearance told of concealed 
 brandy-shins and tobacco. Smuggling was largely pursued 
 in those days, and brought back its profits. It is possible that 
 Mr. Black dealt in other things : that his house had some safe 
 hiding-places in it, where booty, the proceeds of robberies in 
 town and country, might be stowed away in safety until the 
 hue-and-cry after it was over. These men, at any rate, sitting 
 round the table to-night, were neither sailors nor boatmen. A 
 tale was current in the neighbourhood that a traveller had 
 disappeared at this inn in a very mysterious manner. It was 
 a pedlar, tramping the country with rather valuable wares. 
 That he had called in at the Trailing Indian for refreshment 
 one summer evening, there was no doubt, intending afterwards 
 to proceed on his way to "Worcester by moonlight. The land- 
 lord, and the ostler, and Mrs. Black, all declared that he had 
 so proceeded : and there was no proof at all that he had not. 
 However it may have been, the pedlar had not turned up at 
 Worcester ; he had never been seen or heard of since. 
 
 There was only one candle on the table ; and, that, of tallow ; 
 but the articles Mr. Black was feasting his eyes upon, shone 
 as brightly as though they had been illuminated by lime-light. 
 Massive articles of solid silver were they ; some few of gold : 
 no wonder, packed compactly, that the two porters had found 
 them somewhat heavy. Geach was a fair, nice-looking young 
 man, his features small, all but the nose ; that was high, 
 shapely, and prominent. He was born to fill a better station, 
 but evil courses had brought him down in the world. Robson 
 had a close and contracted expression of countenance. They 
 were telling of the encounter with farmer Owen. 
 
 " It won't do, you know, Black, to be watched by him," 
 
Maria Owen. 29 
 
 cried Robson, savagely. " If he is to pass his nights haunt- 
 ing the lane, the sooner the Trailing Indian knows it the 
 better." 
 
 '• I wish Sir Dene Clanwaring had been sunk before he re- 
 fused to lease me the farm in Mosy's place !" exclaimed Black. 
 " He is going to cut a hollow somewhere now to bi ing up 
 wao-o-ons and carts quicker from Hurst Leet — smother him ! 
 As if we wanted more ways up here ! 
 
 " That's not much, Randy — a cutting. Owen is." 
 " Owen had better keep himself and his eyes for his own 
 affairs ; he may find himself in the wrong box if he attempts 
 to look after mine," was Mr. Randy's comment. " The out- 
 cry's pretty hot, I hear at Worcester." 
 
 Geach laughed. "Nothing less than a gang from London, 
 they say." 
 
 " I can't think how he could have been standing," resumed 
 Robson, presently, returning to the subject of farmer Owen 
 — for the encounter seemed to have made a most unplea- 
 sant impression on him. " The fence is right against the trees." 
 "No it's not," said Black; "there's a strip o' pathway. 
 And my brother Mosy was fool enough to make it as a short 
 cut to the two-acre meadow. Owen has got some sheep 
 there; and now that the lambing season's on, he or the 
 shepherd is everlastingly out with 'em at night. One or 
 t'other on 'em's sure to be out." 
 
 " But why need he halt in the pathway and push his ugly 
 beard over the fence to watch the lane ? " contended Robson. 
 " What's it for, Randy ? " 
 
 "How the devil should I know?" retorted Randy. 
 " Here ; lend a hand, you two." 
 
 The articles had been placed in a box. Black then opened 
 a closet in the room, which had apparently no other egress, 
 pushed up one of its panels, and got through the aperture, 
 Robson and the box disappearing after him. Soon after they 
 were back again, and the closet door and panel had been made 
 fast, Mrs. Black knocked to say supper was waiting in tho 
 parlour. And the three went out to it. 
 
 We must return to GeofFry Clanwaring. Passing down tho 
 lane with the gamekeeper, seeing nothing and suspecting 
 nothing of the man hidden in the ditch, he had reached tho 
 end of the lane, when two people were observed approaching ; 
 one of whom was laughing gaily. A silvery, sweet laugh ; 
 that a little stirred the pulses of Mr. Geofiry. It was Maria 
 
30 Dene Holloiu. 
 
 Owen's. She had been spending the afternoon at Hurst 
 Leet, and was returning attended by the house servant — a 
 stout red-cheeked and red-armed damsel, named Joan. Maria 
 wore her gipsy cloak, its hood of scarlet drawn round her 
 face and her pretty curls. 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring turned back with Miss Owen; the 
 keeper pursued his way onwards, straight down the road. 
 Arrived at Mr. Owen's gate, they stood to talk, and Joan 
 went in. 
 
 " Mamma was to have gone to tea with me, but she did not 
 feel well enough this afternoon ; so they sent Joan to bring 
 me home," explained Maria, chattering and blushing, and 
 her heart beating wildly for love of the handsome young man 
 befoi'e her. He could see the rosy dimples in the moon- 
 light, he could see the sweet eyes, cast down beneath the 
 gaze of his. Every fibre within him thrilled in answer, for 
 she was more to him than — ay, almost than heaven. 
 
 Love is no respecter of persons ; the fitness of things never 
 enters into the god's calculations. Between Geoffry Thomas 
 Clanwaring*, the baronet's son, and Maria Owen, the obscure 
 farmer's daughter, there lay miles of that exacting gulf called 
 social position ; nevertheless, they had contrived to lapse into 
 a passion for each other, than which nothing could be more 
 pure and ardent. Part them, and the whole world would be 
 to each as a blank wilderness. 
 
 Sir Dene had three sons. The heir was entirely a fine 
 gentleman, living chiefly in London, amidst his clubs and his 
 gaieties and his friends in high life. The youngest was a 
 soldier, already married, and serving in India. Geoffry, the 
 second, remained at home, looking after things on the estate, 
 making himself quite as useful as Drew the bailiff did. 
 Geoffry might generally be seen in velveteen shooting-coat 
 and leather or beaver leggings, tramping about on foot, or 
 riding on horseback, always, however, busy. It was whis- 
 pered by Gander, a servant who had lived with them for 
 years, that Sir Dene liked him the best of all his sons. The 
 heir was cold and haughty; the soldier improvident and 
 cross-tempered ; Geoffry alone had never given anything but 
 duty and affection to his father. Out and about the land 
 daily, it was thus he had formed the acquaintance of Robert 
 Owen, and thence of the family. It had become quite an 
 ordinary matter now for Geoffry Clanwaring to run in and 
 out of Harebell Farm at will. 
 
Maria Owen. 31 
 
 "What were you laughing at, Maria ? " lie asked, as they 
 stood there at the gate. " You and Joan ? " 
 
 " I was laughing at Joan. She had been telling me a tale 
 of a sweetheart she had in her last place. It was the carter. 
 He gave her up because she threw a can of buttermilk over 
 him in a passion. Joan says he Avas only angry because he 
 happened to have on a clean smock frock • had it been a dirty 
 one, he'd not have minded." 
 
 Geoffry laughed. 
 
 " Mr. Clanwaring, I must go in. Mamma will be sending 
 after me." 
 
 " I saw George Arde to-day," he resumed, paying no 
 attention to the hint — except that he held her hand a little 
 tighter — for it lay in his. 
 
 "Oh, did you. Where?" 
 
 " At Worcester. I went in about the sale of some barlev, 
 and met him in High Street." 
 
 " Did he say anything about Mary ? " 
 
 " No. Except that she was very delicate just now." 
 
 " Polly is always delicate." 
 
 " When are you going over there next, Maria ? " 
 
 "I don't knoAv," she replied in a low, half-conscious tone. 
 For the truth was, that whenever she did go to Worcester, 
 Mr. Geoffry invariably contrived to be there on the self- 
 same day. 
 
 Thus they lingered, talking of one thing and another, 
 oblivious of the lapse of time, and Maria continuing to run 
 the risk of being sent for. No one came, however, for the 
 best of all possible reasons — that it was not known she was 
 there. Mrs. Owen and Mary Barber were at work together 
 in the parlour, and Joan did not disturb them to tell of her 
 entrance. The girl, experienced in the matter of sweethearts 
 herself, knew what was what. But the time was really 
 getting on. 
 
 " There has been an audacious robbery of gold and silver 
 plate at one of the silversmiths," observed Geoffry, suddenly 
 thinking of it. " Worcester was up in arms : the Bow Street 
 runners are down." 
 
 "What a pity!" she cried. "I hope the thieves won't 
 come near us. Indeed, Mr. Clanwaring, I must go indoors." 
 
 Placing her hand within his arm, he walked with her up 
 the path and round to the front, slowly enouo-h. At the 
 garden gate between the tall holly hedge they halted again. 
 
32 Dene Hollow. 
 
 There was not the slightest necessity for this : it was not the 
 way indoors ; took them, in short, a few steps out of it. 
 Perhaps the truth was, that one was just as ready to make an 
 excuse for lingering as the other. The garden shone out 
 fitfully in the night, now bright, now dark : just now it was 
 very dark, for the moon again lay under a large black cloud. 
 Not five minutes since, another large black one had but 
 cleared away. 
 
 Very dark. It might have been for that reason that 
 Geoffry Clanwaring, leaning forward on the gate, threw his 
 protecting arm round Maria, and drew her close to him. 
 
 "I must go in," she whispered. 
 
 For answer, he turned up the sweet face, so lovely in its 
 frilled scarlet hood, and took a kiss from the cherry lips. A 
 kiss ; and then another. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Clanwaring ! " 
 
 " Now you shall go in, my darling — as it must be." 
 
 The moon came out of her canopy bright as gold, flooding 
 the garden and trees and house with her light. There ensued 
 another minute of lingering. It was broken in upon by 
 Mr. Owen himself. He saw his daughter run in ; he saw 
 Geoffry standing there : and he seized on the opportunity to 
 say what it had been in his mind to say for some few days 
 past. Namely : that, though his house was pleased and 
 proud to receive the visits of his landlord's son, there must be 
 no approach to intimacy with Maria. 
 
 " I understand," said Geoffry, after a pause. " "Would you 
 object to me, Mr. Owen r " 
 
 " Somebody else would, sir; and that's quite enough for 
 me," was Robert Owen's answer. 
 
 "Who else would?" 
 
 " Mr. Clanwaring, you must know who, better than I can 
 tell you. Your father, Sir Dene." 
 
 " Maria is one that a prince might be proud to wed," said 
 Geoffry, in his foolish impulsiveness. 
 
 Upon that, Mr. Owen spoke ; and very sensibly. Unequal 
 marriages never did good in the end, he said. Moreover, he 
 could not, and would not, have both his daughters wedding 
 above their proper station. 
 
 "Your eldest daughter has not wedded above her station," 
 said Geoffry, resentfully. 
 
 " Indeed but she has, sir. You must see it for yourself." 
 " I'm sure George Arde is poor enough, Mr. Owen." 
 
Maria Otvcn. 33 
 
 " Too poor. But he's a gentleman. And — suppose he 
 were ever to come into Arde Hall ? Not that there is much 
 chance of it." 
 
 " Not a bit of chance. Old Arde says he shall never leave 
 it to either kith or kin — the old skinflint ! It would be a 
 jolly good thing for George Arde and his wife if they got 
 
 it." 
 
 " "Well, I had rather Polly had married in her own 
 station — a farmer say, as I am. But, in regard to you, 
 Mr. Clanwaring, there must be no thought of anything of 
 the kind. Tour father would never for give you." 
 
 " If my father approved, would you approve, Mr. 
 Owen ? " 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, but that's a useless question to go into. 
 Sir Dene never would approve." 
 
 "You can answer it for my own satisfaction," returned 
 Geoffry, his pleasant, good-natured eyes going out beseech- 
 ingly to the farmer's. " If things were smoothed for it in 
 other quarters, and Sir Dene were willing, do you think well 
 enough of me to give me Maria ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," was the honest answer. " I like you very 
 much. But that's all beside the question, Mr. Clanwaring, as 
 you well know, and we must go back to the starting point. 
 There must be no thought of intimacy between you and 
 Maria. If I saw an approach to anything of the sort, sir, I 
 should feel that it lay in my duty to Sir Dene to forbid you 
 my premises." 
 
 "Very well; perhaps you are right," answered Geoffry, 
 slowly coming to reason. " I confess that I do like Maria, 
 very much ; but I should not care to bring trouble upon 
 anybody ; least of all, on my father. Time may alter things. 
 Good night, Owen." 
 
 " You are not offended with me for speaking, Mr. 
 Clanwaring ? " said the farmer, as he met Geoffry 's offered 
 hand. 
 
 " Offended ! Indeed, no. You have only done what a 
 straightforward man would do. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, sir." 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring set off on the run. He had told the 
 gamekeeper to " go on slowly," and he would catch him up. 
 They had a matter of business in hand to-night in the 
 village — of which he had lost sight while lingering with 
 Maria. At the corner which bounded the lane he halted for 
 
34 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 a moment, half inclined to turn along the road to the right 
 and dash down the pathway opposite the Dene gates. But, 
 as he knew the keeper had taken the long road — for he had to 
 call at the farrier's, and might be waiting there — he went 
 straight on. 
 
 A rather lonely, rather narrow, and very hilly road, this. 
 It was but a cross-country road at best ; no stage-coaches 
 passed on it. Geoffry went up one hill and down another ; 
 the way insensibly winding round always towards the village. 
 In fact, to go from a given point, say the entrance to Arde 
 Hall, right round to Hurst Leet, the highway described a 
 horse-shoe, a circuit of two miles. At the corner of the 
 lower turning, which brought the village straight onwards 
 in the distance, stood the premises of the farrier and horse 
 doctor. Cole wasat work in the shed; and Geoffry went 
 to it. 
 
 " Has Simmons been here, Cole ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; about half an hour ago. He called in to say 
 that one of the horses be ill, and I am to be up the first thing 
 in the morning." 
 
 " Mind you are. It's Sir Dene's hunter. Good night." 
 
 He went straight on to the village now, passing sundry 
 dwellings, most of them labourers', on either side of the road, 
 and arrived at Hurst Leet. Simmons, however, was not to 
 be found anywhere, and Geoffry Clanwaring had had a fruit- 
 less walk. 
 
 But it has afforded us an opportunity of seeing the road 
 that Sir Dene was waging warfare with. That he was 
 projecting this new cutting to avoid — to be called hence- 
 forward, as the reader will find, Dene Hollow. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF MART BARBER. 
 
 This chapter contains an experience that may almost be 
 called the chief event of Mary Barber's life. She considered 
 it as such. It occurred some years before the epoch we are 
 at present writing of, and was essentially supernatural. In 
 fact, a ghost story. Not one born of the fancy or imagina- 
 tion, but real — at least so far as the actors and witnesses in 
 the circumstances connected with it believed. The facts were 
 very peculiar: for my own part I do not see how they 
 
An Episode in Mary Barbels Life. 35 
 
 could be reasonably accounted for, or explained away. 
 The details are given with simple truth, and just as they 
 happened. 
 
 The Owens were not then living at Harebell Farm, but at 
 some few miles distance across country, in the rural village 
 of Hallow. Their dwelling house was a commodious one : 
 and Mary Barber the ruling power in it, under her mistress. 
 Mrs. Owen, delicate then, as always, was not capable of active, 
 bustling management. 
 
 One Monday afternoon in September, Mrs. Owen was 
 seated alone in her parlour, mending soiled muslins and 
 laces in preparation for the next day's wash, when the door 
 opened and Mary Barber came in, neat as usual, superior in 
 appearance, inexpensive though her attire was, to an 
 ordinary servant. She must have been tolerably young then 
 — say, six-and-thirty, perhaps — and yet she looked middle- 
 aged. 
 
 "I've come to ask a fine thing, mistress, and I don't know 
 what you'll say to me," she began, in her strong country 
 accent. " I want holiday to-morrow." 
 
 " Holiday !" repeated Mrs. Owen, in evident surprise. 
 " Why, Mary, to-morrow's washing-day." 
 
 "Ay, it is ; nobody knows it better than me. But here's 
 my sister come over about this wedding of Richard's. 
 Nothing will do for 'em but I must go to it. She's talking a 
 lot of nonsense ; saying it should be the turning point in our 
 coolness, and the healer of dissensions, and she won't go to 
 church unless I go. As to bringing in dissensions," slight- 
 ingly added Mary Barber, " she's thinking of the two boys, 
 not of me." 
 
 " Well, Mary, I suppose you must go." 
 
 " I'd not, though, missis, but that she seems to make so 
 much of it. I never hardly saw Hester in such earnest before. 
 It's very stupid of her. I said, from the first, I'd not go. 
 What do them grand Laws want with me — or Richard either ? 
 No, indeed ! I never thought they'd get me to it — let alone 
 the wash !" 
 
 " But you do wish to go, don't you, Mary ? " returned Mrs. 
 Owen, scarcely understanding-. 
 
 "Well, you see, now Hester's come herself, and making 
 this fuss, I hardly like to hold out. They'd call me more pig- 
 headed than they have done — and that needn't be. So, 
 mistress, I suppose you must spare me for a few hours. I'll 
 
2,6 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 get tilings forward before I start in the morning, and be back 
 early in the afternoon; I shan't want to stop with 'em, 
 not I." 
 
 " Very well, Mary ; we shall manage, I dare say. Ask Mrs. 
 Pickering to come in and see me before she goes. Perhaps 
 she'll stay to tea with me." 
 
 " Not she," replied Mary ; " she's all cock-a-hoop to get 
 back again. Richard and William are coming home early, 
 she says." 
 
 Mary Barber shut the door; she had stood holding the handle 
 in her hand all the time ; and returned to the room she had 
 left — a great barn of a room, where the children were ac- 
 customed to play. Mary was regarded more as a friend than 
 a servant, but she did the work altogether of any two. She 
 was generally called " Mary Barber," one of the children 
 being named Mary. On Mrs. Owen's sick days, Mary Barber 
 would shut herself up with the children in the remote barn of 
 a room, and keep them in quietness, leaving the work to be 
 done without her. 
 
 Mrs. Pickering was older by some years than Mary. The 
 two sisters were much alike, tall, sensible-looking, hard- 
 featured women, with large, well formed foi-eheads, and honest, 
 steady grey eyes. But Mrs. Pickering looked ill and care- 
 worn. She wore a very nice violet silk gown, a dark Paisley 
 shawl, and Leghorne bonnet. Mary Barber had been regard- 
 ing the attire in silent condemnation ; except her one best 
 gown, she had nothing but cottons. 
 
 " "Well, Hester, the mistress says she'll spare me," was her 
 announcement. " But as to getting over in time to go to 
 church, I don't know that I can do it. There'll be a thousand 
 and one things to do to-morrow morning, and I shall stop and 
 put forward." 
 
 " You might get over in time, if you would, Mary." 
 
 "Perhaps I might, and perhaps I mightn't," was the plain 
 answer. " It's a five weeks' wash; and the missis is as poorly 
 as she can be. Look here, Hester — it's just this : I don't 
 want to come. I will come, as you make such a clatter over 
 it, and I'll eat a bit o' their wedding cake, and drink a glass 
 o' wine to their good luck ; but as to sitting down to break- 
 fast — or whatever the meal is — with the Laws and their grand 
 company, it's not to be supposed I'd do it. I know my place 
 better. Neither would the Laws want me to." 
 
 " They said they'd welcome you." 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber's Life. 37 
 
 " I daresay they did ! " returned Mary, with a sniff; " but 
 they'd think me a fool if I went, for all that. I shouldn't 
 mind seeing 'em married, though, and I'll get over to the 
 church, if I can. Anyway, I'll be in time to drink health to 
 'em before they start on their journey." 
 
 Mrs. Pickering rose. She knew it was of no use saying 
 more. She wished good-bye to the children, went to Mrs. 
 Owen's parlour for a few minutes, absolutely declining re- 
 freshment, and then prepared tp walk home again. Mary 
 attended her to the door. 
 
 " It's fine to be you — coming out in your puce silk on a 
 week-day ! " she burst out with, her tongue refusing to keep 
 silence on the offending point any longer. 
 
 " I put it on this afternoon because I was expecting Mrs. 
 Law," was the inoffensive answer. " She sent me word she'd 
 come up to talk over the arrangements ; and then I got a 
 message by their surgery boy, saying she was prevented. 
 Don't it look nice, Mary ? " she added, taking a bit of the 
 gown up in her fingers. " It's the first time I've put it on 
 since it was turned. I kept it on to come here; it seemed so 
 cold to put it off for a cotton ; and I've been feeling always 
 chilly of late." 
 
 " What be you going to wear to-morrow ? " demanded Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 Mrs. Pickering laughed. " Something desperate smart. I 
 can't stay to tell you." 
 
 " You've got a gown a-purpose for it, I reckon," continued 
 Mary, detaining her. " What sort is it ? " 
 
 " A new fawn silk. There ! Good-bye ; I've a power of 
 things to do at home to night, and the boys are coming home 
 to an early tea." 
 
 Mrs. Pickering walked away quickly, as she spoke. Mary 
 Barber, enjoining the two pretty girls and little Tom to be 
 quiet, and not go in to tease their mamma, ran to the village 
 shop to see if by good luck she could find there some white 
 satin bonnet ribbon. William Owen, the eldest son, was at 
 school in Worcester. 
 
 Rather to _ Mary Barber's surprise, Mrs. Smith produced 
 a roll of white satin, encased carefully in cap-paper. She 
 didn't always have such a thing by her, she said. Mary 
 Barber bought four yards — some narrow to match, for her 
 cap border — and set off home again. Hearing from the 
 children that they had been " as quiet as mice," she dived 
 
38 Dene Hollow. 
 
 into her pocket, and produced a large mellow summer apple. 
 Cutting it into four parts, she gave one to each. 
 
 Mrs. Pickering walked rapidly homewards. Hallow was 
 (and is) situated about three miles from "Worcester, and her 
 house was between the two — nearer the city, however, than 
 the village. After Hester Barber's marriage, her husband 
 had got on in the world. A cottage and a couple of fields 
 and a cow grew into — at least the fields did — many fields, 
 and they into hop-gardens. From being a successful hop- 
 grower, John Pickering took an office in Worcester, and 
 became a prosperous hop-merchant. He placed his two sons 
 in it — well educated youths ; and on his death, his eldest son, 
 Richard, then just twenty-one, succeeded him as its master. 
 This was four years ago. Richard was to be married on the 
 morrow to Helena Law, daughter of Mr. Law, the surgeon ; 
 and Mary Barber, as you have heard, considered she should 
 be out of place in the festivities. 
 
 And she was right. Over and over again had the Picker- 
 ings urged Mary to leave service, as a calling beneath her 
 and them, and to live with themselves. Mary declined. As 
 to living with them, she retorted, they knew as well as she 
 did there'd be no " getting on " together ; and help from 
 them to set up a couple of rooms for herself, or an inde- 
 pendent cottage, was what she'd never accept. She said it 
 was " their pride ; " they said they only wanted her to be 
 more comfortable. The contention ran on for years ; in fact, 
 it was continuously running on in a sort of under-current, if 
 it did not always rise to the surface ; and the result was a 
 coldness, and not very frequent meetings. Mary Barber 
 obstinately remained in her condition of servitude, and was 
 called "pig-headed " for her pains. 
 
 Wot much so, however, by Mrs. Pickering; she understood 
 very little of the world's social distinctions, and cared less ; 
 and she had latterly had a great trouble upon her, beside 
 which few things seemed of weight. For some time past 
 there had been ill-feeling between her two sons : in her heart 
 perhaps she most loved the younger, and, so far as she dared, 
 took his part against the elder. Richard was the master, and 
 overbearing ; William was four years the younger, and re- 
 sented his brother's yoke. Richard Avas steady, and regular 
 as clock-work ; William was rather given to go out of an 
 evening, spending time and money. Trifling sums of money 
 had been missed from the office by Richard, from time to 
 
An Episode in Mary Barbers Life. 39 
 
 time ; lie was as sure in his heart that William had helped 
 himself to them as that they had disappeared, hut William 
 coolly denied it, and set down the accusation to his brother's 
 prejudice. In point of fact, this was the chief origin of the 
 ill-feeling ; but Richard Pickering was considerate, and had 
 kept the petty thefts secret from his mother. She, poor 
 woman, fondly hoped that this marriage of Richard's would 
 heal all wounds, though not clearly seeing how or in what 
 manner it could bear upon them. In one month William 
 would be of age, and must become his brother's partner ; he 
 would also come into his share of the property left by their 
 father. 
 
 Mrs. Pickering went home ruminating on these things, and 
 praying — oh how earnestly ! — that there should be peace 
 between the brothers. Their house was surrounded by 
 fields ; a very pretty, though small, dwelling of bright red 
 brick, with green Venetian outside shutters to the different 
 windows ; jasmine trailed over the porch, over the sills of 
 the sitting-room windows, on either side the entrance door. 
 Many-coloured flowers clustered round the green lawn in 
 front ; and behind was a fold-yard on a very small scale, for 
 they kept cows, and poultry, and pigs still. The land was 
 somewhat low just here, and no glimpse of the Severn, 
 winding along- in front between its banks, could be caught ; 
 but there was the fair city of Worcester beyond, with its fine 
 cathedral, and the taper spire of St. Andrew's rising high 
 against the blue sky. 
 
 The young Pickerings came home early that evening, as 
 agreed upon : not, alas ! in the friendly spirit their mother 
 had been hoping for, but in open quarrelling. They were 
 both fine-grown young men, with good features, dark hair, 
 and the honest, sensible grey eyes of their mother; Richard 
 was grave in look ; William gay, with the pleasantest smile 
 in the world. Poor Mrs. Pickering ! hasty words of wrath 
 were spoken on either side, and for the first time she became 
 acquainted with the losses at the office, and Richard's belief 
 in his brother's dishonesty. It appeared that a far heavier 
 loss than any preceding it had been discovered that afternoon. 
 
 " Oh, Richard ! " she gasped; "you don't know what you 
 say. He would never do it." 
 
 " He has done it, mother — he must have done it," was the 
 elder son's answer. " No one else can get access to my desk, 
 except old Stone. Would you have me suspect him ? " 
 
40 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Old Stone " was a faithful servant, a many-years' clerk 
 and manager, entirely beyond suspicion, and there was no one 
 else in the office. Mrs. Pickering felt a faintness stealing 
 over her, but she had firm faith in her younger, her bright, 
 her well beloved son. 
 
 " Look here, mother," said Richard ; " we know — at least 
 I do, if you don't — that William's expenditure has been con- 
 siderably beyond his salary. Whence has he derived the 
 sums of money he has spent — that he does not deny he has 
 spent ? If I have kept these things from you, it was to save 
 you pain : Stone has urged me to tell you of it over and over 
 again." 
 
 " Hush, Richard ! The money came from me." 
 
 William Pickering turned round ; he had been carelessly 
 standing at the window, looking out on the setting sun. For 
 once his pleasant smile had given place to scorn. 
 
 " I'd not have told him so much, mother : I never have. 
 If he is capable of casting this suspicion on me, why not let 
 him enjoy it. Times and again have I assured him I've never 
 touched a sixpence of the money : I've told that interfering- 
 old Stone so ; and I might as well talk to the wind. Is it 
 likely that I would touch it ? I could have knocked the old 
 man down this afternoon when he accused me of being a 
 disgrace to my dead father." 
 
 It is of no use to pursue the quarrel, neither is there time for 
 it. That Mrs. Pickering, in her love, had privately furnished 
 William with money from time to time was an indisputable 
 fact, and Richard could not disbelieve his mother's word. But 
 instead of its clearing up the matter, it only (so judged 
 Richard) made it blacker. If he had been robbing the office, 
 he had been legally robbing his mother ; words grew higher 
 and higher, and the brothers, in their anger, spoke of a sepa- 
 ration. This evening, the last of Richard's residence at home, 
 was the most miserable his mother had ever spent, and 
 she passed a great part of the night at her bed-side, praying 
 that the matter might be cleared up, and the two brothers 
 reconciled. 
 
 The morning rose bright and cloudless ; and Mary Barber 
 was astir betimes. Washing-day in those days, and in a 
 simple country household, meant washing-day. It most cer- 
 tainly did at Mrs. Owen's ; everybody was expected to work, 
 and did work, the master excepted. Mary put her best shoulder 
 to the wheel that morning, got things forward, and started 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber's Life. 41 
 
 about ten o'clock. The wedding was fixed for eleven at All 
 Saints' Church, and Mary calculated that she should get 
 comfortably to the church just before the hour, and ensconce 
 herself in an obscure corner of it, as she meant to do. 
 
 She was in her best : a soft, fine, grey cashmere gown, kept 
 for high-days, a grey twilled silk shawl with a handsome 
 sewn-on border of lilies and roses, and a cottage straw bonnet, 
 trimmed with the white satin ribbon, its inside border of real 
 lace. That shawl might have been worn by a lady ; it had 
 been a present to Mary for her own wedding (which had been 
 rudely frustrated through the faithlessness of man, and terribly 
 sore was she upon it unto this day), and was as good as new, 
 never coming out above once a year. She brought with her 
 no cap, intending to be firm on the points of not remaining 
 and not removing her bonnet ; she'd step into Mr. Law's house, 
 and drink to the bridegroom and bride, and taste the cake, and 
 she'd start back home again. 
 
 She took the field way ; it was pleasanter than the dusty 
 road ; and went quickly on with her umbrella, a large green 
 cotton thing, tied with a string round the middle, quite a foot 
 in diameter. The skies were serenely bright, showing no 
 prospect of rain for days to come, but Mary Barber would not 
 have ventured out in her best without an umbrella, to guard 
 against contingencies, for untold gold. 
 
 She had traversed nearly two-thirds of her way, and was in 
 the last field but one before turning into the road. It was a 
 large field, this, called popularly the hollow field, from the cir- 
 cumstance of a hollow or dell being in one part of it. This 
 part Mary Barber had left behind her, and as she walked along 
 the path that led mid-way through it, some church clocks 
 chiming the half-hour after ten, came distinctly to her ear in 
 the stillness of the rarefied air. " I've stepped out well," quoth 
 she. 
 
 It was at this moment that she discerned some one seated 
 on the stile at the end of the path that led into the next field. 
 Very much to her surprise, as she advanced nearer, she saw it 
 was her sister. Mrs. Pickering was sitting sideways, her feet 
 towards Worcester, her face turned to Mary, as if she was 
 waiting for her, and would not take the trouble to get over. 
 To use a common expression, Mary Barber could hardly be- 
 lieve her own eyes, and the proceeding by no means met with 
 her approbation. 
 
 " Of all the simpletons ! — to come and stick herself there to 
 
42 Dene Hollow. 
 
 wait for me. And for what she knew I might have took the 
 road way. They be thinking to get me with 'em to church in 
 the carriage ! — but they won't. I told her I'd not mix myself 
 up in the grand doings : neither ought I to, and Hester's 
 common sense must have gone a wool-gathering to wish it. 
 Ah ! she's been running herself into that stitch in her side." 
 
 The last remark was caused by her perceiving that Mrs. 
 Pickering, whose left side was this way, had got her hand 
 pressed upon her chest or heart. The doctors had warned 
 Mrs. Pickering that any exertion by which this pain was 
 brought on might be dangerous. " Serve her right ! " cried 
 unsympathizing Mary Barber, who had no patience when 
 people did foolish things. 
 
 And now she obtained a clear view of her sister's dress. She 
 wore the violet silk gown of the previous afternoon, and a 
 white bonnet and shawl. Mary, on the whole, regarded the 
 attire with disparagement. 
 
 " Why, if she's not got on her puce gown ! Whatever's that 
 for ? Where's the new fawn silk she talked of, I wonder ? 
 I'd not go to my eldest son's wedding in a turned gown ; I'd 
 have a new one, be it silk or stuff. That's just like Hester; 
 
 she never can bear to put on a new thing ; she'd rather ■ 
 
 If I don't believe the shawl's one o' them beautiful Chaney 
 crapes." 
 
 It looked a very nice shawl, and was glistening in the rays 
 of the sun. That it was a China crape was nearly certain ; 
 no other sort of shawl would have had so deep a fringe. 
 China crape shawls in those days cost their price ; and Mary 
 Barber condemned it at once, as connected with her sister. 
 
 " I say, Hester," she called out, as soon as she got near 
 enough for her voice to reach the stile, " what on earth made 
 you come here to meet me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Pickering made no reply, gave no token of recognition 
 whatever, and Mary supposed she had not caught the words. 
 Her face looked unusually pale, its expression mournfully sad 
 and serious, its eyes turned on Mary with a fixed stare. 
 
 " Sure," thought Mary, "nothing can have fell out to stop 
 the wedding ! Richard's girl wouldn't run away as that faith- 
 less chap of mine did. Something's wrong, though, I can see, 
 by her staring at me in that stony way, and never opening her 
 
 mouth to speak. I say, Hester, is anything Deuce take 
 
 them strings again ! " 
 
 The concluding apostrophe was addressed to her shoe- 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber's Life. 43 
 
 strings. To be smart, Mary Barber had put new galloon 
 ribbon in ber sboes, and one or other of them had been coining 
 untied all the way, to her great wrath. Laying down her 
 umbrella on the edge of the grass, and her folded handkerchief, 
 which she had carried in her hand, upon it, she stooped down 
 and tied the shoe, giving the knot a good tug as additional 
 security. 
 
 " Now, then, come undone again, and I'll — Bless me ! 
 where 's she gone ? " 
 
 In raising her head, Mary Barber missed her sister ; the stile 
 was vacant. Hastening to it, she climbed over into the next 
 field, and there stood in what might be called a paroxysm 
 of astonishment, for no trace whatever was to be seen of 
 Mrs. Pickering. It was a large field, a hedge dividing it 
 from the one she had just traversed, the path running across 
 it before her. She looked here ; she looked there ; she looked 
 everywhere : in vain. Mary Barber had once treated herself 
 to witness the performance of a conjuror in the large room 
 of the Bell, at Worcester ; she began to think he must have 
 been at work here. 
 
 "Hester!" she called out, raising her voice to its utmost 
 pitch ; " Hester, where be you got to !" 
 
 The air took away the sound, and a bird above seemed to 
 echo it, but there was no other answer. The woman stood 
 like one moonstruck. Was it a conjuring ? — or what else w T as 
 it ? The hedge, a trim, w T ell kept, cropped hedge, afforded no 
 spot for concealment ; there was no ditch or any other hiding- 
 place — nothing but the broad open field, and no human being, 
 save herself, stirring in it. 
 
 " Well, this beats bull-baiting," ejaculated Mary Barber, in 
 the broad country phraseology in vogue in those days. " I'd 
 better pinch myself to see whether I be awake or dreaming." 
 
 She turned herself about from side to side ; she went back 
 over the stile to the field she had traversed, and stared about 
 there ; but no trace could she see of Mrs. Pickering. Finally 
 she passed over the stile again, and stood a moment to revolve 
 matters. 
 
 " She must have gone off somewhere on the run while I'd 
 got my eyes down on that dratted shoe," was the conclusion 
 the woman came to. " And more idiot she, when she knows 
 running always brings on that queer pain at her heart." 
 
 It might have been a. reasonable solution had there been 
 anywhere to run to : that is, had the field not been too broad 
 
44 Dene Hollciv. 
 
 and wide to admit a possibility of her running out of sight. In 
 good truth there "was no such possibility. Mary Barber con- 
 tinued her way across the field, and then, instead of pursuing 
 her road to Worcester, she turned aside to the house of the 
 Pickerings. That her sister could not have got back to it she 
 knew, for the only way was the one she took. Trying the 
 back door, she found it fastened, and, on passing round to the 
 front, that was fastened also. There was no carriage waiting 
 at the gate ; on the contrary, everything seemed silent and 
 shut up. Mary Barber gave a sharp knock. 
 
 " One would think you were all dead," she cried, as 
 a maid-servant opened the door. " They are gone, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Yes, they are gone," was the girl's reply. " My missis 
 left about ten minutes since." 
 
 " More than that, I know," was the answering remark. 
 " What made her come to meet me, Betsey ?" 
 
 " She didn't come," said Betsey. 
 
 " She did come," said Mary Barber. 
 
 " She did not, ma'am," persisted the servant. 
 
 " Why, my goodness gracious me, girl ! do you want to 
 persuade me out of my senses ? " retorted Mary Barber in 
 anger. " She came on as far as the hollow field, and sat 
 herself down on the stile there waiting for me to come up. 
 I've got the use of my eyes, I hope." 
 
 " Well, I don't know, ma'am," returned the girl, dubiously. 
 " I was with her at the moment she was starting, and I'm sure 
 she'd no thought of going then. She was just going out at 
 this door, eating her bit of bread and butter, when she turned 
 back into the parlour and put down her green parasol, telling 
 me to bring her small silk umbrella instead : it might rain, 
 she said, fair as it looked. 'And make haste, Betsey,' she 
 says to me, ' for it don't want two minutes of the half-hour, 
 and I shan't get to All Saints' in time.' " 
 
 " What half- hour ? " asked Mary Barber, in a hard, disput- 
 ing sort of tone. 
 
 " The half-hour after ten. Sure enough in a minute or two 
 our clock struck it." 
 
 " Your clock must be uncommon wrong in its reckoning, 
 then,'' was the woman's rejoinder. " At half-past ten she was 
 stuck on the stile, looking out for me. It's about ten minutes 
 ago." 
 
 It was about ten minutes since her mistress went out; but 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber s Life. 45 
 
 Betsey did not venture to contend further. Mary Barber 
 always put down those who differed from her. 
 
 "After all, she has not took her umbrella," resumed the 
 girl. " I couldn't find it in the stand, off by the kitchen ; all 
 the rest of the umbrellas was there, but not missis's silk one, 
 and when I ran back to tell her I thought it must be upstairs, 
 she had gone. Gone at a fine pace, too, Mary Barber, which, 
 you know, is not good for her, for she was already out of sight, 
 so I just shut the door, and drew the bolt. It's a pity sho 
 drove it off so late." 
 
 " What made her drive it off? " 
 
 " Well, there was one or two reasons. Her new fawn gown, 
 such a beauty it is, was never sent home till this morning — 
 I'd let that fashionable new Miss Reynolds make me another, 
 I would ! — and when missis had got it on, it wouldn't come 
 to in the waist by the breadth of your two fingers, and she'd 
 got her pain very bad, and couldn't be squeeged. So she had 
 to fold it up again, and put on her turned puce " 
 
 " I saw," interrupted Mary Barber, cutting the revelation 
 short. " I say, Betsey, what's her shawl ? It looked to me 
 like one o' them Chaney crapes." 
 
 "It's the most lovely Chaney crape you ever saw," replied 
 the girl enthusiastically. "Mr. Richard made it a present to 
 her. She didn't want to wear it ; she said it was too grand, 
 but he laughed at her. The fringe was that depth." 
 
 "And now, you obstinate thing," sharply put in Mary 
 Barber, as the girl was extending her hand to show the depth 
 of the fringe, " how could I have seen her in her puce gown, 
 and how could I have seen her in the shawl unless she had 
 come to meet me ? I should as soon have expected to see my- 
 self in a satin train, as her in a Chaney crape shawl : and 
 Richard must have more money than wit to have bought it." 
 
 " And where is she now, then?" asked Betsey, to whom 
 the argument certainly appeared conclusive. " Gone on by 
 herself to the church ? " 
 
 " Never you mind !" returned Mary Barber, not choosing to 
 betray her ignorance upon the unsatisfactory point. " Don't 
 you contradict your betters again, Betsey Marsh." 
 
 Betsey humbly took the reproof. 
 
 " Why could she not have had a carriage, and went pro- 
 perly ? " resumed Mary Barber. " It might have cost money; 
 but a son's marriage comes but once in a lifetime." 
 
 " The carriage came, and took off Mr. Richard, and she 
 
46 Dene Hollow. 
 
 ■wouldn't go in it," said the girl. And then she proceeded, 
 dropping her voice to a whisper, to tell of the unpleasantness 
 of the previous evening, and of the subsequent events of the 
 morning. Mr. William was up first, and went out without 
 breakfast, leaving word he was gone to the office as usual, and 
 should not attend the wedding. This she had to tell her 
 mistress and Mr. Richard when they came downstairs ; her 
 mistress seemed dreadfully grieved ; she looked as white as a 
 sheet, and as soon as breakfast was over, she wrote a letter, 
 and sent Hill with it into Worcester to Mr. William. " It 
 was to tell him to come back and dress himself, and go with 
 her to the wedding, I know," concluded the girl, " and that's 
 why, waiting for him, she would not go with Mr. Richard 
 when the carriage came, and why she stayed, herself, till the 
 last minute. But Mr. William never came : and Hill's not 
 come back either." 
 
 " Then why on earth did she come to meet me, instead of 
 making the best of her way to the church ? " once more 
 demanded Mary Barber. 
 
 " It's what I should ha' said she didn't do," retorted the 
 girl ; " she never had no thoughts, of going to meet you." 
 
 " If you say that again, I'll Why, who's this ? " 
 
 The closing of the little iron gate at the foot of the garden 
 had caused her to turn, and she saw William Pickering. He 
 was flushed with the rapid walk from the town — conveyances 
 were not to bo hired at hasty will in Worcester then as they 
 are now — and came up with a smile on his good-humoured 
 face. 
 
 " I hope my mother's gone," he called out. 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Betsey. 
 
 " So, you and Richard have been quarrelling again, I hear, 
 and you must go off in a temper this morning," was Mary 
 Barber's reproving salutation. " I'm glad you've had the 
 grace to think better of it, Master William ! " 
 
 The young man laughed. " The truth is, my mother's note 
 was so peremptory — in a sort — that I had no choice but to 
 obey it," he answered. " I was not in the office when Hill 
 left it, but I came as soon as I could. Some hot water, 
 Betsey. Look sharp." 
 
 "You'll not get to All Saints' in time," said Mary Barber. 
 
 "I'll have a try for it; they may be late themselves. 
 What time is it now ? " he continued, as he bounded up the 
 stairs. 
 
An Episode in llary Barber's Life. 47 
 
 As if to answer him, the large kitchen clock at that 
 moment rang out the quarter to eleven. It was a clock that 
 struck the quarters : as many kitchen clocks did in those 
 old-fashioned days. 
 
 "Is that clock right?" asked Mary Barber, remembering 
 her conclusion that it could not be, and why ; and feeling in a 
 maze upon the past yet. " Just look at your watch, William, 
 and tell me." 
 
 " It's never wrong," put in Betsey, as she came hurrying 
 out of the kitchen with the jug of hot water, probably 
 deeming it a convenient juncture tacitly to maintain her own 
 opinion. " It don't vary a minute in a year." 
 
 She spoke truth. Nevertheless William Pickering, in 
 courtesy to the request, halted on the stairs midway, and 
 took his watch from his pocket. " It is quite right," he 
 said. " Besides, I know that must be just about the time. 
 You wait for me in the parlour, Mary, and we'll go on to- 
 gether." 
 
 She turned into the parlour generally used, and waited 
 for him. The boys had always called her "Mary," fol- 
 lowing the habit of their father and mother. On the table 
 lay Mrs. Pickering's green parasol, just as she had put it 
 down. 
 
 In five minutes he was downstairs again, dressed ; as hand- 
 some a young man as might be — upright, frank, merry. 
 Mary Barber told him how his mother had come to meet her, 
 and how she had suddenly disappeared. He laughed, and 
 said Mary must have fallen into a doze while tying her shoe. 
 They were passing through Henwick when the clocks struck 
 eleven. 
 
 " There ! " exclaimed Mary Barber, " the wedding '11 have 
 begun ?" 
 
 "Never mind," said he, gaily, "we shall get in for the 
 tail." 
 
 They took the lower road, as being the nearest, cutting off 
 the corner by the suburb of St. John's, as well as the new 
 road, crossed the bridge over the sparkling Severn, and 
 turned off to All Saints' Church just as the tardy bridal party 
 drove up. 
 
 " I hope they have not been waiting for me ! " exclaimed 
 William Pickering. " Which carriage is my mother in, I 
 wonder ? I shall take her in." 
 
 " She won't be in the carriage ; she was going straight 
 
43 Dene Hollow, 
 
 into the church; Betsey said so!" snapped Mary Barber, 
 excessively aggravated to find herself in the very midst of 
 the alighting company. Richard Pickering drew up to his 
 brother. 
 
 "Where's the mother?" he asked. "We have been 
 ■waiting for her all this while." 
 
 " In the church, I think, if she's not with you. I am but 
 come up myself now. 
 
 However, range their eyes as they would round the church 
 when they got inside it, there was no sign of Mrs. Pickering. 
 William, burying animosity for the occasion, stood by his 
 brother at the altar, his groom's man, and the ceremony pro- 
 ceeded. Mary Barber ensconced herself behind a remote 
 pillar, peeping surreptitiously round to watch the party out 
 of church, Richard leading his very pretty bride. 
 
 " I'll let the ruck of 'em get into old Law's before me," 
 quoth she to the female pew-opener. 
 
 And accordingly the " ruck " did get in, and then Mary 
 Barber followed. She supposed Mrs. Pickering would be 
 there, as did all. The conclusion drawn was, that she had 
 not arrived in time for the ceremony, and so had gone 
 straight to the surgeon's. His residence was not far from 
 the church, and as Mary Barber slowly approached it, she 
 saw quite a crowd of persons coming from the opposite way, 
 in one of whom she recognized an officer of justice. Halting 
 at the door to stare at these — and they seemed to be recipro- 
 cating the compliment by staring at her in a curious manner 
 — William Pickering came out. 
 
 " What can have become of my mother, Mary ? " he ex- 
 claimed. " I'm going home to see after her. She's not at 
 Mrs. Law's." 
 
 " Why, where's she got to ? " responded Mary Barber. 
 " I'll tell you what, William Pickering," quickly added 
 the woman, an idea flashing across her, "she's gone demented 
 w T ith the quarrelling of you two boys, and has wandered 
 away in the fields ! I told you how strangely she stared at 
 me from the stile." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said the young man. 
 
 "Is it nonsense ? It — whatever do you people want ? " 
 broke off Mary Barber. For the persons she had noticed 
 were surrounding them in a strange manner, hemming them 
 in ominously. The officer laid his arm upon William 
 Pickering'. 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber s Life. 49 
 
 " I'm sorry to say that I must take you prisoner, sir." 
 
 "What for ? " coolly asked William. 
 
 " For murder ! " was the answer. And as the terrible 
 words fell on Mary Barber's ear, a wild thought crossed her 
 bewildered brain. Could he have murdered his mother ? Of 
 course it was only her own previous train of ideas, connected 
 with the non-appearance of her sister, that induced it. 
 
 Not so, however. Amidst the dire confusion that seemed 
 at once to reign ; amid the indignant questionings of the 
 bridal party, who came flocking out in their gay attire, the 
 particulars were made known. Mr. Stone, the old clerk, had 
 been found dead on the office floor, an ugly wound in the 
 back of his head. Richard Pickering, in his terror, cast a 
 yearning, beseeching glance on his brother, as much as to 
 say, Surely it has not come to this ! 
 
 The events of the morning, as connected with this matter, 
 appeared to have been as follows : — Mr. Stone had gone to 
 the office at nine o'clock, as usual, and there, to his surprise, 
 found William Pickering, opening the letters. The latter 
 said he was not going to his brother's wedding, and the old 
 clerk reproved him for it. William did not like this ; one 
 word led to another, and several harsh things were spoken. 
 So far the office servant testified ; a man named Dance, whose 
 work lay chiefly in the warehouse among the hop-pockets, 
 and who had come in for orders. They were still "jangling," 
 Dance said, when he left them. Subsequently to this, William 
 Pickering went out to the warehouse, and to one or two more 
 places. On his return, he found that his mother's out-door 
 man-of-all-work, Hill, had left a note for him ; a large brewer 
 in the town, named Corney, was also waiting to see him on 
 business. When Mr. Corney left, he opened the note, the 
 contents of which may as well be given : — 
 
 " William ! you have never directly disobeyed me yet. I 
 charge you, come back at once, and go with me to the church. 
 Do you know that I have passed three parts of the night on 
 my knees, praying that things may be cleared up between 
 you and your brother ! " Your loving Mother." 
 
 After that nothing clearly was known. William Pickering 
 said that when he quitted the office to go home, in obedience 
 to his mother's mandate, he left Mr. Stone at his desk 
 writing; but a short while afterwards the old clerk was 
 found lying on the floor, with a terrible wound in the back 
 
 E 
 
50 Dene Hollow. 
 
 of his Lead. It was quite evident lie had been struck down 
 while bending over the desk. The man Danee, who was 
 sought for in the warehouse, and found, spoke of the quar- 
 relling he had heard ; and hence the arrest of William 
 Pickering. 
 
 Mary Barber's first thought, amidst the confusion and the 
 shock, was of her sister. If not broken to her softly, the 
 news might kill her; and the woman, abandoning cake, and 
 wine, and company, before she had seen them, started off 
 there and then in search of Mrs. Pickering, not knowing in 
 the least where to look for her, but taking naturally the way 
 to her home. 
 
 "Surely she'll be comiug in to join 'em, and I shall, 
 perchance, meet her," was the passing thought. 
 
 Not Mrs. Pickering did Mary Barber meet, but Hill, the 
 man. He was coming down the road in a state of excite- 
 ment, and Mary Barber stared in blank disbelief at his news : 
 his mistress had been found on her bed — dead. 
 
 In an incredibly short time the woman seemed to get there, 
 and met a surgeon coming out of the house. It was quite 
 true. Mrs. Pickering was dead. With her face looking as if 
 it were turned to stone, Mary Barber went up to the chamber. 
 Betsey, the servant, her tears dropping fast, told the tale. 
 
 When Mary Barber and Mr. William had departed, she 
 bolted the door again, and went back to her work in the 
 kitchen. By and by, it occurred to her to wonder whether 
 the silk umbrella was safe upstairs, or whether it had been 
 lost from the stand : a few weeks before, one of their cotton 
 umbrellas had been taken by a tramp. She ran tip into her 
 mistress's room to look, and there was startled by seeing her 
 mistress. She was sitting in an arm-chair by the bedside, 
 her head leaning sideways on the back, and her left hand 
 pressed on her heart. On the bed lay the silk umbrella, its 
 cover partly taken off, and by its side a bit of bread and 
 butter, half eaten. At the first moment the girl thought she 
 was asleep; but when she saw her face she knew it was 
 something worse. Running out of the house in terror, she 
 met Hill, Avho was then returning from Worcester, and sent 
 him for the nearest surgeon. He came, and pronounced her 
 to be quite dead. " She must have been dead," he said, 
 " about an hour." 
 
 "What time was that? " interrupted Mary Barber, speak- 
 ing sharply in her emotion. 
 
An Episode in Mary Barber's Life. 51 
 
 " It was half-past eleven." 
 
 There could not be the slightest doubt as to the facts of 
 the case. While the servant was sent by her mistress for 
 the nrnbrella, and delayed through being unable to find it, 
 Mrs. Pickering must have run upstairs to her chamber, either 
 remembering that it was there, or to look for it. She found 
 it, and was taking off the case, putting down the bread and 
 butter she was eating, to do so (a piece of bread and butter 
 which the maid had just before brought to her), and 
 must have then found herself ill, sat down in the chair, 
 and died immediately. Her own medical attendant had 
 warned her that any great excitement might prove suddenly 
 fatal. 
 
 " It was the oddest thing, and I thought it at the time, 
 though it went out of my mind again, that she should have 
 disappeared from sight so soon," sobbed Betsey. "I don't 
 think I was away much above a minute after the umbrella, 
 and when I came back, and found her gone, and looked out at 
 the door, I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked in the 
 garden ; I looked down the path as far as my eyes would go. 
 ' Why, missis must be lost ! ' says I, out loud. And she had 
 left the front door wide open, too — and that ought to have 
 told me she had not gone out of it. And I, like a fool, never 
 to have remembered that she might have run upstairs, but 
 just bolted the door and went about my work." 
 
 Mary Barber made no comment ; a strange awe was steal- 
 ing over her. This had occurred at half-past ten. It was at 
 precisely that time she saw her sister on the stile. 
 
 "Betsey," she presently said, her voice subdued to a whis- 
 per, " if your mistress had really gone out, as you supposed, 
 was there any possibility of her coming in later, without your 
 knowledge ? " 
 
 "No, there was not; she couldn't have done it," was the 
 answer to the question ; and Mary Barber felt perfectly cer- 
 tain that it had not been possible, though she asked it. The 
 only way to Mrs. Pickering's from the stile was the path she 
 had taken herself, and she knew her sister had not gone on 
 before her. 
 
 " I never unbolted either of the doors, back or front, after 
 she (as I thought) went out, except when I undid the front 
 for you," resumed the girl. " I don't dare to be in the house 
 by myself with 'em open since that man frightened me last 
 winter. No, no ; missis neither went out nor come in : she 
 
52 Dene Hollow. 
 
 just went up-stairs to her room, and died. The doctor says 
 lie don't suppose she had a moment's warning." 
 
 It must have been so. Mary Barber gazed upon her as she 
 lay back, upon the holiday attire she wore, all the counter- 
 part of what she had seen on the stile. The puce silk gown 
 looked as good as new ; the really beautiful shawl, with its 
 deep rich fringe ; the white bonnet, which she now saw was 
 of plain corded silk. The doctor had closed the eyes, and put 
 the left hand down straight ; otherwise she was as she was 
 found. On the patchwork quilt of the bed lay the silk 
 umbrella, the cover half taken off, and the bit of bread and 
 butter, half eaten, lay beside it. Mary Barber gazed at all ; 
 and an awful conviction came over her that it was her sister's 
 spirit she had seen on the stile. Never from that hour did 
 she quite lose the sensation of nameless dread it brought in 
 its wake. 
 
 " You see, now, Mrs. Barber, you must have been mistaken 
 in thinking my missis went to meet you," said Betsey. 
 
 Mary Barber made no answer ; she only looked out straight 
 before her with a gaze that seemed to be very far away. 
 
 What with one calamity and the other — for the news of 
 William Pickering's apprehension soon travelled up — the 
 house was like a fair the whole of the day. Richard 
 Pickering, bridegroom though he was, was up there ; Mr. 
 Law was there, and, on examination, confirmed the other 
 doctor's opinion as to the momentarily sudden death ; num- 
 berless friends and acquaintances came in and went out again- 
 For once in her life, Mary Bai'ber was oblivious of the home 
 wash, and her promise to return early for it. She took her 
 bonnet off, borrowed a cap of her poor sister's, and re- 
 mained. 
 
 William Pickering was taken before the magistrates in the 
 Guildhall for examination, late in the afternoon. His brother 
 attended it, and — very much to her own surprise — so did 
 Mary Barber. The accusation and the facts had resolved 
 themselves into something tangible out of their original con- 
 fusion ; the prisoner was able to understand the grounds they 
 had against him ; and the solicitor, whom he called to his 
 assistance, drove up in a gig to Mrs. Pickering's, and took 
 possession of Mary Barber. 
 
 "What's the good of your whirling me off to the Guild- 
 hall ? " she resentfully asked of him, three times over, as he 
 drove back into Worcester. " I don't know anything about 
 
An Episode in Alary Barbers Life. 53 
 
 it ; I never was inside that office of the Pickerings' in all my 
 life." 
 
 " You'll see," said the lawyer, with a smile. 
 
 One thing was satisfactory — that old Mr. Stone had come 
 "to life again. The blow, though a very hard one, had stunned, 
 but not killed him ; he was, in fact, not injured beyond a 
 reasonable probability of recovery. He had no knowledge 
 of his assailant : whoever it was, he had come behind him, 
 as he sat bending over his desk, and struck him down 
 unawares. 
 
 The Guildhall was crowded : a case exciting so much in- 
 terest had rarely occurred in Worcester. Independent of the 
 station in life of the prisoner, and of his good looks, his youth, 
 and his popularity with most people, there were the attendant 
 circumstances — the marriage of his brother in the morning, 
 the death of Mrs. Pickering. Of the last sad fact they did 
 not tell him. "Let him get his examination over, poor fel- 
 low ! " said they in kindness. And he stood before the court, 
 upright, frank, unfettered by grief. " He must have done 
 it in a moment of passion, said his sorrowing friends and 
 the public ; for the facts seemed too clear against him for 
 disbelief — the long-continued ill-feeling known to exist be- 
 tween him and the old clerk, who had persistently taken his 
 brother Richard's part ; the quarrelling of the morning, as 
 heard by Dance, and which the pi'isoner did not deny ; and 
 the absence of any one else in the office. Richard Pickering, 
 his breast beating with a horrible conviction that none else 
 could have been guilty, was not one publicly to denoiince his 
 brother. He affected to assume his innocence, and he stood 
 by him to afford him all the countenance in his power. 
 
 The facts were testified to — those gathered on the first 
 moment of discovery, and others since. Dance spoke of the 
 jangling — as he still called it — between the clerk and his 
 young master. Mr. Corney proved his visit, and that upon 
 its termination he left Mr. Stone and William Pickering alone, 
 and he could see that they were not friendly. This was about 
 twenty minutes past ten. Mr. Corney added, in answer to a 
 question, that he had heard nothing of William Pickering's 
 intention to depart home ; on the contrary, he said he should 
 be at the office all day. Subsequently 
 
 Yes, but then he had not opened his mother's note, inter- 
 rupted the prisoner, who, up to this point, acknowledged all 
 that was said to be correct. But, he continued, the instant 
 
54 Dene Hollow. 
 
 he read the note he started for home, knowing how little 
 time there was to lose : and he told old Stone that he need 
 not be cross on Richard's account any longer, for after all he 
 was going to be his best man. He knew no more. 
 
 Mr. Corney resumed : A little before eleven he went back 
 to the office, to say he'd take the hops at the price offered, and 
 was horrified to find old Mr. Stone on the ground, as he 
 thought, dead. He raised an alarm ; some people ran in from 
 the streets, and he went himself in search of Dance, whom 
 he found in the warehouse; somebody else ran for a constable, 
 others for a surgeon. Of course the conclusion arrived at 
 was, that Mr. William Pickering had done the deed. 
 
 The bench appeared to be arriving at the same. 
 
 "Not so fast, gentlemen," said William Pickering's 
 lawyer : and he put forth another witness. 
 
 It was Mr. Kilpin, the hop-merchant, a gentleman well 
 known in the town. He deposed that he had called in at the 
 Messrs. Pickering's office that morning between half-past ten 
 and eleven. Mr. Stone was alone, writing at his desk. He 
 stayed talking to him three or four minutes, and left at a 
 quarter to eleven. He was enabled to state the time posi- 
 tively from the fact, that 
 
 " Why, then, it could not have been William Pickering; 
 he was at home at that very time," burst forth Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 The bench silenced her ; but she saw now why she had 
 been brought to the Guildhall. 
 
 Mr. Kilpin resumed, taking up the thread of his sentence 
 as if no interruption had occurred — 
 
 " From the fact that, as I passed St. Nicholas Church, it 
 chimed the three-quarters past ten. I was on my way to 
 catch the Pershore coach, for I was going by it as far as 
 Whittington, and it was at that moment turning the corner of 
 Broad Street. I had to make a run for it, and to holloa out, 
 and the coachman pulled up opposite the Old Bank. When I 
 got back from Whittington this afternoon," added the wit- 
 ness, " I accidentally met Mr. William Pickering's lawyei*, 
 and learnt what had occurred." 
 
 Next came the evidence of Mary Barber, that William 
 Pickering was in his mother's house at three-quarters past 
 ten. Of course there could be no further doubt of his inno- 
 cence after this. Meanwhile the prisoner had been writing 
 a few lines with a pencil on a piece of paper, and it was 
 
An Episode in Mary Barbers Life. 55 
 
 passed over to his brother. Something in the demeanour of 
 one of the witnesses as he gave his evidence had powerfully 
 struck him. 
 
 " I have an idea, Richard, that the guilty man is Dance. 
 Take care that he does not escape. If lie has done this, he may 
 also have been the pilferer of your petty cash. Try and get it all 
 cleared up, for the sake of the mother 's peace." 
 
 " For the sake of the mother's peace ! " echoed Richard, 
 with an aching heart. " Poor William little dreams of the 
 blow in store for him." 
 
 He did not dream, Richard Pickering ; he acted. Givino- 
 a hint to the officer to look after Dance, he pressed up to his 
 brother, then being released from custody. 
 
 "William," he whispered, " tell me the truth in this 
 solemn moment — and it is more sadly solemn than you are as 
 yet cognizant of — have you really not touched that missino- 
 money ? As I lay awake last night thinking of it, I be<ran 
 to fancy I might have been making a mistake all through. 
 If so " 
 
 " If so, we shall be the good friends that we used to be," 
 heartily interrupted William, as he clasped his brother's 
 ready hand. " On my sacred word, I never touched it ; I 
 could not do so : and you must have been prejudiced to fancy 
 it. I'll lay any money Dance will turn out to have been the 
 black sheep. Both looks and tones were false as he gave his 
 evidence." 
 
 And William Pickering was right. Dance was so effec- 
 tually "looked after" that night, that some ugly facts came 
 out, and he was quietly taken into custody. True enough, 
 the black sheep had been nobody else. He had skilfully 
 pilfered the petty sums of money ; he had struck down Mr. 
 Stone as he sat at his desk, to take a couple of sovereigns he 
 saw lying in it. The old gentleman recovered, and gave 
 evidence on the trial at the following March Assizes, and 
 Richard and William Pickering from henceforth were more 
 closely knit together. 
 
 But the singular circumstances attendant on the death of 
 Mrs. Pickering — her apparition (for could it be anything 
 less ?) that appeared to Mary Barber— became public pro- 
 perty. People talked of it with timid glances and hushed 
 voices ; and for a long while neither girl nor woman would 
 pass through the two fields alone. 
 
$6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 And that is the ending. If I have been unduly minute 
 in regard to the dress, or other points, I only reiterate the 
 minuteness given at the time by Mary Barber. She fully 
 believed — and she was good, and honest, and truthful — that 
 the spirit of her sister came to lead her to the house (where 
 otherwise she would not have gone), there to meet William 
 Pickering, and be the means of establishing his innocence : 
 and would so believe to her dying day. 
 
 And now, the episode related, we go on with the story of 
 Dene Hollow. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE HOLLOW. 
 
 It was lovely autumn weather. The Becchhurst Dene woods 
 were glowing with their rich tints in the October sunshine ; 
 the sky was blue and cloudless as in the sweetest day of 
 summer. 
 
 Turning out at the lodge gates of Beechhurst Dene, was a 
 kind of mail-phaeton ; a high yellow vehicle, all the fashion 
 at the period. The horses were iron-grey, fine, valuable 
 animals ; high steppers, but steady withal, and much like 
 their owner, Sir Dene Clanwaring. Sir Dene sat in the 
 carriage to-day by the side of his son Geoffry, who was driv- 
 ing. Sweeping out of the avenue right across the highway, 
 Geoffrey turned the horses' heads down a road that looked 
 newly made. 
 
 New it was. Sir Dene Clanwaring had carried out his pro- 
 ject — some deemed it his folly — and lost no time in complet- 
 ing what he had set his mind upon — a near way to the village 
 of Hurst Leet. It was a fine, white, broad road ; leading 
 from Sir Dene's gates downwards — for the ground descended, 
 you remember — and winding round right into the middle of 
 the hamlet. Hurst Leet was proud of it. Sir Dene was 
 proud of it. It had cost Sir Dene more funds than he had 
 believed possible; a costly toy, he was apt to whisper in 
 the privacy of his own heart ; but nevertheless he could 
 afford it, and he said complacently that the convenience of 
 the road would well repay its outlay. Some three weeks 
 had elapsed now sir»ce it was finished ; and Sir Dene had 
 driven down and up it nearly every day. 
 
 All trace of the widow Barber's cottage was gone. That 
 estimable but (iu the opinion of Mr. Drew) cantankerous 
 
The Shadow on the Hollow. 57 
 
 old lady had been forced out of her life-long home. There 
 had been a scene at her departure. Lady-day — the period by 
 which she was ordered to begone— came and passed; and Mrs. 
 Barber had neither removed herself nor her chattels. Another 
 day's grace they gave her, together with a peremptory com- 
 mand : but the widow did not stir. She had lived in the old 
 place for six-and-seventy years, she pleaded ; she could not, in 
 the nature of things, last much longer — oh if they would but 
 let her stay in it for that short remaining time ! Earnestly 
 did she pray for this boon, as though she had been praying for 
 her life. Sir Dene was made acquainted with this contu- 
 macious behaviour — doubly cantankerous, wrathful Drew 
 called her now — and he, Sir Dene, full of wrath also, issued 
 the edict for her ejection. Geoffry Clanwaring, ever good- 
 hearted, alone put in a protest, asking his father to grant the 
 poor distressed woman's prayer, seconding her plea that it 
 could not be for long. But Sir Dene sharply told his son not 
 to be foolish — the new road could not wait for her pleasure. 
 So, on the following morning, sundry men presented them- 
 selves at the "Widow Barber's, quietly but forcibly put her 
 goods outside the door, and turned her cow and pig and 
 chickens into the road. She had to follow them : and she 
 went meekly forth, weeping and wringing her hands. Mary 
 Barber hired a couple of rooms for her mother and some of her 
 furniture to take refuge in ; and the cow and pig and fowls 
 were sold to the highest bidder on the spot. But the fact 
 created a great deal of scandal in the neighbourhood, and Sir 
 Dene received some harsh blame. Sir Dene excused himself 
 by saying that the extreme measure of ejecting her in that 
 very summary manner belonged to his bailiff, Drew. But he 
 could not get out of the fact that he had given his edict for 
 her removal : and Jonathan Drew might have reasonably re- 
 torted on the grumblers with the question — How was he to 
 get the old woman out when she refused to go ? 
 
 As if tormented by the fear that she might be coming back 
 again — after the fashion of the slippers in the Eastern tale — 
 the men lost not a moment in commencing the work of de- 
 struction. Some bricks were out of the walls before the 
 weeping woman was beyond view. A rumour went abroad 
 of what was going on, and numbers of gazers came nocking 
 up to watch. They stayed to see it, talking freely. The 
 doors were off then, the windows out. The two chimneys 
 could be no more seen. "What with the work of dismantling, 
 
58 Dene Hollow, 
 
 with tlie goods lying 1 in a heap outside, with the let-loose cow 
 and pig, and what with the increasing spectators, such a scene 
 of excitement and confusion had not been witnessed by the 
 rural population in their lives. It remained on their memories 
 as an epoch of local history, to be talked of at convivial meet- 
 ings and related by father to son : Sir Dene Clanwaring's 
 turning out of the poor old widow Barber, when she was nigh 
 upon her eightieth year. 
 
 Hands were quick. On the following day the rubbish of 
 bricks and mortar was ready to be carted away ; and on the 
 subsequent morning the new road was begun. Begun at both 
 ends : at the upper one opposite the gates of Beechhurst 
 Dene; at the lower one at Hurst Leet. Sir Dene was all im- 
 patience for the way to be completed, and many hands made 
 light work. Never a thought cast he to the grief of the un- 
 happy woman who had been rudely thrust from her shell, and 
 whose heart was breaking. Sir Dene was not by nature a 
 hard or harsh man ; but he had certainly acted both hardly 
 and harshly in this. 
 
 " So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are 
 done under the sun : and beheld the tears of such as were op- 
 pressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their 
 oppressors there was power ; but they had no comforter." 
 
 If ever there was a signal exemplification of the truthful 
 teaching of one, to whom God had given more than earthly 
 wisdom, it surely existed in this instance. 
 
 And now, behold the beautiful road completed — smooth, 
 compact, level as a bowling-green. See it this early morning, 
 as Sir Dene drives down it. The hill is at this end, com- 
 mencing at the very onset ; a long hill, but a gentle one : its 
 descent not steep at all ; not enough to cause good horses to 
 slacken speed, either down or up. No more trace is to be seen 
 of the widow's cottage, of its garden, its pig-sty, cow-shed, 
 than if they had never existed : the new road runs right 
 through the site. As to the meadow where her cow was wont 
 to graze, Sir Dene has ploughed it up, fencing it in from the 
 road. On the other side, the pathway remains still ; the high 
 bank above it remains ; and the extending branches of the 
 towering, waving elm trees cast their shadows on the road in 
 the sunlight, just as the same shadows had used to be cast on 
 the cottage. A fine road : and just now the pride of Sir Deno 
 Clanwaring's heart. It had not been Sir Dene's intention to 
 
The Shadoiv on the Hollow.. 59 
 
 bestow upon it any particular name : lie did not think about 
 it ; but the workmen when making it, began to speak of it 
 familiarly amidst themselves as "The Hollow" — probably 
 because they had a portion of it to hollow out. This was 
 caught up by Hurst Leet, and converted into Dene's Hollow. 
 The appellation grew at length into " Dene Hollow." Dene 
 Hollow it remained. 
 
 Away they bowled, Sir Dene and his son. Geoffry, an ex- 
 perienced driver, had the reins well in hand. The calm, 
 bright, lovely autumn day was good to be out in. 
 
 " Who's that, Geoffry ? " asked the baronet, as a tall woman, 
 her face nearly hidden under its large quilted bonnet of faded 
 green silk, passed on the path, and courtesied to Sir Dene. 
 
 " It is Mary Barber, sir." And Geoffry silently wondered 
 that the woman upon whose mother had been committed that 
 act of injustice should continue to render active homage to Sir 
 Dene. Manners in those days were widely different from what 
 they are in these : reverence for the great was an institution. 
 
 "Oh, ay; servant at Farmer Owen's, I believe," remarked 
 Sir Dene airily : for indeed the episode of the ejection, to- 
 gether with Mary Barber's pleading visit, had well-nigh 
 passed from his mind : at least, it had lost its sting of annoy- 
 ance. " I didn't know her in that poke-bonnet. How is that 
 daughter of Owen's, Geoffry — she who married Old Arde's 
 relative. Any better ? Tou go there sometimes, don't you ? " 
 
 " To George Arde's ? Now and then, sir, when I am at 
 Worcester. Mrs. Arde is ill still." 
 
 " Talking of Owen, he wants his barn — take care, Geoff." 
 
 Without the slightest warning, without any apparent cause, 
 the horses had started. Both of them. Started violently, as 
 if in some great terror, and sprung right across the road with 
 a bound. It was just in the spot where the cottage had been. 
 Geoffry Clanwaring did all that a practised driver could do ; 
 but it was as nothing. The frightened animals bounded on 
 the bank and off again, upsetting the phaeton. There they 
 stood, plunging and kicking. 
 
 Geoffry was on his legs in an instant ; uninjured, save for a 
 bruise on the right shoulder and elbow — which he did not feel 
 until later. Some men, who happened to be passing on the 
 upper road by the gates of Beechhurst Dene, came running 
 down. The traces were cut, one of the shivering horses fell, 
 and lay still ; the other they soothed to quietness. 
 
 Which gave them time to look into the condition of Sir 
 
60 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Dene. He had been pitched over GeofiVy's head, and was, of 
 course, much shaken. Moreover, he could not get up without 
 assistance. There was some damage to one of his ankles. A 
 severe sprain, they found ; not a fracture. 
 
 " It might have been worse," remarked Sir Dene. " What 
 in the world was it that frightened the horses, Geoffry ? " 
 
 " I don't know, sir : I am lost in wondering," was Geoffry's 
 puzzled answer. " There was nothing whatever to startle 
 them." 
 
 " I am sure I saw nothing." 
 
 "There was nothing. Not a creature was near us, human 
 or animal. How shall we get you home, sir ? " 
 
 " Oh, I can manage to limp up, with your arm on one side, 
 and somebody else's on the other," returned the baronet. " I 
 hope the horses are all right. It might have been worse for 
 all of us, Geoff, my boy." 
 
 " Indeed, it might, father." 
 
 Yes, it might have been worse. But nevertheless one of 
 the horses, in plunging, had fatally injured itself, and had to 
 be shot. Cole, the farrier, had a day or two's hope over it — 
 that he could save it — but it proved futile. Sir Dene 
 was in a fine way, and told Cole he would almost as soon 
 have been shot himself. The affair created nearly as much 
 stir and talk in Hurst Leet as the turning out of the Widow 
 Barber had done. 
 
 Two or three evenings subsequent to this, Mary Barber set off 
 to see her mother — a small jug of buttered- ale in her hand, 
 Avhich Mrs. Owen had caused Mary to make. " Buttered-ale " 
 was a cordial thought much of in those days, and often sent by 
 the wealthy to the aged or sick. Mrs. Barber had found refuge 
 with John Pound and his wife, reuting their two upper rooms. 
 Or, rather, one room and a loft : the last being needed to stow 
 away the portion of her spare furniture that had not been sold. 
 The cottage was situated on the upper road, near Arde Hall ; 
 Pound being Squire Arde's waggoner. 
 
 Mary Bai-ber put her best foot foremost ; not only because 
 it looked likely to rain, but that the buttered-ale should reach 
 her mother while it was hot. The old lady was seated on the bit 
 of carpet before the fire ; her head leaning sideways on a chair. 
 
 " Why, mother, you be low in the world ! " was Mary's 
 salutation. " What be you down there for ? " 
 
 Mrs. Barber got up without making any particular answer, 
 and took her seat in the chair. " It's a bit shivery to-night, 
 
The Shadow on the Hollow. 61 
 
 ain't it, child?" she asked. And a spectator might have 
 smiled at tall, hard, bony, middle-aged Mary Barber being 
 addressed as " child." 
 
 " No, it's quite warm, mother." 
 
 Could it be that this poor shrunken creature was the once 
 plump, healthy, well-conditioned woman who had lived in 
 that disputed cottage. Was it possible that only a few months 
 had made so great a change ? Alas, yes. And the marvel 
 was that she had lasted as long as this. 
 
 Literally she was no better than skin and bone. The face 
 had lost its roundness, the cheeks their fresh tinge ; the eyes 
 were sunken, and dim with a sadness that might be seen and 
 felt. Nothing had apparently ailed her to cause the change ; 
 her bodily health, save that the appetite had failed, had seemed 
 not to suffer. But inward grief, when it is hopeless and ex- 
 cessive, induces decay more rapidly in the aged than sickness 
 of body. Old Hester Barber's heart was broken. 
 
 " I've not been able to run down this last two days, mother, 
 as we've had our big wash on," said Mary, looking rather 
 keenly at the worn face by the help of the fire-light, for she 
 thought it was more changed than ever. She fancied, 
 moreover, that it had a greyish tinge on it, which she had 
 never observed before : and she did not much like to see it 
 now. " Here's a nice drop of buttered-ale, that the missis has 
 sent : it'll do you good." 
 
 " The missis is over kind, Mary ; carry back my duty to 
 her and my best thanks. But I don't feel as if I could touch 
 it, child. I don't feel to want nothing." 
 
 "That's all nonsense, mother. I'll light the candle." 
 Holding the candle, so that its light fell on her mother's 
 face, Mary Barber scanned it well. Yes, it was certainly grey 
 to-night, with a peculiar, leaden greyness. She put the 
 buttered-ale into a basin, and reached a spoon. 
 
 " Now, then, mother, sup it up afore it's quite cold. Never 
 mind about not wanting it : it'll cheer you up and warm you,, 
 whether you want it or not. 
 
 Holding the basin so that it rested on her knee, the dying 
 woman — for she was dying slowly — sipped a few spoonfuls. 
 Mary sat opposite, chatting. 
 
 " Did ye hear o' the accident to Sir Dene Clanwaring, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Ay, I heer'd on't. Pound, he come up stairs here o' purpose 
 to tell me." 
 
62 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " It's cost a sight o' money to mend the carriage, Cole's son 
 says. And they've had to shoot the best horse." 
 
 Mrs. Barber, her spoon resting passive in the bnttered-ale, 
 shook her head in solemn silence. 
 
 "I had passed 'em not a minute afore, coming up the path 
 from Hurst Leet, where I had been on an errand for missis," 
 continued Mary. " All fine and grand it looked, that turn- 
 out ; the horses, for power and safety, you might have took 
 a lease on. Before I had well got into the upper road by the 
 gates, there was a startling noise down there, and I looked 
 back. Mother, you might have floored me with a word when 
 I see the carriage, and the two gentlemen lying on the 
 ground, and the cattle plunging." 
 " Ay, ay," murmured Mrs. Barber. 
 
 " I didn't believe my own eyes. And what had done it I 
 could not think, for they had been going along as steady as 
 might be. They don't know what in the world it could ha' 
 been that the horses started at. Young Mr. Clanwaring was 
 at our house yesterday, and I heard him tell the master that 
 it 'ud always be a puzzle to him. Eat the stuff, mother." 
 
 " It was the Shadow," remarked the old woman, dropping 
 her voice almost to a whisper. " I'd lay my life, Mary, 'twas 
 the Shadow." 
 
 " The what ? " cried Mary. 
 "The Shadow." 
 
 Mary Barber, who had really not caught the word at first, 
 supposed that this must allude to the shadows cast on the 
 road by the trees. To any one but her mother she would 
 have met the assertion with unsparing ridicule. 
 
 " 'Twas not likely to have been that, mother. Why, the 
 trees be there always ; and their shadows, too, when the sun's 
 behind 'em. Them horses' feet feel just as much at home 
 amid the shadows as they do amid the stones." 
 
 " I said the Shadow, Mary. Not the shadows o' the 
 trees." 
 
 " What Shadow ? " 
 " The one I saw on the road." 
 
 Mary Barber believed the old mind was wandering. She 
 stared for a minute, without speaking. 
 " Eat your buttered-ale, mother." 
 
 Instead of that, Mrs. Barber stretched out her withered arm 
 and put the basin down on the table at her elbow. 
 
 " There's a shadow on that road, child. The poor dumb 
 
The Shadoiv on the Hollow. 65 
 
 animals saw it, and were frightened at it. They see some- 
 times what man can't see. Maybe, it'll come now and again 
 at will, to lie on the Hollow." 
 
 Mary Barber was sufficisntly superstitions herself, and had 
 seen at least one ghost, as her friends knew ; but she was 
 wholly at fault in this. Instead of debating the point, she 
 stared harder than before at the grey face. 
 
 " It's a shadow to frighten the best of horses, it is, an' they 
 get to see it, Mary. It frightened me." 
 
 " Be you a wandering, mother ? " demanded Mary Barber, 
 in rather a hard tone. 
 
 " Me a wandering ! What put that in your head, child ? " 
 
 " Why, what else is it ? A talking in this way about 
 shadows ? ' ' 
 
 " How long is it since this new road was opened ? " rejoined 
 Mrs. Barber — and certainly, in all save the subject, she 
 seemed to be quite as rational as usual. " What do they 
 call it again — Hollow Dene ? " 
 
 " Dene Hollow. It's more than three weeks now." 
 
 " Ay. Three weeks o' Tuesday last. John Pound, he 
 comes up stairs the evening afore ; Monday, that was ; and 
 said the workmen was a clearing off their tools, and the road 
 'ud be open to the parish on the morrow. When the morrow 
 came, I thought I'd put on my old red cloak and go out and 
 take a look at it. 'Twas a fine, sunshiny, beautiful day, warm 
 for September. I got to the place, Mary ; and I leaned my 
 arms on the fence opposite the Dene gates, and looked at it. 
 A fine smooth road it was, a'most fine enough to have broke 
 an old woman's heart for. I didn't know the place again. 
 Not a brick was there left o' the poor homestead ; not as 
 much as a stone to mark out where it had been. 'Twas all 
 swep clean away ; the walls, and the yellow jes'min that used 
 to climb on 'em." 
 
 " It's said they've got that yellow jes'min rooted now at 
 Beechhurst Dene," interrupted Mary Barber. " 'Twas rare 
 and flourishing always." 
 
 " But while my eyes looked this way and that," pursued 
 Mrs. Barber, " a trying to tell whether the home had stood an 
 inch nearer or further, they grew to see that there was a 
 shadow lying on the road. An awful kind of shadow, Mary, 
 just about in the spot where the house had stood. These 
 eyes saw it child. And they'd never seen anything like it 
 afore." 
 
64 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 " Was it the shape of the house ? " questioned Mary — 
 perhaps as much in mockery as earnestness. 
 
 " It wasn't any shape at all. It was just as though a 
 darkness lay on that part o' the hollow ; or as if you were 
 looking at it through smoked glass. Mary, I'll tell you what 
 it put me iu mind of — the valley of the shadow of death." 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 " It did." 
 
 " I don't think it's right to say that." 
 
 " I'd not be the one to say anything wrong. But truth's 
 truth ; and the thought came into my mind as I stood there." 
 
 "What was it like ? " questioned Mary Barber, in a some- 
 what more reverent tone. 
 
 " It was just a shadow of darkness ; nothing else. But 
 there was nothing to throw it there, and it made me tremble 
 all over. I've trembled since when I think of it. Randy 
 Black came by at the moment, and I asked him to look — 
 there has been a good deal o' talk again Black in the place, 
 but the man has always showed himself civil to me. He 
 stopped and put his two arms on the rail beside me, and 
 looked on to where I pointed ; but he could not see it. He 
 couldn't see it. He said it was as fine and bright all down 
 the new road, every inch on't, as it was that day elsewhere. 
 But the Shadow was there, Mary, all the same. You couldn't 
 tell where it begun or where it ended : just that bit o' the 
 road — ten or twenty yards, maybe — lay in the dark." 
 
 To hear Mrs. Barber tell this, her tone subdued to awe, her 
 dim eyes gazing into the fire as though she could see the 
 Shadow there, her whole manner and bearing imparting an 
 impression solemnly earnest, brought a curious sensation to 
 Mary. 
 
 " I will take a look myself the next time I pass by, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Barber shook her head. " You mightn't see anything. 
 I don't think you will. I went out again the next day, and 
 couldn't see it. Brooding over it here since, it has come to 
 me to think that perhaps no other human eye, save mine, 
 ever will see it. Black couldn't. But the Shadow was there 
 all the while he looked : never a doubt of that." 
 
 " It has a curious sound to hear," was Mary Barber's 
 answer. 
 
 " Ay. But it's true. I never was surer of anything in this 
 world. Well, I'd a'most forgot it, Mary : I thought it was 
 just a thing, unaccountable, that had come, and passed. 
 
The Shadow on the Holloiv. 6$ 
 
 But when John Pound brought news o' the upset in that 
 same spot, saying it was quite a mystery what had startled 
 the horses, for there was nobody a-nigh and nothing to cause 
 it, it flashed over me that they must have seen the same 
 Shadow that I saw — and I don't know how I felt, so struck 
 and dumbfounded. It's to be hoped it'll never come there 
 again. Sir Dene turned me out," added the old woman after 
 a pause, " but I don't wish him ill. I'd do him any good if 
 it lay in my power." 
 
 " Well, mother, I feel sore at him ; I can tell you that." 
 
 " Ay, so did I, at first. But the Lord has been good and 
 shown me a bit of His light. When Heaven's opening to us, 
 Mary, we are glad to forgive those that have injured us. I 
 didn't think enough o' these things till I came here — mercv, 
 and charity, and forgiveness to others — and my own sins and 
 mistakes. I never might have thought of 'em. And so — and 
 so, perhaps it has all happened for the best. One must get 
 one's heart broke, as mine's been, before one can be at full 
 love and peace with all the world, friends and enemies." 
 
 Mary Barber did not quite know what to make of her 
 mother. She had never seen her like this. All Mrs. Barber 
 had been noted for since she lost her home, was shrinking, 
 silent abstraction. She would answer questions put to her, 
 but rarely spoke of her own accord. 
 
 " I wish you'd finish that buttered-ale, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Barber took a sip or two, and then let the spoon fall 
 again. 
 
 " I can't, Mary. The heart goes again it ; and something 
 seems wrong with my swallow. Leave it be : maybe I'll try 
 it later." 
 
 " Shall I help you to get to bed, mother ?" 
 
 " No. Tisn't time." 
 
 "I must be going soon. Is there anything else I can 
 do?" J ° 
 
 " Tou may read just a few verses o' the Bible, if you like. 
 My sight's got good for nothing." 
 
 More and more amazed, for Mary had never heard such a 
 request from her mother on a week-day, she got up to reach 
 the Bible — one that had been in use on Sundays as long as 
 she could remember. But she suddenly discovered that she 
 had not brought her spectacles with her — and upon looking 
 for her mother's could not find them. Mrs. Barber seemed 
 disappointed. 
 
66 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Oh, well, never mind. It wouldn't have took you five 
 minutes, Mary." 
 
 " It's not the time, mother ; it is that I can't see. "Where's 
 the large Bible — father's ? I could see the print o' that." 
 
 It was on the top shelf of the press by the bed, and Mary 
 had to stand on a stool to get it down. A large Bible covered 
 with green baize, that had been Thomas Barber's ; one they 
 never used. 
 
 She dusted it, sat down, and read the chapter asked for — 
 the 14th of St. John. Mrs. Barber listened attentively. 
 
 " Ay, ay," she murmured when it was over, "many man- 
 sions there. There'll be no sorrow up there, child, and no 
 frightening Shadow." 
 
 " I wonder what's inside this cover ? " cried Mary, who, in 
 passing her hand abstractedly over the green baize, in a 
 minute's reverie, found that something lay between it and the 
 book. 
 
 " There's nothing there." 
 
 " There is, mother. It feels like a thickish letter. May I 
 look ? " 
 
 " You can look. I know there's nothing." 
 
 Cutting the thread that confined the covering, she took it 
 off, and found a piece of brown paper folded together, with 
 two or three papers inside it. Had Mary Barber's pulses 
 been given to flutter, they had certainly fluttered then — for a 
 sure prevision, like an instinct, told her what was coming'. 
 Two of them were old receipts for rent : the other was the 
 missing paper, given by Mr. Honeythorn. 
 
 But the time had gone by for Mrs. Barber to be moved 
 about anything in this world. She just looked round from 
 the fire, but did not take the document in her hand. 
 
 " I remember now : I did put it there. I never thought o' 
 the Bible when we were looking for it. Every other place 
 but that. You'll show it to Sir Dene, Mary, that he may 
 see what I said was true." 
 
 "Yes, I'll show it to Sir Dene — and to others also," was 
 the emphatic answer. 
 
 Mary Barber wished her mother good night, again urging 
 the buttered-ale upon her, and departed, the paper safely 
 stowed away in her pocket. She stepped into Mrs. Pound's 
 kitchen to say a word. 
 
 " You'll give a look upstairs to mother afore you go to bed, 
 Matty Pound. She seems queer to-night." 
 
In St. Peter s Church. 67 
 
 " How— queer ? " asked Matty Pound, who sat mending 
 her husband's Sunday coat. 
 
 " Well, I hardly know. She don't seem like she always 
 does. She won't drink the buttered-ale I brought." 
 
 Mrs. Pound thought the state must be serious not to take 
 that. " I'll be sure and go up," said she. 
 
 " And if she should be worse in the morning, send little 
 Jack to the farm to let me know, please. Our wash is uot 
 got up yet, and we be a-going to brew to-morrow, so I can't 
 possibly get out afore night — unless it's for something par- 
 ticular. If she should become ill, we must get Mr. Priar to 
 her. Good night, Matty Pound." 
 
 Matty Pound responded to the salutation, and Mary Barber 
 went home. The paper in her pocket felt as good as though 
 it had been a hundred-pound note there. 
 
 " My poor mother always said she hoped the paper would 
 come to light before she died. Sir Dene'll see whether she 
 was telling lies now ! And Jonathan Drew, he'll see — but 
 Ae's not worth a thought o' salt." 
 
 On the following morning Mary Barber was toasting some 
 bacon in the kitchen for her master's breakfast, when she was 
 surprised by the appearance of John Pound. Not little Jack ; 
 John himself. He came to bring her ill news — which he got 
 out awkwardly. Mrs. Barber was dead. 
 
 Matty Pound had seen her to bed the night before, all com- 
 fortable. Upon going into the room in the morning, they 
 found her dead. She had died quietly in her sleep. 
 
 " The Squire telled me to come up t'ye," cried Pound to 
 the dismayed Mary Barber. " He was passing, and heard 
 what 'twas, and said ' Go up at once, never mind t' work for 
 a bit.' Matty says there bain't no call to fret too much : she 
 must ha' gone off wi'out pain as quank as a lamb." 
 
 Ay. The broken heart was rest. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 in st. peter's church. 
 
 In a small but pretty house within the environs of St. Peter's 
 parish in the suburbs of the city of Worcester, sat four people 
 in the growing dusk of a November afternoon. George Arde 
 and his wife ; Maria Owen, and Geoffry Clanwaring. 
 
 George Arde, a man of middle height, of dark eyes and 
 
68 Date Holloiv. 
 
 Lair, with a pale, honest, but plain face, somewhat stern in its 
 character, was about thirty. He had small, independent 
 means, derived from his hop-yards. When it was a good year 
 for hops, George Arde was flourishing ; when the hops failed, 
 he had to look after his shillings as well as his pounds. 
 Taking one year with another, his income averaged perhaps 
 two hundred pounds. No great excess of means : and it may 
 appear singular that Farmer Owen should have regretted his 
 daughter's marriage to him, on the score that it exalted her 
 above her station. But his view of it was ri" - ht. George 
 Arde was a gentleman by birth, and well connected ; he moved 
 in a sphere above that of the farmer ; one to which the latter 
 would not have been admitted on an equality. At the time 
 of the marriage Mr. Owen had protested against it — yielding 
 at last only a reluctant consent ; but George Arde, a willing 
 captive to Mary Owen's beauty, would not hear of giving her 
 up. As to the remote contingency that he might succeed to 
 Squire Arde's wealth, none looked on it as a surer chimera 
 than George himself. He and the Squire were not very nearly 
 related ; George had never received the smallest favour from 
 him, never the slightest intimation that he might hope to in- 
 herit as much as a mourning ring ; and he certainly did not 
 look for it. The Squire had other relatives, as near — or, 
 rather, as distant — as he ; but none expected to be the better 
 for him. As to George Arde's own prospects, he intended to 
 put by a little money every good hop year, buy more yards, 
 and so get rich that way. We all have schemes in the head for 
 making ourselves wealthy in course of time. 
 
 Mrs. Arde sat by the fire, a baby of some four months old 
 sleeping in her arms. It was very precious to the mother, 
 this little thing ; and they had named it by her own name, 
 Mary. Fragile, delicate, attenuated, but exquisitely beautiful, 
 was Mrs. Arde. There seemed to be no strength in her, no 
 life-blood. A flush would appear on her cheeks towards the 
 close of the afternoon ; but at other times her face was pale 
 as alabaster : you might see the blue veins underneath the 
 clear skin. George Arde feared the paleness less than he did 
 the flush : for the latter looked suspiciously like hectic. 
 There were moments when a horrible prevision came over him 
 — that he should lose her : but he strove to drive the fear 
 away, even from his own heart ; and he never spoke of it. 
 Maria Owen had been staying with her sister for several weeks 
 now. Mr. and Mrs. Owen willingly spared her : they also 
 
In St. Peter's Church. 69 
 
 had secret fears about Mary's health. But now that Mrs. 
 Arde seemed to be getting somewhat stronger — as in truth 
 she did so seem — Maria was to go home : and it had been 
 settled that her father should take her back with him when 
 he came in to market on the following Saturday. 
 
 And that, Maria's sojourn in the house, accounted for the 
 frequent presence in it of Geoffry Clanwaring. Hardly a 
 day passed but upon some pretext or other Mr. Geoffry paid 
 a visit to Worcester. Sir Dene, utterly unsuspicious, told 
 him he was getting restlessly fond of riding. Not that 
 Geoffry always rode in : he walked often. Just now Sir 
 Dene, who had recovered from the sprain to his ankle, was 
 staying in London, and Geoffry was entirely his own master 
 in regard to his movements, accountable to nobody. He had 
 walked in this afternoon : and he now had to walk back again. 
 Earlier than usual, he intended to go : but he had business at 
 home that night with Jonathan Drew. 
 
 " And you really cannot stay for tea ? " asked Mrs. Arde, 
 as he shook hands with her to leave. 
 
 " Not this evening, thank you. I wish I could. Good- 
 night, Arde." 
 
 " Good-night, Geoffry." 
 
 " I wish you would just come as far as the gate w T ith me, 
 Maria. I have something to say to you." 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring turned his head to ask this as he was 
 quitting the room. Maria blushed painfully, and hesitated — 
 hesitated because of the presence of the others. But Geoffry 
 held open the door, waiting for her, and she timidly followed 
 him. That Mr. and Mrs. Arde w T ere tacitly aware of the state 
 of affairs between Sir Dene's son and Maria — namely, that he 
 was courting her, as the phrase ran — could but be a matter of 
 course ; otherwise they had possessed neither sense nor per- 
 ception. They did not interfere. George Arde felt that all 
 interference would be useless, for he remembered his own 
 case : and it really was no concern of his, that he should 
 make or mar. Mrs. Arde trembled a little ; she saw insur- 
 mountable difficulties before them ; and once she spoke just 
 one word of warning to her sister. " Papa can never give his 
 consent, Maria. It would put him all wrong with Sir Dene." 
 Maria answered nothing : but the sadness that overspread her 
 face showed to Mary Arde how perfectly she understood the 
 hopelessness of the future : and that Mr. Owen's consent was 
 a thing never to be looked for. And so, Mr. and Mrs. Arde 
 
yo Dene Hollow. 
 
 had gone on, tacitly sanctioning the state of matters, inas- 
 much as they did not put a stop to Geoffry's visits. He had 
 found many a moment for seeing Maria alone ; for George 
 Arde would be out and about, and the delicate young mother 
 had often to remain in her chamber. But this was the first 
 time that Mr. Clanwaring had gone so far as to ask Maria to 
 go out of the room with him. 
 
 " George," whispered the wife, as the room door closed, " I 
 do feel that we are incurring a great responsibility in suffer- 
 ing this. Should it ever be discovered at home, papa will say 
 so." 
 
 " How is it to be helped ?" returned George Arde. " We 
 can do nothing, either way. It's not to be expected, Polly, 
 that I should go off to her father, or to his father, and tell 
 about it." 
 
 " Well — no. Of course not. At any rate, it will be over 
 on Saturday," added Mrs. Arde, with a sigh of relief. "The 
 responsibility, I mean. Maria returns home then, and I shall 
 be glad of it; much as I regret to lose her." 
 
 Meanwhile Maria, a light shawl thrown over her shoulders, 
 that she had caught up in passing out, was pacing down the 
 path on Mr. Clanwaring's arm. George Arde could see them 
 through tlie window in the dusk. It was some such a night 
 as the one already told of, when the two men with their 
 burden of plate had gone stealing up Harebell Lane : moon- 
 light, but very gusty. A cold November evening. 
 
 " Everything is arranged and in readiness, Maria," began 
 Geoffry. " I saw the clergyman this afternoon, and I've got 
 the license. Nine o'clock, mind. You will find me at the 
 church waiting for you." 
 
 For Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring had succeeded in obtaining 
 Maria Owen's consent to marry him. They meant to take 
 French leave : get married quietly, and tell the world after- 
 wards. Such weddings were rather common in those days ; 
 and were regarded with less reprehension than, they would be 
 in these. To do Maria justice, she had at first steadily 
 refused : but Geoffry had eloquently pointed out that there 
 was no middle course ; nothing between that, and separation. 
 And, to separate, was beyond the philosophy of either. 
 
 " I cannot possibly see how I shall get away from here in 
 my white dress," she answered. " The season is too far 
 advanced for wearing white in a morning now. If they saw 
 me, they might suspect something." 
 
In St. Peters Church. Ji 
 
 " Put on a big shawl," suggested G-eoffry. " Or corne in 
 a coloured dress : what does it matter ? " 
 
 At the foot of the little garden there ran a sheltered walk 
 behind the hedge, secure from observation. Geoffry turned 
 into it. 
 
 " I want to try on the ring, love." 
 
 He had bought it that afternoon at the silversmith's. The 
 same one from whom the gold and silver plate had been 
 stolen : which robbery, as to its perpetrators, had never been 
 discovered, in spite of the cunning of the Bow Street runners. 
 Mr. Geoffry found be had guessed the size well : the friendly 
 night hid the blushes on Maria's sweet face, as he told her 
 so. 
 
 " Oh but, Geoffry, I scarcely dare to think of it ! " she said 
 imploringly. " I tremble for the consequences. And besides, 
 it is not a right thing for us to do." 
 
 " It is quite right, my love. It can injure no one. When 
 once my father knows you, and finds that we are happy, be 
 will forgive all. And you are aware that Mr. Owen would 
 give you to me himself, so far as I am alone concerned." 
 
 " I have never disobeyed my father and mother before," 
 she said, bursting into tears. 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring kissed the tears away. The gentle, 
 lovely face, very sad then, lay passively against him, and he 
 took kiss after kiss from it, as he whispering ly strove to re- 
 assure her w T ith all the eloquence love is master of. And 
 thus they parted — for the last time before their wedding- 
 day. 
 
 The church of St. Peter's was open in the morning. A 
 damp old church in the region of Frog Lane, that you stepped 
 down into as if into a vault. The clergyman was in the 
 vestry; the clerk fidgeted about the pews. Geoffry Clan- 
 waring, in bridegroom's attire, stood looking anxiously from 
 the door. 
 
 A panting, breathless girl came in. A most lovely, dimpled, 
 timid, shrinking girl, who took off her red gipsy cloak as she 
 entered, which had served partially to cover her. Her wed- 
 ding dress was of white sprigged India muslin — the material 
 had been a present to her years ago. from her godmother — 
 and a straw hat trimmed with a wreath of pale blush-roses. 
 
 " God bless you, my darling ! " cried Geoffry, seizing upon 
 her. " It is seven minutes past nine, and I was Tipon thorns." 
 
 "I was so afraid." she whispered. " I did not dare come 
 
"]2 Dene Hollow. 
 
 out of my room for fear of any one's meeting me on the 
 stair's." 
 
 " I shall want you to stand father-in-church to this young 
 lady," said Geoffry to the clerk, slipping a very substantial 
 fee into that functionary's hand. 
 
 " At your pleasure, sir." 
 
 The clergyman came out in his surplice, and took his 
 place. The clerk directed them -where to kneel ; standing 
 himself at Maria's elbow. There was no bridesmaid ; the 
 clerk was to be "father-in-church " and give the bride away. 
 It has been remarked that such weddings, unattended, were 
 tolerably common then : and the clergyman made no fuss 
 about this one. He saw that the license was in order, asked 
 a question or two, and proceeded with his work. 
 
 Rarely has a handsomer couple knelt before the altar, never 
 one more attractive. He, tall and strong, with his fair Saxon 
 beauty, his kindly blue eyes, his golden hair ; she in her 
 gentle, shrinking, blushing loveliness. The clergyman pro- 
 nounced them man and wife, and gave the bridegroom, at his 
 own request, a certificate. 
 
 The weather had culminated into a downfall of rain when 
 they got out again. It had been a dull, grey, threatening 
 morning, and now the rain had commenced. Not very hard, 
 as yet. Maria took her white India muslin up under her 
 cloak, and tripped along on Geoffry's arm. Thanks to the 
 umbrella — which he had had the precaution to bring from 
 home — and the rainy streets, they got into Mr. Arde's with- 
 out observation. 
 
 In consequence of Mrs. Arde's delicate state, and perhaps 
 also of the exactions of the baby, breakfast there had recently 
 been taken very late, more especially when she attempted to 
 come down to it — as she had this morning. The tea was 
 only being made ; and Maria's escapade had not been dis- 
 covered: it was supposed she had not yet come out of her 
 chamber. Geoffry went in first, in his light overcoat. 
 
 " Why, GeofFry ! " exclaimed George Arde, with intense 
 surprise. " You arc in town early ! " 
 
 Geoffry threw his coat back, and they saw his costume — a 
 gala one. Quite at the first moment, no suspicion as to the 
 why, was aroused. George Arde, as he stared, thought there 
 might be some grand breakfast in the town, that Mr. Clan- 
 waring had come in for. 
 
 " Is anything going on in Worcester to-day, Geoffry ? " 
 
In St. Peters Church. 73 
 
 " Not that I know of. I have been getting married." 
 
 He turned to the door, and brought Maria in, scarlet cloak 
 and all. Mr. Arde looked from one to the other; his wife 
 sunk into a chair, bewildered. 
 
 " Oh, Maria ! " she gasped. 
 
 Maria flew to her, and hid her face on her bosom in a 
 passion of hysterical tears. They could not soothe her : 
 emotion, suppressed hitherto, had its way now. 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! forgive me ! " came the sobbing cry. 
 
 Geoffry tenderly took off the hat and cloak, and stroked the 
 hand with its new wedding-ring fondly within his own. Mrs. 
 Arde was pale as death. 
 
 " You — are — surely — not really married ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Here's the certificate," said Geoffry, handing it to Mr. 
 Arde. " It's all in form. We Ave re married at your parish 
 church— St. Peter's." 
 
 "Well, you are a clever fellow ! " cried Mr. Arde, half ad- 
 miringly, half angrily. 
 
 " And my father and mother ! — oh, what a blow it will be to 
 them ! " bewailed Mrs. Arde, weeping with Maria. 
 
 " I hope not," answered Geoffry. " They both like me." 
 
 " Who is to break it to them ? " 
 
 " I ; of course. I shall go over there to-day or to- 
 morrow for the purpose. You won't refuse to give us some 
 breakfast, will you, Arde ? " 
 
 Mr. Arde, getting a little over his annoyance — for he had 
 felt at first both dismayed and angry — told him that as much 
 breakfast was at their service as they liked to eat. Just as 
 he had been neuter in the matter hitherto, so he resolved, 
 after taking a minute's inward counsel with himself, to remain. 
 The marriage had certainly been no fault of his : none could 
 be more surprised at it than he was ; and therefore no blame 
 could attach to him. He did not see why he should either 
 espouse their cause, or turn against them for it : and he 
 determined to do neither. 
 
 " It is your own concern entirely, Geoffry ; I shall not make 
 it mine. I am sorry that you have taken this step — and 
 there's sure to be a row over it : but I don't see that I am 
 called upon to resent it. And so — here's good luck to you 
 both." 
 
 "Thank you heartily," replied Geoffry : while Maria sobbed 
 in silence. 
 
 " But do not think I approve of what you have done — don't 
 
74 Dene Hollow. 
 
 run away with that notion to tell your friends," resumed Mr. 
 Arde. " What are your plans ? " 
 
 " Plans ? " returned Geoffry. 
 
 " Ay. Where are you going to take Maria ? Up to the 
 moon ? " 
 
 " Up to Malvern. I have engaged lodgings there for the 
 present." 
 
 " Oh, I thought you might be going to take her to Beech- 
 hurst Dene," cried Mr. Arde rather satirically. 
 
 " I must wait for that." 
 
 But before sitting down to breakfast, Maria escaped to her 
 chamber, unseen by either of the servants ; there to remove 
 the tell-tale attire and assume her ordinary dress. As to 
 Geoffry, he breakfasted with his overcoat buttoned close up. 
 
 Surprises that day seemed to be the lot of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Arde. The morning was wearing on, getting" near the time 
 that Geoffry intended to take his bride away — driving her in 
 his open gig to avert any suspicion that a close carriage might 
 have endangered — when Squire Arde called. The same little, 
 stooping old man that you have already seen ; in the same 
 pepper-and-salt suit with the silver buckles at his knees and 
 shoes ; and the same fluffy greatcoat falling oft" his narrow 
 shoulders. He had never honoured them with a call yet : 
 hence the surprise. Mrs. Arde blushed as she rose timidly to 
 receive him. As to Maria, she felt ready to sink : in the 
 first confused moment a wild fancy came over her that her 
 father knew all about the morning's work, and that Squire 
 Arde had come from him, the herald of war. 
 
 "What, are you here ! " cried he, staring at Geoffry. 
 
 " I came into Worcester this morning, Squire," was the as- 
 sumingly-careless answer. 
 
 " Oh," returned the Squire, glancing at Maria, as though 
 he had some suspicion that she might be the attraction. 
 " When d'ye expect Sir Dene home from Lunnon ? " 
 
 " In a week or two, I suppose ; it's uncertain," answered 
 Geoffry. 
 
 Squire Arde's visit this morning was not dictated by any 
 thought of friendship or courtesy : he had but come to inquire 
 after the character of a man who had been employed upon 
 George Arde's hop-grounds. 
 
 " I don't know much of him, sir," was George's answer to 
 the application. " He is steady enough, I think. Jonathan 
 Drew could tell you moi'e about him than I can." 
 
In St. Peter s Church. 75 
 
 " Ah, I dare say," was the old man's remark. "But Drew 
 might not speak the truth, you know." 
 
 " Drew not speak the truth ! " interposed Geoffry Clan- 
 waring. " He'd be sure to do that, Squire. Though surly in 
 manner sometimes, he is truthful." 
 
 " When he finds it convenient to be so," returned the Squire 
 with composure. " He did not speak truth for Tom Barber's 
 widow." 
 
 " How do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " In the matter of that lost paper. Drew knew it was given 
 to her, well enough, though it suited him to forget it." 
 
 " If I thought Drew did know of it — asserting all the while 
 that he did not ; that there had never been any such paper 
 given — I would get my father to turn him away," was the 
 indignant remark of Geoffry. 
 
 " Let him be," said the old man. " The matter's over, and 
 done with, and Hester Barber's gone. A curious thing, she 
 should ha' found the paper only an hour or two afore her 
 death, warn't it ? " 
 
 He looked at Geoffry with his once bright grey eye, cold as 
 steel. In the glance there was a strange keenness. 
 
 " Yes, it was curious," assented Geoffry. " Had the paper 
 been unearthed in time, I hope — and I think — my father would 
 have respected it, and not interfered with the poor old woman ; 
 although it was not binding on him. I should have done my 
 best to beg for her. I did as it was." 
 
 " Well, it's too late by some months now," said the Squire : 
 " the cottage is gone, and the fine new road's there instead. It's 
 just one o' them cases, young man, that might be compared 
 to a broken egg. Once spilt on the floor, it can never be 
 picked up again." 
 
 " That's true," said Geoffry, a great sadness in his good- 
 natured blue eyes. " Nobody was more sorry for poor Granny 
 Barber than I was. It was a hard case : I told my father 
 so. But he did not see it in the same light." 
 
 Old Mr. Arde nodded, and then shook his head from side 
 to side, as if in strong condemnation. 
 
 "You think my father did wrong, I see, sir." 
 
 " Nay, I judge nobody, young man. But there's some plain 
 words in an old Book that have run through my head, off and 
 on, since the day I saw 'em demolishing her place. ' Kemove 
 not the old land-mark, and enter not into the field of the 
 fatherless.' Sir Dene don't read his Bible, maybe." 
 
J 6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Oil but he does — sometimes," said Geoffry. 
 
 " Ah then he forgot 'em, maybe ! Anyway the old home- 
 stead's gone, and Hester Barber's gone ; and the cutting's 
 broad and smooth, and a fine name you've given to it — Dene 
 Hollow." 
 
 " We did not give it ; I don't know who did give it, sir." 
 
 "And it don't matter," rejoined the Squire. 
 
 At that moment a young servant-maid came in with the 
 baby. When she saw there was a stranger present, she 
 would have retreated ; but Mrs. Arde took the child from 
 her. A very v pretty, lively little baby in a clean white frock, 
 who sat up and looked with independence on the company. 
 The child attracted Squire Arde's attention, and he went up 
 and patted its cheeks. 
 
 " Boy, or girl, ma'am ? " 
 
 "Girl, sir," replied Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " Ho ho, pretty one : ho ho ! What, are ye laughing at 
 the old man ? D'ye want to come to him ? " 
 
 For the baby had broken out into a smile, and was holding 
 forth its little fat arms. To the surprise of all present, per- 
 haps also of himself, Squire Arde put his riding- whip on the 
 table, and took the baby. 
 
 " What's her name?" he asked, as he sat down, and the 
 little fingers caught hold of his hanging bunch of seals. 
 
 "It's Mary, sir." 
 
 "Mary! The same as my girl's Avas," muttered he, his 
 voice dying away in a whisper. And he kissed the child 
 fondly. 
 
 "Here, take it, ma'am ; I must be going," said he, getting 
 up. " You don't look very peart, my dear," he added, in a 
 kind, fatherly tone, as Mrs. Arde received the child, and he 
 chucked her under the chin. "You try and get your wife's 
 roses back, George Arde. Good-day to ye all." 
 
 They watched him down the path in the rain, the little 
 shrunken figure, riding- whip in hand, George Arde attending 
 him to open the gate. 
 
 Squire Ai'de's had been a sad history. In the bloom of his 
 early manhood, when life looked fair before him, he had mar- 
 ried a young lady to whom he was much attached. She 
 gave birth to a child — a girl — and soon afterwards symptoms 
 of insanity developed themselves. Ever since then until her 
 death, which only occurred three years ago, she had been the 
 raving inmate of a lunatic asylum. The little girl lived to 
 
In St. Peter s Church. 77 
 
 be ten years old : and her death nearly broke her father's 
 heart. Since then he had been strangely altered : the kindly 
 feelings of his nature seemed to have withered up at the 
 grave, and he became a solitary, penurious old man. Hurst 
 Leet was wont to say that he was Arde by name, and hard by 
 nature. But this was mostly applied to his sociable qualities ; 
 for no one instance of oppression had ever been traced to him. 
 
 "How's hops, George ? " he asked, as he was going through 
 the gate. 
 
 " Pretty brisk, sir. Nothing much to complain of." 
 
 " I think I shall try that fellow. Good morning." 
 
 On the following afternoon Geoffry Clan waring-, leaving his 
 wife at Malvern, went over to Harebell Farm to break the 
 news of what he had done. Nothing, as he believed, had 
 transpired ; he took it for granted that the marriage was as 
 yet a secret. Mr. Owen happened to be in his barn when 
 Geoffry rode in. Leaving his horse, Geoffry found him 
 watching the threshing. Drawing the farmer outside, for the 
 noise was deafening, Geoffry sat down on the shaft of a 
 barrow, and told him what he had to tell. 
 
 " I know all about it, Mr. Clanwaring." 
 
 " Know it ! " repeated Geoffry, starting up. But it might 
 have struck him that the farmer listened very quietly, with- 
 out any appearance of surprise. " Why, how did you get to 
 know it, sir ? " 
 
 " From my daughter Mary. I took the pony-chaise into 
 Worcester early this morning to fetch home Maria, her mother 
 not being well. It could not be kept from me then." 
 
 A deprecating flush rose to the young man's ingenuous 
 face. He held out his hand timidly. 
 
 " You will not refuse to forgive me, sir ! And — to — bless 
 us both ? " 
 
 " My forgiveness will not be a material matter to you, Mr. 
 Clanwaring," was the reply — and Geoffry could not but note 
 with what strangely calm sadness he was speaking. " Your 
 father's will be of more moment than mine : and that, I fear, 
 you will never get. I cannot forgive Maria." 
 
 "Oh, but she was not to blame; it was not her fault," 
 ardently burst forth Geoffry. " She only yielded to me after 
 months of persuasion." 
 
 " There lies her fault — that she did yield," spoke the 
 farmer gravely. " I had thought that I could place implicit 
 trust in my daughters." 
 
j 8 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "She will be your dutiful daughter still, Mr. Owen, and 
 her mother's too, although she is my -wife. I'll bring her 
 over to see you next week." 
 
 " Do you think you were justified in taking this extreme 
 step, sir ? " 
 
 "Not entirely," candidly avowed Geoffry; "but yes in a 
 great degree. The only one to whom I cannot plead jus- 
 tification is my own father. To you and Mrs. Owen I may, 
 and do, plead it. Had you not told me, sir, that you liked 
 me for myself; that you would, had circumstances only been 
 favourable, have willingly given me, Maria?" 
 
 Robert Owen drew in his refined and beautiful lips. It was 
 true, so far. 
 
 "But the circumstances were not favourable, Mr. Clan- 
 waring. Y"ou know perfectly well that I alluded to your 
 father. Only in the event of his being willing should I have 
 been." 
 
 "You see I was obliged to marry her as I have done," 
 confessed Geoffry. " Had I asked my father's consent, he 
 would have forbidden it altogether — and in the teeth of an 
 absolute refusal I should not have liked to disobey him. As 
 it is, nobody forbid it ; and I have but taken my own way." 
 
 " I should call that three parts sophistry, sir." 
 
 " And one part good wholesome honesty," returned Geoffry, 
 his earnest eyes full of sincere meaning. " Believe me, Mr. 
 Owen, it will all come right. Sir Dene will be angry at 
 first, little doubt of it; but he'll not retain anger long. I 
 wrote to him last night, a good long letter, telling him all 
 about it from the onset, and sent it off to-day. He'll get it 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 " And a fine way he'll be in," remarked the farmer. " His 
 first act will be to give me notice of ejectment." 
 
 " How can you think he would be so unjust?" retorted 
 Geoffry. " I have told him that you knew no more of it than 
 he did, and would have been just as much against it. He'll 
 make common cause with you in abusing me for a bit, I 
 shouldn't wonder. You will forgive me, Mr. Owen ? " — and 
 once more the pleading eyes went out with the proffered hand. 
 
 " In one sense I forgive you, Mr. Clanwaring, — and that is, 
 that I do not refuse my countenance to you now. The mar- 
 riage cannot be undone ; therefore it would serve no good end 
 to resent it. It is not against me that you have sinned, but 
 against your father and family." 
 
Encountci'ing the Storm. 79 
 
 " Thank you," said Geoffry, heartily, as his hand was at 
 length taken. " And now, sir, I want you to hear me say that 
 your daughter is very dear to me. By Heaven's help, I will 
 do my best and utmost to promote her happiness." 
 
 Mr. Owen shook his head in sadness. " You think so now ; 
 I do not doubt it ; but in these unequal marriages the wife 
 generally has to suffer from neglect in the long run." 
 
 "Mine never shall," emphatically spoke Geoffry, his whole 
 face burning red with resentment at the implied suggestion. 
 " If I know anything of myself, Mr. Owen, of my nature, my 
 principles, my love, Maria will be as dear to me and as 
 honoured by me in the far-off years to come, as she is on this, 
 the morrow of my wedding-day." 
 
 In the far-off years to come ! Could poor Geoffry — could 
 ill-fated Robert Owen — but have foreseen a shadow of the 
 events that were destined to happen long before those far-off 
 years should dawn ! Astrologers have assumed to see into 
 the future : but it is not one of the least mercies of God that 
 all such sight is hidden from our view. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENCOUNTERING THE STORM; 
 
 Clattering up through the gates of Beechhurst Dene in a 
 noisy post-chaise and pair late at night, went Sir Dene Clan- 
 waring and his eldest son. The chaise had been chartered 
 from Sir Dene's hotel at Worcester, the Hop-pole, after the 
 London stage-coach had deposited them in that city. Geoffry 's 
 "good long letter " was not received so soon by two or three 
 days as it might have been, in consequence of Sir Dene's tem- 
 porary absence from London. It had now brought him down 
 in a fury, and Mr. Clanwaring accompanied him to take part 
 in the storm. He was a little, dark man, this eldest son and 
 heir ; proud, honourable, haughtily self-conscious of his de- 
 gree and position. As little like his father and Geoffry in 
 person as he could well be ; resembling, in fact, his dead 
 mother. Bitterly wrathful, was he, against Geoffry for the 
 (as he put it) degrading marriage : he said less than Sir Dene, 
 but his anger- was inwardly greater, and would be more last- 
 ing. Mr. Clanwaring intended to mate with one of high 
 degree, himself; the youngest brother, in India, had married 
 a title : how could thev brook the disgrace on the family in- 
 
8o Dene Hollow, 
 
 flicted by Geoffry ? Mr. Clanwaring's private opinion was 
 that he deserved hanging. As a matter of course he must be 
 discarded for ever : blotted out of the Clanwaring archives. 
 
 The housekeeper came forward in dismay as the chaise 
 stopped : she had received no intimation of Sir Dene's return, 
 and had been about to retire for the night. Sir Dene waved 
 her off; said they did not want much supper ; anything would 
 do ; but ordered a fire to be lighted instantly in his parlour, 
 and Gander sent to him. 
 
 Gander was in bed. A faithful serving-man some forty 
 years old, who had spent the last half of them with his master 
 in India, and was now butler. Gander had a frightful tooth- 
 ache — which he was always having — and had gone to bed at 
 nine on the strength of it. He was a red-faced man with 
 obstinate dark hair that never could be persuaded by brush to 
 lie on his head, but stood up in straight pieces like porcupines' 
 quills, as if he were in a chronic state of fright ! The popular 
 phrase — his hair stood on end — might have been made for 
 Gander. 
 
 " Now, then, Gander," began Sir Dene as soon as he ap- 
 peared, " what is the truth of this infamous business ? " 
 
 Gander knew what was meant, and wished himself miles 
 away : he was nearly as simple as his name. The offender, 
 Mr. Geoflry, was a great favourite of his. 
 
 " Can't you speak ? " cried Sir Dene. 
 
 " Well, Sir Dene — I — I suppose you have heard on't," 
 stammered Gander, who was a native of Worcestershire, and 
 spoke ils patois. 
 
 " Is he really married ? " 
 
 "Ay, sir, I b'lieve so." 
 
 "And to one of those girls of Owen's ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir, it's she. The only one left of 'em. Squire 
 Arde's nephew married the t'other." 
 
 " Squire Arde's nephew ? " Gander had thrown in that in 
 his goodnature ; a reminder that his young master was not 
 the first gentleman by birth who had gone to Farmer Owen's 
 for a wife. 
 
 " Has he been here since ? " thundered Sir Dene. 
 
 " Mr. Geoffry ? — no, sir. We hear he's staying at Mal- 
 vern." 
 
 John the heir turned round : he was holding his boots, first 
 one, then the other, to the faggots in the grate, now blazing up. 
 
 " Is it known yet in the neighbourhood, Gander ? " 
 
Encountering the Storm. 81 
 
 " Lawk, Mr. Clanwaring ! Known ! Why, sir, it's the 
 talk o' the whole place — and has been since the day after the 
 wedding, when Mr. Geoffry came over to beg forgiveness of 
 Farmer Owen ! " 
 
 " Forgiveness of Jam ! " interjected Mr. Clanwaring, with 
 curling lips. 
 
 Gander detected the passion. " I beg your pardon, Mr 
 Clanwaring," he resumed with deprecation. " It's said he did 
 do it. Farmer Owen is as grieved about it as anybody else 
 can be. He told Squire Arde that 'twas just a blow to him." 
 
 " Does he consider Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring beneath his 
 daughter ? " questioned the heir in scornful mockery. 
 
 "It is because he is so much above her, sir, and because 
 he knows it'll put Mr. Geoffry wrong with Sir Dene — that's 
 why he feels it as a blow," cried honest Gander. 
 
 " Cease this, John," stormed the baronet, bringing his hand 
 down on the table by which he stood. " What I want to 
 know is, how he got acquainted with the girl. They would 
 not be married off-hand without some acquaintanceship. 
 Somebody must have known that there were meetings be- 
 tween them." 
 
 "As to that, Geoffry was always out and about like a 
 bailiff," spoke Mr. Clanwaring, while Gander was wisely silent. 
 
 " He had his work to do, John. Overlooking, and that." 
 
 " Yes, sir. I imagine, though, that Harebell Farm was 
 better looked after than all the rest of the land put together." 
 
 " Harebell Farm is not in my occupation ; he had no busi- 
 ness there at all," growled Sir Dene. And his son gave a 
 stamp to the burning wood with his right boot. 
 
 " The young lady has not been at home these five weeks 
 past, Sir Dene — leastways, it's said so," added cautious 
 Gander, not deeming it expedient to know too much. " The 
 tale runs that she has been a-staying at Worcester with her 
 sister, Mrs. Arde." 
 
 A sudden flash of enlightenment, like an illumination, 
 darted through Sir Dene's brain. He turned on his heel. 
 
 " Then that explains his visits to Worcester ! John, I 
 thought he had gone Worcester-mad. He was always there." 
 
 " And no one could open their lips to tell Beechhurst Dene 
 of it ! " said John bitterly. "Did you know nothing of it, 
 Gander?" 
 
 " Not a word, Mr. Clanwaring. Of course, sir, I knowed it 
 was as Sir Dene says — that Mr. Geoffry was often going to Wor- 
 
 G 
 
82 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 cester. But ifc never came into my head to wonder why he 
 went." 
 
 Sir Dene was biting his hot lips. " Let's see — which day 
 was it that he made this shameful marriage, Gander ? " 
 
 " 'Twas last Thursday, sir — a week ago to-morrow. I 
 wondered what business could be taking off Mr. Geoffry so 
 soon in the morning : his gig was waiting at the door a'most 
 afore 'twas light. He had a cup o' coffee took to his room, 
 and came down with his top-coat on. ' If I am not at home 
 by nine o'clock to-night, don't expect me, Gander," says he. 
 Upon that I asked whether he had got the key of the cellaret 
 — for I had been looking for it, Sir Dene, and couldn't find it. 
 He unbuttoned his coat to feel in his pockets, and then I see 
 he was dressed up." 
 
 " Saw he was dressed up !" echoed Sir Dene. " And ought 
 not that to have given you a suspicion of what was agate ? " 
 
 "Why no, sir; how should it ? " returned Gander. 
 
 " A man does not go out dressed up at dawn for no- 
 thing," stormed the baronet. 
 
 " I thought it might be the mayor's feast at "Worcester, Sir 
 Dene — if I thought anything : it's held in November. But, 
 sir," added the man Avith reason, " put it that I had suspected 
 the truth — what end would it ha' served ? I could not have 
 stopped Mr. Geoffry from getting married — or attempted to 
 stop him. He is my master, sir." 
 
 "You are a fool, Gander," growled Sir Dene. 
 
 To what use the discussion ? Of what avail to dispute as 
 to what might have been ? It could not undo the fact of the 
 marriage, or part Geoffry Clanwaring from the young 
 girl he had made his wife. 
 
 On the following day, Thursday, Geoffry drove his wife 
 over from Malvern to Harebell Farm. And there, happening 
 to meet one of his father's servants, he learnt the fact that 
 Sir Dene had come thundering home in a storm of passion. 
 Leaving Maria with her mother, he went at. once to Beech- 
 hurst Dene. 
 
 There was a distressing and turbulent scene. Geoffry found 
 more enemies than he had bargained for. Not only were his 
 father and brother there : but his mother's sister, Miss CleAver, 
 a precise maiden lady of more than middle age, had also 
 arrived. The news of her favourite nephew's escapade had 
 reached her at her home in Gloucestershire, and she posted 
 over in a chaise-and-four in dire consternation. 
 
Encountering tJie Storm. 83 
 
 Going in by the back way, Geoffry met Gander in the pas- 
 sage. The butler started back when he saw who it was ; and 
 took the opportunity to whisper a word of warning. 
 
 "They be all in the library, Mr. Geoffry," he said; 
 " making a frightful outcry against you. The master, and Mr. 
 Clanwaring, and Miss Ann Clewer — she's come over, sir. I've 
 just carried in a pitcher o' water to keep her out of a fit of 
 the 'sterics." 
 
 " Great cry and little wool, Gander," said Geoffry, with 
 light goodhumour. But nevertheless he shrank from the 
 task before him. He would not so much have minded Sir 
 Dene alone ; but there was the wrath of his haughty brother 
 in addition to be encountered ; not to speak of his aunt's 
 hysterics. 
 
 The room called the library was a charming one. ISot 
 large, with a bay-window opening on the side of the house 
 opposite to that of the Harebell Lane entrance. It looked on 
 the green park ; on its beautiful old trees scattered here and 
 there ; on the herd of tame deer. It had been the favourite 
 sitting-room of the late Lady Clanwaring, and was lightly 
 and tastefully furnished, the carpet bright with roses, the 
 chairs and curtains of pale green brocade. 
 
 Geoffry opened the door quietly, and they did not see 
 him. Sir Dene was pacing the floor in a fume ; John Clan- 
 waring stood with his face to the window ; Miss Clewer (a 
 very thin lady with a flaxen " front ") sat on a sofa, her 
 bonnet and shawl on, just as she had got out of the post- 
 chaise; her eyes dropping tears. 
 " Sir Dene ! Father ! " 
 
 They saw him then ; and a commotion set in. What 
 Gander had called a frightful outcry became more frightful. 
 Sir Dene raved, Ann Clewer sobbed ; John Clanwaring stared 
 contemptuously in his brother's face, his thin lips compressed, 
 his arms folded. Geoffry stood his ground before them, 
 hoping for a hearing; upright, noble, his fair Saxon face 
 quite remarkable in its beauty. He strove to make the best 
 defence he could : but it was not a moment calculated to en- 
 hance an offender's courage. Sir Dene interrupted him at 
 every second word, utterly refusing to listen. 
 
 "Aunt Ann, will you hear me — Avill you let me tell you how 
 sweet and gentle she is ? " pleaded Geoffry. " She is as 
 much a lady in mind, manners, and appearance as ever my 
 dear mother was." 
 
84 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Miss Clewer with a shriek and a sob. " To 
 bring your mother's name in with hers ! The world must be 
 coming to an end, I think. If my dear Lady Clanwaring 
 could come out of her grave, she'd die again with the shame." 
 
 It was of no use. Not a word of reason could any one of 
 them be brought to hear. Abuse drowned Geoffry's voice. 
 Sir Dene ranted out hot things ; Mr. Clanwaring quieter ones, 
 that stung ten-fold deeper with their scorn ; Miss Clewer sob- 
 bed and choked and shrieked. Geoffry managed to put his 
 hand into his father's, as he whispered forth a plea to be for- 
 given. 
 
 Forgiven ! Sir Dene flung away the hand with a passionate 
 force that sent Geoffry staggering : and ordered him out of 
 the house. 
 
 " Go," he thundered, his arm stretched out to indicate the 
 door. " Get your living in the best way you can. I cast you 
 off from this hour." 
 
 And Geoffry went. Finding that the longer he stayed the 
 worse it got, he went. At the angle of the passage stood 
 Gander, with a face as red as a turkey's comb. 
 
 " It has been a'most as bad as bull-baiting, hasn't it, Mr. 
 Geoffry ?" he whispered. 
 
 " There has been as much noise, Gander." 
 
 " Ay. But look here, sir — don't you be down-hearted. Sir 
 Dene's temper's up — and nobody knows better than me the 
 lot of swearing it takes to cool it down again. One has to 
 swear, living in India. Just let Mr. Clanwaring get away 
 from the place — he is the hottest against you, sir, and it 
 edges on Sir Dene. When he's safe off and the house is clear, 
 you come again, Mr. Geoffry, and try then. I can tell you 
 one thing, sir — your father likes you better than he does 
 liim." 
 
 Geoffry nodded. He knew all this just as well as Gander. 
 "While he was giving directions for his clothes to be sent to 
 him, the library door opened, and Mr. Clanwaring came out. 
 
 " You will shake hands with me before I go, Avon't you, 
 John ? " he asked when he had finished what he had to say 
 to Gander — -and the tone was a somewhat piteous one. 
 
 But Mr. John Clanwaring rejected the held-out hand quite 
 as unmistakeably though less demonstratively than Sir Dene 
 had done : and passed on, leaving a few cold and cutting 
 words behind him. 
 
 So Geoffry went out of his father's home by the nearest and 
 
Encountering the Storm. 85 
 
 least ceremonious way. As he crossed Harebell Lane, he saw 
 Robert Owen leaning on his gate. 
 
 " Well, how have you sped ? " were the words that greeted 
 him. 
 
 " Badly to-day," was the young man's candid answer. " It 
 was to be expected I should, this first time. Things will 
 come all right later, Mr. Owen — at least with my father. I 
 am sure of it." 
 
 " Is Sir Dene very much incensed ? " questioned Mr. Owen. 
 
 " Yes. Old Aunt Ann has come posting over — to make 
 matters worse still. Between them all, I had not fair-play. 
 No play at all, in fact. It will be different — when I can get 
 to see my father alone." 
 
 " And, meanwhile, what are you to do for ways and means, 
 Mr. Clanwaring ? " 
 
 Geoffry smiled. " That need not concern me yet, sir: I am not 
 reduced to my last ten-pound note. Never having had ill out- 
 lets for my allowance, as some young fellows have, I saved it." 
 
 Robert Owen shook his head. " The time may come when 
 you will rue the day for your foolish marriage with Maria." 
 
 " It never will," said Geoffry with emphasis. " She is a 
 great deal too precious to me for that to come to pass." 
 
 Mr. Owen sighed. Others had thought the same, and lived 
 to find themselves bitterly mistaken. They were leaning with 
 their arms on the gate while they talked. 
 
 " Did Sir Dene say anything about me, Mr. Clanwaring ? " 
 
 " Not a word. Who's that ? " 
 
 Geoffry Clan waring' s " Who's that " applied to a man who 
 was passing down the lane. An ill-looking fellow with a 
 slouching gait, and slouching hat. 
 
 "I don't know who it is," was Robert Owen's answer 
 when the man was beyond hearing, " but I suspect it is one 
 of Mr. Randy Black's choice customers. Had this business of 
 yours, sir, not come between me and Sir Dene, I might have 
 found it my duty to give him a hint as to what I think of the 
 Trailing Indian." 
 
 " Give it to me," said Geoffry. 
 
 " I have nothing very tangible to say. Only that I feel 
 sure evil doings of some kind are carried on in the house. 
 I am out a good deal late in an evening with my stock, and 
 hardly a night passes by but I see ill-looking men slink up 
 this lane on their way to the place. Sometimes they have 
 bundles with them." 
 
86 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " Bundles ! " cried Geoffry. 
 
 " Bundles that they try to hide. I'd not like to make an 
 affidavit that they don't contain stolen goods." 
 
 " No ! " uttered Geoffry in surprise. " Stolen goods ! You 
 mean smuggled goods, don't you ? " 
 
 " I mean what I say, Mr. Clan waring. I have had my 
 strong suspicions for some time now, that the Trailing Indian 
 is a receiving place for them." 
 
 " Oh but, you know my father would never allow anything 
 of that kind on his estate," returned Geoffry, unconsciously 
 drawing himself up with a touch of the pride of the Clan- 
 waring family. " He would shut up the Trailing Indian to- 
 morrow, and send Black to the right-about." 
 
 " He would have to prove it first," dissented Robert Owen. - 
 " Black holds his lease, and cannot be turned out lightly. 
 Put it down at smuggling only : it's not very reputable to have 
 such a man for one's next-door neighbour." 
 
 " Black must be uncommonly bold if it is anything beyond 
 smuggling. Do you think he'd venture on it?" 
 
 " There never was a safer place for it than the Trailing In- 
 dian has been," observed Mr. Owen. " Moses Black occupied 
 this farm, and of course was in his brother's interests ; 
 Mr. Honeythorn kept but three or four servants at the Dene 
 in his old age — and they mostly women. Why, a gang of 
 smugglers, or what not, might have gone up this lane nightly, 
 and not be met or seen once in a twelvemonth ! And you 
 know how lonely the field way is across from Worcester ! " 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring took out his watch. " What time do 
 you dine, Mr. Owen ? " 
 
 " I expect dinner's ready now, sir." 
 
 " Then I'll go up to the Trailing Indian after dinner, before 
 we start for home. Mr. Randy Black must get a hint, from 
 me, to mind his manners." 
 
 " I should have given him a hint myself long ago, only that 
 I possess no right to interfere," said Robert Owen. " You 
 may tell him so if you like, Mr. Clanwaring." 
 
 When dinner was over (served in the best room, and in the 
 best style that Harebell Farm could venture on — which was 
 but a homely, comfortable style at the best — for this was the 
 first time it had had the honour of entertaining Sir Dene's 
 son) Geoffry started for the Trailing Indian. He took the 
 short cut over the fields — not much above five minutes' walk 
 that way — and leajoed the little stile at the end of the farm's 
 
Encountering the Storm. 8? 
 
 grounds, -which brought him out opposite the inn. Black 
 was standing at his door, and watched the exit. He touched 
 his hat to his landlord's son. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Black. Will you walk about 
 with me in the lane for a minute or two ? " 
 
 " Won't you come in, sir ? " 
 
 " No, I've not the time. " 
 
 Pacing the lane before the house, beyond the chance of 
 eaves-droppers, Geofifry Clamvaring gave the hint that he 
 had come to give. He did not accuse Black outright of 
 unorthodox doings : only said that doubts had been aroused 
 whether all things enacted at the Trailing Indian would bear 
 the light of day. And he emphatically recommended Black 
 to amend his ways, if they required amending — or he would 
 hear more of it from Sir Dene. 
 
 " Robert Owen has been putting you up to say this ! " was 
 Black's first comment, spoken with suppressed fierceness. 
 
 " No one has put me to say it — I come of my own accord. 
 Though I may tell you, Black, that Mr. Owen has just the 
 same opinion of the Trailing Indian that I have. He sees 
 queer people stealing up here often enough at night." 
 
 A change passed over Black's evil face. It settled into a 
 sneer. 
 
 " Owen has taken a spite against me, Mr. Geoffry Clan- 
 waring. I've knowed it long. My belief is, he wants to get 
 me out of the Trailing Indian that he may have the place 
 himself; that's why he invents these lies." 
 
 "Don't be absurd, man," rebuked Geoffry. 
 
 Black said he was not absurd. He denied all insinuations, 
 out and out, giving the Trailing Indian the very whitest of 
 characters. It was as honest as Harebell Farm, he said, and 
 honester. 
 
 " That's enough, Black — I don't want to go further into 
 it," concluded Geoffry. "My warning is a friendly one. If 
 needed, you will do wisely to act upon it ; if unneeded — why 
 there's no harm done." 
 
 " It's a shame that people should try to take away my char- 
 acter behind my back ! " exclaimed the landlord in a deeply 
 injured tone. " There's not a ounce of bacca or a gill o'brandy 
 comes into the Trailing Indian, but what has been through 
 his Majesty's Customs." 
 
 " As to smuggling, the popular beliet is that the whole 
 country smuggles when it gets the chance — from a duchess 
 
88 Dene Ho How. 
 
 downwards," carelessly remarked Geoffry. " But," lie added, 
 dropping his voice, " to harbour stolen goods, or those who 
 deal with them, is a very different thing, Black. Don't let the 
 Trailing Indian be suspected of that. Good afternoon. " 
 
 He vaulted over the stile at a run, leaving Black looking 
 as dark as his name. Geach came sauntering forth from the 
 inn door, behind which he had been peeping all the while. 
 
 " What's up, Randy ? You look fit to eat your grand- 
 mother. " 
 
 " If this is not the work of that confounded rat, call me 
 false for ever ! "cried Black, stamping with passion. 
 
 " What work ? What rat ?" naturally asked Geach. 
 
 ''Robert Owen." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 JONATHAN DEEW's MIDNIGHT EIDE. 
 
 A feosty night in December. The roads were hard ; the 
 moon, bright as silver, was riding in the sky. Mr. Jona- 
 than Drew, Sir Dene's bailiff, who had been a day's jour- 
 ney on horseback, and was returning home across countiy 
 wearied and tired, turned off the turnpike road into Harebell 
 Lane at its upper end ; as if he were a traveller going to 
 demand hospitality of the Trailing Indian. 
 
 He was well buttoned up from the cold ; and had tied a 
 handkerchief over his ears, which was surmounted by his 
 high-crowned hat. The horse, weary as his master, sought 
 the soft grass by the side of the lane, rather than the harder 
 middle, on which some stones had recently been laid. Drew 
 was feeling very cross. He had told his niece, who had kept 
 his house and did for him, to have his supper ready by nine 
 o'clock ; but his business had detained him longer than he 
 had anticipated, and it was now past midnight. A very late 
 hour, that, for a rural district ; no travellers were supposed 
 to be abroad at so unearthly a time. 
 
 The vague reports, none of them too good, connected with 
 the Trailing Indian, caused Jonathan Drew to turn his eyes 
 over his right shoulder on that hostelrie as he was passing 
 it. It lay on the opposite side of the lane to the one he was 
 riding on. Closely shut up, it looked to be : the moon played 
 on the casements, behind which the curtains were drawn ; its 
 inmates no doubt being abed and asleep. 
 
Jonathan Drew's Midnight Ride. 89 
 
 " As I ought to be," growled Mr. Drew. " Get on, Dobbiu. 
 What ails ye ? — ye bain't at home yet." 
 
 For the horse, finding his tired hoofs on the soft grass, had 
 begun to take it easily, slackening his pace to a walk. Drew 
 was about to urge him on with the spur, when a bright 
 light, as if from a door suddenly opened at the side of the 
 house, fell on the inn-yard. Drew let Dobbin's nose seek the 
 ground then, and sat still. He had halted close to the stile 
 that led into Mr. Owen's grounds — the same stile that Geoffry 
 Clan waring had leaped over when he went to speak that word 
 of warning to the landlord of the Trailing Indian. The 
 branches of the trees, thick there, were bare enough at this 
 season, but the holly hedge was high ; it encompassed man 
 and horse within its shade, and he could look across at leisure 
 into Mr. Black's yard, on which the moonbeams shone freely, 
 without fear of being observed. 
 
 Just for a short while, Drew, in spite of the moon's light 
 and the other light, was slow in making out what there was 
 to see. His sight was excellent still, except for close print ; 
 it was not that : but there seemed to be some large, dark 
 object, of indistinct form, drawn right across the yard. And 
 when at length he slowly made out that, and other things, 
 Jonathan Drew's head seemed to turn the wrong way up- 
 wards, and his life-blood to curdle within him. 
 
 It was a hearse. A black hearse with four plumes at its 
 corners. The end of it was drawn up to the side-door, whence 
 the light issued ; and there seemed to be some figures moving. 
 Four or five men: and they were bringing something out of 
 the house ; something that the bailiff at length made out to be 
 a coffin. 
 
 " Who can have died there ? " softly ejaculated Drew in his 
 bewilderment. " When I was at the place yesterday, I see 
 Black, and the ostler, and — no, I didn't see her." 
 
 It flashed into his mind with the last words, that Black's 
 wife had been very ill recently ; Mr. Priar had been attending 
 on her. Low fever, or something of that. 
 
 " It must be her that's in the coffin. Why didn't Black 
 say yesterday she was dead ? — And what on earth are they 
 burying her for at this witching hour ? " 
 
 But, as reason gradually replaced the first confused surprise, 
 Drew remembered that they could not be taking out Mrs. 
 Black at this hour to be buried, unless they were going to do 
 it without " bell, book, and candle ;" ay, and without priest 
 
QO Dene Hollow. 
 
 also. Recalling Black's character, recalling the fact that he 
 was popularly supposed not to stick at any dark deed, 
 Jonathan Drew felt some ugly doubts creep over him: and 
 he asked himself why they should be carrying away Mrs. 
 Black's body in this surreptitious manner, unless it was to 
 conceal her death. And, if Black did want to conceal it — 
 what was the reason ? 
 
 A sudden loud neigh from one of the two black horses 
 harnessed to the hearse, caused Drew to start, and Dobbin to 
 turn his head. Close upon that, the door of the vehicle was 
 shut on what had been placed within it, and it began at once 
 to make its way out of the yard. 
 
 Still as a statue, sat Drew : hoping, nay, almost praying, 
 that no piercing eye might discern him, watching there. If — ■ 
 as he firmly believed — some ill deed was being enacted, it 
 might not be safe for these desperate men to discover him. 
 In the fear lest they should, he almost resolved to ride across 
 boldly, ask whether Mrs. Black had died, offer his condo- 
 lences in an unsuspicious manner; and then ride off at a 
 gallop. But prudence told him it might be best to remain 
 still. Concealed under the shade of the thick holly hedge, 
 the chances were that he would not be seen. 
 
 On, the hearse came, slowly and quietly. One man sat 
 beside the driver; both of them wearing black cloaks and 
 hatbands. Turning out of the yard to the left, it thus tra- 
 versed the short distance to the end of the lane : there it set 
 off quickly along the high road, just in the direction that 
 Mr. Drew had come. A high road that led, as may be said, 
 all over the world, London included. 
 
 Drew, watching in utter stillness, heaved a sigh of relief. 
 They had not seen him. Somebody — the ostler he thought, 
 by the gait — came and shut the gate of the yard : after that, 
 the side-door was shut, and all was quiet. For any signs 
 that remained of what had passed, a spectator might have 
 thought it a dream. 
 
 Drew walked his horse quietly on the grass until he came 
 to the corner of the lane, near Harebell Pond ; and then he 
 rode away as if the deuce had been behind him. He could 
 not get Black's wife and the coffin out of his mind. Drew 
 was neither a timorous nor a superstitious man ; but the soli- 
 tary lane struck him as being unpleasantly solitary to-night, 
 and he was clad to e;et out of it. 
 
 Be very sure that he would take the near way home : 
 
Jonathan Dreiv's Midnight Ride. 91 
 
 the fine new road, Dene Hollow. If ever Drew felt special 
 cause to congratulate himself on Sir Dene's having made that 
 road, he did now. Turning off by the front gates of Beech- 
 hurst Dene, he gained it. A fine, smooth, beautiful road, 
 lying white and cold in the moonlight. So bright was it, that 
 the ghastly branches of the bare trees cast their shadows on 
 it in places here and there as clearly as they did in the sun- 
 shine of day. 
 
 "Now I hope that wench, Pris, has kept my supper warm," 
 muttered Drew, as his sure-footed horse began to descend. 
 " She's a regular sawney, though, in some things. Shouldn't 
 wonder but she " 
 
 A start, a bound, a spring : and Jonathan Drew was thrown 
 violently to the ground. The horse had started, as if in some 
 great terror ; had leaped from one side of the road to the 
 other, across the footpath, against the bank. It was like one 
 who flies from some mortal enemy. Very nearly, if not quite 
 in the same spot, it was where the accident had occurred to 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring ; and the sudden spring of the horse 
 had been the spring made by Sir Dene's horses. 
 
 How long Jonathan Drew might have lain there undis- 
 covered, but for one fortunate circumstance, it was impossible 
 to say ; most probably until broad daylight. Mr. Priar came 
 down the road, and found him. He, the surgeon, was return- 
 ing home from a late visit to Harebell Farm. George Arde, 
 his wife, and the baby had come there to spend a week or 
 two and stay over Christmas : the child had been taken with 
 convulsions in the afternoon ; and Mr. Priar had considered 
 it in so much danger that he went up again to the farm the 
 last thing before bedtime, and remained till past midnight. 
 
 Drew lay insensible. The spurs on his boots and the riding- 
 whip at his side disclosed to the doctor the fact that he must 
 have been thrown from his horse. He tried to rouse him, but 
 could not ; and feared there might be concussion of the brain. 
 Getting assistance from the mill lower down — a rather diffi- 
 cult matter of accomplishment at that hour of the night — 
 Drew was conveyed to his home. 
 
 It was not concussion of the brain ; at least, to any serious 
 extent ; for Drew recovered his senses by the time he was at 
 home, and his intellect seemed uninjured. What Mr. Priar 
 began to fear now was concussion of the spine. Drew seemed 
 powerless to move or stand ; but he said he was not hurt, and 
 talked away. Priscilla, his niece, said Dobbin had come 
 
92 Dene Hollow. 
 
 galloping home with his coat in a sweat, all in a mortal 
 fright. 
 
 "I cant think what ailed the brute," observed Drew to 
 the doctor when they were alone. " He never served me such 
 a trick afore." 
 
 "Dobbin was always so steady and sure-footed," rejoined 
 Mr. Priar. 
 
 " He's sure-footed enough ; 'twarn't that," said Drew, 
 fractiously. " The fool took fright." 
 
 "What at?" 
 
 "Why, at nothing" returned Drew. " Nothing that I could 
 see. He wants a good hiding, and he'll get it to-morrow." 
 
 Mr. Priar privately thought Dobbin's master would not be 
 so soon abroad to give him one. He let it pass, however. 
 
 " If the horse started, it must have been at something, 
 Drew," observed the surgeon. "Perhaps a hare scudded 
 across his path." 
 
 " There warn't no hare and there warn't no rabbit," re- 
 torted Drew; whose temper was certainly not improved by 
 his mishap. " I tell ye, doctor, there warn't nothing. All 
 around was just as still as still could be ; and the road was as 
 bright as day." 
 
 Mr. Priar did not contradict again. He finished his ex- 
 amination of Drew, found that no bones were broken, and 
 was imparting that cheering news, when the patient ungrate- 
 fully interrupted him. 
 
 " Bother bones ! As if mine was young and brittle, that 
 they should snap at a shoot off a horse. I say, Dr. Priar, 
 what was the matter with Black's wife, up at the Trailing 
 Indian ? " 
 
 " She has had low fever." 
 
 " When did she die ? " 
 
 " Die ! " repeated the doctor in surprise. " Mrs. Black's 
 not dead. She is better." 
 
 " Is she, though ! " complacently returned Drew, as if it 
 afforded him pleasure to contradict for contradiction's sake — 
 as in fact it did. " When did you see her last, sir ? " 
 
 " Two or three days ago," was the answer. " She is toler- 
 ably well now, and I took my leave of her." 
 
 " Well then, I can tell you, doctor, that she is dead." 
 
 Looking up into Mr. Priar's face from the mattrass on 
 which he was lying, Drew related what he had seen that 
 night. It sounded so strangely mysterious altogether, that 
 
Jonathan Drews Midnight Ride. 93 
 
 Mr. Priar at first thought his patient must be wandering. 
 But Drew repeated the story minutely, and the notion passed 
 away. 
 
 " Surely it cannot be Mrs. Black who has died ? " exclaimed 
 the doctor, feeling, himself, a disagreeable thrill. 
 
 " It can't be nobody else/' disputed Drew. " When I was- 
 up there yesterday, they'd got no strangers in the house at 
 all : Black was a-grumbling that not a soul had put up there 
 for a week or two." 
 
 " No," said Mr. Priar mechanically, his thoughts very deep 
 just then ; " the house has been empty of guests lately." 
 
 " Well, then — you can add up, doctor, can't you ? Black 
 was there, and the ostler was there ; I saw 'em both : Mrs. 
 Black I didn't see nor hear. Now, Mr. Priar, what I'd like 
 to ask is this — whether there was anything wrong about the 
 woman's death. Else why should Black conceal it, and 
 smuggle her out o' the place at midnight ? " 
 
 " I don't like the look of it," said Mr. Priar, after a pause. 
 " The woman was in no danger of death when I took my 
 leave of her. Even if she had had a relapse — which I don't 
 think was at all likely to happen — it could not have killed her 
 so soon as this." 
 
 " I think it ought to be looked into," said Drew. " Black 
 has the credit of being capable of acts as black as his name. 
 There was that talk o' the travelling pedlar, you know — seen 
 to go into the inn, but never seen to come out on't again — that 
 has never been cleared up." 
 
 " I shall look into this," replied Mr. Priar with decision. 
 " If the woman is dead, Black must render an account of how 
 she died. I'll go up there in the morning." 
 
 Drew laid his hand on Mr. Priar's arm. " Doctor, don't 
 you bring in my name to Black ; don't say 'twas me that 
 watched 'em," he urged, some instinct prompting him to ask 
 it. "Randy Black shan't be coming here to abuse me while 
 I be helpless : he'd have it all his own way. Let me get 
 about again, and I'll soon tell him what I saw — and ask the 
 reason on't." 
 
 Mr. Priar nodded an unhesitating acquiescence to the re- 
 quest. Not only to oblige Drew, but also in the sanitary 
 interests of that gentleman. He strongly suspected that poor 
 Drew would soon be in a condition to render "abuse " from 
 Black, or any one else, dangerously excitable. He was just 
 as unpleasantly impressed with this strange account of the 
 
9 4 
 
 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 midnight doings at the Trailing Indian as Drew had been ; 
 and took his leave. 
 
 In the coarse of the following morning Mr. Priar went up 
 to the inn. He saw his patients first ; including Drew and 
 Mrs. Arde's baby. Drew appeared to be in just the same 
 ♦ state, there was no material alteration ; the child was very 
 much better. Indeed it seemed well — after the elastic habits 
 of babies. From Harebell Farm, the doctor w r ent straight to 
 the Trailing Indian, taking the near cut through the fields. 
 As he crossed the stile between the high holly hedge, he 
 thought of what Drew had said — that it was close by that spot 
 where he and Dobbin had halted the previous night. When 
 Black, peering forth from within his stable door, saw the 
 doctor cross it, he knew that he had come from Harebell Farm. 
 The fact that he had been summoned the previous day to 
 George Arde's little child was no news to him. 
 
 The Trailing Indian presented its customary still and silent 
 features. Nobody was about that the doctor could see. He 
 went over, his mind fall of the dead woman. Stepping in at 
 the front door — which would make a show of keeping itself 
 open for a few hours in the daytime — Mr. Priar passed on to 
 the kitchen: and the first object his eyes alighted on was 
 Black's wife. Black's wife, with a bucket in her hand. No 
 wonder, considering what his thoughts had been running on, 
 that the sudden apparition startled him more than if he had 
 seen her dead. 
 
 " Bless my heart ! " he exclaimed, in the fulness of his as- 
 tonishment. " Why, Mrs. Black, I — I — bad reason to fear 
 that something had happened to you." 
 
 " I'm getting a good deal better and stronger, thank you, 
 sir," she said, lodging the bucket of water on the edge of a 
 small tub. " What did you fear had happened to me, sir ? " 
 
 " Why I thought that you — had died, in fact ; or something 
 of the sort. Who is it that has died here ? " 
 
 " That has died here ! " gasped Mrs. Black, suddenly struck 
 into timidity — but her manner was timid at the bravest of 
 times. "No one has died here, sir." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they have," said the doctor, thinking it best to 
 speak out, now he was in for it. " And was taken away in a 
 coffin and hearse last night at midnight." 
 
 Mrs. Black's answer to this — if answer it might be called — 
 was to let fall the water and bucket into the tub, and to sink, 
 herself, down on the nearest chair. The doctor had rarely in 
 
Jonathan Drew's Midnight Ride. 95 
 
 his life seen a picture of fear such as this. She shook from 
 head to foot ; her face and lips turned ghastly, sad to look 
 upon. Mr. Priar began to feel sorry to have entered on the 
 subject to her : but in truth it had escaped him in his utter 
 astonishment. 
 
 " What's all this row ? " » 
 
 The interruption came from Black ; who — to judge by his 
 badly-suppressed savage aspect and white looks, nearly as 
 white as his wife's — must have heard. The woman started 
 from her chair and escaped, leaving him to deal with it. 
 
 Through thick and thin Black swore that nothing of the 
 kind, as described by Mr. Priar, had taken place. That the 
 only foundation for it lay in this : — About ten o'clock the pre- 
 vious night, just as he and his wife were going up to bed, a hearse 
 drove into the yard : the two men accompanying it wanted to 
 bait their horses and to take some refreshment themselves. 
 At twelve o'clock, both men and horses being refreshed, they 
 drove away again. Black was ready to take his oath to this 
 before any justice of the peace ; as being all he knew about 
 the matter. He had asked the men, he said, who it was they 
 had got, and they answered that it was a lady who had died 
 away from her home and was being taken to it across the 
 country for burial. 
 
 Now perhaps Mr. Priar might have believed this ; might 
 have concluded that Jonathan Drew's eyesight had not seen 
 so much as it had fancied, but for the consciousness and terror 
 displayed by Mrs. Black. What the mystery was, what the 
 crime, he did not attempt to guess at ; but it must be some- 
 thing. 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Black, that the coffin was not taken 
 out of your house at this very side-door, opposite to me as I sit, 
 and put into the hearse ? " 
 
 " That it never was," foamed Black. 
 
 " Look here, Black. I don't pretend to fathom the mystery 
 of this. My information is correct, I believe : the person who 
 witnessed this has good eyesight. He saw the yard-door open, 
 he saw the coffin brought out of it by three or four men at 
 least, and put into the hearse. It was as light as day. You 
 say the coffin was not taken out of the hearse at all, or I 
 could have understood that it was merely being put back again." 
 
 Black's positive oath, taken in the first heat — that the coffin 
 had never been removed from the hearse — began to burn his 
 lips. He thought what a fool he had been. 
 
g6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " They didn't take it out that I saw," he growled. " "Why- 
 should they ? Where was the man standing — that you say 
 watched all this mummery ? " 
 
 " Over the way ; by the stile." 
 
 Black threw back his head as if he had expected the answer. 
 '* Who was it, Mr. Priar ? " 
 
 " I am not at liberty to tell you. It is of no consequence 
 who it was." 
 
 Black laughed an evil laugh. He thought he knew better 
 than Mr. Priar could tell him. Who was likely to be about 
 at that time of night, and at that spot, the stile, but Robert 
 Owen? With his own eyes, he had seen Owen leaning over 
 it at night, as if watching his house, more times than one. 
 
 " He is a cursed sneak, whoever it was, to come out to spy 
 at a neighbour's castle in the dark, Mr. Priar." 
 
 " He did not come out to do anything of the kind. What 
 he saw he saw accidentally." 
 
 " Saw accidentally ! " retorted Black, curling his lip in 
 scornful disbelief. 
 
 " I assure you, Black, it was so. He happened to be pas- 
 sing. But that has nothing to do with the point in question. 
 I must tell you candidly I think there is more in this matter 
 than you would like me to believe." 
 
 "Any way, that's all I know about it," was Black's stolid 
 answer. " If your friend wants better information, Mr. 
 Priar, he must go after the hearse, and seek it out for him- 
 self. Where was it now the men said they were bound to ? 
 — Somersetshire, I think. Here Joe ; come in," he called 
 out, as the ostler passed the side-door. And the man came. 
 
 " Tell the doctor all about that there hearse that was at the 
 inn last night," continued Black. " He has come up with a 
 confounded story that the Trailing Indian sent away a coffin 
 in it." 
 
 Joe, a short, powerfully-built man, with ragged flaxen hair 
 and a swinging gait, as if he might sometime have been a 
 sailor, looked stolidly from one to the other. 
 
 " I dun' know nothing o' the hearse, save that it stopped 
 here to bait," said he. 
 
 " What time did it come ? — and what time did it go away ? 
 and who was with it ?■ — why don't you speak ? " cried his 
 master, stamping his foot impatiently. 
 
 " It come in about ten — as near as I can tell ; and it stop- 
 ped a good two hours. The horses had a feed o' corn ; and 
 
Jonathan Drew's Midnight Ride. 97 
 
 the two men had some'at to eat and drink in here ; I dun' 
 know what ; the missus do ; she served 'em. They'd got a 
 lady in the hearse, the driver telled me, and was carrying her 
 off to her own family's place for bur'al." 
 
 Either the master and man were telling truth, or else they 
 had conned their tale by heart. Which of the two it was, 
 Mr. Priar could not quite decide, in spite of his suspicions. 
 But, as Mrs. Black had assuredly not been carried away in 
 the hearse, and it might have been simply as Black stated, 
 the doctor did not consider that he was called upon to inves- 
 tigate the matter further. Intimating as much to Black, who 
 did not appear to receive it with any gratitude, he took his 
 departure. 
 
 " What did all that there mean ? — and why was I called 
 upon to speak ? " demanded the ostler then, of his master. 
 
 " Well, we got watched last night, Joe ; that's all. The load 
 was seen to come out o' here, and watched into the hearse." 
 
 Joe said a word he might have been fined for. And an- 
 other ; and another. 
 
 " Watched ! Who by, master ? " 
 
 Randy Black extended his hand and pointed in the direction 
 of the stile over the way. And Mr. Joe broke out into 
 several ugly words in succession, joining them with the name 
 of Robert Owen. 
 
 Could Mr. Priar but have known the ill he unconsciously 
 worked that day to the innocent master of Harebell Farm ! 
 
 One of the first visitors to Mr. Jonathan Drew's bedside 
 was Mary Barber. Going down to Hurst Leet for some yeast 
 the morning after the accident, she heard the news : Drew 
 had been thrown from his horse in the night, and was supposed 
 to be seriously injured. " I'll call in and see him," thought 
 she. " He served mother that ill trick — pretending to know 
 nought o' the paper gave by Squire Honeythorn — but we bo 
 kind o' relations, after all ; and I'll go in." Accordingly, just 
 about the time that Mr. Priar was at the Trailing Indian, 
 Mary Barber was with the injured bailiff. 
 
 " Where be you hurt, Drew ? " she asked, setting down 
 her jug. 
 
 " I can't say where I be hurt," retorted Drew, who was in 
 a fractious humour. " I don't feel to be hurt nowhere much — ■ 
 but I've got no more power to stand nor a child. Drat it all ; 
 
 n 
 
98 Dene Hollow. 
 
 I ought to ha ' been at Leigh- Sinton to-day, about some stock. 
 Drat that beast of a Dobbin ! " 
 
 " How came the beast to throw you ? " was Mary Barber's 
 next question. 
 
 Drew told her, just as he had told others, that he did not 
 know how it was, or why it was. He described the sudden 
 start and spring, the evident terror that had assailed the horse, 
 all for no apparent cause. Mary Barber listened in silence, 
 her mind busy. 
 
 "Drew," said she, " it must have been the shadow that 
 frightened him." 
 
 " You are a fool," returned Drew. 
 
 "You called me that before, Drew, when I told you what 
 mother said about the shadow on The Hollow." 
 
 " The old woman was dreaming when she said it," returned 
 Drew. 
 
 " She was dying ; not dreaming. And, Drew, them dying 
 people sometimes get a curiously clear insight into things. 
 What the shadow she saw might be I don't know no more 
 than you. But I be sure she did see it : and I think it stands 
 to reason it was that, and nought else , that startled Sir Dene's 
 horses. I should say the same thing startled Dobbin's." 
 
 "Why don't you say as pigs fly ? " roared Drew. 
 
 "Because pigs don't fly," was the matter-of-fact answer. 
 "Anyway, Drew, putting what mother said out of the question, 
 Dene Hollow don't seem to be a lucky road. If it never 
 should be, one ought not to wonder. It was cut out of op- 
 pression ; it was formed out of a poor old woman's sobs and 
 cries; it broke her heart, and took her life away afore its time. 
 And God's blessing, perhaps, '11 not lie upon such work as that. 
 
 " Granny Barber was a'most eighty. There warn't no 
 reason in a mummy, got to that age, a standing hi the light 
 of other folks." 
 
 " Come, you be civil, Drew, toward a body that's dead," 
 advised Mary Barber. " Being come to that age, there was 
 all the more reason why Sir Dene and you should have let her 
 alone. She couldn't be expected, in the nature o' things, to 
 live much longer. I told Sir Dene so. If she'd been only a 
 middle-aged woman, it might ha' been right to ask her to go 
 out. Or, let's say, not so cruel." 
 
 " It's a fine, grand, level road ; there ain't a better in the 
 county," shrieked Drew, going beside the question. " I dun' 
 know what ye would have" 
 
Jonathan Drew's Midnight Ride. 99 
 
 "Anyway, it don't seem to carry travellers over it in 
 safety," retorted Mary Barber, who never failed to try for the 
 last word. And Drew, recalled to the thought of his own 
 mishap and present bed-ridden condition, turned his eyes 
 away with a resentful grunt. 
 
 " I don't wish to speak a word to hurt you, Drew, now that 
 you be lying here, but I can't help saying that if you had 
 honestly told Sir Dene mother had that paper from Mr. 
 Honeythorn — for you knowed it just as well as she did — the 
 road might never have been made, and this might not have 
 happened." 
 
 " Y"ou are a great stupe ! " raved Drew. 
 
 " Well, I must be going," she said, catching up the jug 
 from the floor, where she had put it to stand, " for they be 
 waiting at home for this barm. And I wish ye well through, 
 Jonathan ; and I'll look in again upon ye." 
 
 Hurrying away, jug in hand, amidst the trees by which the 
 house was surrounded, she encountered Squire Arde, who 
 was coming to ask particulars of Drew's mishap. Mary Barber 
 stayed to give them to him, winding up the narration with Pris- 
 ' cilia's account of the horse " tearing home in a lather o' foam." 
 
 " Drew says he don't know what frightened the horse ; Sir 
 Dene didn't know what frightened his horses ; and perhaps it 
 don't much matter what it was," she resumed. " But I'm 
 afeard o' one thing, sir — that that new road is not going to be 
 a lucky road. I've just said so to Drew." 
 
 " Seems not to ha' been over lucky yet, Mary, girl," re- 
 turned Squire Arde. 
 
 Mary girl ! This hard-looking, middle-aged woman seemed 
 but as a girl to the old man. He had had her on his knee 
 when she was an infant. 
 
 " Drew, he goes on about its being a beautiful fine road : 
 and so it is," said Mary Barber. "But, ye see, Squire, 'twas 
 made out o' my poor mother's sobs and tears : and that's not 
 a good legacy." 
 
 " I never liked that business," remarked Squire Arde, 
 shaking his head. " 'Twas no concern o' mine ; but I'd not. 
 ha' done it had I been Sir Dene. 'Taint well to remove your 
 neighbour's landmark." 
 
 " It's a odd thing, sir, come to think on't, that them two 
 should fall to ill on the road : Sir Dene and Drew." 
 
 " Ay," said the Squire, absently. " How's that baby, up 
 at your place ? " 
 
ioo Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " It's all right again now, sir. 'Twas her teeth. Many- 
 babies gets a fit o' convulsions in cutting their teeth. A fine 
 little child, it is ; as pretty as its mother." 
 
 " So 'tis. How's she ? " 
 
 " She ? Well, I'd not like to be a croaker, Squire Arde, 
 but I'm afraid we sha'n't have her long among us. Mr. 
 George, he sees it, too, I think. She seems to be wasting 
 away as poor young Tom wasted." 
 
 " Tom ! Who's Tom ? " asked Squire Arde. 
 
 " Tom Oweu. He was the youngest of 'em, sir ; a beautiful 
 young lad, as well looking as his father. He died in the old 
 place, at Hallow, afore we come to live here." 
 
 " Well, it's a nice baby ; 'twould be a pity for it to be left 
 motherless," concluded the Squire, as he went on to Drew's 
 house. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 sir dene's perplexity. 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaeing sat in his bow-windowed parlour at 
 Beechhurst Dene. He seemed very busy and very restless. 
 The table was strewed with papers and parchments ; the up- 
 right secretaire — or, as Sir Dene called it, secretary — stand- 
 ing against the wall opposite the window, was open. It 
 seemed that Sir Dene did nothing but make pilgrimages from 
 the papers on the table to the papers pushing out of the 
 drawers and pigeon-holes of this piece of furniture. Alto- 
 o-ether, the papers appeared to be somewhat confused : but, in 
 truth, they were not half as much so as was Sir Dene himself. 
 The days had gone on ; Christmas was turned ; from a 
 fortnight to three weeks had elapsed since the accident to 
 Jonathan Drew. And Mr. Drew's injuries had turned out to 
 be of a very serious character. After the first day or two of 
 uncertainty, fresh advice was called in from Worcester : and 
 it was decided that the spine was permanently injured. 
 Drew was removed to Worcester, to the house of his widowed 
 daughter: so as to have good nursing and advice. His 
 furniture followed him, and the lodge where he had lived was 
 left empty — for it was known that he would never be of use 
 attain. In one senso this was less of a misfortune to Drew 
 than it would have been to many, for he had saved money, 
 and was comfortably off. 
 
Sir Dene's Perplexity. ioi 
 
 But the stale of perplexity it threw Sir Dene Clanwaring 
 into was untellable. Drew had united the offices of bailiff 
 and steward : he had not only been manager of the estate out 
 of doors, but kept the accounts connected with it. Many of 
 these papers on the table had been brought up from his house. 
 Drew was too ill now to be consulted, or to be asked even a 
 single question ; and Sir Dene felt helpless as a child. 
 
 He knew absolutely nothing about the deeds and other 
 matters. A schoolboy, bade to sit down amidst a shoal of 
 books, and prepare himself in one day for passing a civil 
 service examination, could not have been more hopelessly at 
 fault than was the master of Beechhurst Dene. One person 
 alone, of all the world, could have helped him out of his 
 dilemma : and that was his discarded son, Geoffry. 
 
 Opening this parchment, shutting that, glancing at one 
 receipt, throwing aside another, fuming and fretting ! While 
 Sir Dene was thinking himself worse off than the babes in 
 .the wood, Gander entered. 
 
 " Farmer Hill has got me to come in and ask whether 
 you'll be likely to keep him much longer, Sir Dene. He says 
 he has a sight o' things to see about this morning. 
 
 Sir Dene groaned. He was no nearer finding the papers 
 necessary to the business on which Mr. Hill had come up 
 than he was an hour before. 
 
 "I don't know an iota about it, Gander; that's the fact ; 
 and I can find nothing. Tell Mr. Hill to call again to- 
 morrow morning : I'm sorry to have kept him waiting. And 
 — here, Gander. Is Mr. Clanwaring in ? " 
 
 " Mr. Clanwaring's lying on the sofa in the library, Sir 
 Dene." 
 
 "Ask him to step here." 
 
 John Clanwaring appeared, a book in his hand. It was 
 one of the volumes of a favourite work of the day. Sir Dene, 
 in his helpless perplexity, appealed to his son. 
 
 " You are younger than I am, John, and your brain's clear. 
 Mine's clear enough too, in one sense ; but I've never been 
 used to this kind of thing. Do you think you could help 
 me?" 
 
 " In what way ? " asked Mr. Clanwaring — who had unwill- 
 ingly dragged himself from London to spend Christmas at 
 Beechhurst Dene, and intended to get away from it the 
 moment he decently could. 
 
 " Well, in — in looking into things. Getting some of these 
 
102 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 papers straight, for instance : and — and mastering the various 
 matters connected with the estate." 
 
 John Clanwaring quite believed he had not heard aright. 
 " I, sir. I could not possibly undertake anything of the 
 kind." 
 
 " There's nobody else so fit," rather sharply spoke Sir 
 Dene. " It will be your own proper business sometime." 
 
 " I expect when that time comes — which I hope will not 
 be yet awhile, father," he broke off to say in a fit of duty — 
 " that I shall mostly leave it to a steward, as you have done." 
 
 "It is an awful trouble for Drew to have fallen out of 
 things in this sudden way ! Look at all these papers, John ! 
 — I can't make head or tail of them. And there's twice as 
 many more down at his house." 
 
 John Clanwaring looked from the papers on the table to 
 those standing out of the secretaire. He would as soon have 
 meddled with the Augean stables. 
 
 " And things are going on out of doors nearly as bad as 
 they are within," resumed Sir Dene. " The men — when they 
 work at all — do it all the wrong way. They plough up 
 meadows, and leave — for goodness sake don't mix the papers, 
 John ! I've had work enough to sort them." 
 
 For Mr. Clanwaring, seeking for a place on which to deposit 
 his book, had been pushing some of the papers one upon 
 another. 
 
 " You won't try what you can do, then, John ? " 
 
 " As I should be sure to make no hand at it, sir, I had 
 better not." 
 
 " At least you might ride about a bit, and direct out of 
 doors." 
 
 " I should only mislead : knowing nothing about it myself, 
 or what your wishes are. Besides, father, I shall be gone 
 again in a day or two now. My chief home is London, you 
 know, sir." 
 
 " What will you do when you come into the place after me ? 
 Whoever holds Beechhurst Dene should live on it." 
 
 " As, of course, I shall. It will be different then." 
 
 Sir Dene sat looking straight out before him. Some 
 solution must be found to his present perplexity. His son 
 spoke. 
 
 " If I were you, sir, I should engage a new bailiff forthwith. 
 Some competent man of experience, who can grasp these 
 matters at once, in Drew's place." 
 
Sir Denes Perplexity. 103 
 
 " Should you ! " retorted Sir Dene. " He'd be more of a 
 stranger to it than I am : and who is there to put him in the 
 right way, I'd like to know ? There's only one man able to 
 grasp them: and that's your brother Geofl'ry." 
 
 Mr. Clanwaring drew in his thin lips, and superciliously 
 took up his book. He considered it an insult to the rest of 
 the family for Geoffry to be so much as named in their 
 hearing. 
 
 " If I put down a few heads of questions upon paper, John, 
 would you mind riding over to Malvern, and getting the 
 answers to them from Geoffry ? " 
 
 " I should mind it very much indeed, sir. Nothing would 
 induce me to go on a mission to Mm. If absolutely necessary 
 that some one should see him, send Gander." 
 
 Sir Dene, vexed with John, vexed with everybody, said no 
 more : and Mr. Clanwaring seized on the opportunity to 
 return to his sofa and his novel. The baronet had missed 
 Geoffry all along ; but never so much as now, at the close 
 of the year. 
 
 After the first burst of indignation had blown over, conse- 
 quent on the discovery of the marriage, Sir Dene had calmed 
 down wonderfully. John went away again, Miss Clewer 
 betook herself off: there was only Sir Dene at home, and he 
 felt very lonely. Not an hour of the day but he thought of 
 Geoffry, who had never before given him an undutiful look or 
 word, who had been his constant companion of late years ; he 
 would often catch himself wishing that he could see Geoffry 
 riding up the path. The applying to Geoffry to help him out 
 of this dilemma, resulting from the incapacity of Drew, 
 seemed therefore more easy of accomplishment to Sir Dene than 
 if his feelings had retained their full bitterness against his son. 
 
 An hour longer he sat over these confusing papers, never 
 touching them ; attempting no further to reduce them to 
 order. Had he seen any other way out of the trouble, had 
 any one living person, save Geoffry, been able to help hiru, he 
 would not have sought out his discarded son. But there was 
 no one else ; and so Sir Dene could not well help himself. 
 He waited, shilly-shallying, until the afternoon was passing ; 
 and then, saying nothing to John of his intention, ordered his 
 horse and rode away in the direction of Malvern. In his 
 heart of hearts, Sir Dene was glad of the opportunity of onco 
 more seeing Geoffry. 
 
 " He never turned a deaf ear to any request of mine, as 
 
104 Dene Hollow. 
 
 John does," thought the baronet bitterly. He would often 
 feel a little bitter with his eldest son. 
 
 At this time Great Malvern was a very different place from 
 what it is now : the houses did not much outnumber the hills. 
 The cottage to whose lodgings Geoffry had taken his wife was 
 a small abode nestled near the foot of the hill on the road 
 leading to St. Ann's Well. They had been married nearly 
 two months now, and were in it still. 
 
 It would have been dull for the young wife, the Christmas 
 in these confined lodgings, but for the intense love she bore 
 her husband. If hallowed by his presence, all places were 
 alike to her — a paradise. An African desert would not have 
 been a desert with him. They were invited to spend Christ- 
 mas Day at Harebell Farm : Geoffry Clanwaring accepted it, 
 because it would give pleasure to his wife. However, the day 
 before Christmas Eve a deep snow set in, rendering the roads 
 bad for travelling ; and so they stayed at home. A delusive 
 dream of hope had lain on Geoffry — that his father might 
 relent in the blessed Christmas-tide, and summons him and 
 his young wife to Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 This was the last day of the old year ; and it was Geoffry's 
 birthday. Twenty-six to-day. He had suddenly remembered 
 it as they were seated at their one o'clock dinner, and pro- 
 claimed it to his wife. 
 
 " Oh, Geoffry ! — never to have told me ! Never to have 
 let me wish you many happy returns of it when you woke 
 this morning ? " 
 
 " I forgot all about it. You can wish it now, love." 
 
 She got up, and put her arms about his neck, whispering 
 softly; the tears filling her eyes with the intensity of her emo- 
 tion. Geoffry held her to him while he thanked her and kissed 
 her. Kissed her as fondly as he had on their wedding-day. 
 
 " We ought to have made a festival of it, Geoffry," she 
 said, going back to her place ; "to have had a plum-pudding 
 at the very least. And there is only this cold beef for you ! " 
 
 " Cold beef is as good as hot, Maria." 
 
 " I shall make a feast for tea." 
 
 He laughed a little. " What will it be ? Roast peacock ? " 
 
 " Jam ; and pikelets ; and Malvern cakes." 
 
 " You extravagant girl ! " 
 
 " But it won't be your birthday again until next year." 
 
 When dinner was over, and Geoffry sat thinking of things, 
 it occurred to him to wonder whether his birthday was being 
 
Sir Dene's Perplexity. 105 
 
 remembered at Beechhurst Dene, and whether a letter of re- 
 pentance, written to his father on that day, might produce 
 any softening towards him. It would be necessary to try to 
 induce Sir Dene to relent if possible ; for his little stock of 
 hoarded money would not last for ever. He and Maria were 
 practising plain economy : but times were hard at that period, 
 provisions very dear. 
 
 " A letter will do no harm if it does no good," decided 
 Geoffry. "And in any case I should like to wish my father a 
 happy New Year." So he drew his chair to the table aud wrote. 
 
 The snow had disappeared some days now, and this day was 
 very fine : but early in the afternoon that dense mist came 
 on, well known to the dwellers under the Malvern Hills. It 
 nsed to be worse than it ever is now : perhaps the mist cannot 
 fight against the large town the place has grown into — the 
 number of houses, their warmth, their lights, and the heat 
 of the fires and gas. At half-past three o'clock, when Geoffry 
 folded his letter, he could hardly see to write the address. 
 
 Sitting down by the fire, he stirred it into a blaze, and drew 
 his wife to him. She was putting up her work, for it was too 
 dark to continue it. 
 
 " Just look at the mist, Geoffry ! " 
 
 " Ay. You cannot go out now, young lady, for your Malvern 
 cakes. I sha'n't let you." 
 
 She had been saying that she would go with him when 
 he went to post his letter. Maria looked out at the mist 
 a little wistfully. 
 
 " Yon will bring the cakes in for me instead, won't you, 
 Geoffry ? And the pikelets." 
 
 " I dare say ! " 
 
 " And we will have tea early, and shut out the mist — say, 
 half-past four. Oh, Geoffry, it will be a happy evening ! " 
 
 " You little syren ! " 
 
 He sat on, talking with her of the letter, of the probable 
 effect it might have on Sir Dene ; and the minutes slipped on. 
 When the clock struck four, Gefforyrose to go on his errand. 
 
 "How many pikelets, and how many cakes ? " 
 
 "Three pikelets," she answered; two for you and one for 
 me. And three twopenny cakes." "Malvern cakes," it 
 should be said, had in those days a world-wide fame. 
 
 " And the jam you talked of ? I'm sure the shops will 
 take me for a porter." 
 
 " Jam ! Oh, I have plenty of that. Mamma gave me some 
 
106 Dene Hollow. 
 
 jars of several sorts, packed in a basket", when we were last 
 there. Don't you remember, Geoffry ?— We brought it home 
 in the gig." 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring went into the bedroom for some silver, 
 and departed. Maria called the landlady, asked her to bring 
 in the best tea-things, and said there would be pikelets to 
 toast. That worthy person immediately turned crusty — 
 which she had a habit of doing. The best tea-things she 
 made no objection to : but the pikelets were pronounced " un- 
 possible. She had just raked up her kitchen fire, leaving 
 only a spark o' blaze to bile the kettle, for she was a-going 
 out later to watch-in the New Year with a friend. Pikelets 
 couldn't be toasted nohow at the black bars." 
 
 "Never mind, Mrs. Brown; I'll toast them here," said 
 Maria cheerfully — who, young and timid, was entirely under 
 Mrs. Brown's dominion. " Bring in the butter, please, and 
 the toasting-fork." And Mrs. Brown bestirred herself. 
 
 " I shall dress in my best frock for this evening," thought 
 Maria, as she watched the woman lay the table. " I will go 
 now, while Geoffry's away, and surprise him. And then I 
 shall be ready to do the pikelets." 
 
 The first thing Maria saw when she entered the bedroom 
 was the letter lying on the dressing-table. Geoffry must 
 have laid it down, and forgotten it. She made ready, all but 
 her dress ; then carried the letter to the other room, and 
 waited, knowing he would be coming back for it. 
 
 Presently he appeared, with the paper of pikelets, the 
 cakes, and a beautiful pink camellia, that he had picked up 
 somewhere, for Maria. She strenuously declared that it 
 ought to be in his own coat, as it was his fete day. Geoffry 
 laughed well at that, and put it in her dress-body, saying that 
 a dandelion would be more in place for him. 
 
 " Do you know that you left Sir Dene's letter at home, 
 Geoffry ? " 
 
 " I know it now. The hunt I had in all my pockets when 
 I went to put it into the box, amused the village boys amaz- 
 ingly." 
 
 He took the letter, went out again, and Maria hastened to 
 attire herself in the gala robes. It was her wedding-dress 
 that she put on ; the beautiful sprigged India muslin she was 
 married in. No opportunity had offered of wearing it since ; 
 and perhaps it was rather light in texture for this evening, 
 what with the cold season and what with the mist. Maria 
 
Sir Doze's Perplexity. 107 
 
 deemed it the most appropriate dress in the world — for was 
 it not her husband's birthday. 
 
 With her beautiful hair falling ; with no ornament in the 
 delicate robe, save the pink camellia ; with her pretty white 
 neck and arms bare, after the fashion of the day, Maria Clan- 
 waring returned to the parlour as charming a picture as 
 man's eyes ever rested on. The candles were lighted on the 
 table ; and — if she stole a glance of admiration at herself in 
 the chimney-glass, vanity itself would forgive the sin. 
 
 " Geoffry will not know me," she softly said, as she knelt 
 down to toast tbe pikelets. " Why ! — how soon he is back ! " 
 
 For the front door had been knocked at, and answered. 
 Steps approached the room ; the door w r as flung wide, just 
 as Geoffry flung it. 
 
 " You'll not know me, Geoffry," she called out. 
 
 " Is Geoffry Clanwaring here ? " 
 
 The voice was a strange voice, proud and stern. Maria 
 started up, nearly dropping the pikelet off the toasting-fork 
 into the ashes. She felt ready to drop too when she saw Sir 
 Dene. They stood, gazing at each other : Maria in trembling 
 dismay ; Sir Dene in involuntary admiration. 
 
 Never in all his life had he seen so lovely a picture. She 
 looked, in this white dress, little more than a child, with her 
 smooth falling curls, her blushing cheeks, and her delicate 
 face. Gently putting down the fork — it was at least a yard 
 and a half long — she moved a little nearer, in all shrinking 
 modesty, to receive him. 
 
 "You are my son's wife, I suppose, young lady ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "And one to make any son forget his allegiance for," 
 muttered Sir Dene to himself. " Hanged if I can be sure I 
 should not have done as Geoff did ! " 
 
 "Will you please to take a seat, sir?" she ventured to 
 ask. 
 
 " I'll shake hands with you first, my dear," he said. And, 
 taking her hand, he stooped and kissed her. 
 
 The tears rushed into Maria Clanwaring's eyes at the un- 
 expected kindness. Sir Dene saw them, and kissed her a 
 second time. 
 
 " There's nothing to cry for, my clear." 
 
 " Oh, sir, it is your kindness ! I think Geoffry, when ha 
 knows it, will be nearly ready to cry too." 
 
 " Where is Geoffry ? " asked the baronet, sitting down. 
 
108 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " He has gone out to put a letter in the post : it is for you, 
 sir. He will not be long." 
 
 " And yon were toasting pikelets for tea," said Sir Dene, 
 observing the good things on the table. 
 
 " The landlady had let her fire go low, sir, and conld not 
 do them. But it is Geoffry's birthday." 
 
 " His birthday ! " cried Sir Dene. " I forgot it." 
 
 " That is why we are having a nice tea," she continued, 
 half in apology, deeming some kind of explanation neces- 
 sary. 
 
 " And why you are dressed up ? " added Sir Dene smiling, 
 as he glanced at the set out table. 
 
 " Yes, sir. It is my best white frock. I " — was married in it, 
 she had been about to add, but remembered in time to change 
 the words — " had just put it on. Geoffry brought me home 
 this beautiful flower." 
 
 A beautiful flower, no doubt : but a sweeter flower she. 
 A simple, guileless, pure girl: that was self-evident. Sir 
 Dene had been in the room but two or three minutes, and he 
 felt that he nearly loved her. The next entrance was that of 
 Geoffry : who stood in unmitigated astonishment. Between 
 his father's presence and his wife's dress, he thought he must 
 be looking at a vision. 
 
 Sir Dene did not shake hands with his son. An idea struck 
 him that it might be a compromise of dignity to do that all at 
 once. He told Geoffry, speaking distantly, of the difficulty 
 he was placed in through the accident to Drew, and that he 
 should require his assistance to disentangle affairs from the 
 confusion that, to him, they appeared to be in. Geoffry at 
 once replied that he would do anything and everything in his 
 power. Seeing them thus engaged, Maria, almost by stealth, 
 resumed her toasting. Geoffry came up, and would have 
 taken the fork from her. 
 
 " I'll do this, my dear — if it has to be done here ? What's 
 Mrs. Brown about ? " 
 
 " She has let her fire out. Please, Geoffry, let me do it," 
 she whispered. " Indeed, indeed, I would rather ! Stay you 
 with Sir Dene." 
 
 She was in real earnest, her trembling voice and her eyes 
 alike pleading anxiously. So Geoffry relinquished the fork to 
 her and returned to his father. When the pikelets were 
 buttered and the tea made, she waited by the fire in silence. 
 Geoffry looked at the table and looked at his father. 
 
Sir Denes Perplexity. 109 
 
 " "Would you take some tea with us, sir," be asked with 
 much deprecation. 
 
 " I don't care if I have a cup," said Sir Dene. " The mist 
 has got into my throat." 
 
 So they all sat down together ; Maria's hand shaking 
 visibly when she handed him his cup. " A good, modest, 
 gentle girl, and every inch a lady — as poor Geoff said," again 
 thought Sir Dene. " She's worth a dozen of John's grand 
 London wenches, with their powdered and patched faces." 
 
 Sir Dene partook of the good things with much relish ; the 
 pikelets, the cakes, the strawberry jam ; and he drank three 
 cups of tea. He said he must go, unless he would be entirely 
 benighted. He did not kiss Maria when he went away : but 
 he shook hands cordially, and called her " my dear." It was 
 arranged that Geoffry should meet Sir Dene at Drew's house, 
 as early as he could get there after breakfast in the morning. 
 Geoffry walked down with his father to the small inn — the 
 Unicorn — where he had left his horse ; and saw him mount. 
 Sir Dene gave him his hand. 
 
 " Thank you father, for coming over," said Geoffry in a low 
 tone that was full of feeling. " Thank you doubly for speak- 
 ing kindly to my wife." 
 
 "Well, you see, Geoffry, she's very nice and pretty." 
 
 " She is more than that, father. Good night, sir." 
 
 Standing over the fire with his wife when he got back, his 
 arm round her waist, her head leaning against him, Geoffry 
 Clanwaring spoke of the hopeful turn that affairs seemed to 
 have taken. He had been feeling the estrangement from his 
 father and his home far more deeply than he had ever cared 
 to tell his wife. 
 
 " Sir Dene may not take us into full favour quite at once, 
 Maria ; it is not to be expected; but I think the way is being 
 paved for it." 
 
 "He kissed me, Geoffry," she whispered, her eyes shining 
 through their glad tears. 
 
 " Kissed you ! " 
 
 " He kissed me twice ; he did indeed. It was when he first 
 came in." 
 
 " Thank God ! " thought Geoffry. But he said nothing. 
 Only held his wife the closer. 
 
no Dene Holloiv. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BAILIFF'S LODGE. 
 
 Be you very sure Geoffry Clanwaring did not let the grass 
 grow under his horse's feet in riding over to Hurst Leet the 
 following morning, New Year's day. Break of day had seen 
 him in the saddle. At Drew's house he found Simmonds the 
 gamekeeper, who had been placed in it to take care of things 
 upon the bailiff's departure. 
 
 It was a very pretty place, this dwelling, commonly called 
 the bailiff's lodge. Mr. Honeythorn used to say it was too 
 good for Jonathan Drew. Had a gentleman been the inhabit- 
 ant, it would have been a cottage ornee. Sheltered amidst 
 trees and shrubs, with some of the same kind of yellow 
 jasmine on its walls that had been on the Widow Barber's, it 
 was as rural a lodgment as any in the district. There were 
 two sitting-rooms : one, used as a bureau, or office, by Drew, 
 contained the papers and things relating to the estate ; the 
 other had not been used at all ; for Mr. Drew had found the 
 kitchen good enough for his meals and evenings. The cham- 
 bers above were three : two large, one small. 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring sat down at once to the papers ; and 
 when Sir Dene arrived, they were all in nice order for the ex- 
 planation to him. For a good half hour Sir Dene did his best 
 to master them ; and found it a failure. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Geoffry," said he. " I shall make 
 nothing of these things myself: my capacity does not lie in 
 this bent, I think; and John won't attempt — though he 
 ought. You will have to come back again." 
 
 " I should desire nothing better than to be allowed to come 
 back," spoke Geoffry with candour. 
 
 " Not to Beechhurst Dene," hastily rejoined the baronet, 
 fearing he might be misunderstood. " That could not be. I 
 should have your brothers up in arms : John especially. 
 Reginald is at a safe distance, thank goodness. He can 
 write sharp letters, though." 
 
 " I did not think of coming back to Beechhurst Dene, sir," 
 said Geoffry quietly. 
 
 " That's well. Look here, Geoffry : I must speak out 
 plainly, and then we shall understand each other," continued 
 Sir Dene. " You were guilty of an act, marrying as you did, 
 
The Bailiff's Lodge. ill 
 
 entirely "unjustifiable : it involved, to me, both disobedience 
 and ingratitude. Had your wife been — been — different from 
 what she is ; had she been vulgar or upstart, for instance, I 
 could never have forgiven you. Never. As it is — well, I 
 must partly forgive yon. Though I cannot receive you on a 
 familiar footing as one of my sons, or welcome you to Beech- 
 hurst Dene, I will extend to you my countenance in a degree. 
 If you are not above talcing the management of things in 
 Drew's place, why I will make it worth your while." 
 
 " I am not above it, I assure you, sir," said Geoffrey; " but 
 would accept the post, and thank you very truly. After all, 
 I shall only be doing what I have done ever since you bought 
 the property. More responsibility will lie on me ; somewhat 
 more work : that is the only difference, sir." 
 
 " You would have to live on the spot, you know." 
 
 " Of course. Why could I not have this house, sir ? " 
 
 Sir Dene coughed. With all his vexation, with all Geoffry's 
 misdoings, he had not liked to propose that a son of his should 
 succeed to the bailiff's cottage. 
 
 " It would be the best and most convenient thing. But I 
 thought you might not like it, Geoffry." 
 
 Geoffry Clanwaring smiled. " After our two rooms at Mal- 
 vern, sir, I fear I and Maria shall be fancying ourselves in a 
 palace here." 
 
 "Then that's all settled, Geoffry," concluded Sir Dene, gladly, 
 as if he experienced a kind of relief. " I'll have some furni- 
 ture put into it, and you had better move over without delay. 
 Or, stay. Do you get the furniture, Geoffry," added Sir Dene 
 on second thoughts : " you know best what will please you 
 and your wife. Pay for it out of the funds : you'll have 
 plenty in hand now." 
 
 " Thank you very much, father." 
 
 "And now come up to Beechhurst," said Sir Dene. "The 
 papers there are in a fine mess : and Hill no doubt is in a pas- 
 sion at being kept waiting two mornings running. He was 
 already there when I came away." 
 
 They walked up the new road, Dene Hollow. It was only 
 natural that the spot should bring back the remembrance of 
 Drew's accident. Geoffry, who had not heard much of the 
 particulars, inquired how Dobbin, known to be sure-footed, 
 came to throw his rider. 
 
 " Noboby seems to be able to tell," replied Sir Dene. 
 <: Drew says he can't. It made me think of our accident, 
 
112 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Geoffry : we never could imagine what possessed the horses, 
 yon know. 'Twas just in the same spot, too." 
 
 " It seems odd," said Geoffry. 
 
 " Our mishap was odd — and to me always will be — but I 
 don't say as much for Drew's. Many a horse, brave as a lion 
 by day, will start at shadows cast by the moonlight. Be- 
 sides " 
 
 "Besides what, sir?" asked Geoffry, For Sir Dene had 
 made a sudden pause. 
 
 " Well, Geoff — though I'd not mention it to anyone but 
 you," broke off Sir Dene, confidentially — "I cannot help 
 thinking that Drew must have had a drop more than was good 
 for him at the time. He had had a loug and tedious journey, 
 and the night was cold. If a man's seat is not steady, a slight 
 thing will unhorse him ; the very fact of Dobbin's galloping 
 down the hill might do it." 
 
 " I have never once seen Drew the worse for drink," was 
 Geoffry's reply to this. 
 
 "Neither have I — don't think I would asperse the man 
 causelessly," returned Sir Dene. " Priar, too, says he was 
 sober. But still there's a lurking doubt in my mind that he 
 was not himself: and I don't say it without a reason." 
 
 " What is the reason, sir ? " naturally questioned Geoffry. 
 
 Upon that, Sir Dene told the tale — calling it a cock-and- 
 bull stoiw — that had been told to him : of what Drew saw, or 
 thought he saw, at the Trailing Indian. Sir Dene entirely 
 disbelieved it. The surgeon had informed him what Black's 
 version was ; and Sir Dene, judging by common sense, be- 
 lieved that to be the true version. Geoffry listened in 
 silence. 
 
 "Now what I think is this, Geoff: that no man could go 
 the length of fancying he saw what Drew fancied, unless his 
 imagination and eyesight were both a little helped by drink. 
 If it was so, this would account for the accident. Drew con- 
 fesses that he was going down here at a tolerable pace." 
 
 Sir Dene turned his eyes on the road as he spoke. They 
 were just abreast of the spot. 
 
 " Did Drew hold to his story afterwards ? " asked Geoffry. 
 
 "In the most positive manner. He says he was never in 
 his life more sure of anything than he is that the coffin camo 
 out of the inn. Of course, having fancied he saw it, it became 
 impressed upon his imagination." 
 
 " For my own part, I should not be disposed to trust to a 
 
The Bailiff's Lodge. 113 
 
 word asserted by Black," remarked Geoffry. " I'd rather be- 
 lieve Drew." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Sir Dene. "Drew's story carries im- 
 probability on the face of it ; whereas Black's lias been con- 
 firmed. There was nobody ill at the Trailing Indian : nobody 
 was stopping there : so how conld anybody die ?" 
 
 "In what way was Black's account confirmed?" asked 
 Geoffry. 
 
 " He said that the hearse merely called at the inn to bait 
 the horses. About ten o'clock, he told Priar, it drove in. 
 Now it happened that some man Priar knows saw a hearse 
 turn off the turnpike road at that hour and drive in to the inn 
 yard. So far, Black was confirmed." 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Geoffry. But it crossed his mind that 
 the hearse must equally have driven in sometime, had its errand 
 been to fetch the dead away. 
 
 " Have you seen Black, sir, and questioned him upon the 
 subject? " 
 
 "Not I," said Sir Dene. "Why should I ? He would 
 probably tell me to my face that hearses are just as much at 
 liberty to demand refreshment at his house as carriages. In 
 short, I hold no doubt whatever that the whole explanation, 
 both of that and the subsequent accident, lies in the fact that 
 Drew had taken a glass too much." 
 
 " It may have been so, sir. But I have a bad opinion of 
 Black. I don't think he Avould stick at much." 
 
 " It is just this, Geoff, as I believe ; that Black's case is an 
 illustration of the old saying, ' Give a dog a bad name, and 
 hang him.' He is not a white sheep by any means : but I 
 dare say report makes him out to be a great deal worse than 
 he is in reality. Come along." 
 
 In going up the slight ascent, Sir Dene, quite uncon- 
 sciously, took Geoffry's arm. Forgetting the escapade of 
 which his son had been guilty, quite forgetting the late es- 
 trangement, he put his arm within Geoffry's as he used to do. 
 A gentleman, who happened to be walking amidst the trees on 
 the high bank above them that skirted the side of the road, 
 approached the edge and cautiously leaned over to look down. 
 It was the heir, John Clanwaring. He had recognised his 
 father's voice, and wondered who it was that he was with. 
 
 And if Mr. Clanwaring had seen Sir Dene familiarly walk- 
 ing with a long-armed baboon, he could not have felt more 
 utterly astonished. With Geoffry ! — arm in arm ! John 
 
 1 
 
H4 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Clanwaring closed his eyes for a moment and opened them 
 again, thinking perhaps some mist obscured his sight. But 
 no. It was Geoffry. G eoffry the renegade ! The heir stood 
 holdiuo- on by the firm tree-trank, watching them up, and 
 wondering whether his father had gone clean mad. 
 
 He watched them in at the gates of Beechhurst Dene : he 
 saw the Avoman at the lodge run out to drop a curtsey to her 
 master. She dropped two — two! — to Geoffry. Mr. Clan- 
 waring came to the conclusion that not only Sir Dene must 
 be mad, but a great part of the world beside him. 
 
 Little suspecting that condemning eyes were following 
 them, Sir Dene and Geoffry continued their way to the house, 
 turning off to the side entrance. Mr. Clanwaring went on 
 slowly to the front, gained the library, and rang an imperious 
 peal on the bell for Gander. 
 
 " Did Sir Dene come in a few minutes ago ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," was the man's reply. "He's come in with Mr. 
 Geoffry. They be hard at work amid the papers in Sir Dene's 
 parlour. Hill at the Lea Farm is gone in to 'em now." 
 
 From Gander's long service in the family, and the confi- 
 dential terms he was on with the boys when they were young, 
 they said anything to him, never caring to be reticent. 
 
 " I wonder Sir Dene did not kick him out, rather than hand 
 him into his parlour," quoth Mr. Clanwaring, standing before 
 the fire with his coat-tails under his arm, and speaking de- 
 liberately. 
 
 " Mr. Geoffry have come by appointment, sir," said Gander, 
 who liked the younger brother ten times better than he did 
 the elder. " Leastways, I take it to be so." 
 
 "And why do you 'take it' to be so ?" scornfully asked 
 the heir. 
 
 " Because Sir Dene says to me last night, says he, ' Mind 
 you get a good fire early in my parlour, Gander : I'm expect- 
 ing Mr. Geoffry on business.' That's why, sir." 
 
 " Mr. Geoffry must have the impudence of Satan to write 
 and proffer a visit 7iere," cried John Clanwaring, assuming 
 such to have been the fact. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Clanwaring, it strikes me that Sir Dene went 
 and fetched him," returned Gander, confidentially, secretly 
 rejoicing that he had it to say. " When Sir Dene got home 
 last night, he told the groom that him and his horse had 
 a'most got lost in the mist, coming down the Link. So we 
 took it that he must have been to Malvern." 
 
The Bailiff's Lodge. 115 
 
 Worse and -worse. John Clanwaring signed impatiently 
 for Gander to go, and then indulged his wrath alone. Let us 
 give him his due : except on the score of the marriage, he had 
 no ill-feeling against Geoffiy ; but in his proud and haughty 
 temper, he considered that act had brought a stain on the 
 family not to be redeemed. 
 
 The morning wore on. Sir Dene and Geoffry remained in 
 the parlour, very busy. At luncheon time Gande went to 
 tell his master that it was ready. 
 
 Sir Dene rose ; and sat down again. How could he go to 
 his luncheon and not ask Geoffry ? And yet — to invite him 
 to partake of a meal in the house would look as if his offence 
 were entirely condoned. And (here lay the obstacle) what, 
 would John say ? 
 
 " Oh, bother John — I can't help it," mentally spoke Sir 
 Dene in his perplexity. " Will you come and have some lunch, 
 Geoffry ? You must be peckish after your early ride." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Geoffry. And rose to follow him. 
 
 In the dining-room stood the heir. When he saw Geoffry 
 come in with his father, quite as it used to be, to sit down at 
 the same table, one of the family, he felt that it was a little 
 more than he could stand. Geoffry went up to him, his kindly 
 eyes looking straight into his brother's, as he held out his 
 hand, hesitatingly. 
 
 " You would not shake my hand the last time we parted, 
 John : your anger was fresh against me then. Will you 
 now ? " 
 
 "No," said John Clanwaring, in a voice low from concen- 
 trated passion. He was never loud, this young man ; but all 
 the more firm and bitter. 
 
 " And yet, my father Las — in a degree — forgiven me ! " 
 
 " But that I see — what I see — with my own eyes, I had not 
 believed that Sir Dene would have lent his countenance to 
 disgrace." 
 
 " Oh hang it, John ! " interposed Sir Dene, testily, not 
 feeling over comfortable, and half ashamed of his own leniency. 
 " Geoffry is the only one who can help me out of the confusion 
 caused by Drew's departure. You would not try, you know. 
 Come, sit down." 
 
 " No, Sir Dene. Not with him." 
 
 " He is your brother, John." 
 
 " Unfortunately — yes. But I can never again regard him 
 as one." 
 
Ii6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Mr. Clanwaring stalked deliberately out of the room, vouch- 
 safing no further notice ; ordering Gander, as he brushed by 
 the man, to bring him a plate of something to the library. 
 
 "You see the difficulties I have to contend with, Geoffry," 
 quietly remarked Sir Dene, when they sat down. " I can't do 
 quite as I would." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I see," was the answer. " Be assured I will not 
 iritrude upon you here unnecessarily, to increase them/' 
 
 And so, Geoffry Clanwaring and his wife took up their abode 
 in the bailiff's lodge. And the months went on. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IN THE SAME SPOT. 
 
 Mr. and Mes. Owen sat at supper in the ordinaiy living 
 room at Harebell Farm. They were taking it later than usual. 
 It was Saturday, and Easter Eve. The Farmer had been 
 over to Worcester market : after his business was transacted, 
 he had gone to stay the evening with his daughter Mary and 
 her husband and invite them to spend Easter Day at the 
 farm. Which made him late in reaching home. 
 
 " How does she look, Robert ? " questioned Mrs. Owen, 
 upon his saying that the invitation was declined. 
 
 " Polly ? she is — I don't see that she looks much better," 
 was the cautious answer. Glancing at his wife from under 
 his handsome eyelids, Robert Owen decided that she was too 
 poorly just now to be troubled unnecessarily. The impulsive 
 reply he had been about to utter was, " She is worse, and 
 weaker." 
 
 " And the baby ? .' 
 
 " Oh, that's peart enough. It's a pretty little thing : can 
 almost talk." 
 
 Mrs. Owen laughed slightly. " Almost talk ! Why, she is 
 but nine months old yet." 
 
 " Any way, she tries to. Girls are never backward with 
 their tongues. The child had got its sleeves looped up with a 
 row of pink coral beads, gold clasps," continued Mr. Owen. 
 " Squire Arde took them there this week. He said they had 
 belonged to his own child when she was a baby." 
 
 " That is a curious thing for Squire Arde to do ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Owen, after a pause of consideration. " One 
 would think he must have taken a fancy to the child." 
 
In the Same Spot. 1 1 7 
 
 " Oli, I don't know," said the less imaginative farmer. " He 
 might have thought 'twas as well to put the beads to use — 
 jyiug by and doing nothing. Polly was saying that Geoffry 
 Clanwaring and Maria have promised to go over for a clay 
 next week." 
 
 Supper over, Mary Barber came in to take the tray away. 
 Joan, the hard-working household servant, was never kept up 
 later than ten, except on an emergency. It was nearly eleven 
 now, and she had been in bed an hour. The farmer began 
 looking about for his cap. 
 
 " Have you to go out again to-night, Robert ? " asked Mrs. 
 Owen. 
 
 " As far as the two-acre meadow : I must take a look at 
 Lightfoot." 
 
 "Bugle is sure to have gone round there the last thing," 
 she rejoined, slightly in remonstrance. 
 
 "Not so sure, Betsy," was the dissenting answer. "He 
 has been growing lazy lately — or careless. Was Cole up to- 
 day, do you know ? " 
 
 "Yes," Joan said she saw him in the yard with Bugle. " I 
 am sure you must be tired, Robert. I don't see that you need 
 go." 
 
 " I shall go," persisted the farmer, rather obstinately. 
 " You had better get to bed, as it's late." 
 
 " Then you'll read now," said Mrs. Owen. For the day 
 was always finished up at Harebell Farm with a chapter from 
 the Bible. As Robert Owen took the book, his wife opened 
 the parlour door. 
 
 " Mary, will you come into the reading ? " 
 " I be busy, missis," was the reply given back to her from 
 the kitchen. 
 
 " It will not hinder you more than two or three minutes," 
 said Mrs. Owen. 
 
 " It'll hinder me more time than I can spare, with all these 
 here late supper things to clear up : and I'm sure I'm not a-going 
 to leave 'em till morning," returned independent Mary Barber. 
 " The master can read without me to-night, missis." And 
 Mrs. Owen shut the door again. 
 
 He was going regularly through the Gospels, and read the 
 chapter at which he had left off the previous night — the eighth 
 of St. Mark. Then he put on his great coat ; took his hat — 
 not readily finding the cap he kept for night use — and 
 went out. 
 
Ii8 Dene Hollow. 
 
 It was a night late in March, almost Apr il, but different 
 from the one twelve months before, when the two men in 
 smock- frocks had gone stealing up Harebell Lane. That night 
 was bright and windy ; this, still and misty. The moon ought 
 to have been out to-night, but was not. Lightfoot, a favonrite 
 cow, was lying ill in the shed off the two-acre paddock ; and 
 Robert Owen had latterly had cause to doubt the attention 
 of Bugle, his herdsman : hence his personal visit. He 
 reached the shed : found all tolerably right there, and turned 
 his steps homewards again. 
 
 Ever since he came out, his thoughts had been glancing 
 back to the chapter he had read : now that his mind was at 
 rest as to Ligfttfoot, he let them dwell entirely upon it. 
 
 "Ay, true," ran his reflections: " what shall it profit — > 
 though a man gain the whole world, if he lose his own soul ? 
 'Tis but a short life here at best : and there's all the never- 
 ending ages of Eternity to succeed it. Why don't we, through- 
 out our poor brief lives, take better note of the lessons God 
 has written for us ? " 
 
 Why it was that Robert Owen should have taken " better 
 note " latterly, he could not tell. The fact was so. Without 
 any apparent will of his, he had found his thoughts turned ab- 
 solutely on serious things, and on the life that must come after 
 this life. Three months ago, at the new year, he had quite 
 electrified his wife (and astonished the parson) by staying at 
 church to take the sacrament. For Robert Owen, like too 
 many more householders of the district — and of other districts 
 too, for that matter — had not been in the habit of doing such 
 a thing. They were content to leave this practical part of 
 religion to the women and to a future time. Perhaps it was 
 the thought of his dying daughter — for that Mary Arde was 
 dying, dying gradually, lay on him with a conviction firm 
 and sure — that brought these reflections home to him, espe- 
 cially to-night. They had never been more vivid. 
 
 " Poor young Tom gone on, and Polly going : William and 
 Maria left. Two in that world : two in this. Somehow, I 
 feel as if I'd as soon go as stay. If Betsy — halloa ! Who's 
 abroad at this hour ? " 
 
 The sound of footsteps and suppressed voices had struck 
 upon his ear. He was in that narrow pathway, between the 
 grove of trees and the fence, just above Harebell Pond. As 
 it had been that past night twelve months before, so it was 
 this. The two self-same men — or two that looked precisely 
 
In the Same Spot. 119 
 
 like them — came stealing up the lane ; nothing was in their 
 hands : but by daylight their smock-frocks might have looked 
 rather bulky. Just as Eobert Owen had been in that spot 
 and watched them pass that other night, here he was, this. 
 It was a singular coincidence : he had never seen men since in 
 that particular spot. 
 
 He stood his ground, leaning sideways against the fence and 
 looking at them as they came on. It was sufficiently light 
 for them to see him there, but they passed on without speaking ; 
 apparently without looking. 
 
 "More underhand work at the Trailing Indian," thought 
 Robert Owen, as he pursued his way homewards. " I wish 
 that affair of what Drew saw was cleared up ! I don't like it 
 — and so I told Priar ; in spite of Mr. Randy Black's glib ex- 
 planation. However, it is no business of mine." 
 
 The men were the same that had gone up the former night 
 — Michael Geach and Robson. They arrived at the Trailing 
 Indian in a state of fury. Even Geach, generally so careless 
 and easy, had changed his tone of late, and become quite as 
 savage as Robson in regard to what they thought was the 
 espionage of the master of Harebell Farm. 
 
 " It's true, as I'm a living man, Black ! " he foamed, when 
 they were disencumbering themselves in the private room of 
 sundry articles that had been stuffed about them. " In that 
 old spy place, just above the pond, there he was, the devil ! " 
 
 Black answered by some of his bad language. 
 
 " I'll tell ye what it is, mates," spoke up Robson, waking 
 
 from a sudden reverie, and bringing his closed hand down 
 
 with passionate force upon the table — " that there man must 
 
 have some means o' e'ettino- at our movements. It's as sure 
 . 00 
 
 as eggs is eggs." 
 
 " I have thought so some months past, be shot if I've not," 
 acquiesced the landlord. 
 
 Geach, never prone to be very suspicious, glanced question- 
 ingly from one to the other. He did not readily understand. 
 " What d'ye mean ? " he asked. 
 
 "What do us mean?" retorted Robson. "Why, what 
 should us mean ? Owen has got spies at work, and lays his- 
 self out to watch us according to the information they bring 
 him in. Don't ye be a fool, Geach." 
 
 " I'm no more a fool than somebody else is. How could 
 Owen have spies at work ? " 
 
 " I dun' know how he could : he lias" retorted Robson. 
 
120 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Send me dumb, if it ain't so. Warn't he stuck in that 
 there place to-night, awaiting and awatching for us ? But 
 for expecting of us to come, would he ha' been out at this hour, 
 perched there ? No : it don't stand to reason as he 'ould. 
 There be none of his ewes i' th' mead now." 
 
 " Robson's right," spoke Black. " I've been a'most sure 
 of it since the night he watched the load away in the hearse. 
 How could he ha' knowed anything was to be took away that 
 there particular night, but for being informed of it ? Would 
 he have stopped out at that there stile a watching our place 
 till past midnight for nothing ? You must be a fool, Geach, 
 if you think he'd ha' posted himself there on spec." 
 
 A silence ensued, the three men looking at each other. If 
 this really were so — that Mr. Owen had spies at work— it 
 affected their interests in a very grave manner. Geach began 
 to come round to their way of thinking. 
 
 " What possesses the man ? — what does he do it for ? " he 
 asked, scarcely above his breath. 
 
 " Ah, what does he do it for ! " repeated Black, sneeringly. 
 " Why, to get me out o' the Trailing Indian. Now that that 
 girl of hisn's married to Sir Dene's son, of course Owen's got 
 the young man's ear — 'twas only him that set the young 
 fellow on me at the time you know of: pretty broad hints, 
 too, them he gave about the doings here ! Owen is a-plotting 
 to get us out o' the place : nothing more nor nothing less." 
 
 Robson rubbed the moisture from his startled face. " They 
 might be down upon ye at any time, Black. He might ha' 
 come over that there night, folks helping him, and looked 
 into the coffin. My patience ! What on earth should we ha' 
 done ? " 
 
 " Have ye heard much about that since, Randy ? " resumed 
 Geach. " Had more questions asked ? " 
 
 " Never one — though I've waited for 'em," replied Black. 
 " Neither from Priar nor nobody else. They've got hold of 
 the tale round the place, though, and call it Randy Black's 
 coffin. The mischief was, getting it away of a light night, 
 you see ; but 'twas in a hurry : and who was to fear eyes 
 would be in this lonely place at midnight ? I wish Owen had 
 been dead, I do, afore he had seen it ! " 
 
 " But what's to be done with the man ? " demanded Geach, 
 his eyes ablaze with excitement. " We can't submit to be 
 watched in this way ; 'twould be destruction : and Ave shall 
 want the hearse aa;ain soon." 
 
The Morning Dream. 121 
 
 " Hang him," said Robson, quietly, by way of answer. 
 " 'Twouldn't be no sin," lie defiantly added. " Hanging's the 
 nat'ral punishment o' spies. And he's a spy, out and out." 
 
 Again the men looked at each other, very meaningly. 
 Black broke the silence. 
 
 " He'd only get his deserts. Trust me for one thing, both 
 of you : Owen shall be out of Harebell Farm afore he gets me 
 out o' the Trailing Indian." 
 
 Jonathan Drew's sight had not decived him ; neither had 
 he taken anything to obscure it. The hearse had brought 
 the coffin to the inn, deposited it inside the house, empty, and 
 received it again, filled, two hours afterwards. This hearse 
 was in the habit of making periodical visits to the Trailing 
 Indian, always at the ghostly hours of night. But — to relieve 
 the reader's feelings — it may as well be stated that it never 
 took away a human occupant, alive or dead. Had the coffin 
 been charged and opened by Mr. Jonathan Drew that moon- 
 light night, it would have been found to contain nothing 
 worse than closely packed layers of valuable lace, with some 
 costly articles of jewelleiy wedged in betAveen them. 
 
 It was a sure and safe way of transporting articles to Lon- 
 don or elsewhere, which might not be sent in the broad light 
 of day. Who would dream of suspecting a hearse, whether 
 travelling along the high way by moonlight or sunlight ; or of 
 searching the coffin inside it ? Not even a Bow Street 
 runner. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE MORNING DREAM. 
 
 The bells of Hurst Leet church wafted their melodious sound 
 up to Harebell Farm in the stillness of the Sabbath morning. 
 When the wind set this way, their chimes could be heard 
 distinctly. The thick mist of the previous night — when Mr. 
 Owen had walked to the two-acre meadow and seen the men 
 stealing up Harebell Lane on their way to the Trailing 
 Indian — had given place to a clear atmosphere. The air was 
 bright, the sun shone, the skies were blue. Generally speak- 
 ing, Hurst Leet bells only gave out a brief ding-dong, to show 
 the world that it was Sunday ; to-day they were ringing. It 
 was the custom of Hurst Leet church at that period to ad- 
 minister the Sacrament four times in the year : at Christmas 
 
122 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 and Easter; at Midsummer and Michaelmas. On those 
 occasions the bells rang cheerily for a few minutes at early 
 morning. This was Easter Sunday. 
 
 Mary Barber was laying the cloth for breakfast when the 
 bells broke out ; the sound caught her ear through the open 
 window. She turned sharply round to look at the cuckoo 
 clock against the wall. It wanted ten minutes to eight. 
 
 " I was sure it was behind," she exclaimed to herself testily. 
 " That clock's always getting itself slow now." 
 
 Robert Owen came down the stairs, before the words had 
 well left her lips, and entered the room. Never was the 
 man's singular beauty more remarkable than on a Sunday 
 morning, when he was always dressed as a gentleman. He 
 looked rather surprised not to see the breakfast laid : for the 
 farm was punctual in its habits, and sat down precisely at 
 eight on a Sunday ; on week-days at seven. 
 
 "You be down to the minute, master," was her greeting. 
 "And I be late." 
 
 It was so very unusual a thing for Mary Barber to be " late, " 
 that Mr. Owen slightly lifted his eyebrows at the acknowledg- 
 ment. " Your mistress is late, too," he observed, " and will 
 not be down for some ruinutes. She has had a bad night." 
 
 " What I did was to drop asleep just as I ought to have been 
 a-getting up," said Mary Barber. " I have had a bad night 
 too — in one sense, and — I've a great mind to tell you, master, 
 why" 
 
 Her manner, as she said it, was very peculiar. Mr. Owen, 
 who had gone to the open window and was listening to the 
 bells, turned and looked at her. 
 
 " I have had an ugly dream, master. Two dreams in one, 
 as may be said ; for I woke between 'em; and then went to 
 sleep, and dreamed it on again. 'Twas about you." 
 
 Mary Barber was superstitious in the matter of dreams. 
 She did not have them often. Very rarely. It must be con- 
 fessed that two or three times in her life her dreams had 
 appeared to foreshadow coming events — events that afterwards 
 happened. When young, she had dreamed of the death of 
 her father, and told the dream : some few days subsequently, 
 his death, which was quite unexpected, took place. 
 
 Robert Owen smiled. He was one of the least superstitious 
 men living : would as soon have put faith in a ghost as a 
 dream. 
 
 " Yes, sir," she said, the smile somewhat nettling her, " I 
 
The Morning Dream. 123 
 
 know how you'll ridicule all I say. But I think I'd better say 
 it, for all that. There's some ill in store for you, master ; so 
 take care of yourself." 
 
 " Is the ill ghostly or bodily ? " he rejoined. And Mary 
 Barber did not like the evident mockery, goodnatured though 
 it was. 
 
 " Bodily, I should imagine," was the half-defiant answer, 
 as the tea-spoons were rattled into the saucers. " Listen to 
 me while I tell you, master," she added ; " it will be off my 
 conscience." 
 
 " Tou had better be quick about it, then, or yon will have 
 your mistress down," he said, in resignation. " It may be as 
 well not to tell dreams to her, if they are ugly ones." 
 
 She finished putting the things in their places on the cloth, 
 and then stood in front of the table, facing him. Mr. Owen 
 was at the open window still, listening to the bells. 
 
 "Master, I thought in my sleep that it was to-day dawning; 
 this very same Easter Sunday that is. All of us here seemed 
 to be in a peck o' trouble ; in great distress : and it was about 
 you. You had to go somewhere : I don't know why or where- 
 fore. It seemed to us that if you did go, some awful ill would 
 come of it : ill to you ; we knew that it would ; and yet there 
 seemed no help .for it ; never a thought crossed any of us to 
 say, Don't go. It seemed just one o' them things that must 
 be, that's as sure as night or day ; there was no question of 
 passing it. We were in frightful distress : it was worse than 
 any we can ever feel in this world ; sharper and more real. 
 Dreams are vivid ; I often think they picture things a bit like 
 what they'll be in heaven ; that is, when we shall no longer 
 see through a glass darkly. There was never such distress in 
 this house, master, as we seemed to be in then, and because 
 you had to go : it was just a keen anguish. The whole lot of 
 us were crying bitterly." 
 
 " "What do you call the ' whole lot ? ' " questioned Robert 
 Owen, as he paused. 
 
 " I don't know. I think my missis and the young lasses 
 were here ; I know it was home ; this farm, these rooms ; and 
 several of us stood about. The only face I clearly remember 
 was Joan's : she was sitting- down on the wooden chair by the 
 ironing-board in the kitchen, her hands clasped on her linsey 
 apron, and her eyes hot and red with tears. Nobody but you 
 seemed to be unconcerned, master." 
 
 "Oh, I did, did I?" 
 
124 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " You were moving about among us ; I saw you more than 
 once. But you seemed not to notice us, and not to feel any of the 
 trouble that we felt — nottoknowof it. 'When'sthemaster going?' 
 I said to Joan ; and I woke before she had time to answer." 
 
 " Is that all ? " cried the master, far more absorbed by the 
 bells, whose sound he loved, than by the tale. 
 
 " JSTo, master ; it's not all. I woke up with the distress, as 
 it seemed : and I thought to myself what a strange dream. I 
 wondered what the time o' night was, and got up and looked 
 from the window. Dawn was just a glimmering, and I saw 
 the mist had cleared. I got into bed, dropped asleep, and was 
 in the dream again. The same dream, master ; it seemed to 
 go on just as if I'd never woke. Joan was standing by the 
 same chair, not sitting then, and she was cleaned now, and had 
 got her best things on. But you were gone, master : and I 
 saw, as plainly as I could ever see awake, her red and swollen 
 eyes. The house seemed to be in the same awful distress as 
 before — it couldn't be worse — and we never could feel it like 
 that in life. We all set off to look for you, a great lot 
 of us, it was ; but we knew in our hearts that, look as we 
 would, you would nevea again come back to us : we knew it 
 as certainly as we can know anything in this world. All the 
 same, we ran, crying sadly ; some went up the lane, and some 
 went over the fields, and some hadn't got beyond the fold- 
 yard : but all of us bearing oif for the same point, as it were : 
 and all a-looking for you." 
 
 "Which point? The moon ? " 
 
 " The Trailing Indian," she answered, too much wrapt in 
 her tale to resent the words. " At least, it was towards that 
 direction that we all seemed to be making for. I was one o' 
 them in the lane, and I awoke with the running. This clock 
 was striking half after five, master ; and I sat up on end in 
 bed, and asked myself what the strange dream could mean. 
 The tears stood in my eyes, and the sweat was on my brow, 
 with the sorrow and the running. I've never hardly had such 
 a life-like dream as that." 
 
 Mr. Owen made no answer. 
 
 " I lay a thinking what it could mean. Then I went and 
 called Joan, for 'twas time; and, after that, I lay thinking 
 again. Just as I ought to have got up, I dropped asleep : 
 and that has made us late, master." 
 
 Mr. Owen bent his ear to catch the last chime of the bells. 
 To him they were of the sweetest melody. 
 
The Morning Dream. 125 
 
 " And, master, I'm not able to toll what it means, though 
 it has never been for a minute out o' my thoughts siuce I 
 got up. But, as sure as can be, it forebodes some ill for you." 
 
 " The bells have finished," said Mr. Owen, as the vibration 
 of their sound was dying slowly away. " Mary, woman, I'd 
 net let a foolish dream disturb me, if I were you." 
 
 " I know that it makes just as much impression upon you, 
 sir, as if I said I had read it in the newspaper," returned 
 Mary Barber tartly. "But I've told it you; and my con- 
 science is, so far, at ease : and I'd say further, take what 
 care you can o' yourself. That's all, master." 
 
 She whisked out of the room, brought in a dish of ham, 
 and set it on the table with a dash. Mr. Owen had his 
 prayer-book in his hand, looking out the proper psalms for 
 the Easter service. 
 
 " Master, what ails Mr. George Arde and his wife, that 
 they can't come over to-day for their Easter dinner ? " re- 
 sumed Mary Barber in a different tone, for she had done with 
 the other subject for good. " Our chiscakes '11 be good 
 enough for gentlefolks, I'll answer for't." 
 
 " Cheesecakes ! — it is not a question of cheesecakes," he 
 answered, with a sigh. " Polly is not strong enough to come. 
 Unless I am mistaken, this is the last Easter she'll see in this 
 world." 
 
 " Perhaps if she'd make an effort, master, she might ha' 
 got here," suggested Mary Barber in a softer tone — for the 
 answer somewhat appeased the resentment she was feeling 
 against things generally, and especially against herself for 
 having dropped asleep when she ought to have got up. 
 "Our chiscakes is beautiful, this Easter: and Miss Polly al- 
 ways was fond of 'em. The baby might ha' pecked abit, too. 
 Miss Maria never cared for 'em as Miss Polly did." 
 
 " We must send her some, Mary Barber." 
 
 " Ay, master, that us will. I don't like to hear of her get- 
 ting worse. At Christmas she looked like nothing but a 
 drooping snow-drop. Tom was enough to go, without " 
 
 "Hush ! — here's your mistress," was the warning interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. Owen entered ; and not a word more was spoken on 
 cither of the two subjects that master and maid had just then 
 at heart : she, the dream ; he, his daughter's failing strength- 
 Mrs. Owen was in too delicate health herself to be troubled 
 unnecessarily. 
 
126 Deiie Hollow, 
 
 Again Robert Owen stayed to partake of the Sacrament 
 after morning service ; and again Mrs. Owen (she was in the 
 habit of staying), and the parson equally wondered. Geoffry 
 Clanwaring and his "wife also stayed — for the first time to- 
 gether. Sir Dene was in his pew as usual ; but afforded him- 
 self no opportunity of speaking to Geoffry and Maria. He 
 always came out of church when the congregation, including 
 his son and daughter-in-law, had departed. 
 
 Things were going on quietly between Sir Dene and 
 Geoffry. They met frequently on business matters, and Sir 
 Dene seemed cordial ; now and then he would say, " How's 
 your wife, Geoff?" But Geoffry had not been invited to 
 take a meal at Beechhurst since that luncheon, already told 
 of: his visits there were confined to business ones in Sir 
 Dene's parlour. If any rare necessity brought Sir Dene to 
 the Bailiff's lodge, he would shake hands with Maria, and 
 speak very kindly. 
 
 Sir Dene was alone this Easter. John Clanwaring had 
 sent a wordy excuse for not quitting London. The heir was en- 
 gaged to be married now, and his ladye-love had claims on 
 his time. Geoffry, knowing all this, had wondered whether 
 Sir Dene might open his heart and invite him and his wife to 
 partake of dinner at Beechhurst. But nothing of the kind 
 took place. 
 
 So Geoffry and his wife went up to dine at Harebell Farm, 
 and stayed there the rest of the day. Maria was grievously 
 disappointed not to meet her sister. 
 
 " Is Polly so much worse that she could not come, mamma ? " 
 
 " I don't think it is exactly that," said Mrs. Owen. " She. 
 is very weak and delicate, you know, Maria ; but I suppose 
 she could have come. George Arde has a bad cold, your 
 father says ; nearly laid up with it. They have a fresh nurse- 
 girl, too. Polly had to send away the other." 
 
 Yes, Mr. Owen, to his wife, hacl put the non-coming for the 
 Easter dinner upon any trivial excuse, rather than the true 
 one — Mary Arde's fading life. And so the cheesecakes were 
 eaten without her, and the day passed. 
 
 The night was bright, quite different from the previous 
 one ; it was almost as light as day. When Geoffry Clanwar- 
 ing and his wife were departing after supper, Mr. Owen put 
 on his cap to walk part of the way with them. 
 
 " I should think that cap of yours will never wear out, 
 papa," saucily observed Maria. 
 
The Morning Dream. 127 
 
 "It does not get fresher," returned Mr. Owen; "but it is 
 good for. a cold night, lass." 
 
 This cap had been a standing joke with Robert Owen's 
 daughters. It was of seal- skin, originally bought for travel- 
 ling ; was expensive, and considered very handsome, in 
 accordance with the taste of the day. A year or two ao-o, 
 when it was growing worn and shabby, Mr. Owen had taken 
 it into night use : one evening, in standing over the candle to 
 read a letter, the front of it had got wofully singed ; burnt, 
 in fact. Mary Barber, who never would see anything wasted 
 that could possibly be used, edged it round with some white 
 fleecy fur. It rendered it more comfortable than before : but 
 certainly not more ornamental ; for it made one think of a 
 magpie. 
 
 "Robert, won't you put your great coat on ? " asked Mrs 
 Owen, as she followed them to the outer door. 
 
 " I think I will," he answered, turning back to take it from 
 the peg. " The air is frosty." 
 
 She stood a minute at the door watching them along the 
 path that led round to the side of the house, Maria arm-in- 
 arm with her husband ; Mr. Owen buttoning his coat, his 
 favourite stick in his hand. A chill seemed to take her and 
 run right through her frame ; she hastily shut the door and 
 returned to the fire. 
 
 " What be you shivering at, missis ? " questioned Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 " It is cold at that open door," answered Mrs. Owen, begin- 
 ning to stir the fire. " I have felt a little shivery all the 
 evening. This best parlour is not half as warm as the 
 other." 
 
 It was then ten o'clock. Mary Barber, busy in the kitchen, 
 helping Joan to put things straight there, did not come in 
 again for nearly an hour. Mrs. Owen had dropped into a 
 doze over the fire, and woke up with a start. 
 
 " Dear me ! I was asleep. AVhat's the time, Mary ? " 
 
 " Hard upon eleven, missis." 
 
 "Hard upon eleven ! " echoed Mrs. Owen. " Why, where 
 can the master be ? He must have gone all the way with 
 them." 
 
 "It's a rare fine night," responded Mary Barber — as if 
 tacitly implying that the fact might have tempted her master 
 on. 
 
 Mrs. Owen put the Bible on the table against her husband 
 
I2S Dene Hollow. 
 
 should come in. Mary Barber sat down on the other side of 
 the fire ; and they waited on, talking of various things. 
 Joan wanted a whole afternoon's holiday on the morrow — 
 and a " whole " afternoon dated in Joan's vocabulary from 
 one o'clock in the day. Mary Barber did not approve of 
 Mrs. Owen's having consented to Joan's taking it ; and said 
 so. The cuckoo clock struck half-past eleven. 
 
 " Why, where can he be ? " exclaimed Mrs. Owen. 
 
 "Wondering did not bring an answer. The time went on to 
 twelve. Mrs. Owen was in a state of great surprise then, 
 somewhat of alarm. 
 
 "Mary, do you think he can be staying all this while at 
 Maria's P " 
 
 " Not unless him and Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring have got 
 smoking a pipe together, missis. And that's not over likely." 
 
 " But, even if they had, the master would not stay all this 
 while." 
 
 The house was very still : nothing to be heard but the . 
 ticking of the cuckoo clock, that came faintly through 
 the open door of the other parlour. Joan was in bed and 
 asleep, recruiting herself against the morrow's pleasure ; 
 Parkes, the man who slept in-doors, was also in bed. The 
 clock ticked on for another half-hour : and with every minute 
 Mrs. Owen's uneasiness grew greater. 
 
 " Mary, it will soon be one," she said in excitement. " It 
 is not possible but that something must have happened to 
 him ! Perhaps he has fallen down somewhere and hurt him- 
 self." 
 
 " The best thing, missis, for you to do, is to go to bed." 
 
 " Go to bed ! Nonsense, Mary. I could not sleep if I did. 
 You must call Parkes; and let him go out and look for 
 his master." 
 
 " It'll take more time and trouble to waken Parkes than to 
 go myself," was Mary Barber's answer. "Once that man 
 gets asleep, there's no rousing him till worktime i' the morn- 
 ing. J'll go, missis." 
 
 If a thought crossed Mrs. Owen that she should feel very 
 lonely all alone, she suppressed it. Mary Barber was even 
 then putting on her bonnet and warm cloak. Her mistress 
 flung a shawl over her shoulders, and went with her to the 
 corner of the house where she could see the fold-yard. They 
 both listened for a minute, hoping to hear footsteps: but 
 not a sound broke the night's stillness. 
 
The Morning Dream. 129 
 
 " Take the open road down Dene Hollow, Mary. That's 
 the way he'd come up : perhaps you may meet him." 
 
 Wow it is a positive fact, and one often spoken to by Mary 
 Barber afterwards, that with the relating of the dream to her 
 master in the morning, it had gone out of her memory. 
 What with the preparation of the good cheer (deemed neces- 
 sary for Easter Sunday and for the visit of Mr. Geoffry Clan- 
 waring and his wife), and with the scuffle it was to get out 
 to afternoon service herself, and to let Joan get out ; in short, 
 what with the bustle of the day altogether, Mary Barber's 
 mind had been fully occupied, and she had not once re- 
 membered the dream. Never at all. As she passed through 
 the footgate into Hai-ebell Lane, some night bird flew, with a 
 cry, across the trees higher up, its wings making a great rush 
 and whirr. 
 
 " That's a owl," thought, Mary Barber, turning her face 
 full towards the sound. " I hate them owls." 
 
 All at once, in that moment, as she stood gazing up the 
 lane, the dream came flashing into her memory. Just as it 
 had been in the dream, so it was now in reality — Mr. Owen 
 was missing and being looked after. Only, in the dream 
 there had been a good many of them looking-, and here it was 
 but herself. So intensely did the fact — nay, the fear — come 
 home to Mary Barber, that her arms dropped by her side as 
 if a weight had pulled them. 
 
 With a feeling of certainty, that no persuasion could have 
 shaken, — with a dread terror that seemed to catch her heart 
 and hold it, — with a shivering sensation that perhaps she had 
 never in her life, save once, experienced, the conviction 
 crossed her that it was in that upward direction she ought to 
 search, not the other. And Mary Barber had all but started 
 up the lane at the top of her speed. 
 
 But, even with the most superstitious and fanciful, common 
 sense must, and does, in a degree exert its sway. It told 
 Mary Barber that there would be no reason in looking for her 
 master in the opposite direction to that he had been bound 
 upon. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, likely to have 
 taken him up Harebell Lane, especially when he had been 
 going the other way. But, had she started as impulse led 
 her, it would have been the very exemplification of her dream 
 — when she and others had been flying along the lane ; for 
 what particular point she knew not, only that it was in the 
 direction of the Trailing Indian. 
 
 E 
 
130 
 
 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " It's very odd," she said to herself with a sigh, as she 
 turned about the other way — and her heart felt like a lump 
 of lead. " How was it I forgot the dream all day long ? — 
 and why should it ha' come rushing over me as I looked up 
 the lane at the cry of that bird? Was it the sight o' the lane 
 brought it back, I woDder ? But what's odder than all the 
 rest, is the fact that master should be missing as he was in 
 the dream ; and that I should ha' come out after him." 
 
 Very quickly she went on now ; not exactly with a run, but 
 at a sharp walking trot. Under the park wall of Beech- 
 hurst Dene went she, turning off opposite its front gates, 
 down the smooth road of Dene Hollow, so cold and white 
 in the frosty moonlight. A few minutes brought her to 
 the bailiff's lodge, Geoffry Clanwaring's humble residence 
 now. 
 
 That Mr. Owen was not lingering there, appeared pretty 
 evident ; the house was closely shut up, its upper curtains 
 drawn. By dint of knocking for a few minutes, Mary Barber 
 succeeded in arousing Geoffry Clanwaring. He opened his 
 chamber window, and looked out. 
 
 • "Is the master here, sir?" asked Mary, standing back 
 against the shrubs to look up. 
 
 " What's it you, Mary Barber ? " he exclaimed. " Your 
 master ? No, he is not here. Why did you think he was ?" 
 
 "Didn't he come here, sir, with you and Miss Maria ? " 
 
 "No. He came as far as the new road ; and then turned 
 back. He said he was going to look at a sick cow : Light- 
 foot, I think he called it." 
 
 Maria's head appeared beside her husband's shoulder. A 
 thought had struck her. 
 
 " Is mamma taken ill, Mary Barber ? " 
 
 " Not she," replied Mary Barber. " Why should you think 
 that, Miss Maria ? " Tor Mary rarely gave the young lady 
 her new matronly title; the other was more familiar. 
 
 " Then why should you have come after papa ? What is it 
 that's the matter ? " 
 
 " There's nothing the matter, except that he has not come 
 home." 
 
 " Oh, is that all ? " returned Maria, carelessly : and neither 
 she nor her husband appeared to have an idea that it was so 
 late. Suddenly aroused from sleep, they were naturally 
 confused. "Then why need you have come?" repeated 
 Mrs. Clanwarms;. 
 
The Morning Dream. 131 
 
 Mary Barber possessed a large share of prudent reticence. 
 It occurred to her that she need not further alarni this young 
 girl — who was not altogether in strong health — by saying 
 what she feared. " We got a-wondering where the master 
 could be stopping, Miss Maria — and your mamma wanted to 
 go to bed," she said. " That's why I come." 
 
 "Well, I hope you have liked your walk — and you've given 
 me a fright besides. Good- night, Mary ; I wish you a 
 pleasant ramble back again." 
 
 " Mr. Owen is sure to have been with Lightfoot," added 
 Geoffry. " Tou will find him at home when you get back. 
 Good-night." 
 
 He closed the window; and Mary Barber turned slowly 
 away, the weight at her heart ten times greater. Had Light- 
 foot been dead or dying, he would not have stayed with the 
 animal all that while. An awful prevision lay on Mary 
 Barber — that he was dead. He, her master. 
 
 It had been calm and still as she went down, but now a 
 breeze had arisen ; stirring gently the branches of the trees, 
 passing through them with a slight moan. The shadows 
 played on the white road up Dene Hollow : Mary Barber 
 thought of that other shadow that her mother professed to 
 have seen, and shivered a little as she passed the spot. What 
 with the remembrances attaching to the road, and this present 
 midnight dread, things looked to her a little ghastly. 
 
 A quick, firm step on the upper path. Mary Barber heard 
 it, and her heart leaped with hope. But it proved not to be 
 her master. It was Mr. Priar. They met at the corner 
 opposite Sir Dene's lodge. The surgeon looked thunderstruck 
 at seeing her. 
 
 "Why, 11 ary Barber ! What brings you abroad here at 
 this hour? " 
 
 A brief, mutual explanation ensued. Mr. Priar was on his 
 way from the Trailing Indian, to which inn he had been 
 summoned in desperate haste some few hours before. 
 
 " What on earth for ? " demanded Mary Barber. " Who's 
 ill ?" 
 
 He told her who — at least, as well as his knowledge of 
 facts allowed him. That afternoon a comely young woman, 
 footsore and tired with walking, made her unexpected appear- 
 ance at the inn door, in search of Mr. Michael Geach, whose 
 wife she announced herself to be. Geach went into a tower- 
 ing passion, abused her for coming after him, and ordered her 
 
132 Dene Hollow. 
 
 away again. She refused to go ; and a general quarrel 
 ensued. What with the fatigue, and the excitement of the 
 quarrel upon it, the young woman was taken ill. Her 
 symptoms grew serious ; Mr. Priar was sent for, and arrived 
 in time to usher an infant into the world. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure!" cried Mary Barber, when she had 
 listened to the story. " Geach ? — Geach ? I've heard that 
 name afore uoav." 
 
 "He is an acquaintance of Black's," said Mr. Priar. 
 " Some loose fellow, who appears by fits and starts at the 
 Trailing Indian." 
 
 " Is the young woman his wife ? " 
 
 Mr. Priar gave his mouth a twist, clearly distinguishable in 
 the moonlight. " If required to produce her marriage ' lines,' 
 I fancy she might have some difficulty in doing it," said he. 
 " Black turned virtuous over it, I hear : he is annoyed that 
 she should be laid up there. She is very ill, poor thing." 
 
 " Did you see my master at the Trailing Indian? " resumed 
 Mary Barber, "Or in the lane as you came along it? " 
 
 "No. I should hardly be likely to see him at the Trailing 
 Indian. As to the lane, it seemed more lonely than ever 
 to-night, as if not a soul had been in it for ages." 
 
 He was making a movement to pass on, naturally want- 
 ing to get home to rest. Mary Barber put her hand on his 
 arm and detained him. 
 
 "James Priar" — she had called him so before in solemn 
 moments : and this seemed to be one of the most solemn 
 she had ever passed — "there's a feeling upon me that some 
 great ill has happened to the master. I think he is dead." 
 
 "Dead! Mr. Owen?" 
 
 With the moon shining right upon her face, Mary 
 Barber disclosed her reason for saying this, and related her 
 dream, regardless of the wondering stare that Mr. Priar 
 fixed upon her. As she went on, speaking very earnestly, 
 the incredulous surprise on his countenance gave place to a 
 kind of concerned perplexity. Perhaps he was somewhat 
 superstitious himself. 
 
 " That's why I asked you, James Priar, whether you had 
 seen him up there. Because in the dream we seemed to 
 know it was the right place to search for him in — somewhere 
 toward the Trailing Indian." 
 
 " I've neither seen sign of him, nor heard news of him," 
 was the answer. " If Geoffry Clanwaring tells you he was 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 133 
 
 going to see the sick cow, no doubt that's where ho went 
 to." 
 
 " But he'd not stay in the cowshed all this while." 
 
 " You don't know. Possibly, he found the animal worse, 
 and may have gone after Cole the farrier. It's not unlikely, 
 Mary." 
 
 This idea had not struck Mary Barber. It was certainly 
 possible. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said the surgeon hastily. "For goodness' 
 sake don't let your mind run on those other dismal thoughts. 
 You'll find him all right when you get home." 
 
 She slowly shook her head, in spite of the faint hope that 
 arose within her ; and they parted. " I might think it," she 
 said, " but for my morning dream. And them morning 
 dreams come true." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AT THE TRAILING INDIANc 
 
 " Is he come home ? " was Mary Barber's first question, as 
 she burst into the farm. And Mrs. Owen caught hold of her 
 as if it were pleasant to find herself again in companionship. 
 The past hour had been worse than solitary. 
 
 Robert Owen had not come home. There were no tidings 
 of him within, any more than without. Mary Barber men- 
 tioned the suggestion offered by Mr. Priar. 
 
 " There's nothing in it, missis, as I believe," she said. 
 " But I'll rouse up Parkes, and make him go with me to the 
 shed. If we see nothing o' the master, we'll come back and 
 go down the hill to Cole's." 
 
 After a considerable amount of shaking and thumping, Mr. 
 Parkes, a thick-headed rustic of twenty, was aroused, and he 
 and Mary Barber started off across the fields. The night was 
 so light that they could distinguish every feature of the way 
 clearly ; almost every blade of the sprouting grass. 
 
 "I see the master to-night a-going on to the shed," suddenly 
 cried Parkes : who had a round crop of red hair, and kept a 
 few steps behind Mary Barber. 
 
 She turned her face and her tongue short upon him. "You 
 see the master going on to the shed ! " she repeated in a tone 
 of dispute. " What do you mean by that, Parkes ? " 
 
 " So I did," said Parkes. And he proceeded to explain 
 
134 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 how it had happened. Partes had spent the afternoon at his 
 mother's — who lived two or three miles away, on the high- 
 road that crossed the upper end of the lane near the Trailing 
 Indian — and came back later than he ought to have come. 
 Jumping over the stile opposite the inn, he crossed the first 
 field to the two-acre meadow. There he suddenly saw his 
 master come round the narrow path between the fence and 
 the grove, just above Harebell Pond. Not caring to be seen 
 — for the rule was that he should be at home earlier — Partes 
 sheltered himself under the hedge, saw the master strike 
 across the field towards the cowshed, and then made onwards 
 as fast as his legs would carry him. 
 
 " What time was this ? " questioned Mary Barber, when 
 she had heard the confession. 
 
 " Blest if I can tell a'zactly," replied the young man. " I 
 know 'twere a sight a'ter ten." 
 
 Therefore it appeared certain, from this testimony, that Mr. 
 Owen, after parting with Geoffry Clanwaring and Maria, had 
 gone straight on to the cowshed, through his fields. " But 
 you must have been a fool, not to show yourself and bear him 
 company, as you were there, Parkes," cried Mary Barber, 
 who liked nothing better in life than keeping the youth in 
 order. 
 
 They passed round the narrow path, so often mentioned, 
 between the grove and the fence — Mr. Parkes taking a 
 temporary recreation by catching up a clod of earth and drop- 
 ping it over into Harebell Pond. It was the nearest way into 
 the two-acre meadow, cutting off the width of a wide field. 
 
 The shed was there, and the cow was there, all right and 
 comfortable ; but Robert Owen was not. No sign, even, was 
 seen to tell that he had been : but of course such sign was 
 not to be expected. 
 
 " Let's go and have just a look at the Trailing Indian," 
 cried Mary Barber. 
 
 Parkes tramped off after her, over the stile, and across the 
 field to the other stile, opposite the Trailing Indian. All still 
 and quiet lay the house in the moonbeams ; closely shut up ; 
 there was not so much as a light visible to indicate the 
 chamber of the sick woman told of by Mr. Priar. 
 
 " We'll take the way o' the lane back," said Mary Barber, 
 " and go on straight to Cole's." 
 
 It was just possible her master might have fallen some- 
 where, she thought ; might be lying still, and so escape the 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 135 
 
 eyes of Mr. Priar, who said the lane was empty. She kept 
 her own wide open, looking well to the banks on either side : 
 and looking fruitlessly. Parkes flung another clod into the 
 pond as he passed it, bestirring its green and slimy waters. 
 It took more time to knock-up the farrier than it had Geoffry 
 Clanwaring. But the man had not seen Mr. Owen. 
 
 A more miserable morn than that dawning on Harebell 
 Farm could not well be imagined. Do what she would, bring 
 any confuting argument to bear against the impression, any 
 amount of sober reasoning, Mary Barber was unable to divest 
 herself of the conviction that some untoward fate had over- 
 taken her master, or of the notion that the Trailing Indian 
 and its inmates had something to do with his disappearance. 
 She started off for the inn as early as she thought it would be 
 astir, her footsteps brushing the dew from the grass. The 
 side door of the house was open ; she entered without knock- 
 ing, and penetrated to the kitchen. The kettle was singing 
 away on the sway over the fire ; and Mrs. Black, kneeling 
 down before the hearth, was raking the dust from the cin- 
 ders into the purgatory. A teapot and caddy stood on the 
 table. 
 
 "Where's my master ? " sharply demanded Mary Barber. 
 
 Mrs. Black started up as though she had been shot. By 
 the white hue her face changed to, certainly telling of terror, 
 Mary thought the woman must be taking her for an apparition. 
 There was a minute's silence. 
 
 " Who did you ask for, please ? " then questioned Mrs. 
 Black in her close, meek way. 
 
 " I asked for my master : Mr. Owen, of Harebell Farm. 
 That's what I've come for." 
 
 " But I don't know anything of him," returned the woman, 
 after a pause, and in what appeared to be very genuine sur- 
 prise. " He is not here." 
 
 " Didn't he come here last night — say at half after ten, or 
 so; " pursued Mary Barber, hazarding the question. 
 
 " Not that I saw ; not that I know of. I think the house 
 was shut up afore that." 
 
 " He went to the two-acre meadow about that time, to see 
 a sick cow. We be a-thinking that he may ha' come on here : 
 perhaps for something or other that he wanted." 
 
 The landlady gave her head a shake, as if hardly understand- 
 ing. " I'll ask the ostler, if you like," she said. " I wasn't 
 about here last night myself : we've got a sick woman up-stairs." 
 
136 Dene Hollow* 
 
 " I feel as sure in my heart that the master come on here as 
 though I'd seen him come, Mrs. Black." 
 
 " Well, he might, in course," admitted Mrs. Black, after a 
 pause given to the consideration of the matter. " I can't say : 
 but Joe'll be here in a minute or two." 
 
 Mary Barber sat down without being asked. Mrs. Black 
 finished her cinder job, and pushed the fender into its place. 
 
 " Where's Black ? " was Mary Barber's next curt question. 
 
 " He's not up yet," replied the landlady. "As for me, I've 
 not been to bed." 
 
 Mary understood the reason — that she had sat up with 
 the sick woman. " I heard on't," she said. " How is the 
 person ? " 
 
 "Well, she's bad enough." 
 
 A short silence ensued. Mary Barber seemed impatient ; 
 the landlady stood waiting for the kettle to boil, and took 
 occasional glances at her morning visitor. 
 
 " But I don't understand why it is you've come asking about 
 this," she suddenly observed, the point striking her. " Did 
 Mr. Owen get home tipsy last night ? " 
 
 " He get home tipsy ! " was the indignant rejoinder. " That 
 was never a failing of his." 
 
 " Then why should you think he come to the inn ? " 
 
 "We don't know what to think. He never come home at 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Black lifted her eyes in much surprise. 
 
 " Since the time when he went to that there cowshed last 
 night, he has never been seen or heard of. My belief is that 
 he has been made away with." 
 
 The woman was in the act of putting a spoonful of tea into 
 the tea-pot, as Mary Barber said this. The words seemed to 
 strike her with a shock. Her hands shook so that she spilled 
 the tea ; her face again turned ghastly. 
 
 "Why, what do you mean ? " escaped from her trembling 
 lips. 
 
 "What I say, " sturdily replied Mary Barber. "We have 
 been abroad all night looking for the master, and he's not to 
 be found above ground. I fear he has been murdered." 
 
 " Mercy upon us ! " cried the woman aghast. 
 
 It was evident that if the Trailing Indian (according to 
 Mary Barber's theory) knew anything of Robert Owen's 
 disappearance, its mistress did not. Gathering up the bits of 
 tea from the table and putting them into the pot with her 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 137 
 
 trembling fingers, she was in the act of lifting the boiling 
 kettle off the sway, when the ostler appeared, carrying two 
 buckets of water from the well. 
 
 " This good lady's come round to know if Mr. Owen at the 
 farm called in here last night," she meekly said, speaking in 
 a sort of hurry. And the man gazed out at her with some 
 questioning surprise in his eyes — perhaps at her white lips. 
 
 " Owen o' the farm don't never come here," he briefly 
 replied. 
 
 " I think he must ha' come last night," interposed Mary 
 Barber, rising to address the ostler. " We've not heard nor 
 seen him since ; he never come home." 
 
 "He never come here," said the man, stooping to pour the 
 water from one of the biickets into a sort of portable cistern 
 that stood away near a sink. " What time was't ? " 
 
 " Nigh upon half-after ten. May be quite that." 
 
 "And we was shut up afore ten struck." 
 
 "That you warn't" retorted Mary Barber. "Dr. Priar 
 never went away till one o'clock i' the morning." 
 
 " The house was shut up afore ten; that I'll swear to," 
 asserted the man. " When Dr. Priar was ready to leave, I 
 unlocked this here yard door and let him out myself." 
 
 " I told the good lady I thought so — that we was shut up 
 early," spoke the hostess, who had kept her back turned, 
 doing something at the fire. 
 
 " We had no callers o' no sort i' the place last night," 
 resumed the ostler, taking up the other bucket. " As to 
 Owen at Harebell Farm, he warn't in the habit of coming at 
 all. If he'd been here last night, I should ha' seen him." 
 
 " Be you sure o' that ? " asked Mary Barber. 
 
 " I be. I'll take my oath he was notanigh the place." 
 
 Mary Barber paused. "Was Black abroad last night ? " 
 
 " No," replied the ostler, " he never went out at all. He 
 was abed afore we shut up." 
 
 Apparently there was nothing to stay for. Mary Barber 
 said good morning and went away, feeling that her errand 
 had been a useless one. 
 
 Before the sun was high in the heavens, the news had 
 spread far and wide : Robert Owen of Harebell Farm had 
 mysteriously disappeared. Hurst Leet put itself into a 
 commotion. The mere fact of his disappearance might not 
 have excited a tenth part of the interest, but for the persist- 
 ent assertion of Mary Barber, that he had been, in somo 
 way, " made away with." 
 
138 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 The testimony of Partes, as to having seen his master on 
 the previous night was confirmed, at least in a negative 
 degree, by two individuals. Joan said that when Parkes got 
 in " late and all out o' breath," he told her he had nearly 
 been "dropped upon" by the master in the two-acre 
 meadow. The other was Gander, Sir Dene's butler. Gander, 
 returning home soon after ten from taking a cup of ale with 
 Cole the farrier, overtook Mr. Owen at the entrance to Hare- 
 bell Lane, gave him the good night, and saw him turn in to 
 his own gate. Therefore, no doubt whatever could rest on 
 any mind that the farmer had proceeded, as was assumed, 
 direct to the shed, on quitting his daughter and her husband. 
 The question now was what had become of him afterwards. 
 
 Harebell Farm that day, was like a fair. So many sympa- 
 thising friends and neighbours were flocking up to it. George 
 Arde, who had come over from Worcester on other matters, 
 found it in this commotion. Geoffry Clanwaring was there ; 
 also old Squire Arde. Mary Barber got these three to herself 
 in the best parlour, and there related her dream. The once 
 keen eyes of Squire Arde, watery now, twinkled with merri- 
 ment as he listened. To use Mary's words, when comment- 
 ing on it later, he " stared and grinned in her face." 
 
 " Mary, woman, I'd not set myself up for a laughing-stock 
 if I was in your place ; the parish might be taking me for a 
 nat'ral. Dreams, indeed ! " 
 
 But in spite of the old man's ridicule, Mary Barber never 
 wavered an iota in her asserted belief. Her master was dead, 
 she said : she knew it by her dream. Dead, or else in some 
 sore plight that would prevent his ever coming back again ; 
 she was certain he had seen his home for the last time. 
 
 Though not given to be superstitious, her steady assertion 
 and its persistent earnestness made an impression upon the 
 two listeners who may be said to have held the largest 
 interest in the matter, as they were Mr. Owen's sons-in-law : 
 George Arde and Geoflry Clanwaring. They grew to think 
 that he really might be dead. And then they asked them- 
 selves and each other, how — if this were so — his death had 
 been accomplished. By accident, or by assault from without ? 
 
 " See here," said Squire Arde, looking up from the chair 
 where he sat — " a'most as many accidents happened on a 
 moonlight night as a dark un. People's eyes get deceived by 
 the shadows. I should have the ponds dragged." 
 
 " What ponds, sir ? " said George. 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 139 
 
 " Eh ? What ponds ? "Why, any pond that lay in his 
 way. There's the one by the fold-yard here, the duck-pond ; 
 and there's the pond in the lane. Have 'em emptied — or 
 dragged." 
 
 " Should you think he could have fallen in, sir ? " returned 
 George Arde, in what he would have made a tone of mocking 
 incredulity, but that he was speaking to the Squire. 
 
 " I think he might have walked in," was the answer. 
 " Tes, you young men with your young eyes may stare to 
 hear me say it ; but if you live to Robert Owen's age, you 
 may find 'em cheat you, Did ye ever hear o' one Squire 
 Honeythorn, as lived, at Beech Dene?" he quaintly asked. 
 And they smiled at the question. 
 
 " "Well, one night, moonlight it was too, Honeythorn, in 
 walking home down Harebell Lane, walked right into the 
 pond. He hadn't had a single sup o' drink ; don't you two 
 go a thinking that ; but he was getting in years and the 
 shadows deceived his sight. I know a lady, too, as walked 
 right into the "Worcester-and-Birmingham canal, and thought 
 it was part o' the towing-path. Hardly saved, she was, 
 either ; some boatmen heard her cries as she was sinking. It 
 might have gone hard with Honeythorn, only a man on horse- 
 back happened to ride down the lane at the time. And that 
 was me." 
 
 " If Mr. Owen walked into a pond, it must be the duck pond 
 here," said George Arde. " He did not go into Harebell 
 Lane." 
 
 "How do you know he didn't go ? " retorted the Squire. 
 
 " We don't know, sir, any of us ; but we may judge by pro- 
 babilities." 
 
 " I'd recommend you not to speak so positively, young man. 
 'Probabilities' have let in older folks than you, afore now." 
 
 " Well, sir, do you see any likelihood, yourself, of his having 
 gone into the lane ? " 
 
 " No, I don't," candidly spoke Squire Arde. "I only say 
 he might ha' gone. But there : let Harebell pond be. Try 
 this uu." 
 
 "I do not fear the ponds," interposed Geoffry Clanwaring, 
 who had been in a deep reverie. " Knowing the ground as 
 Mr. Owen knew it, a bright night besides, it seems next door 
 to an impossibility that any harm of that sort should come 
 to him." 
 
 " Master ud no more walk into a pond, whether by daylight 
 
140 Dene Hollow. 
 
 or by moonlight, than I should walk into the middle o' that 
 fire, " cried Mary Barber, with a fling of her hand towards 
 the grate. " Squire Arde, it's not there we must look for him." 
 
 "Where then, ? " asked the Squire, noting the significance 
 of the tone. 
 
 " I think — I think," she slowly rejoined, as if not quite sure, 
 herself — " that it's up at the Trailing Indian. There has been a 
 deal of ill-feeling on Black's part to the master ever since we 
 came to this farm : and I say that if harm has been done to 
 him, it's by the people there." 
 
 That Black had accused Robert Owen of spying upon him, 
 they were all aware. The neighbourhood knew so much as 
 that. Also that Mr. Owen had emphatically denied any in- 
 tentional spying on his own part. He had not looked out for 
 the ill-doings of the Trailing Indian : only, when they, or a 
 suspicion of them, had come under his notice incidentally, he 
 had not shut his eyes. That was all. 
 
 Squire Arde administered a reproof. " Mary Barber, there 
 might ha' been ill-feeling on Randy Black's part to your 
 master ; it's like enough. But you shouldn't go and say the 
 man has murdered him." 
 
 " I didn't say it, Squire. I didn't go as far in speech, 
 whatever I might ha' done in thought. Truth is, I don't 
 know what to think," she continued, after a pause, " my brain's 
 all in a muddle o'er it. If no harm has come to the master, 
 where is he ? I should like to ask Black whether he's alive or 
 dead. When I was up at the Trailing Indian this morning, 
 I couldn't get to see him. 
 
 Every little item connected with the past night bore its own 
 individual interest. Geoffry Clanwaring mentioned that as he 
 and his wife were walking home, Mr. Owen told them he had 
 seen two suspicious-looking men stealing up Harebell Lane on 
 the Saturday night, no doubt on their way to the Trailing 
 Indian. Geoffry could have added, had George Arde not been 
 present, that Mr .Owen changed the subject to speak of his 
 daughter Mary — saying he did not think she would be long in 
 this world. 
 
 " 'Twould do no harm if some of us went up and had a 
 talk with Black," said Squire Arde. " There has been a sight 
 o' trampers and such-like ill-looking folk about lately. If any 
 of 'em set upon Farmer Owen last night in the two-acre 
 meadow, sounds of it might have been heard at the Trailing 
 Indian. They've got a habit, them tramps, of creeping into 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 141 
 
 sheds to sleep : may be, Owen found some in his. Let's 
 
 go." 
 
 Nothing loth were the two young men to accompany him 
 to the inn, and they took their hats at once. In the fold- 
 yard of the farm stood Gander. Geoffry Clanwaring stopped 
 to accost him. 
 
 " You saw Mr. Owen last night, I heard, Gander ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I overtook him i' the lane yonder, as he was 
 turning in at the gate here." 
 
 " What passed ? " 
 
 "Nothing to speak of," was Gander's answer. "I said 
 ' Good-night, sir,' to him: ' Good-night, butler,' he answered 
 back again. That was all, Mr. Geoffry." 
 
 " You did not hear anything of him afterwards ?" Geoffry 
 stayed to ask. 
 
 " No, sir ; nothing." 
 
 " Or see any strange men about ? " 
 
 " Not a soul, sir." 
 
 Black stood in his yard, rubbing up the metal of some har- 
 ness, when they reached the inn. It may as well be mentioned 
 here what was gathered, partly by the man's own admissions, 
 partly by the corroboration of others, of the doings on the 
 Sunday at the Trailing Indian. 
 
 In the course of the morning, while people were in church, 
 the man named Robson took his departure from the inn, he and 
 Geach having lodged there on the Saturday night. Dinner 
 was served at two o'clock : Black and Geach sitting down to 
 it, Mrs. Black waiting on them. The meal was just finished, 
 when a young woman arrived ; a foot-traveller, who asked for 
 Michael Geach, and announced herself as his wife. Geach, 
 astounded at the sight, met her with abuse and passion ; while 
 Black, who had not before known there was a Mrs. Geach, 
 abused Geach for letting her come : or, rather, for letting it 
 be known, by her or anybody else, that he might be found at 
 the Trailing Indian. Both the men had partaken plentifully 
 of strong ale at dinner; it tended to inflame their tempers, 
 and they quarrelled with each other. Quarrelling is thirsty 
 work ; and the men found it so. They quitted the ale for 
 spirits, and soon got into a state of intoxication. The 
 ostler, in describing it, said they were only " half 
 gone ; " that is, they were not totally unable to talk or 
 walk. During this time, Mrs. Geach fell ill, and was unable 
 to depart, as ordered. What with that fresh annoyance, with 
 
142 Dene Hollow. 
 
 the quarrel and the drink, Geach's fury reached its climax. 
 He betook himself off in a passion, mounted a public convey- 
 ance that happened to be passing along the highway, and left 
 Mrs. Geach to her fate and the hospitality of the Trailing 
 Indian. That was about five o'clock. Black, after swearing 
 a little at things in general, sat down in the settle before the 
 fire in what was called the parlour, and fell into a heavy sleep. 
 He said that he never awoke from the sleep until Joe, the 
 ostler, was shutting up the inn for the night, just before ten ; 
 and then he went straight up to bed. The ostler said this 
 also ; Mrs. Black said it. Before this, the sick woman grew 
 so ill that Mrs. Black became alarmed, and about eight o'clock 
 despatched the ostler for Mr. Briar. All agreed in these two 
 important points — that Robert Owen had not been to the inn ; 
 or, so far as they saw, near it : and that none of the inmates 
 of the inn had gone forth from it at all that evening, save the 
 ostler on his errand. He, the ostler, returned to it with Mr. 
 Priar, and did not quit it again. If this statement could be 
 positively verified, it was quite certain that Black could have 
 had nothing to do with the disappearance. 
 
 He nodded to the three gentlemen civilly enough when they 
 entered the yard, but kept on rubbing his harness. Fright- 
 fully ill he looked, his complexion a kind of salloAv whiteness, 
 the effects probably of intemperance. It was not often 
 Black yielded to the failing ; when he did, it was sure to 
 pay him off the next day in a racking sick head-ache. 
 
 " Well, Black," began Squire Arde, "we've come up to 
 have a word or two with you. Do you know anything of Mr. 
 Owen ?" 
 
 " Black grew suddenly whiter ; with an accession of sick- 
 ness or of anger. He let the strap fall from his hand, and its 
 buckle clicked against the stable door. 
 
 " What I'd like to know, sir, is, why I should be asked it. I'm 
 free to put that question, I suppose," he added, his voice shaking 
 with what seemed concentrated passion. " Here's been folks 
 coming up every hour o' the day since morning light, asking 
 me what I've done with Robert Owen. That woman of 
 their'n was here afore 'the house doors was undone. Why 
 should I be bothered about Owen, more nor others ?" 
 
 " For one thing, you are his nearest neighbour, Black," was 
 the Squire's answer. " For another, the last seen or known 
 of Owen was in the two-acre mead over there, within a stone's 
 throw of you." 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 143 
 
 " There might be two hundred Owens over in that there 
 mead, and me never know it," contended Black. 
 
 "Mr. Owen was there — it has just been ascertained — at about 
 a quarter past ten last night, or from that to half-past," rather 
 sternly interposed Geoffry Clan waring. " He has not been 
 seen since. Do you know anything of him, Black ?" 
 
 "No, I don't, sir," replied Black, speaking with tolerable 
 civility to his landlord's son. " Long afore that time I was 
 abed. Fact was, I got a drop too much inside me yesterday 
 afternoon — and my head's fit to split, through it, to-day," he 
 added, as if in apology for his sickly face. " I fell asleep in 
 the parlour and never woke nor stirred till bedtime. Joe 
 disturbed me, shutting-to the shutters, and I went straight up 
 to bed." 
 
 "What time was that ? " 
 
 What time ?" repeated Black. " Joe knows more sure nor 
 I do," he added. " 'Twasn't ten." 
 
 " It wanted ten minutes o' ten," interposed Joe, who was 
 splashing away at the horse-trough close by, cleaning it out. 
 " We don't often shut up till ten have struck ; but there warn't 
 no customers i' the house, nor none likely to come, and I 
 thought I'd close. The master swore at me, saying it warn't 
 time ; he was cross at bein' woke up." 
 
 " And you swore at him again, I suppose," remarked 
 Squire Arde. 
 
 " No I didn't," replied the ostler, in his stolid way. " When 
 a man's in his cups, he's best let alone. He didn't give no 
 opportunity for't, neither ; he stumped right off to bed." 
 
 "What strikes me's this, Black," said the Squire — who 
 appeared quite to have forgotten the notion of any suspicion 
 against Black. " There's a sight of ill-doing tramps about ; 
 always is after a hard winter ; if any of 'em had crept into 
 the cowshed, and Owen found 'em there, he and they might 
 have a row together." 
 
 " I've never knowed so many o' them tramps about as 
 now," returned Black, hastily and eagerly. " Two bad uns 
 was at the door on Sunday morning, frightening my missis, 
 and begging for scraps o' bread. They'd got just the look o' 
 cut-throats." 
 
 " Ay," nodded the Squire. " Who knows but them same 
 two laid up somewhere about here till night, and set on 
 Robert Owen ? You might have heard the noise over here 
 Black." 
 
r44 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " I warn't likely to hear nothing," answered Black. " I 
 full asleep the minute after I got into bed : and when I'm in 
 that stupid state my sleep's heavier nor a top." 
 
 At this juncture Mr. Priar appeared at the side-door, 
 having come downstairs from paying a visit to the sick 
 woman. They remained a few minutes longer talking, Black 
 steadily persisting in his denial of having heard or seen any- 
 thing of Mr. Owen ; and then they all turned to depart, 
 including the doctor. 
 
 There's an old and good saying — Let well alone. Black 
 did not allow it to govern him just then. Like many another 
 zealous self-defender ; he thought the more words he used, the 
 better his cause might be served. 
 
 " I've not had a answer to my question, gentlefolk," he 
 began, arresting them as they were going out. " What I'd 
 like to know is, if there's any cause for my being singled out 
 to be badgered about Owen — what's become of him, or what's 
 not?" 
 
 Upon that, George Arcle, who had been silent hitherto, 
 contenting himself with looking and listening, turned to face 
 the man, and told him of the bitter ill-feeling he was known 
 to have cherished towards Mr. Owen. He spoke with open, 
 and rather stinging plainness, of the suspected private ways 
 of the Trailing Indian : not particularising their nature (per- 
 haps he could not), but alluding to them in a general manner, 
 as " ill-doings." 
 
 It put up Black's temper. He was under no obligation to 
 Mr. George Arde, or to his relative at his side, the Squire ; 
 and he retorted warmly. 
 
 "Well, and he had had cause to feel bitter again Owen: 
 though he had never molested him — nor thought of doing 
 on't — nor never had done it. He had got his own proper 
 feelings, he hoped, though he was but an inn-keeper, and the 
 farmer ud never let him alone. Didn't Owen watch him 
 continually ? — warn't he a spy upon him — didn't he talk 
 about him at Hurst Leet? No! says the gentlemen afore 
 him. No ? One on 'em, at least, knew better nor that. Look 
 at them lies about the hearse what stopped to bait at his 
 house that night in the winter, rather Owen had set it 
 about that it had come to take away a corpse, and had sent 
 
 Dr. Priar up to accuse him on't. If " 
 
 Mr. Priar lifted his arresting hand to command silence. 
 " Don't be so fast, Black. Who told you Mr. Owen sent me ? " 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 145 
 
 ""Why, you did," retorted Black — while the ostler stopped 
 his splashing in the trough to listen. " Didn't you confess 
 that the man stood 0' purpose at that stile, over there, and 
 "watched the hearse away ? You know you did, sir." 
 
 " I did not," said Mr. Priar. " I told you, Black, that the 
 person was not watching purposely, but saw it incidentally in 
 passing ; I impressed this upon you as plainly as tongue can 
 speak. And I most certainly never told you that the person 
 was Mr. Owen." 
 
 " I know that without you telling me, Dr. Priar. There 
 warn't no need to mention names — oh, dear, no." 
 
 "But it was not Mr. Owen." 
 
 "Not Mr. Owen ! It's all very well for you to try to make 
 me believe that now, sir," added Black, with a sneer. 
 
 " I tell you the truth, Black : it was not Mr. Owen. The 
 person who saw you was Jonathan Drew — lying disabled 
 now, poor man. In riding past, he saw the hearse at the 
 open door here, and drew up Dobbin by the stile to watch 
 what came of it." 
 
 " I can speak to it's being Drew," interrupted Squire 
 Arde, " for he gave me the history of it the next day from 
 his bed. About the hearse he talked, and all what he had 
 seen brought out o' the yard door here, and shut into it. 
 Don't give your betters the lie to their faces, Bandy Black." 
 
 Randy Black did not speak. He looked from the curious 
 old man to the doctor, silently asking whether this were 
 really true. So, at least, Mr. Priar interpreted it. 
 
 "You need not doubt, Black," said the surgeon. "It was 
 in galloping away from the sight, down Dene Hollow, that 
 Drew's horse threw him — and I wondered at the time that 
 your own common sense did not show you it could have been 
 no one but Drew, knowing, as you did, that he must have 
 just rode past here. The first thing Drew did when I got 
 him home that night was to tell me what he had seen. He 
 concluded it was your wife that was put into the hearse ; 
 so did I. And that's what brought me up on the following 
 morning." 
 
 Black's lips parted to speak, and then closed again. In 
 some way or other the narrative was evidently making some 
 great impression on him. 
 
 " Drew was mistaken," he burst forth at length. " He 
 never saw it; he couldn't ha' seen what was ne'er there to 
 see. The hearse only stopped to bait ; 'twas never opened. 1 
 
 L 
 
146 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " It is of no consequence now, one way or the other; the 
 thing's past and done with," coolly rejoined Mr. Priar. 
 " Only don't continue to fancy it was Mr. Owen : he saw no 
 more of the matter than I did. As it happens, I am in a 
 position to testify that Mr. Owen never went out of his house 
 that night. I was up there, you remember : and we were all 
 in distress about the little child. Mr. George Arde, here, can 
 bear out what I say : he was at the farm, too." 
 
 George Arde nodded in confirmation. 
 
 "Ay, ay," wound up the Squire. ." Don't you be fond of 
 laying hold o' wrong notions, Black, and then sticking to 'em 
 i' the teeth o' people." 
 
 They turned, without further speech to quit the yard. 
 Black dreAv a long breath as he looked after them. " You 
 can finish the harness, Joe," he said to the ostler, and went 
 indoors. 
 
 As they crossed the lane and the opposite stile, Mr. Priar 
 spoke to what had come under his own cognisance the pre- 
 vious evening. It was past eight o'clock, he said, when the 
 ostler, Joe, came to fetch him ; they both went back together 
 to the Trailing Indian, reaching it about nine. Black was fast 
 asleep at the corner of the settle : and Joe remarked that his 
 master was " sleeping off some]drink." About a quarter before 
 ten Mr. Priar went downstairs for something he wanted : 
 Black was then still asleep in the same place and position, and 
 Joe was sitting by the kitchen fire. In a minute or two Mr. 
 Priar went up again, and did not see Black again. It was 
 quite possible that the man might have gone up to bed before 
 ten, as he asserted ; Mr. Priar could not say one way or the 
 other, for he was shut up with Mrs. Black in the sick woman's 
 chamber. He did not think the ostler went out again : they 
 had occasion to call two or three times for hot water and 
 other things, and the man was always at hand to bring them 
 up. When Mr. Priar came down to leave, an hour after mid- 
 night, the ostler was waiting up in the kitchen to let him out. 
 Mr. Priar took half a glass of hot brandy and water before 
 goin"" out, which Joe mixed. He stood by the kitchen fire 
 and talked to Joe while he drank it : and he remembered that 
 the man incidentally mentioned that his master had gone to 
 bed before ten. 
 
 All this tended to corroborate Black's own statement: it 
 certainly did appear that he could not have harmed, or helped 
 to harm, Robert Owen. In passing the shed, they, turned 
 
At the Trailing Indian. 147 
 
 into it ; for curiosity's sake, more than in expectation of making 
 any discovery. Lightfoot, recovering fast, was there, and 
 turned her head to "welcome them : but there was no sign 
 that any struggle had taken place in it. In fact, the undis- 
 turbed litter spoke to the contrary. 
 
 " Whatever happened, must have happened afterhe had paid 
 his visit here, there's no doubt of it," remarked Geoffry Clan- 
 waring, as they went out. " Parkes saw him making straight 
 for the shed : had he been molested before reaching it, the 
 man could not well fail to have heard the cries. The door was 
 found fastened too, just as Mr. Owen would leave it. Now 
 then — let us see. He would naturally go straight back home 
 again, knowing Mrs. Owen was waiting up. That would be 
 across here " — stretching out his hand to the two-acre meadow, 
 which lay green and smooth before them as they walked — 
 " round the narrow strip of path, and so across the fields 
 home. It's a pity the sheep are on the other side the farm 
 this year," he added: "had they been here, the shepherd 
 might have been about." 
 
 Crossing the stile over to the narrow pathway, they tra- 
 versed it slowly. It was very narrow : not possible for two 
 to walk on it abreast ; the fence, a low one, lay on their right ; 
 as they walked their left shoulders brushed the trees. In 
 length it might have been twenty yards ; not more. In the 
 middle of it Squire Arde stopped and looked over at the pond 
 in the lane underneath. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "if Owen had been a going through the 
 lane i'stead o' up here, I should say he had mistook his way 
 amid them rushes, and walked into the pond." 
 
 " But don't you think, sir, even had such a thing happened, 
 that he would have been able to get out of it again ? " spoke 
 Mr. Clanwaring. 
 
 " Like enough : some might and others mightn't," answered 
 the old man. " What's this ? " 
 
 He had his back against the fence now, glancing at the 
 brushwood that grew amidst the tree-trunks immediately in 
 front of where he stood. It appeared to be a little torn. 
 
 " One might a'most fancy that somebody has made a dash 
 through it just here. What d'ye think r 1 " 
 
 The three others, glancing to where the old man pointed, 
 did not appear to think much about it. " Some animal, 
 perhaps," one of them carelessly answered. 
 
 " I suppose we must give up all suspicion of Black," re- 
 
143 Dene Hollow. 
 
 marked Geoflry Clanwaring, as they went on over the open 
 field. " The account he gives seems fair enough. Likely to 
 be true." 
 
 " Ay : I don't doubt him in this, for my part," acquiesced 
 the Squire. 
 
 " Neither do I," said Mr. Priar. 
 
 " I don't altogether doubt him; but I don't altogether trust 
 him," dissented George Arde. " Look here : while you were 
 talking to him, I was watching him : taking observations, as 
 may be said. There was one thing I did not like — his en- 
 larging on the state he was in yesterday. It is not considered 
 a great crime to get drunk in these drinking days ; neverthe- 
 less, most men in Black's position would rather hide the fact 
 from their betters than gratuitously proclaim it. I wondered 
 whether he had any motive for wishing us fully to believe that 
 he toas drunk. Another thing : he never while he spoke, 
 looked one of us in the face throughout the whole interview." 
 
 Squire Arde, deep in his own thoughts, had not been 
 listening. " Who didn't ? " he sharply asked, waking up. 
 
 " Who, sir ! " returned George Arde, slightly surprised. 
 " I was speaking of Randy Black." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HAREBELL POND. 
 
 The singular disappearance of Robert Owen excited more 
 speculation and comment than anything that had occurred in 
 the neighbourhood of late years. The turning out of doors 
 and razing the home of the widow Barber, the stolen marriage 
 of Sir Dene's son, both of note at the time of their occurrence, 
 did not excite the prolonged commotion that this disap- 
 pearance caused. As the days went on and brought no tidings, 
 the painful interest increased. He was not a man likely to 
 have gone away of his own accord ; and yet he could not be 
 heard of above ground. Mary Barber's opinion, that he had 
 been put under it, spread silently. 
 
 The duck-pond near the fold-yard was searched ; it yielded 
 in recompense nothing but mud. In returning home from his 
 visit to the shed (if he did return), Mr. Owen might pass the 
 brink of this pond. The probability was that he would ; 
 though he could have gone round on the other side the barn. 
 Harebell pond was let alone : it was universally assumed that 
 
Harebell Pond. 149 
 
 nothing would be likely to take Mr. Owen into tlie lane. To 
 Lave returned home that "way, after leaving the shed, he must 
 have traversed the outer field, crossed the stile opposite the 
 Trailing Indian, and thence through the whole of the lane — a 
 regular round for nothing. So Harebell pond was not 
 meddled with. 
 
 The feeling against the Trailing Indian died away. Mary 
 Barber avowed her doubts of it openly enough, and this at 
 first raised somewhat of doubts in the minds of others : but 
 as there was absolutely nothing to corroborate these doubts — 
 nay, as the Trailing Indian seemed, for that one evening at 
 least, to be beyond the pale of suspicion, the thought of con- 
 necting Black with the disappearance faded away, so far as 
 regarded the public. Mary Barber, however, do as she would, 
 could not get rid of her fear so easily; it clung to her in spite 
 of herself, and perhaps influenced in a degree some of those 
 about her. 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring, waiving prejudices for the time being, 
 made a call at Harebell Farm. Never, since his son's mar- 
 riage with Maria, had he exchanged a word with Robert 
 Owen, or condescended to notice him by so much as a nod in 
 passing. He did not accuse the farmer of having in any way 
 helped on the marriage, or of being privy to it ; but his 
 wounded pride would not brook the slightest approach to in- 
 tercourse. In his interest now ; his curiosity, and perhaps 
 also in a better feeling — that of compassion for Mrs. Owen — 
 he considered it his duty as landlord to call. Mrs. Owen, 
 however, was keeping her room, too ill to receive him ; but 
 he saw the son, who had been summoned home in the distress. 
 William Owen was the eldest of the family; a slight, quiet 
 young man of three-and-tw T enty, very much like his mother. 
 He was with a farmer in Wiltshire, gaining experience, and 
 earning a small salary. Harebell Farm had been no larger 
 than Mr. Owen could himself well manage ; and the son was 
 waiting until his father could spare the funds to take a small 
 farm for him. Sir Dene was a little taken with the young 
 man, whose manners were very gentle and pleasing. Sir 
 Dene questioned Mary Barber what her grounds had been for 
 doubting Black — of which doubt he had heard from his s*m 
 Geoffry : and Mary Bai-ber, nothing loth, regaled Sir Dene's 
 ears with her singular dream. Sir Dene did not attempt to 
 dispute the dream, or to cast ridicule upon it : he simply 
 asked, when the relation was over, ivhat there was in that 
 
150 Dene Hollow. 
 
 dream to cause her to suspect Black. She replied that the only 
 part of the dream -which could have had reference to Black, 
 -was the concluding part of it — when they were searching for 
 Mr. Owen in their distress, and were all making, as if by in- 
 stinct, towards the direction of the Trailing Indian — and that 
 it was not the dream which led her mind to doubt Black, but 
 the ill-feeling which the man, as was well known, had long 
 entertained towards her master. Sir Dene nodded acquies- 
 cence to this, and took his leave courteously. Since the finding 
 of the paper given by Squire Honey thorn, he had been very 
 civil to Mary Barber when by chance they met : as if he 
 would tacitly apologise for having doubted her mother's 
 word. 
 
 The weather in England is capricious ; as we too well 
 know. J Before the Easter week was quite out, the lovely 
 spring sunshine had given place to a heavy fall of snow. One 
 day in the next week, when the ground was white, Sir Dene 
 and his son Geoffry were returning home on foot through 
 Harebell Lane from a visit to some outlying land on the 
 estate, and caught the sound of some young voices in dispute, 
 as they approached the pond. Suddenly a man's tones 
 drowned the others. 
 
 " What's the matter there, I wonder ? " carelessly remarked 
 Sir Dene to his son. " That's Black's voice." 
 
 The matter was this. Two little ploughboys, not quite so 
 hard- worked as usual by reason of the snow, had met in Hare- 
 bell Lane, and went in for a game of snow-balling. It ended 
 in roughness. There was a personal tussle on the edge of the 
 pond, and both fell amid the snow and rushes. Fell on some- 
 thing that hurt the under one. It proved to be a thick, 
 nobbly, walking-stick, polished to the brightness of mahogany. 
 Both lads seized upon it, each claiming it for his own booty. 
 While they were fighting for possession, Randy Black came 
 up the lane, pounced upon the combatants, like the hawk in 
 the fable, and took the stick. As Sir Dene came in sight he 
 was holding it above his head, beyond the reach of the howling 
 and indignant boys, who were vainly jumping up to try and 
 get it back. Black had his back turned, and did not see that 
 anyone was near. 
 
 " What stick's that ? " 
 
 The stern, authoritative interruption was Geoffry Clan- 
 waring's. It arrested the boys' noise ; it startled Black. As 
 the man turned sharply to see who spoke it, he flung the stick 
 
Harebell Farm. 151 
 
 into the Pond — and Geoffry, springing forward, was too late 
 to save it. 
 
 "What did you do that for, Black ? " demanded Geoffry. 
 
 "It's the best place for it, Mr. Clanwaring," was Black's 
 answer, as he made a show of touching his hat to Sir Dene. 
 " These here young devils 'ud a fought to their skins for't 
 else." 
 
 "It is not the best place for it," returned Geoffry, with 
 some emotion. "Wait an instant, sir, please," he added to 
 his father, who was walking on. " Whence did you get that 
 stick, Black?" 
 
 Something seemed to be the matter with Black. He had 
 turned so deadly white. 
 
 " What stick was't ? " questioned Black of the boys, moving 
 to face them. " These here young hounds had got a fighting 
 over it when I come up." 
 
 " 'Twere 'mong the rushes," sobbed one. 'Twere me as it 
 hurted, a falling on't; 'twere me as had it first." 
 
 " Why do you inquire, Geoffry ? " asked his father. " Is 
 the stick anything to you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. The stick was Mr. Owen's. It was the one 
 he had with him that night." 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Sir Dene in his surprise. "Mr. 
 vOwen's ! " 
 
 " I am sure of it. As Black held it up, I saw it distinctly, 
 and recognized it. What was your motive for throwing it 
 into the pond ? " he asked, turning on Black. 
 
 " Motive ! I'd got no motive, sir — but to pay out these here 
 two varmints," was Black's ready answer. " Why don't ye 
 tell about the stick, and where ye got it ? " he savagely added 
 to the two young culprits, boxing one, and kicking the other. 
 " Not as I should think 'twas any stick of Owen's. 'Taint 
 likely." 
 
 " I tell you it was," said Geoffry, with a touch of his elder 
 brother's hauteur. " How dare you dispute my word ? " 
 
 " If you think 'twas, sir, I'm sure I bo sorry to have pitched 
 it in," said Black, humbly. " I never thought it was any 
 stick o' consequence ; and I don't think it now. As to you 
 two young beasts, I hope you'll come to be hung, for 
 getting me into this row. 
 
 He touched his hat again and went on towards the Trailing 
 Indian. Geoffry Clanwaring looked after him. 
 
 " Father, I do believe that man knows more about the past 
 
152 Dene Hollow. 
 
 than lie ought. He pitched in that stick in sheer terror — to 
 conceal the stick. So it seemed to me." 
 
 " Owen's stick ! " cried Sir Dene, unable to realize the fact. 
 "What is to be done, Geoffry ? " 
 
 " We must have the pond searched, sir. If the stick was 
 really lying amid the rushes on its brink, the probability is 
 that he is lying within it." 
 
 Sir Dene recognized the necessity for action ; and no time 
 was lost. In the presence of quite half the population of 
 Hurst Leet, who flocked up to see the sight, Harebell pond 
 was searched. The stick was first of all fished up, and then 
 its master. 
 
 Just as he had gone out of his home that night ; in his great 
 coat, his magpie cap tied on over his ears, apparently un- 
 touched, not a fold of his garments ruffled, so he was found. 
 At first it was supposed that it was a simple case of accidental 
 drowning. But soon the discovery was made that he had 
 been injured^apparently by a blow — in the back of his head. 
 Was that blow accidental ? — or wilful ? 
 
 Squire Arde, making one of the throng, and whose opinion 
 from his age and position had long held sway in the place, 
 thought Robert Owen had fallen into the pond from above. 
 
 " When he left the cowshed that night, he might have 
 halted at the fence to look up and down the lane, have leaned 
 too far over it and overbalanced himself ; his head struck again 
 some sharp substance i' the pond, which stunned him, and so 
 he lay and was drowned. As to the stick, it fell amid the 
 rushes, and was hid. Or else," added Squire Arde, " some 
 villain struck at him from behind as he was standing above 
 there, stunned him, and hurled him over. 'Twas one or t'other, 
 J think. D'ye mind what I said t'other day, Mr. Geofl'ry 
 Clanwaring — about the brushwood being disturbed up 
 there ? " 
 
 The public took up the notion from that hour. Robert 
 Owen, either by accident or assault, fell over the fence into 
 the water, and lay there quietly to drown. There was no 
 proof at all : only supposition. The coroner's inquest was 
 assembled, and brought in an open verdict : Found drowned 
 in Harebell pond. 
 
 And that was the ending of Robert Owen in this world. 
 The ill-fated man was buried in the churchyard at Hurst Lect, 
 a crowd of spectators attending the funeral. 
 
 One piece of impudence must be mentioned. On the day 
 
Harebell Pond. 153 
 
 following the interment, Randy Black presented himself at 
 Beechhurst Dene, and craved an audience of its master. He 
 had come to ask for the lease of Harehell Farm, and offered 
 (as an inducement) to pay the first year's rent in advance. Sir 
 Dene thought it the coolest piece of impudence he had ever 
 met with ; and very nearly (in w T ish at any rate) kicked Mr. 
 Randy out of the house. Harebell Farm, he said, was not in 
 the market. 
 
 That was true. It had been arranged that "William Owen 
 should manage the farm in his late father's place; and Sir 
 Dene had already accepted him as tenant. 
 
 A week or two went slowly on. The inclement snow, the 
 biting winds again gave place, in accordance with their 
 capricious fashion, to genial spring weather and bright sun- 
 shine. But, long ere a month had elapsed, a very startling 
 and disagreeable rumour arose in the neighbourhood — it was 
 not quite certain whence or how. The substance of it was 
 that Robert Owen could not rest in his grave, but came back 
 again to haunt the earth. It was said that he had been 
 seen more than once hovering about Harebell Lane. 
 
 After the rumour had been whispered well about, the first 
 person to see the apparition — or to fancy he saw it — was Sir 
 Dene's butler, Gander. One moonlight night, towards the 
 end of April, just about four weeks after that other moonlight 
 time which had witnessed the disappearance of Robert Owen, 
 Gander went up on an errand to the Trailing Indian, sent 
 thither by his master. Sir Dene happened to be out of 
 tobacco : none, for miles round, was to be had so good as that 
 kept at the Trailing Indian, and even Sir Dene did not dis- 
 dain to avail himself of that ill-reputed house's goods. " Get 
 a pound of it, Gander," said he : " and as much more as 
 Black will spare." 
 
 Gander got the tobacco, paid for it, and accepted a glass 
 of ale, hospitably proffered by Black. Like his master, he 
 could forget the doubtful reputation of inn and host, when 
 his interest was concerned — and Gander knew what good 
 ale was as well as anybody. " To drink it up at a gulp and 
 bolt, 'ud be fine manners," thought the butler. So he sat 
 down and sipped it, and had a chat with Black. 
 
 " How's that young woman as was ill here ? " he asked. 
 
 " She's not about yet," answered Black, angrily, for the 
 matter had annoyed him from the first. " Got a bad leg, or 
 something 1 ." 
 
154 Dene Hollow. 
 
 After sitting about a quarter of an hour, Gander started 
 for home at a quick pace, the paper of tobacco in his hand. 
 " That's a rare good tap up at Black's," he said to himself, as 
 he went along the lane. " Wish Sir Dene 'ud keep as good a 
 one for us ! " 
 
 In approaching the pond, he got thinking of him who had 
 not so long ago been found there ; which was but natural ; 
 and the association of ideas caused him to glance np at the 
 fence above. And if ever a man felt that he was struck into 
 stone, Gander did then. 
 
 For there, leaning over the fence and staring at him — just 
 as he might have leaned the night of his death — was the well- 
 known form of Robert Owen. 
 
 " Mercy be good to me ! " gasped the butler. 
 
 Dropping the paper of tobacco, never stopping to pick it 
 up, Gander sprung off with a yell that might have been heard 
 at the Trailing Indian, and never drew breath or step till he 
 burst into the servants' hall at Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ONLY SADNESS. 
 
 This chapter will be a sad one. I am sorry, but there's no 
 help for it. The reader will say, attributing the story to the 
 imagination of the writer's brain, Why make these people, in 
 whom we have got interested, die ? The answer is, — Because 
 they did die. For this tale is not a tale of fiction, but a real 
 record of the past : of people that lived, and of the events 
 that happened to them. When an author is trammelled by 
 reality, and would be a faithful narrator, he cannot put sun- 
 shine where darkness lay, or make dark that which was light. 
 Some months have elapsed since the death of Robert Owen, 
 and they have brought at least one grave and grievous mis- 
 fortune in their train. Geoffrey Clanwaring, out one day 
 with a party shooting small birds, had received a gun-shot 
 wound in his side. There was little damage outwardly, and 
 of that he soon recovered ; but the doctors had a suspicion of 
 some grave inward injury : and if their fear proved correct, 
 poor Geoffry would not be long for this world. His father, 
 Sir Dene, did not know of this fear — indeed, it was confined 
 pretty much to Mr. Priar and the other surgeon — a skilled 
 man from Worcester — who had attended him hi the accident. 
 
Only Sadness. 155 
 
 Not being absolutely sure themselves, they did not talk of it. 
 The relations between Sir Dene and Geoffry remained the 
 same : cordial, but not intimate : and Geoffry and his wife 
 had not been admitted as guests within the gates of Beech- 
 hurst Dene. 
 
 No new light had been thrown upon the death of Robert 
 Owen. The singular report — that his ghost might be some- 
 times seen in and about Harebell Lane— did not subside. 
 While some scouted it as utterly absurd, and old Squire Arde 
 laughed over it till his eyes ran tears, the greater portion of 
 the community lent ear to the story. Gander — as related — 
 had been frightened nearly out of his senses by the sight. 
 He was not the only one : and Harebell Lane was more than 
 ever shunned at night. Mrs. Owen remained at Harebell 
 Farm with her son William, and things went on there in their 
 old groove. 
 
 There were great doings at Beechhurst Dene the first fort- 
 night in September. John Clanwaring, the heir, brought 
 down his newly-married wife on a visit : and a party was in- 
 vited to meet them. She was very pretty, and a great 
 heiress : altogether an irreproachable match — as John Clan- 
 waring-, with his caution and his pride, was sure to make. It 
 served, by contrast, to make darker the marriage contracted 
 by Geoffry : and if by ill-luck Mr. Clanwaring- met his 
 brother, he would pass him as scornfully as he might have 
 passed some despicable character — say Randy Black, for in- 
 stance — his head in the air. At the fortnight's end, the com- 
 pany quitted Beechhurst Dene again : all, save John Clan- 
 waring and his wife. They remained on for another week or 
 two ; but their established home was in London. 
 
 A few days before their departure, the brothers again met. 
 It was a lovely September day : the sun-light lay on the 
 plains, the woods were beginning to assume their beautiful 
 autumn tints. Mr. Clanwaring, his wife on his arm, was 
 about to cross a stile in the Dene woods, when Geoffry ap- 
 peared at it on the other side. He (Geoffry) was at it first; 
 but, in courtesy to the lady, drew back to wait. John Clan- 
 waring got over, handed over his wife, and walked on with 
 her. Save that he snatched his coat round him that it should 
 not touch his brother's in passing, he took no notice what- 
 ever. It galled Geoffry : he thought John might have first 
 introduced his wife to him when they thus met, face to face. 
 
 " I wonder whether he would have done it did he know 
 
156 Dene Hollow. 
 
 there's a chance that I shall soon he lying low ? " thought 
 Geoffry. " And that chance exists. I cannot well mistake 
 my own feelings : and Priar, unless I am mistaken, knows 
 it better than I do." 
 
 Geoffry was on his road home to the bailiff's lodge. Busy 
 with Sir Dene's affairs that morning, out of doors as well as 
 in, he had been letting the time slip away past the dinner 
 hour. He could not ride about as he used to before his acci- 
 dent. Maria would be waiting for him, he knew ; so he put 
 his best foot foremost. Not the fleet foot it once was : for 
 quick walking hurt him nearly as much as riding. 
 
 The first person he saw on entering his cottage home was 
 Mr. Priar. Geoffry mentally leaped to the truth at once : his 
 wife must be ill. Even so. Her illness had been waited for 
 for some days now : Geoffry was expecting a little heir ! Heir ! 
 It was a slip of the pen. Heir to what ? — his misfortunes ? 
 What contrasts exist ! When John's wife should present him 
 with a son, it would be the future inheritor of a title and of 
 the rich lands of Beechhurst Dene; Geoffry 's child would be 
 be but a humble dependent. Could poor Geoffry have foreseen 
 how humble, how dependent, how despised and put upon, he 
 might have wished to take the child with him when he 
 himself should die. 
 
 " Is all going well ? " was Geoffry's first question to the 
 surgeon. 
 
 " I — hope it will," answered Mr. Priar — and the slight 
 want of assurance in his tone at once struck Geoffry. " We 
 have been sending after you to Beechhurst Dene, Mr. Geoffry 
 Clanwaring : the messenger brought back word that you 
 were not there." 
 
 " I left Beechhurst Dene two hours ago. I had things to 
 attend to up at Simmonds's Is my wife very ill ? " 
 
 " Not very ; not particularly so. You can see her." 
 
 Mrs. Geoffry Clanwaring was quite alone in her sickness. 
 Her mother, Mrs. Owen, was confined to her bed with illness, 
 just then : her sister, Mrs. Arcle, growing gradually but 
 surely weaker, was not able to come. Maria herself had been 
 in more delicate health all the summer than she need have 
 been : her father's death and the sad manner of it had shaken 
 her greatly. 
 
 But if Mr. Priar had entertained any doubt of the result, 
 it would seem to have been needless. The baby made its ap- 
 pearance, and was a fine boy. When Geoffry first took the 
 
Only Sadness. 157 
 
 little curiosity in his arms, he felt prouder of hirn than if he 
 had been born with a silver spoon in his month. 
 
 " How light its hair is, Maria ! " 
 
 " Yes : it is like yours," she answered with a happy smile. 
 " I can trace a likeness to you and to Sir Dene." 
 
 " He'll be a fine little shaver if he's like my father. We 
 shall have to choose a name for him, love." 
 
 Just a day or two of these fond hopes, this delusive security, 
 and then a change came. Dangerous symptoms set in for 
 Maria Clanwaring ; and a horseman went galloping to Wor- 
 cester for one of the best surgeons the city afforded. He 
 came and saw her : in conjunction with the dismayed Mr. 
 Priar : and they no doubt did their best, if there was any- 
 thing, best or worst, that could be done. It was all in vain : 
 the life, fleeting away, could not be arrested. The baby also 
 began to droop : it almost seemed as if it would go with its 
 mother. The truth had to be told to Geoffry. 
 
 Evening came on. The bustle of the going and coming of 
 the medical men, of the awful shock, was past, and over the 
 household reigned a solemn stillness. She lay on her bed, 
 pale, quiet, exhausted, resigned : far more resigned than poor 
 stunned Geoffry. He sat by the fire, more like one in a dream 
 than a living man ; but for disturbing her, he would have 
 taken the pale, sweet face from the pillow to his breast, and 
 cried aloud to heaven over it in his desparing anguish. 
 
 "Perfect quiet, mind, Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring," had been 
 the doctors' urgent warning to him. " Once excite her to emo- 
 tion, and all will be over." 
 
 So there he sat, controlling his bitter grief he knew not 
 how ; his golden hair damp with the struggle, his blue eyes 
 o'erladen with misery. 
 
 The clergyman came ; and Geoffry and his dying wife 
 partook of Christ's last sacrament together. Next, the baby 
 was brought forward for baptism : Maria wished it done. 
 Geoffry leaned over his wife to ask her wishes about the 
 name. 
 
 " Call him Tom," she feebly said. " It was my dear little 
 brother's name who died: and it is one of yours, Geoffry." 
 
 " Tom," said Geoffry, returning to the clergyman. 
 
 " Tom ? " echoed the minister questioningly, his fingers al- 
 ready in the water. 
 
 " Tom," repeated Geoffry. 
 
 And so " Tom " the child was christened. 
 
158 Bene Hollow. 
 
 So bewildered and confused with trouble was Geoffry Clan- 
 warino - , that he never remembered until too late that the name 
 ouo-ht to have been Thomas. It was a mistake : but a mis- 
 take that did not cost him a regretful thought. Under the 
 shadow of real calamities, trifling ones go for nothing. 
 
 Almost before they were alone again, the last moments ap- 
 proached for Maria. Geoffry might give way as much as he 
 pleased then; nothing of emotion could harm her more in 
 this world. He held her to him mid his sobs of anguish, his 
 hot tears falling on her face. 
 
 " Not for very long, my darling ; the separation won't be 
 for long. But a little while, a few weeks, or months at most, 
 and I shall have followed you." 
 
 She looked at him as if scarcely understanding. 
 
 " Ay, it is so. I have kept it from you, Maria : I meant to 
 let this illness of yours be well over before I spoke. And, oh 
 my wife, my dear one, I know not how I should have told you 
 — or how have borne to leave you here behind me. I am 
 dying of that gunshot wound, Maria ; there was some fatal 
 inward injury. I have suspected it all along : and to-day 
 when the doctors were here, I got them to acknowledge that 
 they suspect it too. Tou will not have long to wait for me 
 on the other side." 
 
 She was past speaking much, but a glad light shone in her 
 dim eyes. Geoffry's sobs made the room sound again. Let 
 us leave them together for the last hour. 
 
 It had all been so rapid that there was no time to apprise 
 the world of the danger that had suddenly set in. But the 
 news was spreading now, and some people were arriving in 
 hot consternation. 
 
 Mary Barber was the first. She had been staying at Wor- 
 cester for some days with Mrs. Arde ; had only come back to 
 Harebell Farm that afternoon. Geoffry Clanwaring's modest 
 household consisted but of one servant, Susan Cole, eldest 
 daughter of Cole the farrier ; a good-natured, talkative girl of 
 eighteen, with frizzly-looking hair the colour of old rope, and 
 a fixed colour in her face. She was in the kitchen with the 
 nurse when Mary Barber arrived. And when Mary Barber 
 heard that — instead of the danger she had come to inquire 
 into — life was all but over, she after giving a minute or two 
 to digest the shock, nearly shook Susan Cole. 
 
 " You heartless, wicked huzzy ! You couldn't come up to 
 Bay so ? " 
 
Only Sadness. jto 
 
 " I didn't know it till just now," returned Susan, who was 
 crying silently in grief for her pretty young mistress. " It 
 have come on us as sudden as a. blow. As to master, he's like 
 a man dazed. I don't believe he have been able to recollect 
 nothing. But he did send to the farm." 
 
 Mary Barber, standing upright in the small kitchen, thought 
 over the past two or three hours. Upon her return from 
 Worcester, Joan had said a messenger had been up to say there 
 was a change in young Mrs. Clan waring : and Mary Barber 
 set off, but not at once, for she had never thought of this 
 change. 
 
 " Where's the baby ? '' she asked, under her breath. For, 
 now that the first shock to her feelings had been relieved by 
 blaming somebody, the extent of the calamity subdued her. 
 
 " He's sleeping. in his cradle," said the nurse. " He seems 
 a bit better to-night than he did earlier in the day." 
 
 " Whatever will be done about bringing him up ? " 
 
 " Oh, as to that," returned the nurse, " children '11 sometimes 
 thrive as well without their mothers as with 'em." 
 
 A movement overhead, and a call from Geoffry, sent the 
 nurse and Mary Barber upstairs, the latter flinging off her cloak 
 and bonnet as she went. The last moment was at hand : the 
 fleeting spirit and the earthly body were fighting in their 
 separation. 
 
 " My poor lamb ! " wailed Mary Barber, leaning over the 
 pale face, quiet again now. " Oh wasn't it enough that your 
 poor father should have went — that your sister should be fast 
 going — but that the Lord must take you ! We'd say that it 
 was cruelly hard — only that His ways are not as our 
 ways." 
 
 There was a gentle flutter on the face, and Maria turned her 
 head upon the pillow, looking away to a distant part of the 
 room. 
 
 "Yes," she said in a distinct, cheerful voice, as if answering 
 a call. 
 
 Geoffry was hastening round, but Mary Barber lifted her 
 finger for silence. She knew the sign — and what it meant. 
 
 " Hush, Mr. Geoffry. She's passing now. It was her an- 
 swer to the summons !" 
 
 And the spirit did pass, even as the woman said it. Passed 
 with a deep, long sigh. Mary Barber caught up her breath 
 with another. 
 
 " I knew that death was coming to the family, Mr. Geoffry: 
 
160 Dene Hollow. 
 
 but I thought it was for Mrs. Arde. I knew it by my 
 dreams." 
 
 As Geoffry quitted the room, leaving the two women in it, 
 quitting it like one who gropes his blind way in the dark, so 
 stunned were all his faculties, he became dimly conscious of a 
 loud, sharp knocking somewhere. It was in reality at the panel 
 of his house-door — but it seemed to him miles off ; or perhaps 
 only in some distant region of his brain. Susan Cole opened 
 the door, and the voice of Sir Dene was heard. That aroused 
 him to passing events, and he went downstairs. Sir Dene 
 was standing in the parlour; their one sitting room, that 
 Maria had made so pretty. Yases of bright flowers stood 
 about, fresh yet : she had put them there on the morning of 
 the day she was taken ill. 
 
 " Geoffry, what's this I hear ? That your wife is in immi- 
 nent danger," began Sir Dene. " Coming out just now for a 
 stroll after dinner, I met young Harry Cole, and he men- 
 tioned it." 
 
 " My wife is dead, father." 
 
 Sir Dene looked at his son, as if he quite believed his mind 
 must be wandering. 
 
 " Yes, she's dead," was repeated by Geoffry 's quivering 
 lips. " Only just now : not three minutes since." 
 
 " Lord bless me !" broke from Sir Dene. 
 
 He backed against the upright bookcase, and stood staring, 
 waiting for his senses to come to him. 
 
 " Why ! — you told me yourself this morning, Geoffry, that 
 she was going on all right !" 
 
 "And so she was father. A change took place an hour 
 or two after midday. Priar came, and Dr. Woodyat was 
 fetched. They could not save her. 
 
 " It is awfully sudden," cried the dismayed Sir Dene. 
 " Poor thing ! Poor young thing !" 
 
 Geoffry, come to the end of his equanimity, put his head 
 down on the table, and sobbed aloud. Great bursting sobs 
 that shook him. Sir Dene wondered whether there was any 
 brandy in the house, or other kind of cordial, and where he 
 could find it. Self-reproach was stinging Sir Dene keenly. 
 When those whom we have injured or not sufficiently regarded 
 in life are dead, it is then that repentance touches us. He 
 had not been as kind as he might to this poor young girl, now 
 gone from them all for ever. True he had been pleasant and 
 courteous to her when they met ; but he had never invited 
 
Only Sadness. i6r 
 
 her inside his gates, he had not treated her as a daughter-in- 
 law : and he wished now that he had done it, in spice of the 
 prejudices of his eldest son and heir. 
 
 " Don't give way, Geoff, my hoy. Don't ! Bless my heart, 
 but this is a dreadful blow, and I'm — I'm truly sorry for it. 
 Poor young girl ! but little more than a child ! Can I find a 
 drop of brandy for you, Geoff?" 
 
 Geoffry did not want any brandy: he could not have touched 
 it. Drying away his tears, swallowing down his bitter sobs, 
 striving manfully with his emotion, he there and then dis- 
 closed to his father the fact that he himself (as he truly 
 believed) should not live long after his wife ; that the same 
 grave might almost be kept open for him. It would have been 
 a greater shock to Sir Dene than the other, only he did not 
 put faith in it. 
 
 "Dyiug of that gun-shot wound ! " he repeated. " Geoffry, 
 my poor fellow, things are wearing their gloomiest hue to you 
 just now; 'tis but natural. If there is anything wrong in- 
 wardly, we'll soon have you set to rights." 
 
 "Father, I don't think there'll beany more setting to rights 
 for me ; I don't, indeed. You can ask Priar or Woodyat about 
 it : they know, I fancy. It's only within a week or so that I 
 have felt sure of it myself." 
 
 "Nonsense, Geoffry. It was not much of a hurt at the 
 worst. You shall be doctored up." 
 
 Geoffry said no more. But a sure and certain prevision lav 
 upon him this evening, that his own end was not far off. It 
 might come upon them almost as suddenly at the last, he 
 thought, as his wife's had come upon him. 
 
 " Geoffry, I'd like to see her," said Sir Dene, when he rose 
 to depai't. 
 
 They went up the narrow staircase with hushed footsteps. 
 The house was like one of death, in its utter stillness. The 
 infant slept in another room ; Sir Dene never once thought 
 about him at all. 
 
 They had already dressed her for the grave. The sweet, 
 calm, pale face looked almost like that of an angel. Sir Dene 
 felt pain, regret, grief — nearly as he had when his own wife died. 
 " Poor darling ! — poor innocent child ! " he murmured; 
 touching her brow. " May the good Lord have taken her to 
 His happy Rest ! " 
 
 " She was kind and good and pure as one of Heaven's angels, 
 father." And Geoffry s sobs broke forth again. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 Dene Hollow. 
 
 As Sir Dene was walking u»p the Hollow on his way home, 
 the death-bell suddenly struck out from Hurst Leet Church. 
 Mary Barber had sent Susan Cole flying to tell the sexton. 
 Sir Dene stopped and listened : it seemed to bring more forcibly 
 than ever the event before him. Three times two : and then 
 the sharp quick strokes to denote that the soul was passing. 
 
 " I wonder who's gone now ? " 
 
 The irreverent words, for their careless tone made them so, 
 absolutely startled Sir Dene. Standing to listen, his back 
 turned to his gates, his face towards the village, he had not 
 observed that any one was near. Tempted by the beauty of 
 the evening — a warm, still moonlight night — Mr. Clanwaring 
 had come out for a stroll just as his father had previously 
 done. It was he who spoke. 
 
 " What did you say ? " asked Sir Dene, sharply turning 
 upon him. 
 
 " I thought you were listening to the passing bell, sir. 
 Some village woman, I suppose, has dropped off." 
 
 " They'd not trouble themselves to ring the passing-bell at 
 this time of night for a 'village woman,' I expect," said Sir 
 Dene sternly, for the words grated harshly on his present 
 frame of mind. In truth, he had not been feeling very genially 
 towards his heir as he walked up. But for him and his pre- 
 judices, Sir Dene would have relented to Geoffry and his poor 
 young wife : he saw things clearly now, and knew it. 
 
 John Clanwaring wondered at the tone. " Do you know 
 who it's for, then sir ? " he asked. 
 
 " It is for your brother's wife." 
 
 " Who ? " cried John Clanwaring, forgetting his grammar 
 in his surprise. 
 
 " For your brother's wife. Don't I speak plain enough ? 
 Geoffry's sweet, pretty young wife : poor Owen's daughter. 
 She's dead. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm sorry to hear it, for her sake," said Mr. 
 Clanwaring, somewhat taken aback. "It's very sudden, is 
 it not, sir ? " 
 
 "It is sudden. You were harshly contemptuous to her, 
 John, in your judgment : she is gone where neither harshness 
 nor contempt can reach her. She looks like an angel, lying 
 there, with her pale, innocent face." 
 
 " It is a sad fate for her, poor thing : I really pity her, sir," 
 admitted John Clanwaring. And there was a pause. 
 
 " I am not sure but Geoffry will be the one to go next, 
 
Seen by Moonlight. 163 
 
 John, " resumed Sir Dene. " We shall wish then, perhaps, 
 that we had been a bit kinder to them." 
 
 " Is he likely to die of grief ? " asked John. 
 
 " Grief's a complaint ?/o?*'ll never die of; you've not got feel- 
 ing enough," retorted Sir Dene. " G-eofFry talks of that shot 
 he got awhile ago ; he fears it left some fatal injury behind it. 
 For my part, I think it must be only fancy." 
 
 " Of course it is only fancy," returned John Clanwaring, in 
 a tone of assertion. " Were there any permanent injury, 
 Geoffry could not go about as he does." 
 
 They fell into silence. The quick strokes of the bell were 
 dying away to give place to its slow and monotonous toll. It 
 had a weird, solemn sound, breaking out at intervals in tho 
 stillness of the autumn night. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SEEN BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 " You had better come back to Beechhurst Dene, Geoffry." 
 
 The speaker was Sir Dene. They had just returned from 
 the funeral, and Sir Dene had entered Geoffry 's home with him, 
 leaving the other mourners — John Clanwaring, George Arde, 
 and William Owen — to disperse. Mr. Clanwaring had con- 
 descended to attend the funeral. Sir Dene put it to him 
 strongly — that he ought to do it. So he delayed yet his depar- 
 ture for town, and waited. It probably went against the 
 grain to stand side by side with William Owen, mourners at 
 the same grave : but John, cool and impassive, made no sign. 
 He had condescended to shake hands with Geoffry, and say he 
 sympathised with him in his loss. Sir Dene went in with 
 Geoffry afterwards. The little dwelling seemed strangely still 
 and solitary ; and the baronet felt it as a chill. 
 
 " Y"ou had better come back to Beechhurst Dene, and be taken 
 care of," he repeated. " Now that the poor young thing's 
 gone, there's nobody to do anything for you here ; nothing to 
 keep you in the place. Geoff, my boy, I never disliked her." 
 
 " No, father, I don't think you did." 
 
 " I shall never forget that time I saw her at Malvern toast- 
 nig a pikelet at the fire. Pretty creature ! standing there to 
 face me, so sweet and modest and humble, in her white India 
 muslin frock and the blue ribbons in her hair. I know real 
 India muslin when I see it : nobody better. She couldn't put 
 
164 Dene Hollow. 
 
 the toasting-fork down at first, Geoff, for timidity, but kept 
 it in lier hand. 'Twas as pretty a picture as a man ever saw." 
 
 Geoffry, who was beginning to look sadly worn and thin, 
 made no answer. His heart was brim-full. 
 
 " Then you'll come back home, Geoff?" 
 
 " Yes, father, thank you ; I think I had better. If John 
 does not object." 
 
 " John object ! — John be — be shot !" exploded the baronet, 
 pulling up the word he had been about to speak when he 
 remembered where he had just been. " It's not John's house 
 yet, that he should rule it. He and his wife are going posting 
 off again, I'm glad to say : somehow things are never so 
 pleasant when he is at home. Come to-morrow : to-night, if 
 you will. You must never think of running away from me 
 again, Geoff." 
 
 Geoffry smiled faintly. " Not in the same manner that I 
 did before, father ; I'll promise you that." 
 
 " Nor in any other, I hope," was Sir Dene's quiet rejoinder. 
 " We'll nurse you into strength at the Dene." 
 
 Accordingly on the following day, in the forenoon, Geoffry 
 Clanwaring walked up to his old home, just as though he were 
 going to make a call, or to do an hour's work in the business 
 parlour, as usual. He carried in his arms his not yet fortnight 
 old baby, wrapped in a red shawl. As he was about to enter 
 the front gates, there came thundering down the avenue a 
 close carriage-and-four, the post-boys spurring their horses to 
 make the exit in proper style, after the fashion of the day. 
 The carriage bore the arms of John Clanwaring, the heir : he 
 sat in it with his wife ; an attendant man and maid in the 
 rumble behind. Geoffry stood aside to let it pass. No one 
 saw him but the valet, who touched his hat — and wondered, 
 no doubt, what Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring had got in the red 
 bundle. They were commencing their journey to London. 
 Mrs. Clanwaring, he saw, had no mourning on. 
 
 '• And yet Maria was every whit as good as she ; ay, and 
 better," thought Geoffry : and as he went on up the avenue, 
 he could not see the ground for his blinding tears. 
 
 Not tears for the lack of black on Mrs. Clanwaring. No. 
 But this coming home with the little helpless burthen, brought 
 all too painfully to his mind what he had lost. 
 
 "Goodness me!" exclaimed Sir Dene, as Geoffry sat down 
 in the library, anrl undid the shawl. " Why — that's your 
 baby, Geoffry.'' 
 
Seen by Moonlight. 165 
 
 " Yes, father. I couldn't leave him behind." 
 
 " Bless the child ! I declare I forgot all about him. Well, 
 the women shall take care of him. There's plenty of them to 
 do it. "What's his name ?" 
 
 " His name's Tom," replied Geoifry. " She was anxious 
 about it before she died, and I had it done. The child drooped 
 and ailed that day, just as though it knew its mother was 
 leaving it. It seems all right now." 
 
 " You mean Thomas, I suppose." 
 
 " No : Tom. The mistake was mine. I was confused with 
 grief, and said ' Tom ' twice over to the parson, never re- 
 collecting that it should have been Thomas. It will not 
 matter, father : Tom is as good a name for him as any other." 
 
 "No, it won't matter," replied Sir Dene. "What does ho 
 live upon, Geoff? Sop ? " 
 
 "He lives upon barley-water mixed with milk," said 
 Geoifry. " He won't cost much. Susan Cole is bringing 
 some up : she can show the maids hero how to feed him." 
 
 The child, who had slept through this, awoke now, opening 
 his eyes. Sir Dene advanced to look at him — such a little 
 face it was, peeping out of the shawl. Geoffry took off the 
 cambric cap, and showed his bits of fair hair. 
 
 " He has got just the look that you had at his age, Geoffry. 
 I remember it well. The first of you boim, John, had a black 
 head, like his mother ; you were fair, like me. It's a pretty 
 baby : it will be just like you." 
 
 " So poor Maria said. Like me and like you, she thought." 
 
 "Ay : at your age I was much what you are, Geoffry. Poor 
 little motherless lambkin !" added Sir Dene pityingly, as he 
 stroked the baby's face. 
 
 " Soon to be fatherless also," spoke Geoffry. 
 
 "No, no, my boy; I trust not," said Sir Dene. 
 
 But Geoffry shook his head : he knew better. 
 
 " Father, you'll give him a bite and a sup here when I am 
 gone, and a pillow in some odd corner, won't you?" — and the 
 words seemed to come from the very depths of an aching 
 heart. " He'll be in nobody's way, poor little waif." 
 
 "I will, Geoff," heartily answered Sir Dene, his eyes 
 dimmed by some earnest tears, that rose and were checked. 
 " I promise it you. The child shall be as welcome to his bit 
 and his sup as you were. There's my hand upon it." 
 
 People rarely give themselves more trouble than they can 
 help. None of the maids showed themselves too ready to 
 
1 65 Dene Hollow. 
 
 undertake the (at best) onerous charge of an infant, as 
 proposed by Sir Dene : and when Susan Cole arrived with 
 the barley-water and milk for its food, and sundry of its 
 clothes, tied up in a large silk handkerchief, the servants, 
 who did pretty much as they liked, told her she had better 
 remain for a day or two, and see to the child. The day or 
 two grew into a month or two, and that into a period in- 
 definite, Susan Cole taking the entire charge ; Sir Dene 
 falling in with the arrangement as if it was a matter of course, 
 without a word either way. He was very fond of the child, 
 would often nurse and toss it : and when he saw its 
 sleeves tied up with black ribbons and a black sash round its 
 waist, that Susan Cole put on the day poor Geoffry died, Sir 
 Dene held the little face to his own for some minutes, as if 
 that black made a fonder link between them. 
 
 So the baby grew, and thrived, and got its teeth, and 
 learnt to walk and talk, just as other healthy and happy 
 children do : and Sir Dene loved the boy ; and Susan Cole 
 was proud of him ; and Gander admired him more than he 
 had admired anything since poor Geoffry himself was young ; 
 and the other servants altei-nately indulged and snubbed him. 
 With it all — in spite of his being Sir Dene's grandson and 
 that he had his home at Beechhurst Dene — he was not 
 altogether considered by the servants as a child of the house ; 
 he did not get the deference that a son of, for instance, John 
 Clanwaring would have received. 
 
 The boy, as he grew older and stronger, incurred the danger 
 of being allowed to run wild. Sir Dene had about as much 
 notion of the proper way of bringing up a child as he had of 
 a young tiger ; and nobody else interfered to suggest. There 
 was no day nursery. As long as the child was in arms, Susan 
 Cole sat where she pleased with him — mostly in the kitchen 
 or servants' hall ; when he could run, he roamed where he 
 would about the house at will. Sir Dene would pick him up 
 and talk to him, and put him by his side at table, and call 
 for a plate and a spoon for the child. If Tom ran out to see 
 Sir Dene mount his horse, Sir Dene would lift him on to the 
 saddle, bare headed and bare armed, and ride off with him, 
 perhaps for miles, in the summer weather. "When not with 
 Sir Dene he would be left very much to his own devices, for 
 Susan Cole was a frightful gossip, and regarded social inter- 
 course with anybody that would talk to her, as the sweetest 
 thing in life. There were times also when Sir Dene was away 
 
Seen by Moonlight. 167 
 
 from Beechliurst, and during these seasons Tom got very little 
 attention at all. Gander, who was regarded by Sir Dene as 
 head of the servants, and in a degree ruled them, would be 
 with his master, and at home it would be high life below stairs. 
 To save trouble, little Tom's plate and fork would be set at the 
 kitchen table : he would be looked for and brought into meals : 
 and that was about all the care. He was one of those quiet, 
 happy children who amuse themselves : would sit for hours on 
 the library floor, looking at a picture-book, or in some remote 
 room amidst the animals out of his Noah's ark. The servants 
 knew the child was safe, and that sufficed. Cole, the farrier, 
 had a journeyman ; he was Susan's sweetheart ; — consequently 
 she passed a great deal more time in her father's forge than in 
 looking after Tom. In fact, save the odd moments of tender- 
 ness bestowed upon him by Sir Dene, the little child was very 
 much what his poor father had called him the day he brought 
 him up in the red shawl — a waif. He was a wonderfully pretty 
 and engaging child, with the sweet temper and gentle man- 
 ners of his mother, and the kindly blue eyes and fair curls of 
 his father. A child to be loved and cherished : a child that 
 with proper training would make a good and noble man : a 
 child to whom God had been generous, in irrqilanting in his 
 heart a full portion of most excellent seed. 
 
 Sir Dene was often away. He had taken permanent rooms 
 in London, and could go there at will. John Clanwaring never 
 came down now to Beechliurst Dene. His wife's health had 
 been very delicate since the birth of her child, a girl ; John 
 said she was not strong enough to move about, and therefore 
 he did not. At any rate, it was a good excuse for his re- 
 maining in the place he liked best and never cared to be out 
 of — London. Perhaps this took Sir Dene there. John was 
 not his favourite son — he was gone — but John was better than 
 none : and the baronet found it very lonely at Beechliurst Dene. 
 So, he and Gander away for weeks together, the servants took 
 their own ease and Tom his own way. No wonder the 
 neglected child grew fond of going to Mrs. Owen's : once or 
 twice he had run off thither alone. He also went to Squire 
 Arde's. 
 
 No longer the old Squire : the little man who was so odd 
 and quaint ; but a new one. Changes were everywhere The 
 strange little old man was dead, and George Arde reigned at 
 the Hall, and was called Squire in his turn. The will he left 
 was nearly as odd as he had been : so at least thought the 
 
iCS Dene Hollow. 
 
 public. It was certainly unexpected. A notion — gathered 
 from observation of the old Squire's character, and perhaps 
 from occasional words let fall by him during his later life — had 
 become fixed in men's minds : that he would never leave a 
 shilling of his money to any relative : but all of it to charities, 
 and especially to those charities connected with the insane. 
 " Droitwich '11 be the better for his savings," quoth the neigh- 
 bours to one another — alluding to the well-known asylum at 
 that place — when the news went forth that Squire Arde was 
 dead. " He'll direct the Hall and all its belongings, inside 
 and out, to be sold ; and Droitwich mad-house '11 get the 
 whole on't." 
 
 The neighbours were mistaken. Squire Arde's will did not 
 give a shilling to any charity : Droitwich asylum (or, as it 
 was universally put then, "madhouse") was not as much as 
 mentioned in it. The Hall, with all that pertained to it and 
 the income attaching to it, was left to George Arde, to his 
 own intense surprise. 
 
 George Arde's wife was not then dead. In her very delicate 
 state she had lived on much longer than any one could have 
 supposed, fluttering always, as may be said, between life and 
 death. Now and then the old Squire would call when he was 
 at Worcester, and see the child, little Mary, to whom he 
 seemed to have taken a fancy. Necklaces, and trifles of that 
 description that had belonged to his own dead child, the other 
 Mary, he would bring it. " I should not be much surprised 
 at his leaving her a thousand pounds," said George Arde one 
 day to his wife, when the Squire had been, and brought a new 
 coral with silver bells. 
 
 Not one thousand did he leave the child, but twenty. The 
 will bequeathed a certain sum of money to " Mary, daughter 
 of my third cousin, George Arde." Which sum, already out 
 at safe and good interest, would represent twenty thousand 
 pounds on the day Mary Arde should be eighteen : and it was 
 to be her's then unconditionally. So little Mary, grand- 
 daughter of the late unfortunate Robert Owen, and cousin of 
 young Tom Clanwaring, turned out to be an heiress. 
 
 Before George Arde took up his abode at the Hall, his wife 
 died. She had been in so weak a state, and it had become so 
 evident that her death was near, that the trouble of removing 
 was spared her. She died in the small house where they 
 had lived, and was buried in the same mouldy old church 
 that had witnessed poor Maria Owen's stolen marriage — St. 
 
Seen by JHoonlight. 169 
 
 Peter's. George Arcle and his little daughter went to the 
 Hall then. 
 
 This removal occurred when Tom was about a year old. 
 Two years have already gone by since. The boy was fond of 
 going to the Hall. Susan Cole enjoyed the society of the 
 servants : Tom that of the little girl. George Arde welcomed 
 the lad freely, whenever he was at home : buc he had taken to 
 visit about a good deal. Rumours of his second marriage 
 were abroad : George Arde, owner of Arde Hall and Squire 
 of the parish, young still, and an agreeable man, was no 
 undesirable match, and was courted in the county accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Would the little girl, the heiress, live to come into her 
 wealth ? The question was arising. Symptoms of delicacy 
 (she was her mother's child all over) were beginning to 
 manifest themselves, and it was feared she might not. George 
 Arde was intensely fond of her : and perhaps the first thing 
 that put a second marriage into his head was the wish to have 
 some kind and gentle lady in his house who would watch over 
 the child carefully, and stand to it in the light of a mother. 
 Once having made up his mind to this, Mr. Arde was not long 
 about it. He chose his second wife from one of the first and 
 proudest families in the county. It was rather singular that 
 the day of the marriage should be little Tom's birthday : he 
 was three years old. 
 
 On that self-same night occurred an incident which must bo 
 mentioned. Robert Owen appeared again. The miserable 
 rumours — that his spirit came back to trouble the earth — had 
 never died away. From whatever source arising, whether 
 delusion, superstitious fancy, or actual (if unaccountable) fact, 
 they but gained ground and spread. No sooner had one 
 report of the appearance had time to subside and people began 
 to forget it, than another fright would come. Now it would 
 be a belated labourer, going home at a tardy hour up Harebell 
 Lane ; now a carter's boy ; now some traveller on his way to 
 the Trailing Indian. On this night that we are now speaking 
 of, two people saw it, one of whom was Black. 
 
 Black had been down to Hurst Leet on an errand. Coming 
 home again about nine o'clock through a flood of moonlight, 
 he burst into the Trailing Indian in a fearful state : his breath 
 gone, the sweat pouring off him, his hair on end. More abject 
 terror could not well be seen. Mr. Priar happened to be there 
 — for Mrs. Black's sickly state required him to pay her an 
 
170 Dene Hollow. 
 
 occasional visit, and lie would go up at any odd moment when 
 leisure allowed him ; two or three men were also drinking in 
 the kitchen ; when, in burst the landlord in the extraordinary 
 state described. That his fear had no sham in it could not 
 be mistaken : though how it was possible for a hardened man 
 like Black to feel afraid of any earthly or ghostly thing, Mr. 
 Priar, for one, could not imagine. Mixing some brandy and 
 water, the doctor made him drink it. Black's teeth chattered 
 as he told what he had seen — Robert Owen standing at that 
 part above Harebell Lane, where he was supposed to have 
 fallen from, and gazing down at the pond. Question after 
 question was poured into Black's ear, especially from the 
 startled men: but he could tell no more than he had told. 
 Coming up the Lane by the pond pretty quickly, he happened 
 to turn his eyes up to the fence above the water ; and there, 
 leaning over it, was the figure of Robert Owen, his face as white 
 as it had been when he lay dead, his beard as silvery as it was 
 in life. Black did not stay to give a second look, but came off 
 as fast as his shaking legs would carry him: and the strangest 
 thing of all was, that he should sit there in his kitchen and 
 confess to it. But fear takes pride, and reticence too, out of 
 the most hardy men. 
 
 Before Black had at all recovered his equanimity, or had 
 done trembling, a choice friend of his came in — Michael Geach, 
 who had arrived that evening on one of his unexpected visits 
 to the Trailing Indian. One might have expected ridicule of 
 the tale at least from Geach ; but, on the contrary, it seemed to 
 make him rather uncomfortable. 
 
 " I never was a coward," he observed ;" but it's no light 
 thing would persuade me into ILrrebell Lane of a night now. 
 Hanged if I'd not rather come slap upon a body whitening in 
 chains on the gibbet, than see Owen's ghost. Cheer up, Randy, 
 and don't shake so ; you are all blue." 
 
 " "When did you come here?" asked Black, in no pleasant 
 tones. 
 
 " Me ! I've been here this hour, and more ; a waiting for you 
 to come in." 
 
 " Why couldn't you ha' sent word you was Drat it alto- 
 gether ! You needn't shake." 
 
 The concluding observations were made to Black's wife. 
 His eyes happened to fall on her as he was addressing Geach, 
 and he left his sentence to that worthy gentleman unfinished. 
 Poor Robert Owen might be a ghost, but he could not look 
 
Seen by Moonlight. 171 
 
 like once more than Mrs. Black did. Her face was livid : her 
 disabled hands entwined themselves one within the other in a 
 nervous dread, that Mr. Priar rarely saw equalled. Black, 
 forgetting his own symptoms, told her she was a fool, and 
 drove her from the room. 
 
 Well, Randy Black was not the only one to see the ghost 
 that night. And if the reader despises me for repeating these 
 stories of superstition, I can plead but one apology — that I 
 am relating only what absolately passed, the events of this 
 really true tale. The other one to see it was William Owen. 
 
 The flying reports, that Robert Owen's spirit could not 
 rest, had annoyed greatly the inmates of Harebell Farm. As 
 was only natural. Even superstitious Mary Barber, burying 
 her private convictions in regard for the honour of the family, 
 protested far and wide that it could not be true. None of 
 them had seen anything to warrant it, up to this time : not 
 even William, who was often abroad at night on his land. 
 But not on that part of it that lay towards the Trailing Indian. 
 The very fact that the ghost was said to haunt those fields, 
 and especially the two-acre meadow, caused him not to put 
 sheep there. The shepherd absolutely refused to go near the 
 spot at night. 
 
 On this evening: William Owen had s-one on foot to a farm- 
 house, a mile or two beyond the Trailing Indian. Mary 
 Barber had a nice bit of hot supper ready for him, and 
 when nine o'clock struck she wondered how much longer he 
 meant to be. Soon afterwards she heard his footsteps, and 
 opened the back door to admit him. 
 
 Could it be the moonlight that made his face look so white ? 
 He took no notice of her, but walked straight into the best 
 kitchen, where his supper was laid. 
 
 What's the matter now ? " cried Mary Barber, following him, 
 and gazing in surprise at his strange countenance. " Be you 
 took sick, Mr. William ? " 
 
 His face was whiter than death : he was wiping the moist- 
 ure from it with a trembling hand. Mary Barber saw that 
 no light matter was stirring him. 
 
 " What is it ? " she said, sinking her voice to a whisper, 
 that seemed to partake of his own dread emotion. 
 
 " I have seen my father," was his low answer. 
 
 " No ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Mary, as true as that you and I are here, living, I saw 
 him. There's no mistake about it. He looked exactly as I've 
 
172 Dene Hollow. 
 
 seen him look a hundred times in life : his old cap on, and Lis 
 ■white beard flowing." 
 
 " Heaven be good to us ! " cried Mary. " Where was 
 this ? " 
 
 " I crossed the stile opposite the Trailing Indian, to come 
 home straight over the fields," said William Owen. "Just 
 past the narrow path between the grove of trees and the fence 
 above the pond, I chanced to look back : and there, standing 
 with his back against the trees, looking after me as it seemed, 
 I saw my father. I stood like one turned to stone, Mary, not 
 knowing, I believe, whether to go for'ard or back'arcl, or where 
 to run to ; and there it stood, the two of us staring at one 
 another. The next moment the thing was gone ; vanished into 
 air, as it seemed to me ; and I came away, leaping hedges and 
 ditches." 
 
 Mary Barber caught up her breath with a gasp ; her young 
 master bent his head on the face of the old-fashioned mantel- 
 piece. Presently he spoke again. 
 
 " I have been thinking whether there was anything to cause 
 me to look back; any sound, or that. It could hardly have 
 been chance." 
 
 " Nay, 'twas no chance, Mr. William, I — wonder — what — 
 it can want ? " she slowly added. 
 
 William Owen could not say what, any more than she could. 
 All he knew was, that he would give half of his future life 
 not to have been subjected to the terror — to the distress — to 
 the calamity altogether. 
 
 " You should have gone up and asked it, Mr. William." 
 
 William Owen looked at her, a strange horror in his eyes. 
 " I'd not have done it for that tureen full of sovereigns," he 
 said, pointing to the large soup tureen on the dresser. " Were 
 I ever to see it again, Mary, I could not stay on the Farm." 
 
 "It's an awful thing." 
 
 " Take care that you keep it from my mother, Mary." 
 
 " From all other folks, as well as her," was Mary Barber's 
 answer. 
 
 However, the story got wind. At least, a suspicion of it. 
 Added to the more public account of Avhat had befallen Bandy 
 Black, it was enough to frighten a timid neighbourhood : and 
 people grew to have a mortal dread of Harebell Lane after the 
 dark had fallen. 
 
Very much of a Waif. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 very much of a waif. 
 " Gkandma ! " 
 
 Mrs. Owen, who bad dropped into a doze in her easy chair, 
 did not hear the call. The handle of the door (rather a diffi- 
 cult one to open) was twisted this way and that by little fingers, 
 and the appeal came again. 
 
 " Grandma ! Won't you let me in, grandma ? " 
 
 " Is it my dear little Baby Tom ? " cried Mrs. Owen, rising 
 to admit the intruder. 
 
 Baby Tom it was, poor Gcoffry's orphan boy. Mrs. Owen 
 tottered back to her seat, the child in her hand. She was 
 always weak and ill, as her most delicate and gentle face 
 betrayed. Never strong, the calamitous death of her husband, 
 and the subsequent death of her daughter, had been nearly 
 fatal to her. She certainly lived on : but it was as a woman 
 who has nearly done with this world, whose whole thoughts 
 are in the next. 
 
 She took off the child's straw hat — a broad-brimmed hat, 
 with a bit of yellow ribbon tied round the crown. Lifting 
 him on her knee, she pushed back the golden hair from his 
 open forehead, and gazed into his earnest, dark blue eyes. 
 He was little for his age ; three years old on the previous clay 
 — for this was the morning following the events related in the 
 last chajDter — he might have been taken for not much more 
 than two ; but, as is sometimes the case with these small 
 bodies, the mind was unusally advanced. But for his ex- 
 ceedingly retiring disposition, the shy, modest sensitiveness 
 of his nature, with its invariably accompanying quality, 
 reticence, he might have been that most undesirable thing, a 
 precocious child. His gentle manners saved him from it. 
 
 As if divining somewhat of the peace of Mrs. Owen's in- 
 ward life, the boy when with her was ever more gentle than 
 at other times, strangely thoughtful, quiet, and tractable. It 
 has been said that this story is not one of ideal fiction; and 
 people were wont to remark to one another during this, the 
 latter portion of Mrs. Owen's years, that her life lay in heaven. 
 While she was looking at those wonderful eyes — and the child 
 really had such, they were so beautiful — he began to cry. 
 
 " Why, Tom, what is it ? [' 
 
174 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Grand-papa rode away without me. Susan wouldn't make 
 haste with my things, and he did not wait. When I cried, 
 she said I wanted a shaking." 
 
 " Did Susan bring you here ? " 
 
 "No. I came." 
 
 Mrs. Owen need scarcely have asked the question. The 
 child had come off without superfluous ceremony, in his brown 
 holland pinafore and old straw hat. Susan would have 
 dressed him first. 
 
 " Will you read me a Bible story, grandma ? " 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs. Owen. "Run and fetch the book." 
 
 There were Bible stories for children in those days just as 
 there are in these ; but they did not get read so much. Mrs. 
 Owen took care that Tom should hear them. He could just 
 reach the little book from the side-table, and brought it to her. 
 He was so fond of hearing one of the stories in particular, 
 that the book opened of itself at the place — Christ forgiving 
 the thief on the Cross. His little tongue, its language im- 
 perfect as yet, was never tired of asking questions : some- 
 times Mrs. Owen's ingenuity was puzzled to answer. 
 
 But it was not only that she read to him : that was the 
 least part. The story over, she would close the book, and 
 talk to him, as on this day, in a loving, winning, gentle voice. 
 Talk to him of heaven and the glorious happiness of those 
 who shall attain to it : of what he must do in this world, or 
 rather try to do, if lie would be one of them : of patience in 
 long suffering ; of loving kindness to others ; of self-sacrifice 
 for their benefit ; of truth and honour, and generosity : all in 
 language suited to his years, but quite clear and forcible. She 
 would impress upon him the great fact that God was ever 
 near him, watching, guiding, hearing, seeing him : and she 
 contrived so to imbue him with the belief in God's loving care, 
 that the child trusted to it beyond any earthly thing. When 
 a stranger, spending the day with Sir Dene, once asked the 
 child what he most wished for (expecting he would say some 
 choice toy — a sword, a wheelbarrow, or a live rabbit), the 
 answer was that he might be good and go to heaven. Sir 
 Dene laughed and kissed him : the stranger thought what an 
 odd little boy. Oh, but these early lessons did him good ser- 
 vice in after years ; without them he might never have borne 
 the indignities cast on him. 
 
 " Grandma, I'll never be naughty. Never." 
 
 Mrs. Owen knew too well what the corruptions of the human 
 
Very much of a Waif. 175 
 
 heart are, and what the temptations of the world. She only 
 smiled sadly in answer. 
 
 " "Was mamma ever naughty ? " 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 " And papa ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But they went to heaven ! M 
 
 " Ay, dear. They went very near together, too. The thief 
 on the Cross had been very, very naughty ; but the moment 
 he asked Jesus to forgive him, Jesus did, you see." 
 
 "I'll ask, if ever I am naughty," said the child, after a 
 thoughtful pause. " Grandpa Owen went too. And you'll 
 go, grandma. And I'll go." 
 
 " But you must first grow up to be a man and do a great, 
 great deal of work in this world, and a great deal of good," 
 said Mrs. Owen. " God sent us here to work." 
 
 " Shall we work in heaven ? " 
 
 " I don't know. If we do, it will be pleasant work, happy 
 work, angels' work. Tes, we shall." 
 
 " Have you had to do a great, great deal of work here, grand- 
 ma?" 
 
 "Tes, a great deal. And I have had to bear a very great 
 deal of sorrow : sorrow and sickness, and heart-break. But 
 for God's loving help, Tom, I don't think I could have got 
 through it." 
 
 " Shall I have a great deal of sorrow ? " 
 
 " Tou will be sure to have it sooner or later. Don't forget 
 what I have told you, Tom — that God often sends the most to 
 those he loves the best. You must be very brave in all things." 
 
 " Yes, I'll be brave," answered unconscious Tom. 
 
 The sitting was over. He jumped down, and ran to find 
 Mary Barber. Mary Barber, preserving damsons in the back 
 kitchen, and also sadly disturbed by William Owen's com- 
 munication of the previous night, was too busy to have much 
 leisure for Tom. Spreading some of the hot jam upon a slice 
 of bread, she told him to run into the garden and eat it. 
 
 Tom was making for the garden in all dutiful obedience — 
 never a more implicitly obedient child than he. But William 
 Owen's dog Sharp came barking up to him in play. It would 
 go into a fit of delight at the sight of the child. The dog 
 ran, and Tom after it, neglecting to eat his jam, until they 
 reached the gates at Harebell Lane. Sharp bounded over the 
 small one, and knocked down a little girl in a pink cotton 
 
176 Dene Hollow. 
 
 bonnet and tattered frock. Tom, -with inherent gallantry, ran 
 to pull her up. 
 
 It was that child, mentioned a few chapters ago, who had 
 been born at the Trailing Indian the night of Robert Chven's 
 disappearance. She -was called Emma Geach. Before the 
 mother was strong enough to leave the inn, Mrs. Black fell 
 ill with rheumatic fever. The wornan undertook to nurse 
 her, and to do the work. The illness was a long one, some 
 months in duration, and Mrs. Geach stayed on. After that, she 
 would go away and come again by fits and starts : but did not 
 take her child. The child had never been away from the inn 
 yet : for all that could be seen to the contrary, it seemed likely 
 to be her permanent home. Mrs. Black liked the child, and 
 would have kept her always. Black did not like her. He 
 was almost savagely angry at her being left there-: but gossip 
 said, he did not dare to turn her out or insist too strongly on 
 her removal, lest Mrs. Geach in revenge should betray some 
 of the secret doings of the Trailing Indian. 
 
 "Don't cry; don't cry," said Tom. " I'll give you some 
 bread and jam." 
 
 The child stood up at the tempting offer, and ceased roar- 
 ing. Born six months before Tom, she looked at least a 
 twelvemonth older : a tall child, with hair that looked like 
 threads of fine-spun yellow grass, chubby red cheeks, and 
 eyes of so remarkably light a shade that they might have 
 been called white, rather than blue. Tom tore asunder his 
 piece of bread and jam, and gave her the largest half. 
 
 "Whether Miss Geach was starved at the Trailing Indian, or 
 that damson jam was amidst luxuries unknown to her, certain 
 it was that she gobbled up the piece in a wonderful fashion. 
 It disappeared before Tom had finished his first mouthful. 
 
 " I want some more," she said, fixing her greedy little eyes 
 on the rest. So Tom, never hesitating, broke it again, but 
 not so deftly as before : the soft and the jam fell to one part, 
 the dry crust, unjammed, to the other. He handed the best 
 to the child, and nibbled away at the dry crust. 
 
 " What's your name ? " asked Tom. 
 
 " Emma. What's yours ? " 
 
 " Tom. Where d'you live ? " 
 
 " Up there," she answered, pointing along the lane. " I've 
 got a whistle at home : '11 you come and see him ? " 
 
 Whistles are charmingly tempting things, and Tom yielded 
 without question. The two children ran up the lane com- 
 
Very much of a Waif. 177 
 
 paring notes of possessions : Tom's Noah's ark and picture 
 book, and a whip with a green handle ; against Miss Geach's 
 whistle. The dog, sharing the crust with Tom, leaped beside 
 them. Eandy Black met them close to the inn. 
 
 " Holloa ! — who have ye got here, you little wretch ? " 
 cried he to the girl. And she, who seemed to have plenty of 
 assurance for her years (or, as the inmates of the Trailing 
 Indian were wont to put it, " stock ") answered boldly with- 
 out sign of fear. 
 
 " I'm going to show him my whistle." 
 
 Black had spoken before he well gave a look to the boy ; 
 immediately he knew him for the little grandson of Sir Dene 
 Clanwaring, and of the dead master of Harebell Farm. He 
 had seen him abroad often enough since his babyhood, with 
 Susan Cole or Sir Dene. 
 
 " This here baint no place for little gentlefolk, master ; 
 you'd best run home again. As to you, you young pig," he 
 added to the girl, "if you bring stray children here, I'll souse 
 your ears in the horse-trough." 
 
 " Mayn't I see the whistle ? " asked Tom, who had not 
 understood a word in ten. 
 
 " Wait, will yer," cried independent Miss Emma to Tom. 
 " I'll bring him out." 
 
 Black did not interfere to prevent it. He was gazing down 
 at the boy, and whistling softly. 
 
 " You're the very cut o' your father," said he. " Same 
 eyes, same hair, same face. He'd ha' made a second Sir 
 Dene in looks : so'll you. Not bad uns, them eyes of yourn." 
 
 All the little boy's answer to this was to look up at the 
 man with these self-same eyes. Even Black, the hardened, 
 could but note, you see, their kindly nature, so full of sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 " What be your name ?" he went on, less roughly than ho 
 was given to speak. 
 
 "Tom." 
 
 " Bain't it Dene ? Nor Geoffry ? " 
 
 "It's Tom," repeated the boy. 
 
 " Where's your hat ? " 
 
 " I left it at grandma's." 
 
 The ostler appeared in the yard, and called out some ques- 
 tion to his master about corn. As Black went away to £ive 
 the answer, Emma ran out with the whistle, whistling shrilly 
 with all her might. Black bade her "hush her noise," and 
 
1 78 Dene Hollow. 
 
 gave her a box on the ears, which sent her staggering and 
 threw down the whistle. Perhaps she was nsed to be boxed, 
 for she did not cry or complain : only waited till he was a few 
 paces from her, and then picked up the whistle. A rough 
 wooden toy, with streaks of paint across it, that Mrs. Black 
 had bought of a man at the door for a halfpenny. 
 
 Had it been of ivory, mounted in gold, it could not have 
 seemed more precious to little Tom. He whistled, and she 
 whistled, the two taking it by turns, long discordant shrieks 
 enough to frighten the cows, grazing over the way in William 
 Owen's field. Mrs. Black came to the door to see what the 
 cause of the noise might be. A poor, pale woman, more 
 shrunken and meek than ever, since her long bout of rheu- 
 matic fever — which had left her finsrers contracted. Youns: 
 though the girl was, she was already of use in the house : 
 and perhaps that was one of the reasons why Black did not 
 insist upon her removal. Mrs. Black could not have done the 
 entire work now, and a child w r as a safer inmate- than an older 
 person might be. 
 
 " Emma, what boy's that ? " demanded Mrs. Black — just as 
 Black had done. 
 
 The whistle was too absorbing for Emma to answer imme- 
 diately. At about the fifth repetition of the question she 
 turned round. 
 
 " His name's Tom." 
 
 Mrs. Black came slowly out. Her feet were affected as well 
 as her fingers : in short, she was not now much better than a 
 cripple. She had began to talk to the children pleasantly 
 enough when Black came back and sent the group flying : 
 Mrs. Black and the girl indoors ; Tom off, down the lane. 
 
 " And don't you get fond o' prowling up this way, youngster ; 
 or maybe the kidnappers '11 lay hold on ye," was his parting 
 injunction to Tom. " There's lots on 'em at this here house 
 sometimes." 
 
 Tom ran along the lane with all the speed of his little legs. 
 He was constitutionally brave ; and by the time he turned the 
 corner, the kidnappers were forgotten. On either side the 
 lane blackberries grew in abundance, and Tom helped himself 
 at will : scratching his hands, and staining his face and pina- 
 fore crimson. What with the marks left by the jam and the 
 running juice of the blackberries, Tom might have had his 
 portrait taken as something to be stared at. In this condition 
 he was pounced upon by Susan Cole. 
 
Very much of a Waif. 17a 
 
 Susan at once administered a couple of shakings. The one 
 for going off on the loose; it was her own expression; the 
 other for the crimson state he had put himself into. Tom, 
 full of contrition, looked down at his hands and pinafore : 
 and then offered Susan some choice berries squeezed up in his 
 fingers. Susan, instead of accepting the treat with gratitude, 
 flung np his hand and sent the blackberries flying. 
 
 " You oudacious, naughty child ! Where's your hat ? " 
 " It's on the table at grandma's." 
 
 Pulling him along by the hand to the Farm, Susan Cole 
 dashed into the back kitchen, where Joan happened to be 
 washing, and lathered his face and hands well with soap-suds. 
 Then she got his hat and took him off again. 
 
 "Now look you here, Master Tom," she said, as they 
 crossed the lane and entered the back gates — " if you take 
 to go off by yourself, nobody knows where, a frightening me 
 into fiddlestfings and getting yourself into this shocking 
 pickle, I'll run away and leave you. I won't stay at the 
 Dene no longer to serve an ongrateful little boy." 
 
 Tom was very quiet during the afternoon, playing with 
 Noah's ark and the animals, and giving no trouble to anybody. 
 The servants were busy that day, for company was coming to 
 the Dene. Lady Lydia Clanwaring, the wife of Captain 
 Clanwaring, Sir Dene's youngest son, had just landed from 
 India, with her three children, and her arrival at the Dene 
 might happen at any hour : to-day, to-morrow, the next day. 
 Sir Dene expected her to make a long visit, and looked for- 
 ward with pleasure to an event that would break the monotony 
 of his home. 
 
 Sir Dene reached home for dinner : kept it waiting in fact. 
 Tom's quick ears, on the alert for the sound, heard the 
 horses' hoofs ; he ran out, and met them halfway down the 
 avenue. The groom behind dismounted ; lifted the child up 
 in front of his master; and Tom was conveyed back in 
 triumph. 
 
 " Master Tom will dine with me," said Sir Dene to Gander, 
 as he led him indoors. 
 
 So the child sat beside the baronet; chattering, however, 
 more than eating, for he had just had tea. No longer the 
 young vagabond all blackberry stains, scouring the lanes at 
 will, bare-headed and bare-armed : but a beautiful little prince 
 in crimson velvet, with a falling plaited frill of snow-white 
 cambric on his neck, and his bright curls hanging down in a 
 
I So Dene Hollow. 
 
 shower of gold. Susan Cole took care to dress him always 
 towards evening, in case Sir Dene should ask for him. 
 
 " Emma's got a whistle, grandpa," said Tom, when they 
 were left alone at dessert. 
 
 "A whistle, bas she ? " replied the baronet, not in the least 
 knowing, or caring, whom " Emma " might be. 
 
 " A nice big whistle all green and blue, grandpa. I wish I 
 had one." 
 
 " Tell Susan to go to Hurst Leet to-morrow and buy you 
 one," was the answer of Sir Dene. 
 
 " I'm afraid she won't. She's angry with me." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! Have yon been a naughty boy ? " 
 
 "Yes. I made my hands and face dirty with the black- 
 berries, and spoilt my pinafore." 
 
 Sir Dene laughed : a very venial offence, this. " There's 
 another walnut for you, Tom. Peel it well, you rascal." 
 
 Tom cat away at his walnut, peeling it first. " Some more 
 water, please grandpa." 
 
 Sir Dene poured out some water. He was sensible enough 
 to know that wine and children were best apart. 
 
 " Mary Barber gave me some bread and jam, grandpa. 
 Sharp knocked Emma clown, and I " 
 
 A commotion outside stopped the history. A chaise-and- 
 four (the sound was easily distinguished from that of a 
 chaise-and-pair) had clattered up to the front entrance. Dogs 
 barked ; servants ran ; Gander rushed into the dining-room. 
 
 " Sir Dene/' said he, " I'll lay anything as it's my Lady 
 Lydia come." And Sir Dene went into the hall. 
 
 It was Lady Lydia Clanwaring. A tall, meagre woman, 
 two or three years past thirty, with a pale, discontented face, 
 sharp features, keen, restless black eyes, and thin compressed 
 lips. Her children followed her, black-eyed and black-haired; 
 the eldest, a girl, seven years old, two boys, six and five. As 
 if fatigued with the journey — they had posted up from 
 Portsmouth — Lady Lydia sunk on a chair as soon as she 
 entered the dining-room. The children ran to the table, and 
 stood eyeing eagei'ly the good things on it. 
 
 "They'd like some dessert, Gander," spoke Sir Dene. 
 " Bring plates." 
 
 Hats and bonnets were thrown on the floor. The children 
 dragged chairs to the table, and seated themselves without 
 further ceremony. Tom, who had shyly retreated to the 
 background at the large influx, remained unseen. 
 
Very much of a Waif. 1S1 
 
 " Take care that everything is brought in, Dovet," screamed 
 out Lady Lydia to her maid, in the same hard, shrill voice 
 that had used rather to grate on Sir Dene's ears in India — 
 for he liked that most excellent thing, a sweet voice in a 
 woman. " "We must have had twenty small packages at least 
 inside, of one sort or another." 
 
 When the bustle had somewhat subsided Sir Dene inquired 
 after his son Reginald, who remained in India. 
 
 " Captain Clanwaring was very well when we left him, but 
 as cross as a bear," replied Lady Lydia. It was a peculiarity 
 of hers that she always called her husband " Captain Clan- 
 waring." " It is a wearing life out there : and last season 
 was a frightfully hot one. No, Jarvis, you can't have more 
 wine ; you are going to have supper. Good gracious, Louisa, 
 don't crack that walnut with your teeth ! Jarvis, crack it for 
 your sister." 
 
 " Crack it for her, Otto," said Master Jarvis imperiously, 
 to his brother. And the younger one cracked the walnut. 
 
 " Captain Clanwaring says there's no chance of his getting 
 leave. None. Just now " 
 
 The words died away on Lady Lydia' s tongue. She had 
 turned from her children to face Sir Dene again ; and stopped 
 in utter astonishment. A beautiful child, habited in crimson 
 velvet, with blue eyes and golden hah', was leaning familiarly 
 against Sir Dene; had stolen his little hand within his. What 
 child could it be ? 
 
 " Who is that ? " demanded Lady Lydia. 
 
 " It is my little grandson," said Sir Dene. 
 
 Little grandson ! That John Clanwaring the heir had now 
 an infant son in long clothes, Lady Lydia knew. There could 
 be no other grandson. She thought she had heard, as the 
 French express it, a tort et a travers. 
 
 " What grandson ? Who is he, Sir Dene ? " 
 
 Sir Dene answered by taking the child on his knee. " Tell 
 the lady what your name is, and who you are."' 
 
 " It's Tom," said the child. 
 
 ""What else? " continued Sir Dene. 
 
 *' Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 " Well — now tell who you are." 
 
 " I'm grandpapa's little boy." 
 
 Sir Dene, pleased with the words, kissed him fondly. Lady 
 Lydia knitted her brows and sent forth some keen glances from 
 her black and restless eyes. 
 
1 82 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " He is the son of my dear boy, Geoffry, ■who's dead and 
 gone, Lady Lydia. Poor Geoff left him to me as a legacy." 
 
 It took Lady Lydia a minute or two to digest the words — 
 and she did not fully comprehend, even then. That Geoffry 
 Clanwaring had made some low marriage before his death, 
 and so brought disgrace on himself and the Clanwaring family, 
 she knew. John the heir had sent out a version of the calamity 
 to India : Captain Clanwaring had been quite as indignant as 
 John, and at once wrote back his opinion of matters to Sir 
 Dene. But to see this fair, aristocratic child, aristocratic in 
 dress as in looks, sitting on Sir Dene's knee, fondled by him, 
 and evidently at home at Beechhurst Dene, was something so 
 entirely opposite to the ideas Lady Lydia had formed upon 
 the affair, that she did not quite at once recover her equa- 
 nimity. 
 
 " Does he — live here ? " she asked in condemning amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " Oh dear, yes. He has no other home." 
 
 " Where's his mother, pray ? " 
 
 " Tell where," said Sir Dene, to the intelligent listening boy. 
 
 " Mamma's dead," said Tom. " She and papa went to 
 heaven." 
 
 " Ay. They went within three months of each other ; the 
 same grave, hardly closed, received them both, Lady Lydia." 
 
 And to her ladyship's infinite astonishment, she saw that 
 Sir Dene's eyes, bent on the little boy's head as he spoke, had 
 filled with tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 GUESTS AT BEECHHURST DENE. 
 
 The handsomest guest-chamber that Beechhurst Dene afforded, 
 with a small cheerful sitting-room opening from it, had been 
 assigned by the servants to Lady Lydia Clanwaring. The 
 title sounded imposing in their ears. The heir's wife was 
 really of better family, and an heiress to boot ; but she was 
 only plain Mrs. Clanwaring : Lady Lydia was Lady Lydia, 
 and received homage accordingly. 
 
 The Lady Lydia Clanwaring was the daughter of a poor 
 and obscure Irish peer ; she had absolutely not a shilling of 
 her own in the world. Her father, Mr. Riley, had succeeded 
 to the title suddenly. Perhaps it was the long fight with 
 
Guests at BcccJiJuirst Dene. 183 
 
 poverty previously to that that had rendered her so sharp in 
 •worldly interests, so mean in petty details, so grasping in 
 everything where money was concerned. Mr. Riley had never 
 expected to come in to the title : when he did so his daughters 
 were grown up : until then, they had all led a scrambling sort 
 of life, their time passed in one long scuffle, trying to make 
 both ends meet ; sometimes in a remote corner of Ireland, 
 sometimes in a cheap Continental town. After his succession, 
 the Earl was not much better off, for the estate, never 
 worth much, had been impoverished until the income 
 derived from it was of almost nominal value. One of 
 Lydia Riley's sisters had married an officer in an Indian regi- 
 ment. Lady Lydia went out to stay with them, and there met 
 Sir Dene's son, Lieutenant Clanwaring. Stationed in a quiet 
 place where there was but little society, they were thrown 
 much together, and one day Lieutenant Clanwaring made her 
 an offer : or at least, what she chose to consider one ; and in 
 point of fact, he said more than he could in honour retract 
 from. Be you very sure she did not let him retract. He 
 would have laughed it off, but found he could not. He had 
 never meant it, he- said to himself : it had been said in thought- 
 lessness, in the incaution of the moment : but he had to abide 
 by it. How very many more men are there, who have been 
 caught in a like manner ! Mr. Clanwaring submitted to his 
 fate with a good grace, and made no sign. Save for a word 
 he let drop in Gander's hearing one night that he came to his 
 father's rather shaky from the mess dinner, he never let it be 
 known that the Lady Lydia was not his best choice. He was 
 but a boy, barely of age : she was three or four years older in 
 years, and half a century in depth. So they were married ; 
 and until now had lived together in India. Lady Lydia had 
 had time to get heartily sick and tired of an Indian life, and 
 of making the best of a narrow income. Sir Dene did not 
 allow much to his youngest son : at the same age he, himself, 
 had been obliged to make his pay suffice ; and he thought it 
 no hardship for his son to do it. Weary of it altogether, Lady 
 Lydia determined to have a change. She told her husband 
 that the time had come when it was necessary the children 
 should go home, both for their health's sake and that their 
 education should be entered upon. Captain Clanwaring agreed. 
 He was tired of it, too : tired of his wife's fractiousness, and 
 of the troublesome and noisy children. He wrote to his father, 
 askinar him to receive them for a time, until suitable schools 
 
i $4 Dene Hollow. 
 
 should be fixed on : and Sir Dene acquiesced with pleasure. 
 On this, the first night of their arrival, Lady Lydia told Sir 
 Dene she should remain about a year in Europe visiting 
 different friends in England and Ireland ; and then return to 
 her husband. In her private heart she cherished a very 
 different plan — never to go back at all, but to establish her 
 footing and her home at Beechhurst Dene. And if there was 
 one woman more capable than most other women of carrying 
 out her scheme persistently and bringing it to bear, that 
 woman was the Lady Lydia Clanwaring. 
 
 All the way home, amidst the many months' discomfort 
 of the sailing ship — there were no fleet steamers in those 
 days — had she been nursing her eggs and reckoning her 
 chickens. " Sir Dene has neither kith nor kin ; he has no 
 grandchild to make much of," she would repeat to herself, 
 " for John Clanwaring and his wife do not go near Beechhurst 
 Dene. The field lies open and clear for me. I will be the 
 place's mistress : my children will be their grandfather's in- 
 dulged pets and playthings." 
 
 But Lady Lydia, to her intense astonishment, found that 
 Sir Dene had a grandchild near him, located in his home, 
 allowed to climb his knee at will, altogether made as much of 
 as she had intended her own children should be. More 
 especially had she cherished this intention for her elder son. 
 He was beloved by her in that inordinate degree that mothers 
 do sometimes love their children. It is said that like cliugs 
 to like. Certain it was, this young Jarvis Clanwaring was 
 remarkably like his mother, in person as in temper. He had 
 the same pale, sharp face, the keen, restless black eyes, with 
 the sly look in them ; in disposition he had the same crafty 
 depth, and the secretive, iinpleasant temper. The younger 
 one, Otto, was a dull plodding boy, worth ten of his brother 
 — who put upon him always. From the moment Lady Lydia 
 Clanwaring saw the child, Tom, on Sir Dene's knee, she re- 
 solved that he should lose his footing in the house if clever 
 manoeuvring could accomplish it. 
 
 She stood at the window of her bedroom the following 
 morning, looking out on the early sun. Lady Lydia was by 
 far too restless naturcd a woman to lie in bed late, even on 
 the day following a tiring journey; she liked to be up and 
 doing. She had just wound her coal-black hair in coils 
 round her head, and was dressed all but her gown. The fine 
 panorama of scenery lay beyond, with its green fields, its 
 
Guests at Beccliliurst Dene. 1S5 
 
 ■woods, its gleams of -water, and its sprinkling of dwellings ; 
 Hurst Leet, the little village, was near, the fair city of Wor- 
 cester more distant : all pleasant things to look npon nnder 
 the blue sky of the autumn morning. But to Lady Lydia 
 they were as nothing. She looked with covetous eyes at the 
 park beneath ; at the lodge at the end of the avenue ; at 
 whatsoever pertained to Beechhurst Dene. " A grand old 
 place," she repeated to herself, "and I'll reign here, its 
 mistress." 
 
 The door opened, and she turned sharply round. It was 
 Dovet, the maid : she had reddish hair, and eyes of a fine 
 green, and wore a buff gingham gown with white frills, and 
 was just as crafty as her mistress. Lady Lydia had lost no 
 time. On the previous evening when she went upstairs to 
 take off her things before supper, the vision of the fair child 
 in his crimson velvet dress clouding her mind, she called 
 Dovet, and charged her to find out all particulars concerning 
 the boy — how he came to be there at all, and why. Dovet 
 liked nothing better than to ferret out secrets for herself or 
 her mistress : to do her justice, she was in that respect a 
 faithful servant. 
 
 "Well, Dovet," began Lady Lydia, "have you got at any 
 of the circumstances ? " 
 
 "I flatter myself that I have obtained a few, my lady," 
 minced Dovet, who was as full of conceit and affectation as 
 any fine dame of the day could be. " It was quite a error of 
 judgment to have allowed the child to have come here at all." 
 " The mother was a frightfully low person, I know." 
 " Oh, frightful low, my lady. They live at a farm near ; 
 quite woi'king people ; an inferior set altogether. The girl 
 was pretty, and Mr. Geoffry was drawn in to marry her one 
 day when Sir Dene was safe away in London. A. fine up- 
 roar there was over it. Sir Dene posted down from London 
 with Mr. Clanwaring, and a aunt posted over in her carriage 
 from somewhere nearer. They turned Mr. Geoffry out of the 
 house ; kicked him out, I believe, my lady ; and he went off 
 to lodgings with the girl. Sir Dene relented a little later, 
 and let him live in a cottage on the estate and made him his 
 servant as bailiff. The girl died when the child was born, 
 and the day after she was interred, Mr. Geoffry came home 
 here again (like his impudence, it seems to me, my lady) and 
 brought the infant with him wrapped up in an old shawl. 
 And here the infant have been ever since." 
 
1 86 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Dovet had got her tale tolerably correct, you see. Fortune 
 favoured her. An uncler-kousemaid, Patty, who was under 
 orders to leave — through a quarrel with Susan Cole, in which 
 Susan's part had been taken, and hers not, and in conse- 
 quence of which Susan was just now worse to her than 
 poison — had fallen in Dovet's way. In the woman's sore 
 feeling she had put the worst colouring on the past, as con- 
 nected with G-eoffry Clanwaring and his wife, simply because 
 Susan had been their servant. Revenge makes the best of us 
 unjust. 
 
 "The girl's people live near, do they?" remarked Lady 
 Lydia, when she had listened to what Dovet had to say. 
 
 " Quite close, my lady. It's a old farmhouse, right oppo- 
 site the back gates here, just across the lane. The little child 
 is running there continual." 
 
 " Then why is it that the child cannot be with them alto- 
 gether? " was Lady Lydia's indignant rejoinder. 
 
 "Why indeed, my lady ! " 
 
 Lady Lydia said nothing further. Perhaps she thought all 
 the more. That this low-born child, this interloper, should 
 certainly lose its footing at Beechhui'st Dene and be got out 
 of it, she fully resolved. But she knew that she must pro- 
 ceed to work cautiously : feel her way, as it wore. Very 
 smooth and smiling was her face as she went down to break- 
 fast. 
 
 "Will you allow me to preside, Sir Dene?" she asked, 
 when her children were seated. 
 
 " I'm sure I wish you would — if you don't mind taking the 
 trouble," heartily replied Sir Dene — who, averse to exertion 
 himself, as many who have lived long in India are, had been 
 about to tell Gander to stop and pour out the coffee. So Lady 
 Lydia took her place at the table's head — and kept it for the 
 future. 
 
 In came Susan Cole. " Is Master Tom to take his break- 
 fast here this morning, Sir Dene ?" 
 
 " What d'ye say ?" cried Sir Dene, who had not caught 
 the words, as he turned his head to the speaker. 
 
 " Master Tom is wanting to have his breakfast with you, 
 Sir Dene. He knows, you see, sir, that the other children 
 are here." 
 
 " To be sure : let him come by all means," was Sir Dene's 
 answer. And the lady, busy with the coffee cups, did not 
 like the glad and ready voice it was spoken in. 
 
Guests at Bcechhurst Dene. 1S7 
 
 So Tom came. In a cotton frock this morning, -with, his 
 clean round brown Holland blouse over it. Susan placed bis 
 chair at Sir Dene's elbow, and put down his basin of breud- 
 and-milk. 
 
 " Go and say good morning to your cousins, my pretty 
 one," said Sir Dene; and my lady coughed a harsh and 
 resentful cough at the word " cousins." Tom held out his 
 little hand to them in succession : and each shook it in silence, 
 staring at the boy as if he were a wild Indian. The children 
 had not brought much manners with them. Then Susan 
 lifted him into his seat ; and Sir Dene kissed him, and stroked 
 his pretty hair. 
 
 It happened that Sir Dene had to go to Worcester that 
 morning, to attend a public meeting. His phaeton came to 
 the door at eleven o'clock. Lady Lydia stepped out to admire 
 the fine horses. 
 
 " I want to go, ma," said Jarvis. " I shall go." 
 
 Lady Lydia appealed to Sir Dene with a sweet smile. 
 " You will take him, will you not, Sir Dene ? " 
 
 " Can't to-day," replied Sir Dene. " Should not know 
 what to do with him in Worcester." 
 
 The lady's face clouded — threatening signs of one of her 
 ugly passions. " Oh, do indulge him this once, Sir Dene," 
 pleaded the mother. " All is strange to him here as yet, poor 
 dear little fellow." 
 
 But Sir Dene was not one to do a thing against his will. 
 On Ihe whole he was not fond of children — Tom excepted — 
 and ^ ery much disliked to be put to any personal trouble with 
 them. 
 
 " Very sorry, Lady Lydia, but I am going in on business. 
 The meeting may last for hours : it would hardly do for — 
 what's the lad's name — Jarvey — to be left in the streets. The 
 coachman can drive them all out to-morrow." 
 
 Sir Dene got in, taking the reins, the groom stepped up 
 beside him, and away they went. Master Jarvey's first move 
 was to fling himself on his back on the gravel and kick and 
 howl as if the deuce had got inside him. The words, please, 
 are Gander's, who was looking on. His next move was to 
 spring on his feet, furiously tear up a handful of gravel and 
 fling it after the carriage. 
 
 " That's nice bringings up," cried Susan Cole critically in 
 Gander's ear. 
 
 "Her bringings up !" retorted Gander, with a side nod in 
 
1 88 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 the direction of Lady Lyclia. c; Don't think she knows much 
 about that. One can't expect nothing from a pig but to 
 grunt." 
 
 " You don't like her," remarked Susan. " No more don't I." 
 
 " I didn't like her in India, nor nobody else did : young Mr. 
 Clanwaring in course excepted," added Gander, with a curious 
 twist of the mouth. " And I don't like Dovet neither — birds 
 of a feather, they be. Dovet had got her fox's nose inside 
 my pantry this morning, whispering with Patty : I'd like to 
 know the reason why." 
 
 Lady Lydia, smarting under the rebuff Sir Dene had given 
 her boy, who was idolized by her as no other human being 
 ever could or would be in this world, retired to her rooms in 
 dudgeon, where Dovet proceeded to unpack, with Susan Colo 
 to help. By-and-by Lady Lydia put on her bonnet and shawl, 
 and strolled out to the back entrance to look about her. Not 
 a corner of the passages but she took it in with her observant 
 eye ; not a bush of shrubs outside, but she noted. Gander, 
 coming to the door to shake a table-cloth, saw her with her 
 nose flattened against the glass doors of Sir Dene's parlour, 
 peering in. With independent ease, Gander did not seem in 
 a hurry to retreat again ; he leisurely stood and shook, and 
 shook and stood. 
 
 " This seems to be quite a business room, Gander," she 
 remarked, stepping back. " What a quantity of papers lie 
 about ! " 
 
 "It is Sir Dene's business parlour, my lady." 
 
 " His business parlour ! What has Sir Dene Clanwaring 
 to do with business ? " 
 
 " With a big estate like this, there's a host of business to 
 be transacted ; a sight o' matters to be done. I know this 
 much, my lady : it pretty nigh drives the master at times off 
 his head. Dell, the bailiff — it's one he took on after poor Mr. 
 Geoffry died — ain't o' much good as it seems to me, for folks 
 come up here all the same a-pestering Sir Dene. — Where do 
 them two paths lead to, you ask, my lady : Avhy the one 
 straight afore us goes direct to Harebell Lane : t'other on our 
 right, the privet walk, '11 take you round to the front o' the 
 house." 
 
 Lady Lydia, avoiding the privet walk, chose the straight 
 one before her, and arrived at the gates opening to Harebell 
 Lane. Remembei-ing Dovet's words, she looked out for the 
 Farm : but the opposite hedge was high, and hid it. She 
 
Guests at BccchJiurst Dene. 189 
 
 took her way tip the lane on an exploring tour, and reached 
 in time the Trailing Indian. 
 
 Two children — dirty little ragamuffins npon whom the 
 Lady Lydia did not vouchsafe to cast a second glance — stood 
 near, blowing alternately at a whistle. The one ran up to 
 show it to her in his sociable nature. 
 
 " Isn't it nice ? It's Emma's." 
 
 To Lady Lydia's unbounded astonishment, she recognised 
 Tom. But Tom in unmitigated grief, so far as his clothes 
 were concerned. In the busy state of the Dene that morning, 
 and of Susan Cole, Tom neglected and looked askance at by 
 the Indian children, took the opportunity to run off, as usual, 
 to Mrs. Owen's. In the lane, he Avas waylaid by Emma 
 Geach, and that young lady seduced him to stay and play 
 with her. Companionship is sweet. Having tasted of it 
 once, she was no doubt longing for it again, and had 
 come off surreptitiously to find Tom. It is always the 
 women, we are assured, who seduce the men. Running up 
 to the Trailing Indian in search of the whistle, which she had 
 not brought out, Tom fell down by the pond, and plastered 
 himself with green mud. Emma, by way of consoling him, 
 fed him with blackberries, and — there he was, face, hands, 
 hair, and pinafore, a picturesque compound of red, and green, 
 and muddy disreputability. Lady Lydia turned her outraged 
 eyes on the other child. An unmistakable ragamuffin, she, 
 of the lowest type : clothes coarse, shabby, torn ; toes out of 
 shoes, socks down at heel. 
 
 " Is that your sister ? " demanded Lady Lydia, her ideas 
 somewhat confused. 
 
 " It's Emma," repeated Tom. " Grandpapa said Susan was 
 to buy me a whistle like this, but Susan has not got time to- 
 day." 
 
 Every nerve within her revolted at the word " grandpapa," 
 as used by this child, of Sir Dene. "Where does 'Emma' 
 live ? " she asked. 
 
 " I lives there," burst forth the girl, with all her native 
 " stock," as she pointed to the Trailing Indian. 
 
 Lady Lydia cast her eyes on the inn, picked up her skirts, 
 and walked on. " Low-lived little beast ! " she exclaimed of 
 Tom, not caring whether the roadside inn bore much relation- 
 ship to him, or none. "And it is this child of disgraceful 
 connections who has been allowed to get a footing at Beech- 
 hurst Dene ! " 
 
190 Dene Hollow. 
 
 The high, road, running crossways just beyond the Trailing 
 Indian, did not seem to promise much of interest for Lady 
 Lydia, and she turned back. The girl, Emma, had been 
 called into the inn then, whistle and all, and the door shut. 
 Tom, left alone, ran along by the side of Lady Lydia, un- 
 conscious that he was doing wrong : did she not belong to the 
 Dene ? 
 
 '• What do you mean by following me?" she stopped to 
 ask. " Why don't you go home ? " 
 
 "I'm going to grandma's," said Tom. " It's down here. 
 Mary Barber will wash me." 
 
 He spoke timidly. The angry face had a look in it that 
 frightened him. Children have keen instincts, and Tom drew 
 behind. At the turning of the lane he suddenly darted before 
 her, and into the arms of a young man who was advancing. 
 A gentle-faced, pleasant young man, who wore working 
 clothes. It was "William wen. 
 
 " Oh, Tom ! what a mess you are in ! " he cried — and then 
 took off his hat to Lady Lydia as she passed. 
 
 Tom repeated that he was going to ask Mary Barber to 
 "wash" him. Mr. Owen put him down, and told him to 
 make haste about it. 
 
 " Who was that ? " Lady Lydia condescended to question 
 of Tom, when he came on. 
 
 " It was Uncle William," said the child. " He gave me a 
 little boat one day." 
 
 Lady Lydia tossed her disdainful head. Uncle William ! 
 — a common working clodhopper ! and this objectionable 
 child, with the low connections and the low tastes and com- 
 panionships, was allowed to call Sir Dene Clanwaring his 
 grandfather, and to have his home at Beechhurst Dene ! 
 
 The child — the offences of the morning condoned by Susan 
 — appeared at dessert again in his costly velvet dress — only 
 this time it was blue velvet instead of crimson. Susan Cole, 
 in conjunction with Miss Reynolds, the noted mantua-maker 
 on the parade at Worcester, had been allowed to order attire 
 for him after the pride of her own heart, unchecked by her 
 master. It was with difficulty Lady L}-dia kept her temper 
 down to a decent show of tranquillity. She had assumed the 
 head of the table, as she had at breakfast, sitting at the 
 opposite end to Sir Dene ; or, rather the foot, for Sir Dene 
 always took the head. But the temper, bubbling up within 
 her with strange fierceness, betrayed her into an incaution 
 
Guests at Beechkurst Dene. 191 
 
 she was not often guilty of — that of speaking at the wrong 
 time. 
 
 After the children were gone to bed, and she had been in 
 the great drawing-room a long while alone, Sir Dene came in 
 from the dinner-table. It was the custom in those days for 
 gentlemen to drink a great deal of wine : Sir Dene did not 
 exceed as some did ; but he liked a generous glass. To-day, 
 however, the reason of his tardy sitting was, that, fatigued 
 with his tiresome meeting in the city, he had dropped asleep 
 at the table. Lady Lydia, nursing her rage all that while at 
 the prospect of what she was pleased to term her children's 
 wrongs in having found a supplanter in Sir Dene's affections, 
 was just in prime order, and entered at once upon the battle. 
 Very quietly, softly, craftily, and tenderly — just as though 
 she were a sweet angel of consideration, and had no interests 
 in the world at heart, save Sir Dene's and Tom's. 
 
 Tom's sad connections were hinted at ; Tom's over-low 
 predilections ; Tom's vagabond state out of doors — as witness 
 how and with whom she had found him that day. For such 
 a child Beechhurst Dene was not a suitable home, she gently 
 pointed out : and — would it not be better to send him to his 
 grandmother Owen's ? 
 
 " Send him to his grandmother Owen's ?" repeated Sir 
 Dene, when he had gathered what all this was driving at — 
 and he spoke a little explosively, as it seemed to his wary 
 listener. " Why what do you mean, my lady ?" 
 
 " Even at the cost of having to pay a slight yearly sum 
 for his maintenance. Dear Sir Dene, I only suggest it in the 
 child's best interests." 
 
 " His interests can be taken better care of at Beechhurst 
 Dene than they would be with his mother's family," returned 
 the baronet. " Tou must be dreaming, Lady Lydia." 
 
 " I fear, unfortunately, that I am rather wider awake in 
 regard to this matter than you can be, Sir Dene," she said, 
 with the sweetest smile her face could put on. " Were the 
 child to remain here, he would grow up with notions ridi- 
 culously unsuited to his future position." 
 
 " And what do you fancy his future position will be ?" 
 retorted Sir Dene, his temper getting up. " The child is my 
 grandson, Lady Lydia : you don't suppose I shall turn him 
 out into the world to follow the plough's tail, do you ?" 
 
 " Oh, Sir Dene ! the plough's tail !" she simpered. 
 
 "Well, Lady Lydia, what is it that you mean ?" he asked. 
 
192 Dene Hollow. 
 
 And then, vexed in her turn, she said openly that the child 
 ought never to have been at the Dene — ought to be sent from 
 it without loss of time. 
 
 " Never, while I live and am master here, Lady Lydia," 
 was the firm answer. " I gave my hand on it to my dear son, 
 Geoffry." 
 
 " It is scai'cely behaving fairly to your other sons, Sir 
 Dene. To Mr. Clanwaring's well-born wife ; to me. The 
 young woman was so very obscure and low a person." 
 
 " She was one of the best and loveliest ladies the world 
 ever saw — I can tell you that, my lady," returned Sir Dene, 
 in choler. 
 
 " But so very low, I say. "Were her friends not able or 
 willing to receive the child, he should have been sent to the 
 parish. It is really not becoming to have him here — and to 
 make much of him, as though he were a son of the house. 
 Pardon me, dear Sir Dene, I am only speaking in all our in- 
 terests, his included." 
 
 " Very likely you are, my lady: but as your notions and 
 mine don't agree in this, the subject may be dropped. Geoffry 
 was my favourite son : and this little son of his has taken his 
 place in my home." 
 
 Sir Dene rang the bell as he spoke — a loud peal that startled 
 Gander. Susan Cole was wanted. 
 
 " What is this I hear ?" thundered Sir Dene, when she ap- 
 peared. " That you suffer Master Clanwaring to run wild in 
 the lanes and play with any vagabond child he may pick up ! 
 Take you better care of him in future, Susan Cole : or else 
 you may cut your service short at the Dene." 
 
 And the Lady Lydia, smoothing her fingers over her cam- 
 bric handkerchief at the fire, found she had spoken somewhat 
 too soon. Her rebellious heart rose up within her, and had to 
 be forcibly controlled to silence. " Master Clanwaring ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FRIGHTENING THE PONT. 
 
 TnE June roses were in bloom, shedding their perfume on the 
 air, and the hot midsummer sun lay on the smooth high- 
 ways, on the plains sweet with the drying hay, on the ripening 
 corn. 
 
 On never a smoother and fairer road to look at than the 
 
Frightening the Pony. 193 
 
 one you have so often heard of, Dene Hollow. The lad on his 
 pony going down it, Otto Clanwaring, must have expected a 
 pleasant ride on its white and level surface. Running after 
 the pony, as it turned out of the gates of Beechhurst Dene, 
 came Jarvis Clanwaring. And, standing with his back against 
 the fence, was Tom. Time has grown older, and the boys 
 have grown with it. Tom is neai'ly seven now, Otty nine, 
 Jarvis ten. 
 
 There is not, except for this, much change in them. Jarvis 
 is thin and wiry as ever, with the same dark, sly eyes ; Otto 
 is rather fat, dark, and stolid ; Tom has the same golden hair, 
 the frank face, the kindly, thoughtful, rich blue eyes. The 
 three boys are at school, but not at the same one ; for Lady 
 Lydia Clanwaring (putting it upon the score of difference in 
 years) had successfully contrived that Tom should not con- 
 taminate the same establishment that her boys honoured. 
 They have come home for the midsummer holidays ; and are 
 tired with the long morning spent in the hay-field. But that 
 Jarvis is excessively tired, and has besides some appoint- 
 ment connected with ferrets, he would have taken the pony 
 for himself. It is one Sir Dene keeps for the boys' use when 
 they are at home, and is called Whitestar, from a white star on 
 its forehead. 
 
 Tom is standing perfectly still against the fence, somewhere 
 about the exact spot on which had once stood the dwelling of 
 the Widow Barber. His elbows are pushed back on the 
 lower rail, and he is in a brown study, watching the approach 
 of the pony and its rider. Gander had told him he might go 
 out on the pony that afternoon : but, just as he was about to 
 mount, the two elder ones ordered him away, and took it 
 themselves. Tom feels no resentment ; only a little disap- 
 pointment : it does not occur to him that he is ill-used, for he 
 has become accustomed to give up to his cousins in all things, 
 just as a servant yields to his masters. 
 
 Otto put the pony into a gentle canter, and came on ; 
 Jarvis was following slowly on the pathway. As the pony 
 passed Tom, it swerved violently, as if startled, dashed off at 
 a gallop and threw its rider. Jarvis rushed up in a fury. 
 
 " You young hound ! " he cried, seizing on Tom's head 
 and beginning to pummel it, " what did you frighten him 
 for ? " 
 
 " I didn't frighten him," said Tom. 
 
 " You did, you varmint ! I saw you." 
 
 
 
194 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "I didn't, Jarvis; indeed I didn't," cried Tom. 
 
 Otto came back, rubbing his bead and looking ruefully. 
 His clothes and face and hair were all dust ; his temple was 
 grazed. 
 
 " Was it him did it, Jarvis ? " 
 
 " Of course it was him, nasty little devil ! He's always up 
 to some mean trick." 
 
 " Otto, I didn't," persisted Tom. " I didn't do anything." 
 
 " I heard him give a hiss, and I saw him kick his leg out 
 and pitch a stone ; and it frightened Whitestar." 
 
 Now this barefaced assertion of Master Jarvis's was neither 
 more nor less than a deliberate lie. He had all his mother's 
 ingenuity of invention, and was never happier than when ex- 
 ercising it to the detriment of the scapegoat Tom. A scape- 
 goat in every sense of the term ; and destined to be one, poor 
 fellow ! As you will find when you read on. 
 
 Otto looked from one to the other — on his brother's thrust- 
 out face with its evil black eyes ; on Tom's piteous one, with 
 its running tears. Otto had this good quality — that if he knew 
 a lie to be a lie he would never uphold it ; no, not even for 
 Jarvey. But Otto was by no means goodnatured, he was too 
 selfish to trouble himself to be so; and moreover, he was 
 being reared to despise Tom and put upon him. 
 
 " I never stirred my leg or hissed, and I didn't heave a 
 stone," pleaded the lad earnestly. " It wasn't me, Otto." 
 
 Jarvis kicked, and pummelled, and pushed, and so drowned 
 the words in pain. A man who had caught Whitestar, was 
 leading him up. Thus the damaged party entered the Dene 
 gates. Lady Lydia, seeing it from her window, came flying 
 out to learn what the matter might be, and heard of Tom's 
 iniquities. Poor Tom's voice was like a little piping reed 
 amidst the fierce ones of his accusers : even in self-defence 
 he scarcely dared to lift it in the presence of Lady Lydia. 
 She had long ago inspired him with an awe that he trembled 
 at, but did not attempt to subdue or resist. 
 - They had it out in the hall : Dovet and some of the inferior 
 servants looking on. Gander was not in the way, neither 
 was Sir Dene. Lady Lydia was in a silent passion of rage : 
 she, to do her justice, believed, in this instance, that Tom 
 was guilty. When did she not believe him guilty of any- 
 thing he might be accused of ? Had Jarvis brought to her 
 a story that Tom had drunk the Severn dry she would have 
 given ear to it. 
 
Frightening the Pony. 195 
 
 Baby though he was, or but little removed from one, she 
 hated him ■with a bitter hatred. The fear of Sir Dene had 
 not let her entirely crush him ; but she was doing her best 
 towards it in a quiet way, always working on for it safely 
 and silently. 
 
 " Wicked, crafty reptile ! " cried Lady Lydia, her eyes 
 ablaze with a flashing light. " Poor dear Otto, poor inoffen- 
 sive boy, riding by without thought of treachery, must have 
 his pony startled and his life put in danger by you ! Take 
 him, Dovet, and whip him. Whip him well." 
 
 Dovet seized on Tom by the hand to bear him off to pun- 
 ishment. It came pretty often, this chastisement, and Tom 
 neither might nor dared resist. On trying to resist once, the 
 whipping had been redoubled : in Dovet's hands, a strong 
 woman, Tom was not only powerless, but conscious that be 
 was. He submitted so quietly in a general way, that Dovet 
 was quite astounded at his breaking from her now. 
 
 It was only to run back to Otto. A sweeter disposition 
 than heaven had implanted in this little orphan of Geoffry 
 Clanwaring's never was possessed by son of man. He could 
 not bear, literally could not bear, that another should suffer 
 through him. Lady Lydia had reiterated to him that he might 
 have killed Otto : and the words struck sorely on the child. 
 
 " Otto, I'm going to Dovet to be whipped," he said, the 
 tears streaming doAvn his face, " but I didn't do it. Please 
 don't think it was me, Otto." 
 
 There had been no latent thought in his mind that this 
 further denial would prevent his punishment. Without a 
 moment's hesitation he turned to Dovet's capturing hand and 
 was caught by it, his little legs running to keep up with her 
 strides, his tears flowing. 
 
 " Mamma," said deliberate Otto, after giving a minute or 
 two to ponder matters in his mind, " I'm not sure that it was 
 him. He doesn't tell stories often." 
 
 Tom never told them. One of the chief characteristics of 
 the boy was simple, innate truthfulness. He had learnt to be 
 silent and take as his due unmerited correction, but an untruth 
 he had never told in his life. No one at the Dene believed 
 this : even its master almost doubted. The fact was, Jarvis 
 and Tom were so very often in opposite tales, the one's word 
 against the other's — and Jarvis was both keen and crafty, 
 with his mother to back him, and moreover had the advantage 
 over Tom by three years, and generally contrived to make 
 
196 Dene Hollow. 
 
 his own assertion appear good — that Tom -was beginning' to 
 be looked upon by some of them as an audacious little story- 
 teller. 
 
 " I say it mightn't have been him, mamma," repeated Otto, 
 a second time, finding that he received no notice. " Shall I 
 go and tell Dovet not to whip him." 
 
 " No," sharply returned Lady Lydia. " He does not get 
 whipped often enough, low-born brat ! " 
 
 " But if he didn't frighten Whitestar ? " persisted Otto : who 
 was not without a sense of justice. 
 
 " Not frighten Whitestar ? Did you not hear Master Clan- 
 waring say he saw him ! Hold your tongue, Otto." 
 
 Just as she had called her husband Captain Clanwaring, — 
 and Major Clanwaring now, for he had got his promotion — so 
 did she generally speak of her eldest son as " Master Clan- 
 waring," even to his brother and sister. Otto to the servants 
 was " Master Otto ; " Tom simply " Tom " wdien she con- 
 descended to name him at all ; she generally sj^oke of him as 
 " that boy." 
 
 Tom took his punishment with tears and sobs ; not loud but 
 deep : if he had made much noise Dovet would have treated 
 him to a double portion. She kept an old thin leather slipper 
 for the purpose, and whipped him soundly with that : Dovet's 
 expression was, " warmed him," and she did it kindly. 
 
 Lady Lydia Clanwaring's resolve to remain and rule at 
 Beechhurst Dene had been admirably carried out. Very soon 
 after her arrival, trouble sprang up with the servants. She, 
 assuming full control and management of the household affairs 
 by Sir Dene's will, introduced certain new rules and regula- 
 tions, which the old servants rebelled against. "Warfare 
 waged hotly. Blame lay on both sides. Lady Lydia was 
 arbitrary and haughty ; they, long accustomed to their own 
 will, were disobedient and insolent. The result was, they left 
 in a body ; Lady Lydia dismissed them. All went, including 
 the hoiisekeeper and Susan Cole. My lady had tried in a 
 cautious manner to get Gander out also, and failed : Gander 
 was perhaps a firmer fixture at Beechhurst Dene than she was. 
 A new set of servants came in, engaged by my lady, and 
 things went on peaceably. She made Dovet housekeeper 
 under herself; but Lady Lydia was the real manager. That 
 she was a very good one could not be denied : with fewer 
 servants there was a vast deal more of quiet order and less of 
 outlay. Sir Dene felt the benefit of her rule : his pockets 
 
Frightening the Pony. 197 
 
 -were saved, lie had greater comfort ; he was grateful accord- 
 ingly, and learned to put trust in the Lady Lydia. As to 
 her quitting the Dene, such a thing was never named. Sir 
 Dene was glad to have her there, the house had wanted the 
 controlling law of a mistress, and it left him at liberty to be 
 absent as much as he chose, knowing that all was going on 
 in due order at home. He was away more than ever, for he 
 had grown to like a London life. 
 
 Of course, these frequent absences of Sir Dene put absolute 
 power into the hands of Lady Lydia. She ruled with de- 
 spotic will. She was rather nearer in housekeeping matters 
 at these times than the servants liked : they whispered, one 
 to another, that of the liberal sum allowed by Sir Dene, a good 
 portion went into her own pocket. Which was true. Little 
 Tom had hard times of it at these intervals. If it happened 
 that Sir Dene was away during the Christmas or Midsummer 
 holidays, Tom felt the loss severely. Scarcely ever was he 
 allowed to dine at the same table as his cousins, but was 
 banished to Dovet's room, and took his meals there. The 
 children, taking their cue naturally from their mother, had 
 wholly despised him from the very day of their arrival, they 
 did not look upon him as one of the same order as them- 
 selves, but as an inferior and dependent ; and the feeling grew 
 and grew. Even in the matter of dress he was not as they 
 were : the old clothes of Jarvis and Otto were mended up for 
 him : what few new things had to be bought were of a coarse 
 and poor description. Sir Dene failed to see it, or to detect 
 the miserable influence at work. If he noticed that Tom 
 looked less well-dressed than the others, Lady Lydia would 
 say, Yes, because he spoils his things so. In truth, Tom's 
 clothes often came to grief; but it was chiefly through Jarvis. 
 Jarvis did not spare him : he boxed Tom, he tore his clothes, 
 he sent him up trees and into ponds. Somehow or other 
 Tom was always in trouble, and the house in a commotion on 
 account of his misdoings. Continual dropping will wear 
 away a stone ; and the complaints of Tom's sins were so con- 
 tinual, that Sir Dene, sick and tired of it, grew hard upon 
 the boy himself. Where's Tom ? sometimes the baronet 
 would say, missing him for the rest : and then Jarvis or his 
 mother would tell some bad tale of Tom, and my lady say she 
 had banished him for punishment. Which meant either 
 that he was consigned to Dovet's society, or to his bed in the 
 garret, or shut out of the house to run abroad anywhere. 
 
19S Dene Holloiv. 
 
 She got to say that Tom's bad example would contaminate 
 her children : she assured Sir Dene that he was the " greatest 
 little liar " under the sun. Poor Tom, cowed, timid, sensitive, 
 intensely generous, did not often defend himself: how could 
 he when his words, truth though they bore, were flung back 
 in his teeth by others ? And so Sir Dene got to think less 
 well of the boy, and to suffer the slighting treatment cast on 
 him — not that he saw or suspected the one-half of the op- 
 pression. But he loved Tom still in his heart — far better 
 than he would ever love Jar vis or Otto. 
 
 Tom's punishment with the slipper over, he was put to 
 stand by Dovet in the corner of the room, his face to the 
 wall. Leaning his head against it, he cried away the smart- 
 ing pain, and finally cried himself to sleep. Gander came in 
 and saw him crouched down on the floor, his poor little face, 
 the tears still wet on it, upturned. 
 
 " What's been the row this time ? " familiarly demanded 
 the butler. 
 
 " He has almost killed Master Otto ! " was the compre- 
 hensive answer of Dovet, who was dashing away at some 
 ■cream with a whisk. 
 
 "A'ruost killed Master Otto?" repeated the startled 
 Gander. " How on earth did he do that ? " 
 
 " Master Otto was on the pony. He kicked out and 
 shouted and started it on, malicious little wretch — and poor 
 Master Otto was thrown." 
 
 " Why — what made him do it ? " 
 
 " What makes him do other wicked things ? " retorted 
 Dovet. 
 
 " Did he do it ? " said Gander. 
 
 " Did he ? Don't I tell you he did ? " 
 
 " Well — look here, Mrs. Dovet. There's always something 
 or other being brought against the child — and I don't believe. 
 he is in fault one time out o' ten. Now don't you fly out 
 like that : keep your tongue for others. One o' these clays I 
 shall be telling the master how the child's put upon. As to 
 malicious, that he never was." 
 
 " Suppose you mind your own business, and let other folks' 
 alone," suggested Dovet with composure. 
 
 " He's Mr. Geoffry again all over, that child is. He had 
 got no maliciousness about him, he hadn't." 
 
 Dovet whisked away. 
 
 " The very moral of his father, he is, " went on Gander, 
 
Frightening the Pony. 199 
 
 " save that lie's a sight more timid and quiet — Mr. Geoffry 
 never was that. The child has got that from his mother. And 
 a good thing too : else yon'd ha' broke his spirit, afore this, 
 among you." 
 
 The voice and step of Sir Dene in the passage outside, 
 stopped Gander. The baronet had come in by the back en- 
 trance, and was walking straight to the housekeeper's room, 
 a bunch of water-lilies in his hand. 
 
 " Put them into water, Dovet. Lady Lydia — " 
 
 He caught sight of Tom at that moment, and stopped. The 
 noise aroused the boy, and he stood up. Sir Dene saw some- 
 thing was wrong. 
 
 " He has nearly killed Master Otto, Sir Dene," spoke Dovet, 
 in explanation. " Leastways 'twas not his fault that he didn't. 
 Little, mean, disreputable boy he is, I'm sure ! " 
 
 At that moment Tom did look tolerably disreputable. His 
 face dirty with the rubbing and crying, his pretty hah* rumpled 
 into a tangled mass, his clothes dusty and untidy. Jarvis and 
 Otto, hearing the entrance of Sir Dene, came trooping in, 
 followed by Lady Lydia. And Sir Dene was made acquainted 
 with Tom's iniquity. 
 
 " How came you to do such a thing ? " demanded Sir Dene, 
 sternly. "You naughty, mischievous boy ! Suppose you had 
 killed him?" 
 
 " I didn't do it, grandpapa," replied the child, his blue eyes 
 raised to Sir Dene's through their blinding tears. And those 
 eyes, Geoffry's over again, never failed to make their own way 
 with Sir Dene. 
 
 " Ton did not do it ? " he said, more gently. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed I did not. I was by the fence, and I never 
 stirred." 
 
 Jarvis fiercely interposed. He had seen it all, he said : seen 
 the kick-out and the stone flung after Whitestar, and heard the 
 hiss. As usual, it was word against word ; Tom's feeble and 
 tearful, Jarvey's bold and self-asserting. But for those earnest 
 blue eyes that so brought back his dear son Geoffry, Sir Dene 
 had not hesitated. He looked from the one boy to the other 
 — as Otto had done in Dene Hollow — and wavered. Sir Dene 
 had his private reasons for thinking Jarvey might be mistaken. 
 Mistaken, you understand; not wilfully false. The Lady 
 Lydia did her best always in confidential moments to per- 
 suade Sir Dene that his eldest grandson (eldest in years) was 
 an upright little gentleman, next door to an angel. 
 
200 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " "What \\Qs\eyou to say about it, Otto ? " asked the baronet. 
 " Did Tom do this thing, or did he not ? " 
 
 " I couldn't see, grandpapa. I had my head turned the 
 bank way : Tom was against the fence." 
 
 " Did you hear him hiss ? " 
 
 '• No, I was whistling. 5 ' 
 
 "Or feel the stone ? " 
 
 " No, and I didn't feel the stone. I think he must have 
 flung the stone, else why should Whitestar have stained ? He'd 
 not take frisrht for nothing." 
 
 Sir Dene did not feel so sure of that — remembering the 
 particular spot it occurred in. 
 
 " You might have heard the hiss he gave down at Hurst 
 Leet," protested Jarvis. " You might have seen him fling the 
 stone a mile off." 
 
 And then the talking nearly overpowered Sir Dene, and 
 quite bewildered him. Lady Lydia said there could not be a 
 doubt about it — Master Clanwaring had seen all this with his 
 own eyes ; and she furthermore said that Tom had done it in 
 revenge, because Otto had taken the pony when he wanted it 
 for himself. To have listened to her, Sir Dene might have 
 thought that there never existed so wicked a little lad on earth, 
 as this waif of his favourite son's. Nevertheless, he believed 
 that the charge might have arisen from misapprehension, the 
 pony not having been wilfully started. He knew also that 
 boys, at the best, are carelessly mischievous, doing ill some- 
 times in very thoughtlessness. 
 
 " If I thought you had done this thing maliciously, Tom, I 
 should flog you myself — and that I have never done yet," he 
 said. " I can but believe that some action of yours, perhaps 
 unintentional on your part, startled the pony. You beg 
 Otto's pardon directly, sir; and tell him you will be more 
 careful for the future." 
 
 Never daring to maintain that he was wholly innocent, 
 Tom, his eyes streaming, did what he was told, and begged 
 Otto's pardon. The very fact of his doing it without any 
 demur, convinced some of them that he was guilty. In a 
 degree it did Sir Dene. 
 
 But, seated alone in the solitude of his own bay- windowed 
 parlour, the baronet, weighing the matter in his mind, 
 believed that the pony might have started of its own accord. 
 For he had grown, even he, Sir Dene Clanwaring, had grown 
 to dislike that spot for horses. 
 
Frightening the Pony. 20 1 
 
 Accident after accident had continued to take place upon 
 it. The series, inaugurated by Sir Dene's own horses — the 
 reader may remember the day he was being driven down the 
 road by poor Geoffry — had culminated only a month or two 
 ago in a very singular mishap indeed. How many there had 
 been between the two does not matter : several ; but not ono 
 fatal. Drew the bailiff had recovered partially of his : ho 
 could go about in a hand-chair, and talk and laugh and cat 
 his meals at will : and his had been the worst case. 
 
 Dene Hollow, smooth and level and well-kept road though it 
 "was, was getting a bad name. People talked about the " sha- 
 dow " on it a great deal more than Sir Dene liked. jSTot that any 
 shadow was ever seen there by human eyes ; but the popular 
 belief was, that there did in some way exist at times that 
 shadow, and that horses were startled at it. Sir Dene thought 
 it was the most ridiculously absurd notion a sane parish had 
 ever picked up: and no doubt the reader is thinking the same. 
 The fact, however, was indisputable — and I am recording 
 nothing but the truth — that horse after horse had been 
 startled there in a mysterious manner : mysterious because 
 there was apparently nothing to startle them. Twice over Sir 
 Dene had had the road examined by officers connected with 
 what was called the post-horse duty, lest any imperceptible 
 roughness or ridge might be found to lie on it — but nothing- 
 of the kind could be discovered. Whenever Sir Dene drove 
 or rode up or down it now, he held his horses very carefully in 
 hand ; for though he utterly scouted the superstitious gossip 
 around, he could not scout the fact that horses did come to 
 grief there, frequently and unaccountably. 
 
 The last mishap is one to be recorded. A gentleman 
 named Dickereen, living in Hurst Leet, died ; and his remains 
 were to be taken to a small village church, lying out beyond 
 the Trailing Indian. The funeral was proceeding up Dene 
 Hollow at the usual decorous pace, Hurst Leet bell tolling 
 solemnly, and Hurst Leet having turned out to watch the 
 progress. A funeral of the better class, involving a hearse 
 and mourning coaches from Worcester, w r ith a black chariot 
 in front for the parson in his surplice, and sticks and mutes 
 and feathers, was not an every-day sight in the rural district. 
 As the hearse approached the ill-omened spot (the parson's 
 chariot having passed on soberly), the four horses, with one 
 accord, as it seemed, attempted to turn suddenly round. The 
 driver, scandalized at their behaviour, stopped it, of course, 
 
202 Dene Hollow. 
 
 and whipped them up. But no : the horses would not go on. 
 And what precisely happened then, nobody could afterwards 
 tell, for all was over in a moment. There was a noise, a 
 bustle, confusion : undertakers' men on foot ran, drivers 
 shouted : in the midst of it the hearse seemed to spring up on 
 the bank with a violent jerk, which sent the door open and 
 the coffin out endways. 
 
 Only think of the scandal to a sober funeral ! Hurst Leet 
 remembers it to this day. What could have possessed the fat, 
 steady, slow-going horses, hardly ever moving beyond a foot's 
 pace — that they should have danced up the bank as if they 
 were dancing a jig, and shown signs of fear until their coats ran 
 wet again ? It was never accounted for. It was, in truth, 
 unaccountable. The funeral was going up-hill, you under- 
 stand ; not down. The astounded mourners got out of their 
 coaches ; the horses were soothed to quietness ; and the 
 attendants shut up the coffin in the hearse again. 
 
 Now this happened. It was talked of far and wide. 
 Hurst Leet would tell you of it to this day. Even Sir Dene 
 Clanwaring could no more explain it than he could deny it. 
 And since then a hazy sort of impression had floated in his 
 mind that there must be something at the spot tha+ did 
 frighten horses, though man could not see it. Hence he be- 
 lieved that Otto's pony might have stai'ted without any help 
 from little Tom or anybody else. 
 
 These thoughts in his mind, Sir Dene, sitting in his room, 
 sent for the child. He held Tom before his knee while he 
 talked to him. First of all, he gave him a lecture about 
 telling untruths, saying that his papa (Geoffry) had never 
 told any, and would be sure to have whipped Tom for doing 
 it, if he were living. "And I'm sure I cannot continue to 
 love you," concluded Sir Dene. 
 
 With his little heart nearly breaking at the sense of the 
 injustice that all seemed to deal out to him, — with the tears 
 welling up in his blue eyes, — with the bitter sobs impeding 
 his utterance, Tom said again what he had said before : that 
 he did not do anything to frighten the pony, or think of doing 
 it. Sir Dene saw how earnestly the child spoke ; he noted 
 the confiding look of the honest blue eyes that shone upon 
 him through their tears. Never had he felt inclined to believe 
 Tom more than now : especially with those accidents to other 
 horses filling his thoughts. 
 
 " I could believe you from my heart, Tom, and understand 
 
Frightening the Pony. 203 
 
 it into the bargain, but for Jarvey. He says lie saw you 
 purposely frighten Whitestar.'" 
 
 Between his extreme sensitiveness for others' feelings, his 
 large generosity, and his innate timidity — which was increased 
 ten-fold by the thraldom he was kept in, the slights he 
 received — Tom was literally unable to say to Sir Dene that 
 Jar vis told falsehoods. This was only one instance out of 
 many where Jarvey had accused him without any manner of 
 reason, and he had never said to Sir Dene, " It is Jarvis who 
 tells the stories, not I." Another thing may have helped to 
 deter him — the certainty that he should not be believed. 
 Jarvis would make his own case good, and Lady Lydia turn 
 the tables on him with a vengeance. 
 
 " I didn't do it, grandpa," was all he repeated, catching up 
 his breath in pain. 
 
 " But you know you do tell stories, Tom." 
 
 " ISTo I don't, grandpa," sobbed the child. " I should be 
 afraid for God to hear me." 
 
 " Then Jarvey must have seen double — sees so often, 
 too," cried the baronet explosively — for somehow the answer 
 carried truth with it. "Anyway, I believe you now. And 
 there's a shilling for you, Tom." 
 
 But, as a rule, Sir Dene did not question the boy in private, 
 and Jarvis got all the credit, he none. The wondering whether 
 the pony had really been startled accountably — or unaccount- 
 ably, after the fashion of the other horses — had caused Sir 
 Dene to question now. It was the exception. 
 
 And it sometimes happened in the accusations brought 
 against Tom, the tales told of him, that he would be partially 
 in fault. In the escapades that all three of the children 
 shared — and the girl Louisa with them — Tom alone would 
 be made out to have been to blame ; he was always the 
 scapegoat. If all were throwing stones and a window got 
 broken — Tom was said to have done it ; if the pigs were 
 let out of the sty or the chickens out of their pens, it was 
 Tom who had opened the door : when the miller's little boy 
 was pushed into the stream and nearly drowned, Tom was 
 the culprit. Tom knew that he had, himself, done nothing 
 of all this ; but he had been with those who had, and no 
 defence existed for him. 
 
 " A lie that is all a lie can be met with and fought outright, 
 But a lie that is part of a truth is a harder matter to fight." 
 
204 Dene Hollow* 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MISS MAT. 
 
 A field whose perfume "was redolent of new-mown hay, 
 and whose prolific cocks told of a good crop, lay open to the 
 sun on the fair June morning. The day was yet early : the 
 bay-niakers sang at their work. Attended by her nurse, 
 Susan Cole, came a pretty little lady of some three years 
 old, with a round, lovely, childish face, and rich brown eyes 
 that looked out frankly from their long brown lashes, curling 
 upwards. She wore a large white sun-bonnet, after the 
 fashion of the children of the district, and was doing her 
 best to scatter the hay about that the hay-makers had just 
 raked up. Doing it quite in defiance of Susan Cole : for she 
 was a very saucy and independent young lady indeed, conti- 
 nually in hot water with the ruling powers. 
 
 " Miss May, don't I tell you that them big cocks is not to 
 be disturbed to-day — giving double trouble ! I never see 
 such a naughty little child as you be in all my life." 
 
 Miss May's answer to this was to climb up one of the 
 mounds and pitch-pole down on the other side, bringing all 
 the top of the cock with her. There she sat, quite still, for a 
 wonder. And stillness was so unusual an element in Miss 
 May Arde, that Susan Cole stepped round to see what other 
 mischief she might be in. 
 
 " Oh ! Well, I'm sure ! Oh ! Tou ondacious little girl ! — 
 a-pulling off your shoes and socks afore all the hay-makers !" 
 
 For the young lady had been quietly divesting herself of 
 these articles of social attire, that she might dance in the hay 
 barefoot. Eluding Susan's grasp with a ringing laugh, she 
 flew off screaming, and flung herself into the arms of little 
 Tom Clanwaring, who happened to be running up. Little 
 Tom, in point of fact, but big Tom in the young damsel's 
 eyes : his seven years, compared to her three, seemed to con- 
 stitute a whole age. 
 
 Tom clasped the truant in his arms, and kissed her : they 
 were the best of friends. Susan, bearing the socks and little 
 shoes of bronze, took forcible possession now ; and sat down 
 on the field with the child on her lap. But the process of 
 rc-socking and re-shoeing was a difficult job. Laughing, 
 rebellious, kicking out arms and legs, struggling and fighting 
 
Miss May. 205 
 
 with Susan, was Miss May. Tom helped — by tossing the 
 socks over Susan's head. 
 
 " Now, Master Tom, I'll tell you what it is. If you be to 
 encourage her in her naughty tricks, I'll ask my missis not 
 to let you come in here at all. T'ain't your field. She's the 
 tiresom'st little worrit to-day that ever was. You be old 
 enough to tell her better, you be. I never had half the 
 trouble with you. Miss May, if you take your socks off as 
 fast as I put 'em on, where'll be the end on't r" 
 
 Miss May managed to get one sock in her fingers, and sent 
 it up on the next hay-cock. Tom was ordered to fetch it down. 
 
 At length, by dint of dexterous sleight-of-hand, Susan got 
 on the socks and one shoe. While she was putting on the 
 other, the young rebel tore off that one — and tore off tho 
 strap that fastened it round the ankle. Susan saw the mishap 
 with dismay. 
 
 " There ! Now you have done it, Miss May ! Tour shoo 
 won't keep on without the strap — and how the sense be I to 
 get you home in your sock ? Of all ondacious little plagues, 
 you be the worst." 
 
 "The "little plague" — Susan's attention being momentarily 
 absorbed by the damaged shoe — got away, seized two arm- 
 fuls of hay, and flung it over Tom. The children rolled on 
 the ground together. 
 
 " A'niost as good as a new pair, they was," lamented Susan. 
 " And the kid be all tore right out o' the back so as it can't 
 never be mended. My missis '11 blame me ; she'll say I might 
 ha' took better care. Tiresome monkey ! I must go homo 
 for another shoe for her now. Master Tom, '11 you take 
 care o' Miss May while I run to the Hall and back?" 
 
 Tom, feeling excessively proud at the request, turned to 
 Susan, chivalrous earnestness sjoarklingfroni his deep blue eyes. 
 
 " I'll be sure to take care of her, Susan ; she shan't hurt 
 herself, or run away." 
 
 And Susan, knowing that in point of fact both the children 
 would be safe under the protection of the haymakers, men 
 and women, busy close by, and all familiar peasants of the 
 district, departed on her errand. 
 
 You may be wondering who this girl of three years old is 
 — whose second name, Mary, generally got shortened into 
 May. She was the child of George Arde and his present 
 wife : the only child of the Hall. That frail blossom, the first 
 Mary, the child of George Arde and Mary Owen, the littlo 
 
206 Dene Hollow. 
 
 one to -whom the old squire used to carry presents, coral beads 
 and else, and to whom he left the fortune, was no more. The 
 delicate little creature, who had inherited her mother's beauty 
 and no doubt her mother's frailty of constitution, had pined 
 away and died. The second Mrs. Arde did her best to nurse 
 and cherish her into health ; but it was not to be : God called 
 her to Himself. Before this other child was born (destined to be 
 the second Mrs. Arde's only one), the elder was lying by her 
 mother's side in St. Peter's churchyard at Worcester. Mary 
 happened to be the second Mrs. Arde's name also, so it was 
 one of the names given to her infant: " Millicent Mary." 
 They had got into the habit (especially Mr. Arde and Susan 
 Cole) of calling that departed little one the first "Mary." For 
 this second Mary no fears were entertained on the score of 
 health : she was hearty and strong. Susan was wont to say 
 at reproachful moments that if she had only as little mischie- 
 vousness in her as she had tendency to sickness, she'd do. 
 
 Susan Cole's life had undergone a blight — she had been 
 crossed in love. At least, that's what she said of herself 
 when wishing to be confidential. But where the blight had 
 fallen and how it had affected her, was not so clear ; certainly 
 it had touched neither her tongue nor her cheerful temper. 
 That false journeyman at her father's forge had married 
 another. At the very time (as may be said) that he was 
 whispering love vows in Susan's ear, he was courting another 
 at Worcester : and one fine morning he went off and married 
 her — a great ugly malkin, as Susan expressed it. Cole the 
 farrier told Susan she was well out of it; for the man (he had 
 previously had to discharge him) had grown so drunken and 
 idle that he was hardly worth his salt at the trade, and would 
 not be likely to get a living for any wife. Perhaps Susan, in 
 her heart, thought the same. At least she wasted no super- 
 fluous time in grief. It occurred just as she and the other 
 servants were being turned out of the Dene through Lady 
 Lydia : the nurse at Arde Hall was leaving, and Susan 
 stepped into the post. 
 
 Little Tom Clanwaring had been allowed to run in and out 
 the Hall since its new mistress came to it as freely as he did 
 before. Mrs. Arde liked the boy, with his golden curls and 
 his wonderful eyes of blue that gazed so straightly and fear- 
 lessly into her own : she liked his gentle manners, and his 
 curiously strange (at that early age) consideration for others. 
 No one had wept more bitterly for the little girl's death than 
 
Miss May. 207 
 
 Tom. It had pleased the child to have Torn very much with 
 her : Mrs. Arde allowed it : and perhaps the scenes of sick- 
 ness, the distressing grief evinced by Mr. Arde, had made an 
 impression on Tom that he would never lose. 
 
 That she had gone straight up to be an angel in Heaven, no 
 earthly power could have reasoned him out of. For days and 
 weeks after her death, he would fancy he saw her robed in 
 white, with a little harp of gold in her hand, and a crown 
 amid her hair, looking down at him from the skies. Tom — 
 then between three and four years old — was taken to the 
 funeral at St. Peter's by Squire Arde : and Sir Dene had him 
 put into mourning for his cousin. Lady Lydia, supremely in- 
 dignant, would have pitched the black things out of the 
 window had she dared. " Spending money to put that beg- 
 gar's brat in mourning !" she mockingly remarked to Dovet. 
 
 A month onwards, and the other little girl came to the Hall 
 to replace the one lost. Tom had never seen anything so 
 wonderful as this new baby. The reverence with which he 
 would regard the infant, when allowed to hold her for a 
 minute in his arms (seated safely flat on the carpet), was 
 great and real. The baby called forth the first true-love of 
 his heart : in his own mind he acquired a kind of proprietor- 
 ship in her : and he would far rather have died himself than 
 suffered harm to come to the little one. 
 
 So that when, on this day, Susan told him to take care of 
 her while she went home for another shoe, Tom was in the 
 seventh region of gratification. The field belonged to Squire 
 Arde, and was within a stone's throw of the Hall. 
 
 " May," began Tom, as Susan's footsteps faded on their 
 ears, " I've got a new picture-book that Grandma Owen 
 bought for me. " I've got it in my pocket." 
 
 May, with all her wild fun, was intensely fond of " picture- 
 books." Down sat the children together at the foot of a hay- 
 cock, their feet stretched out (one of Miss May's shoeless) and 
 the book held between them. 
 
 Like all books bought by Mrs. Owen for Tom, it had a 
 religious tendency. That is, while the story in itself was 
 beautiful, and calculated entirely to rivet the interest of a 
 child, it insensibly led its young readers to higher and 
 better thoughts. Such books, when they are well and 
 suitably written, are the very best that can be put into the 
 hands of a child. There has been a singular dearth of them 
 in these latter years. There they sat, the two : May's little 
 
20S Dene Hollow. 
 
 tongue asking questions about the " pictures," and Tom 
 explaining to the best of his ability. Which explanations 
 might have sent a grown person into fits of laughter. 
 
 " Me wis me tould read ! " exclaimed May, when, the 
 pictures exhausted — the book only containing three — they 
 had to fall back upon the reading. 
 
 '■' I'll read it to you, May," said Tom. 
 
 "With their backs against the haycock, and their heads bent 
 over the book, the little lady's cheek touching his, Tom began. 
 The progress was not satisfactory ; since at the end of every 
 two lines, or so, Tom was called upon to say why this was, 
 and why that was. Suddenly a shadow fell upon the book 
 and upon them. Up went their heads, and nearly a whole 
 haycock was flung in their faces. Not lightly, either ; for the 
 fiinger was Jarvis Clanwaring. Absorbed in the book, and 
 with each other, neither had seen him approach. May burst 
 into a loud cry of pain : the hay had struck her in the eye. 
 Down went the' book, and up jumped Tom. 
 
 " What did you do that for, Jarvis ? You've hurt her. 
 
 " AVhat did I do it for, you insolent young rat ! How dare 
 you ask me what I did it for ? Because I chose. There ! 
 Squalling little cat ! She's not hurt." 
 
 May, who hated Jarvis at all times, because she was afraid 
 of him, began kicking out with all her little might as she sat, 
 the tears falling from her smarting eyes. 
 
 " Make him go away, Tom ! make him go away. Me tell 
 mamma." 
 
 "You are to go away, please," said Tom, standing up 
 bravely to shelter May. "You've no right to hurt her, 
 Jarvis." 
 
 " She's not hurt — nasty little toad." 
 
 Tom, his eyes flashing fire (as his sweet-natured father's had 
 flashed once or twice in his brief life), clenched his impotent 
 small fist, and struck straight out and upwards at Mr. Jarvis's 
 face, catching him between the eyes. The blow could not hurt 
 very much ; but it was a bit of a smart, and it smarted all 
 the more because it was not expected. Jarvis, in a frantic 
 passion, pummelled Tom's face back again, and an unequal 
 fight ensued. May screamed as if she was going mad with 
 terror ; and one of the women and Susan Cole rushed up 
 together. Tom's nose was streaming with blood ; Jarvis was • 
 not apparently injured. But in that culminating moment he 
 contrived to damage himself. Turning shortly upon Iris heel 
 
Miss May. 209 
 
 to confront the indignant Snsan, he stumbled over a rake 
 handle, that the woman had let fall, and cut his upper lip with 
 the rake's teeth. More blood : and May screamed worse than 
 ever from sheer terror. Susan caught up the child and hid 
 her face upon her protecting shoulder. 
 
 " How dare you get fighting, Master Tom — and when I left 
 you to take care of Miss May ! " demanded Susan, not caring 
 to attack Jarvis in his present state of fury : for once, when 
 she had interfered with him, he had kicked her in a rather 
 serious manner. "Well, I'm sure! We shall have a baby 
 in arms, I suppose, standing up to fight next ! " 
 
 " He called May names," said Tom, who could not restrain 
 his tears between pain and excitement. " He hurt her in the 
 eye." 
 
 " You confounded little blackguard ! " cried Jarvis, trying 
 to dodge up to Tom again with outstretched hand. " Do you 
 suppose I shall ask your leave whether I call names or not ? 
 She is a toad. There ! " 
 
 " She's not a toad, and you sha'n't call her one," retorted 
 Tom. " You are a coward." 
 
 Further demonstration on Jarvis's part was stopped by his 
 swallowing a tooth. A first tooth, nearly ready to fall out 
 before, and which the blow on the rake must have quite done 
 for. Tom Clanwaring's instinct was sure and true : Jarvis 
 ivas a coward. Not only in the matter of bullying little girls 
 and fighting boys less than himself, but in other matters. 
 This swallowing of the tooth sent him into a state of mortal 
 terror : he had heard a tale at school of some boy who had 
 swallowed a tooth and died after it. Jarvis, suddenly re- 
 membering this, turned tail and rushed off the hayfield the 
 colour of chalk. 
 
 " You come on to the Hall, Master Tom, that your nose 
 may be seen to," said Susan. "A sweet pickle it's in! 
 Enough to frighten the crows." 
 
 " A brave little gentleman, wi' all his pretty manners, that 
 born son o' poor Master Geoffry's," was the comment of the 
 woman to the other haymakers when the fray was over. " As 
 to the big un, he's more of a Tartar nor his mother." 
 
 Arde Hall was not much to look at. A rather long, red- 
 brick building, two storeys high, with narrow windows and a 
 slated roof, its front looking towards the village. The old- 
 fashioned portico in the middle of the house opened upon a 
 lawn that was intersected with flower-beds ; on which bees and 
 
 P 
 
210 Dene Hollow. 
 
 butterflies were sporting that sunny June day. Mrs. Arde — 
 a nice-looking, but somewhat reserved and stately woman — 
 fond of gardening, was tending her flowers in a sun-bonnet 
 and pair of old gloves, talking the while to her husband, who 
 sat at one of the open windows. Naturally they felt some 
 surprise at the entrance of the procession : Susan carrying 
 May, who sobbed aloud still : Tom with a damaged face and 
 bleeding nose. Susan opened at once upon his delinquencies 
 — that he " up with his fist " and struck Master Clanwaring, 
 and they had a fight. 
 
 " He called May names," said Tom, with fresh tears, but 
 looking up fearlessly. " I couldn't help hitting hun." 
 
 Squire Arde burst out laughing. "A very knight-errant," 
 said he ; " taking up the cudgels for damsels in distress ! " 
 
 "But what ails May?" said Mrs. Arde, as she took the 
 sobbing child. 
 
 " Oh, she's only frightened, ma'am," was Susan's slighting 
 answer. " And enough to frighten her, to see the blood on 
 this here face of his'n," concluded the girl, as she walked Tom 
 off to the pump. 
 
 The lavatory process over, Tom came back to kiss the little 
 girl — then seated on the grass — and whisper that Jarvis 
 should never frighten or hurt her again, or call her names, if 
 lie could help it. Then he ran off home. 
 
 Where the discomfited and frightened Jarvis had previ- 
 ously arrived. At this time, Mrs. Clanwaring, the wife of 
 John the heir, was on a visit to Beechhurst Dene, with her 
 daughter, Margaret, her eldest boy, and two little twin sons, 
 younger : so that just now the Dene seemed full of children. 
 She was a goodnatured and very pretty woman — her own 
 large fortune enabling her to indulge in show and luxuries 
 that might not even be dreamed of by Lady Lydia. For 
 instance, she had arrived with a lady's maid and three nurses, 
 and one male servant who was called her own footman, the 
 party having posted from town in two carriages and four. 
 These things were looked upon as necessaries by Mrs. Clan- 
 waring, because she had been reared to them : but she was, 
 herself, entirely unpretentious, of quite simple tastes and 
 manners. The two ladies were sitting together in that at- 
 tractive room, the library, when Jarvis burst in upon them 
 like a panting ghost — if ghosts ever display cut lips, and 
 chins dripping human gore. The boy was literally terror- 
 stricken : his features were swollen with his insane endea- 
 
Miss 3 fay. 211 
 
 vours to cough up the tooth coming along, his eyes rolled, his 
 face was whiter than any ghost's ever seen yet. A deplorable 
 figure altogether. Up jumped the Lady Lydia, uttering 
 scream upon scream ; she quite believed her darling boy was 
 either mad or killed, and began to hug him. Pretty Mrs, 
 Clanwaring, in defiance of her good manners, laughed a little. 
 
 The tale that Master Jarvis told was as good as a play : no 
 dramatic author ever drew more on his inventive powers. 
 Tom was represented as a very monster of iniquity, who had 
 attacked Jarvis with a rake, " on the sly," cut oil his lip and 
 knocked all his teeth down his throat. 
 
 But that the teeth were in his head still, plainly to be 
 seen beneath the swollen upper lip not cut off, Lady Lydia. 
 in her dismay, might have sent off for the nearest stomach- 
 pump. The whole house was aroused to commotion. Basins 
 of hot water were ordered in succession; Lady Lydia, Dovet, 
 and a dozen others bathing with soft sponges, and without inter- 
 mission, the injured lip. Under the assurances of my lady 
 and Mrs. Clanwaring, that a solitary tooth, going down by 
 accident, never killed people, but on the contrary was rather 
 good for digestion, the gentleman was soothed into calmness. 
 The disturbance had brought forth Sir Dene from his bay- 
 parlour, where he was engaged with accounts : he stayed long 
 enough to hear the woful account of Tom's savage attack, 
 and then went back again. 
 
 When Tom got home, shortly afterwards, Jarvis was 
 lying on the sofa, his mouth tied up with a white handkerchief, 
 and some delicious apricot jam by his side. Dovet met Tom 
 in the Hall. 
 
 " You have done a nice thing," cried she, nearly jerking 
 his arm out of its socket. " You've almost killed Master 
 Clanwaring." 
 
 Almost killed Master Clanwaring ! Full of consternation, 
 the words striking no end of remorse on his little heart, Tom 
 opened the library door and went in timidly. He did not pre- 
 sent any grand appearance himself, for, in running home, his 
 nose had burst out bleeding again. The moment Jarvis saw 
 him, he leaped off the sofa and gave him an ugly kick. Mrs. 
 Clanwaring ran to the rescue and pushed Jarvis off: but the 
 vicious malice that blazed in his eyes, she did not forget for 
 years. 
 
 " Not in my presence, Jarvey. How can you attack a little 
 fellow who is no match for you ? It is perfectly wicked to kick 
 
212 Dene Hollow. 
 
 any one in that savage way. I am afraid you are a 
 coward." 
 
 " Why did he attack me in the hay-field ? " retorted 
 Jarvey. " I'll kill him if I can." 
 
 But Lady Lydia pounced on Tom and whirled him off 
 with her. What with the sight of him, and what with Mrs. 
 Clanwaring's words, her fury at least equalled that of 
 Jarvis. On the mahogany slab in the passage, leading to 
 the side entrance and Sir Dene's parlour, lay the boy's 
 riding whip. Seizing hold of it, she struck Tom : not 
 perceiving, perhaps not caring, that a young man not be- 
 longing to the house, was at that moment turning out of 
 the bay-parlour. Struck him anywhere : on his shoulders, on 
 his unprotected face, on his bare hands. Gander, propping 
 his back against his pantry door, stood looking on. As did 
 the stranger, who was no other than William Owen, of 
 Harebell Farm. The cuts were sharp and quick : Tom 
 shrieked with pain, and it brought out Sir Dene. My lady 
 ceased then: and the baronet pushed by William Owen. 
 
 "Wait !" cried Sir Dene in a voice of thunder, as she was 
 making off with the child. "Wait, I say ! " But Lady Lydia 
 left the boy, threw clown the whip, and disappeared. Sir 
 Dene caused Tom to stand and confront him. His poor little 
 face had a livid weal across it. 
 
 " Now, sir, tell me the truth. Did you strike Jarvis before 
 he struck you ? " 
 
 Up w T ent the honest eyes, through their tears with fearless 
 truth, straight into Sir Dene's. 
 
 "Yes, grandpa. 'Twas me hit him first." 
 
 " Did you cut his mouth ? And knock his tooth down his 
 throat ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. I didn't know." 
 
 " And what on earth tempted you to be so ferocious a child 
 as to do all this ? " 
 
 " He called May wicked names, grandpapa; he hurt her in 
 the eye and frightened her. Susan had told me to take care 
 of her while she went for another shoe." 
 
 Sir Dene bit his lips to prevent a smile. The same thought 
 occurred to him that had come to George Arde — and amused 
 him — this little lad, rising seven, doing battle for a lady 
 attacked ! But he was frightfully annoyed at my Lady 
 Lydia. 
 
 " Who hurt your nose ? — and made it swell like that ? " 
 
Miss May. 213 
 
 " Jarvis did : lie made it bleed. He hit me worse than I 
 hit him." 
 
 "No doubt on't," commented Gander, from the kitchen 
 door. 
 
 " Well, you must have been a naughty boy altogether, Tom ; 
 very naughty ; and Lady Lydia has punished you for it. Try 
 and be good for the future — if you can." 
 
 Sir Dene turned into his parlour again ; William Owen, al- 
 though his interview was over, followed him in after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation and shut the door. Gander retreated into 
 his pantry. 
 
 All sobbing and wounded as he was, Tom ran out at the side- 
 door and down the straight path, to take shelter at Harebell 
 Farm. His heart was cruelly sore as he went up the stairs — 
 for Mrs. Owen was keeping her chamber. Not sore at thought 
 of his weals and wounds, but at the injustice dealt out to him. 
 Jarvis had been more of an offender than he, and was petted 
 up with jam ; lie was taunted and whipped. Tom had been 
 inured to this unjust treatment, but it did strike him with pain 
 to-day. Mary Barber, coming out of her mistress's chamber 
 all in a bustle, on her way to make some dumplings for dinner, 
 was quite struck at the sight of Tom. 
 
 " Mercy upon us ! " cried she. '• Why, what in the name o' 
 goodness is the matter ? " 
 
 Sobbing, choking, Tom told his tale, leaning for protection 
 — and' it seemed to the child that he needed it — against Mrs. 
 Owen. She had some warm water brought up, and bathed his 
 poor face and hands, and spoke gently to him, and soothed his 
 spirit : the tears falling from her own eyes, as she thought it 
 might have been better had the poor little waif died with its 
 mother. 
 
 " But that I think I shall not be long here, and that William 
 seems bent upon not staying in the place afterwards, I hardly 
 know why, I would beg and pray of Sir Dene to let me have 
 the child entirely," ran Mrs. Owen's thoughts. 
 
 As they had run, at odd times, for a long while now. Ever 
 since the arrival of Lady Lydia, Mrs. Owen had clearly seen 
 what the child's treatment was at the Dene, and the contempt 
 he was held in. It was bad enough during these, his young 
 years, when he could neither feel it very keenly nor attempt 
 to rebel against it: what the result might be in later years, 
 what complications and misfortunes it might bring about for 
 the friendless child, she dreaded to think of. That Sir Deno 
 
214 Dene Hollow. 
 
 ■would not be wilfully unjust to Geoffry's son, she believed ; 
 but Sir Dene was a man who loved peace and quietness, ease 
 also ; he was given to credit implicitly what he was told, nevei 
 searching beneath the surface of things, and he was already 
 nearly completely in the hands of his designing daughter- 
 in-law. 
 
 His face in less of a smart, his grief over, save for a catch- 
 ing sob that took his breath at intervals (and Mary Barber 
 gone down to bake a little cake for him), room was made for 
 Tom on Mrs. Owen's sofa. He sat nestling against her, her 
 arm round him, her pale face, so sweet and delicate, and tell- 
 ing of sorrow and suffering, bending towards his. Never did 
 Mrs. Owen fail to improve these occasions in the manner she 
 thought it right and best to do. In place of standing out 
 for vengeance on Jarvis or others, as some might have coun- 
 selled, she whispered of endurance, of forbearance, of persever- 
 ing on in the path of patience and truth, however much he 
 might be tried, and of the ensuing of calm and holy peace. 
 Trouble was certainly trying the child early ; but sbe strove 
 to show him, and to think, that it must be for the best. On 
 some children these lessons might have been lost, might havo 
 borne no fruit : but Tom's natural disposition was so admir- 
 ably adapted to receive them, that they did on his. There's 
 no doubt — however the reader may feel inclined to disputo 
 and perhaps to ridicule this small portion of the tale — that 
 these inculcated lessons had a strangely good effect on Tom. 
 They helped him to bear now ; they tended to form his cha- 
 racter for after years. But for them, he would have been 
 utterly miserable, might have sunk into a broken-spirited 
 child, and, pei'haps, become a veritable abandoned young Arab, 
 Day after day did Mrs. Owen patiently labour at her work — 
 for never a day passed but Tom was driven out of the Dene 
 by some oppression or other, active or passive — and she would 
 send him back with all the sweetness of his disposition 
 renewed, ready to bear again. 
 
 "Was it wrong to hit Jarvis, when he called May those 
 wicked words, grandma ? " 
 
 Now here was a puzzle. Mrs. Owen privately rejoiced at 
 Tom's spirit : but it w r as hardly consistent with the peaceful 
 lessons she was inculcating to say so. 
 
 "Well, Tom, I — don't think in this case it was very 
 wrong." 
 
 " I wish he'd let me alone ! I wish he'd not get grandpa to 
 
Miss May. 215 
 
 believe bad things of me. Ob. grandma ! yon don't know 
 bow crnel it all is at home ! " 
 
 A sobbing sigh, proving how sore his little heart was, fol- 
 lowed on the words. Mrs. Owen pressed him closer in her 
 clasp, and spoke in a whisper. 
 
 " My darling, I do know it. I know how cruel it is, and 
 how hard it is to endure. God sees it all, Tom, never lose 
 thought of that, no, not in the worst moment. You bear on 
 fearlessly in truth and honour, my boy ; always striving to 
 return good for evil, even to Jarvis, in sweet-tempered, 
 patient, generous forbearance : and trust all things to God. 
 He will be sure to take care of you, and bring you to comfort 
 in the end." 
 
 Tom nodded with ready cheerfulness, as he had many and 
 many a time before. There was resolution in his httle face, 
 cast up just then to the summer sky. 
 
 " I will, grandma, I will; I'll never forget. And, grandma, 
 papa is looking down to take care of me too, and mamma is ; 
 and they are with God's angels." 
 
 " Even so, my darling. Your best friends are in that better 
 world where God is. I shall soon be there : and you will come 
 to us in time. All these sufferings and trials are but making 
 you ready for it." 
 
 And the tractable little fellow, gazing up at the blue sky, and 
 picturing all kinds of radiant things beyond it, quite forgot 
 present pain. 
 
 " Now then, Master Tom ! " called out tbe sharp voice of 
 Mary Barber from the foot of the stairs, " come down for your 
 lard-cake. It have come out o' the oven beautiful." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DRIVEN FROM HAREBELL FARM. 
 
 " Can you see anybody, Sir Dene ? " 
 
 " Who is it ? " asked Sir Dene, turning round from his desk,, 
 that was drawn before the window of his bay-parlour. And 
 he spoke in rather an impatient tone, for he was busy writing 
 letters, and did not care to be interrupted. As Gander knew. 
 
 " It's young Mr. Owen, of Harebell Farm," replied Gander. 
 
 " What does he want ? " questioned Sir Dene. " Is it. 
 particular ? " 
 
 "Don't know, sir," returned Gander. "He came to the 
 
216 Dene Hollow. 
 
 door, and he asked could lie be let see Sir Dene : I told him 
 I'd come and ask." 
 
 " Show him in," said Sir Dene. 
 
 This colloquy occurred just about the time that Master 
 Jarvis had been soothed to tranquillity on the sofa with some 
 apricot jam at his elbow, as already described, and that the 
 unlucky Tom was on the run towards home from Arde Hall. 
 For the day is not yet over, and we must go back an hour or 
 so in it : it is not practicable for the cleverest author living to 
 describe two series of events at once, although they may have 
 taken place at one and the same moment of time. 
 
 "William Owen appeared, shown in by Gander : and the 
 baronet shook hands with him without rising, and motioned 
 him to a chair. He always shook hands with his better class 
 of tenants. As to any other recognition, or symptom of cor- 
 diality, William Owen did not get it, and did not in the least 
 presume to wish for or expect it. Sir Dene had practically 
 forgotten that there was any link whatever between them, 
 save that of landlord and tenant : the past connection might 
 have absolutely faded out of his thoughts ere this, but for the 
 existence of Geoffry and Maria's child. 
 
 The business that William Owen had come upon surprised 
 Sir Dene : and he stared at the young man — seated before him 
 in the opposite chair, his hat held across his knees — while he 
 listened to it. William Owen wished to transfer the lease of 
 Harebell Farm to another tenant, if Sir Dene would permit. 
 Not at present: perhaps not for a long while to come : but he 
 wished to do it as soon as the time when he could do it should 
 arrive. 
 
 " As long as my mother lives, sir, I must stay where I am, 
 for she would not like to go out of the house ; neither would I 
 disturb her by asking it. But when she shall have left us — 
 and she thinks herself it may not be over long first now — then 
 I shall be glad to give it up, and leave the place altogether." 
 
 " What fault have you to find with the farm, Mr. Owen ? " 
 distantly queried Sir Dene. 
 
 " None, sir. It's as good land as ever I'd wish to cultivate. 
 That's not the reason." 
 
 " What is the reason, then ? " 
 
 William Owen seemed at fault for a reply. Sir Dene noticed 
 that a look of pain sat on his refined and plensant face. 
 
 " You must have some reason, Mr. Owen, for wishing to quit 
 a productive farm." 
 
Driven from Harebell Farm. 217 
 
 " True, Sir Dene : I have. But it is one that is quite pri- 
 vate to myself. I can't speak of it even to you, sir." 
 
 Sir Dene looked at kim. The same contraction of pain was 
 in the face ; the same tone of distress lay in the voice. He 
 greatly wondered what could be the matter. William Owen 
 saw the puzzled surprise : and just for a moment, the thoug'ht 
 crossed him that he would speak out fully to Sir Dene. But 
 the impulse faded again in a feeling that lay between shame 
 and sensitiveness. Perhaps had Sir Dene been simply his 
 landlord as he was of other tenants, and no more, the disclosure 
 might have been made : but that past connection caused Wil- 
 liam Owen to be always retiring and reticent. In his sensitive 
 nature, he would not have pushed himself forward for the 
 world, or presumed in the slightest degree. 
 
 " I have no fault to find with the farm or the house or the 
 land, sir ; but I must leave it, for all that. I can't stay in it. 
 And I'd be glad to know beforehand that you will allow me to 
 do this, so as to have my mind at rest. As long as my mother 
 is there, there I must be : but when she's gone, I shall go 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " Do I understand that you will leave the neighbourhood 
 entirely ? " 
 
 "Yes, Sir Dene. And get as many miles from it as I can." 
 
 " What has it done to you ? " 
 
 William Owen stroked the nap of his white beaver hat with 
 his gloved forefinger : for he had dressed himself as a gentle- 
 man to hold this interview with Sir Dene — and he looked like 
 one, too. He seemed to be considering what answer he could 
 make to the question. 
 
 " It is just that — what it has done to me — that I am unable 
 to tell, sir," he at length replied. " It is an unfortunate and 
 painful affair altogether; and I cannot talk of it." 
 
 " Suppose I do not release you from the farm ? " said Sir 
 Dene. "What then?" 
 
 " But I hope you will do it, sir. As to what then, I'm sure 
 I don't know what I could do. Perhaps you'd let me underlet 
 it." 
 
 " Are you going out of the farming business ? " 
 
 " Not at all, Sir Dene. I like it : add to that, I don't know 
 any other. I shall meet with a farm elsewhere : perhaps in 
 Dorsetshire." 
 
 " You'll not get a better than this. If it's small, it's good." 
 
 "And I don't expect to, Sir Dene. If this becomes vacant,, 
 
2i8 Dene Hollow. 
 
 there'll be plenty of good tenants glad to snap it up. Were 
 it known that I thought of leaving it, they'd be here to-morrow. 
 But I'd rather there was no stir made at all about it, sir : I'd 
 like, when the time comes, to be away and gone before it was 
 as much as known abroad that I was leaving. That's why I 
 am asking you to promise to let it be ceded to Philip Tillet, 
 when this time shall come : to let me go out and him go in. 
 The farm could not have a better tenant, Sir Dene, than he." 
 
 Sir Dene knew that much. A better tenant than "William 
 Owen himself: insomuch as that he was a man of larger 
 capital. Philip Tillett was a thoroughly good farmer. 
 
 " It seems to me that he will have to wait an indefinite 
 time," remarked Sir Dene. " Mrs. Owen may get better." 
 
 " He is quite content to wait, sir, whether it's for weeks or 
 whether it's for years. The farm he is in belongs to his uncle, 
 and he can go out of it at any time. He likes his present one 
 very well ; but he'd like Harebell Farm better." 
 
 "Does he know why you are leaving ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I told him. No one else knows; not even my 
 mother." 
 
 There ensued a short silence. Sir Dene was thinking this 
 a curious kind of application. As in truth it was. William 
 Owen, who held a long lease of Harebell Farm, was asking to 
 be allowed to cede it provisionally to Mr. Philip Tillett. Pro- 
 visionally on the death of his invalid mother. When she 
 should die — and he acknowledged that it might be weeks or 
 months, or it might be years first, for that's what the doctors 
 said — then he wished to walk out of it, leaving Mr. Tillett to 
 walk in. 
 
 " Would Tillett take to the stock ? " abruptly questioned 
 Sir Dene, when he had arrived at this point in his mental 
 summary of events. 
 
 " To all things as they stand, sir ; household furniture in- 
 cluded," replied William Owen. " He knows about what the 
 value of everything is as well as well as I do, and he is a 
 just man. We shouldn't quarrel over that." 
 
 There was something in the young man's refined features, 
 in his gentle manners, that put Sir Dene in mind of poor 
 Maria, as he had seen her that New's Tear's Eve when he 
 broke in without ceremony on the Malvern lodgings. Had 
 he wished to refuse this thing, he could not, with that remem- 
 brance upon him. 
 
 "Well," he said, rising, in intimation that the sitting was 
 
Driven from Harebell Farm, 219 
 
 over, " I will give my consent to this, Mr. Owen. You have 
 my word. Though I wish you had freely told me your motive 
 for leaving. Stay ! Have you got into any trouble ? Is it 
 that ? " 
 
 " None whatever, I assure you, Sir Dene," was William 
 Owen's reply, his sensitive face slightly flushing. " Circum- 
 stances over which I have no control, and could not have any, 
 are driving me away. I wish it had been other-wise." 
 
 " Then, until there shall be the last change in your mother, 
 things go on as they are, and you remain my tenant ? " 
 
 " If you please, sir. I thank you truly for your kindness 
 to me, Sir Dene." 
 
 Sir Dene shook hands, and William Owen let himself out at 
 the room door. He was just in time, as the reader has heard, to 
 see Lady Lydia horsewhip Tom. Hearing the cries, Sir Dene 
 walked out also. And when the affair was over, and he went 
 back to the room, he found that the young man followed him. 
 Sir Dene was surprised : and William Owen shut the door. 
 
 " I crave your pardon, Sir Dene, for presuming to interfere. 
 But I would like to ask another favour. Let the poor little 
 boy come home to us. I'll briug him up and do for him as if 
 he were my own." 
 
 Sir Dene's face flushed angrily. The request seemed to 
 reflect on the hospitality of Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 " Come home to you !" he exclaimed. " The boy's home 
 is here, Mr. Owen." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I know. I know that Beechhurst Dene is a very 
 different home from any I could hope to give him. But at 
 least he'd have kind treatment with us, Sir Dene." 
 
 " What is it you would imply ?" asked Sir Dene haughtily. 
 
 " I don't presume to imply anything, sir ; but what I know, 
 I know. Hardly a day passes, but the child is insulted and 
 put upon, very often beaten. Not by you, sir : not, I feel 
 siire, within your knowledge ; but by those about you. The 
 jest is being done that can be done to break his heart and 
 his spirit." 
 
 In the gentlest and most respectful tone possible William 
 Owen was saying this. Somehow Sir Dene felt mollified. 
 The child was Geoffry's child, and he did not like to hear of 
 his heart or his spirit being on the road to breakage. 
 
 " He has been very naughty at times of late, very ; and 
 when he is so he must be corrected. The boy seems quite 
 changed. Spare the rod, and spoil the child, you know." 
 
220 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Sir Dene, I believe the child to be one of the very best 
 children that ever lived : he is good and truthful as the 
 day " 
 
 " They say he has taken to tell stories," interrupted Sir 
 Dene. " I can't credit it, though." 
 
 " No, Sir Dene, believe me, he never does tell stories. 
 "What I fear is, that others tell them and lay it upon him — 
 though of course it is not my place to say as much. He is 
 regarded as an unwelcome interloper here, and treated accord- 
 ingly. There's not a servant in your house, Sir Dene, but 
 could bear testimony to this if you questioned them — though 
 they might not like to confess it. He is a truthful, honour- 
 able, upright little lad: I don't think he could tell a lie if bribed 
 to it. "Witness just now how he spoke up Yes, when asked if he 
 was the first to hit Master Clanwaring. The boy has no chance 
 here. I wish you would let me have him, sir." 
 
 " It is out of the question," sharply replied Sir Dene, 
 feeling vexed and annoyed at more things than one. And 
 William Owen took the answer, and departed by the back 
 entrance. 
 
 It has been said that close upon this door the trees and 
 shrubs grew thick, almost like a wilderness. Branching off 
 from hence on the right, a path called the privet walk (a high 
 privet hedge running along on either side it) led round to the 
 front ; while the straight path that led direct to Harebell 
 Lane bore somewhat to the left. William Owen was taking 
 this latter way, when he saw Squire Arde coming along the 
 shady privet walk. Mr. Arde made a sign, and William 
 turned to meet him. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Owen worse?" was the question put. " I saw 
 Priar hastening up your way just now." 
 
 "My mother? No ; not worse than usual," was the answer. 
 <£ He was not coming to our house, that I am aware of." 
 
 " Oh, well, I'm glad of that. I am afraid, though, that on 
 the whole she is very ill." 
 
 " Yes, sir, there's no doubt of that." 
 
 Never presuming, never self-asserting, William Owen, 
 generally called Squire Arde "sir." They were, or had been, 
 brothers-in-law ; but he did not attempt to ignore the social 
 distance between them. George Arde in the old days had 
 been above his sister ; he was a great man now in local esti- 
 mation, on a level with Sir Dene Clanwaring and such as he. 
 Neither did Mr. Arde forget their distance : something in his 
 
Driven from Harebell Farm. 221 
 
 manner betrayed that: nevertheless, they liked each other 
 very well, and were on intimate, not to say confidential, 
 terms whenever they met. Standing there together in the 
 narrow privet walk, the young man told Mr. Arde what his 
 errand had been at Sir Dene's — the remarks on his mother's 
 state of health perhaps inducing it. 
 
 " Tillett to take to the farm as it stands as soon as anything 
 happens to her, and you to go out of it and quit the place al- 
 together ! " repeated the Squire in amazement. " "Well, now, 
 why is this, William Owen ? " 
 
 And William Owen told him — told him what he had not 
 chosen to disclose to Sir Dene. And however the reader may 
 feel inclined to cast ridicule on the cause, he may not dis- 
 believe the fact : for no other reason did William Owen quit 
 Harebell farm. Speaking in a whisper, his pale face wearing 
 again its marks of pain, he breathed it into Mr. Arde's ear. 
 The troubled spirit of his father, haunting the precincts of the 
 farm, was driving him away from it. 
 
 " He has been dead now seven years and some months, Squire 
 Arde : and people talked of its walking for more than three 
 of those years before I ever saw it, or believed it. Altogether 
 I've seen it three times : the last was on Sunday night. News 
 was brought to the farm that a poor houseless woman had crept 
 into that shed on the tw r o-acre meadow to die. I went off to 
 see about it ; and there, hovering in and around the grove, was 
 the spirit, in the same place where I had seen it twice before. 
 I saw it clearly : 'twas a very light night." 
 
 Squire Arde remembered what a bright moon had shone on 
 Sunday night. He was not a superstitious man, but nothing 
 could be further from his thoughts than to meet this com- 
 munication with contempt : others, worthy of credibility, had 
 said just the same as William Owen. 
 
 " I can't make it out, William, " he said. " Are you sure 
 that your eyesight was not deceived by some tree or other ? " 
 
 The young man shook his head. " What I saw was un- 
 doubtedly the very figure and image of my father, looking as 
 he used to look in life. He seemed to have a coat buttoned up 
 round him — about that I can't be sure : it was indistinct — but 
 he wore that same queer magpie cap he was drowned in ; and 
 his silver beard was never plainer. I was thinking of nothing 
 but the woman in the shed, and w T hat could be done with her 
 at that time o' night ; and there, as I went along towards the 
 grove, the figure stood facing me, right in the moonbeams." 
 
222 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " It is strangely singular! " exclaimed the Squire. " The 
 queerest thing I've met with in all my experience. " 
 
 " Stay on the place I cannot, " said William Owen. " It 
 unnerves me for everything — though I should feel ashamed to 
 acknowledge it to most people. The very moment my poor 
 mother sets me at liberty by leaving me alone in the world, I 
 shall get away. But for her sake, I'd go to-morrow. " 
 
 He had turned to walk towards Harebell Lane, Mr. Arde 
 strolling by his side. William Owen changed the subject to 
 that of the child : mentioning the cruel chastisement he had 
 witnessed, and what he had subsequently said to Sir Dene. 
 
 " When I shall be gone from the place, perhaps you'll give 
 the poor lad a kind word now and then, sir. He'll have no- 
 body else to do it. I'd have liked to take him home to Harebell 
 Farni : Sir Dene was very much offended at me for asking it." 
 
 "Lady Lydia and her children put upon him and thrust him 
 into the background," remarked Mr. Arde. " She has got a 
 nasty temper of her own." 
 
 They parted. William Owen pursuing his way home, where 
 he found Mary Barber making a miniature lard-cake for Tom : 
 Mr. Arde entering the bay-parlour at Beechhurst Dene. Sir 
 Dene Clanwaring was in one of his testy humours, and said a 
 few fractious words about " Things going cross in the house." 
 
 "Young Owen has been taking upon himself to tell me that 
 the child — my boy Geoff ry's son — is not well treated here ! " 
 he cried, in an explosive tone. " Fancy his assurance, Arde ! " 
 
 "Then I'll take up the word for him, Sir Dene, at the risk 
 of your attributing assurance to me, " spoke up Mr. Arde, half 
 laughing. " In this instance, at any rate, the child did not 
 deserve chastisement — though I fancy somebody else may. If 
 that ill-natured young Jarvey came home with a false tale — 
 as I conclude he did — it is he who ought to have got the 
 whipping." 
 
 " What do you know about it, Arde ? " 
 
 Mr. Arde related the truth of the day's fray — as he had 
 heard it but now from his haymakers, in coming through the 
 field ; and, as he remarked, they were unbiassed witnesses. 
 He spoke out far more freely than William Owen had ventured 
 to do, telling a few home-truths about Tom and Jarvey, and 
 the Dene in general, including the baronet himself. Sir Dene's 
 blue eyes opened (in more senses than one), and his lips took 
 a haughty curve as he listened. 
 
 "A false, ill-conditioned young rascal I" spoke he of Jarvey. 
 
Driven from Harebell Farm. 223 
 
 " It's the first time I ever knew a Clanwaring could concoct 
 a deliberate lie. " 
 
 " His mother is not a Clanwaring, " observed Squire Arde 
 drily. And the baronet gave a kind of assenting sniff. 
 
 "No, he has nothing of the Clanwaring about him at pre- 
 sent," pursued the Squire. "Little Tom's one to the back- 
 bone : he is his father over again. They look upon the child 
 as being in the way here, you see : don't let them quite break 
 his spirit. There, that's all, Sir Dene. Good morning. " 
 
 Break his spirit ! The same words that William Owen had 
 used. Had Jarvey been there at the moment, Sir Dene might 
 have three-parts killed him. With the red flush dyeing his 
 face, he strode forth to the presence of Lady Lydia. She was 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 Sir Dene controlled his temper, and spoke quietly. Quietly, 
 but very peremptorily. He touched slightly upon the treatment 
 of Tom by her and her children generally — the scandal he 
 found it excited in the neighbourhood, the discomfort it brought 
 to the Dene. And he said that for the future she had better 
 take lodgings at Worcester during holiday time, and have her 
 children there with her. 
 
 Lady Lydia's blood turned cold : was it possible that her 
 footing at the Dene was being imperilled ? In her mind's con- 
 fusion, in her angry passion, she did the worst thing she could 
 have done — began to cast slurs on Tom and his birth. 
 
 Were her darling children to be discarded for that low-born 
 brat, whose mother 
 
 " Why, what the devil do you mean, madam ?" interrupted 
 Sir Dene, too much put out altogether to weigh his words. 
 " Low-born ! You are speaking of my own grandson, Tom 
 Clanwaring." 
 
 " He is not fit company for my boys, Sir Dene." 
 
 " If what I am told be true, they are not fit company for 
 him — one of them, at any rate," retorted Sir Dene. " You 
 can take them out of it as soon as you please, my lady." 
 
 Her very lips turned white. Before this, she had believed 
 she had acquired firm hold on Sir Dene. He looked like one 
 not to be trifled with just now. An angry man, there, pacing 
 the carpet. 
 
 "You — would — turn my children out for Mm?" she re- 
 sumed, in a subdued gasping tone, partly put on, partly tho 
 result of the low-lying fear. " Oh, Sir Dene ! " 
 
 " My lady, it is this. The home is my grandson Tom's : it 
 
224 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 was his home before any of you came to it ; it shall be his 
 home as long as it remains mine. I was willing to let it be 
 your children's also : but it seems the plan does not answer. 
 It is my pleasure that Tom Clanwaring shall be honoured in 
 this house, aye, and be loved too, at least as much as anybody 
 else is. Your children will not do this : they have taken up 
 a prejudice against him : therefore there is only one alterna- 
 tive — they must spend their summer and winter holidays 
 elsewhere." 
 
 No mistake now. He was in real earnest. My lady, 
 smoothing her black hair from her pale face damp with 
 emotion, changed her tactics on the instant. She would 
 inquire into it, she meekly said : if Jarvis had been know- 
 ingly unkind to the child or told fibs of him, he should be 
 punished. For her own part, she bad always thought Tom a 
 sweet little angel. Children would fight, though ; boys would 
 be boys. But the little child should be her best and special 
 charge for the future, now that she understood Sir Dene's 
 wishes. 
 
 My lady gathered her three children in her room that same 
 evening to a private interview, and treated them to sundry 
 tutorings. Dovet also received some hints. The result was, 
 that Tom found a change : there was no more open ill-treat- 
 ment, no further complaints of him carried to Sir Dene. And, 
 on Sir Dene's part, nothing else was said about the exodus. 
 
 But the lady's resolution — to fid Tom down — had not 
 changed : she only altered her tactics. As the time passed 
 on, this little episode was forgotten by Sir Dene. Easy and 
 good natured to a fault was he ; Lady Lydia's sway over him 
 when he was at Beechhurst Dene increased : during his 
 frequent absences she reigned absolutely. And Tom Clan- 
 waring was taught and trained to look upon himself as a poor 
 dependent, kept at the place out of charity ; an interloper, 
 but not a son. Tom insensibly fell into these views of himself 
 in all belief, and learnt humility. More specious than deceit 
 itself was the Lady Lydia Clanwaring. 
 
 END OF PART THE FIFST. 
 
ftart the £cconS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS. 
 
 This, as yon perceive, is the second part of the story. Tears 
 have elapsed since the conclusion of the first : and those 
 children, boys and girls, told of then, have grown into men and 
 women. 
 
 There is not vei'y much to relate of the interval. Time has 
 wrought some changes — as time invariably does. They may 
 be briefly summed up in a few lines. And it may be as well 
 to state that, in spite of the lapse of time, we are still writing 
 of a period very many years back. 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring has lost both his sons : John the heir 
 and Reginald the major. The one died of neglected cold ; 
 the other fell in battle. Pretty Mrs. Clanwaring, John's 
 widow, is married again, and lives chiefly at her husband's 
 estate in Scotland. Her two sons, Dene and Charles, nice, 
 pleasant young fellows with plenty of money in prospect, and 
 her only children living, are very often staying with their 
 grandfather, Sir Dene ; the elder of the two, Dene, being his 
 heir. Their sister, Margaret, had died at Beechhurst Dene 
 only two years ago, nnder circumstances of a painful nature : 
 Sir Dene, who was very fond of her, has not been quite the 
 same man since. 
 
 Lady Lydia Clanwaring is at Beechhurst Dene still. She 
 has never, in fact, been away from it since that autumn night 
 when she arrived to take up her abode. Up to the time the 
 husband died, she was always " going back to India shortly. " 
 After his death, she had no home even to talk of going to, and 
 no means of setting np one — everybody knows what is the 
 pension of a major's widow. So she remained at Beechhurst 
 Dene without question as to her leaving it ; and her children 
 looked upon it as their home just as surely as though they 
 
 Q 
 
226 Dene Hollow. 
 
 had a legal right to it. Lady Lydia had really grown useful 
 to Sir Dene : and her tact (she never forgot it again) was 
 such that he valued her, and quite believed the household 
 could not get on without her. Her daughter, Louisa, had 
 married early ; Jarvis was in the army ; Otto was a barrister 
 in Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 Tom Clanwaring had not been got out of the Dene. The 
 fact is worthy of being recorded, considering Lady Lydia's 
 private machinations to accomplish it. Never again had she 
 tried for it openly since that one last great explosion, when 
 Sir Dene had suggested that she and her children should go, 
 rather than Tom. Indeed she soon gave up hoping for it, and 
 let the fact alone. But she had successfully managed to put 
 Tom in the background, and keep him there. He was reared 
 as an" inferior-born dependent, who must never presume to 
 confound himself with the genuine Clanwaring family. Sir 
 Dene insensibly fell into the snare ; habit is strong ; the neigh- 
 bourhood fell into it ; Tom himself fell into it. During his 
 boyhood he was kept away at school as much as possible : in 
 the holidays he met with cold neglect ; was made to estrange 
 himself from the drawing-room, and to herd with the ser- 
 vants. It taught him humility. Sir Dene honoured and 
 regarded him as his grandson just as much as he did the other 
 boys; in his heart he loved Tom best of all; but, nevertheless, 
 he tacitly sanctioned Tom's being put in the background. 
 Habit, I say, is strong; and this had grown into the habit at 
 the Dene. 
 
 When Tom Clanwaring grew to manhood, his occupation 
 rendered this isolation from the rest, or semi-isolation, easy of 
 accomplishment. Tom was to the estate very much what his 
 father had been — overlooker. When the lad was driven to 
 seek sources out of doors by the home neglect, he had found 
 them on the land. With Dell the bailiff, riding or walking 
 round; watching for poachers with Simmons the gamekeeper; 
 following the plough to have a chat with the ploughman; 
 sitting in a corner of the barn, eating his bread-and-cheese 
 dinner, while the men threshed the wheat ; helping to load 
 the waggon with barley : going to the corn-market at Wor- 
 cester with Dell : in all places and at all work, Tom was at 
 home. Nothing teaches like practical experience : and there 
 were few better farmers in the county than was Tom Clan- 
 waring. It had not pleased Sir Dene to give him any pro- 
 fession : perhaps he had all along intended (seeing his aptitude 
 
After the Lapse of Years. 227 
 
 for it) to make him useful on the estate : or perhaps he 
 did not care to send Tom away from him. When Tom left 
 school, Dell was in failing health ; and the lad at once took 
 upon himself a portion of his duties, helping him all he could. 
 It was only natural that on the bailiff's death two or three 
 years afterwards, Tom should slip into the place. There had 
 been no regular appointment of him by Sir Dene — as had 
 been the case with his father, Geoffry ; but Tom was the 
 bailiff to all intents and purposes. 
 
 The Lady Lydia, though not cordially approving this, did 
 not actively oppose it. There was no longer any motive for 
 wishing to banish Tom Clanwaring. He had been effectually 
 put down in the house, and was too insignificant to trouble 
 her : but the idea did dimly cross her mind, she could not tell 
 why or wherefore, that it might be as well for him not to be 
 the overseer of the land. Perhaps she thought it might give 
 him power — a hold on the place. Therefore she advised Sir 
 Dene not to keep Tom at home, but rather give him some 
 calling, profession, or occupation, out in the world. For once 
 Sir Dene did not listen to her. There was nobody so fit to be 
 on the estate as Tom, he said : look how he had been robbed 
 and imposed upon, especially since Dell had been less able to 
 attend to his business : Tom was, so to say, a born farmer as 
 poor Geoff had been ; he had got his head on his shoulders 
 the right way, as Geoff had, and would take care of things as 
 he did : who else was there, he finally put it to my lady, that 
 was capable of looking after his interests in this way, save 
 Tom? 
 
 Who else was there ? She put it to herself, and the answer 
 came — none. And yet, instinct did seem to foretell danger 
 in Tom's becoming this permanent fixture. In vain she 
 appealed to her two sons ; pointing out that it might be better 
 worth while for one of them to take this post than to toil up- 
 wards in their respective professions. Jarvis was simply 
 astonished, somewhat as John the heir had been on a similar 
 appeal once before. Jarvis stroked his black moustache in 
 supercilious incredulity. He an overlooker ! lie taking iipon 
 himself the office of bailiff ! He asked his mother whether she 
 had lost her senses. Reginald civilly replied that he knew 
 nothing about land and its management — which was true 
 and that his tastes and wishes lay in quite a different line of 
 life. So Lady Lydia dropped the point, and Tom went on 
 'with his duties unmolested. He had nothing to do with 
 
228 Dene Hollow. 
 
 the accounts ; Sir Dene had kept those himself for many 
 years. 
 
 Thus, with all his business lying out of doors, it will readily 
 be understood how easy it was for Tom's estrangement from 
 the family circle to be taken as a matter of course by Sir 
 Dene. It was often one of convenience or necessity : and he 
 would hastily eat what he wanted in the housekeeper's room 
 and be off again. Except on Sundays, Tom did not much 
 trouble the family : if by chance he dressed himself and went 
 in, he got cold looks and contemptuous silence for his welcome. 
 His business with Sir Dene was transacted in the bay- 
 parlour : and the latter would sometimes say, " Can't you 
 manage to be a bit more with 'em, Tom ? " Tom never said 
 why he did not. If Lady Lydia or her eldest son met Tom 
 out on the land, they passed him with the indifference they 
 would have accorded to any of the men. As to Tom himself, 
 he had grown up to be just what his childhood promised. 
 Truthful, honourable, upright, generous : of singularly modest 
 and pleasing manners, patient-natured, sweet-tempei*ed, alto- 
 gether of sterling worth and goodness. Mrs. Owen had 
 lived long enough to do her work efficiently, and to see the 
 excellent seed she had sown strike firm root in his mind and 
 heart. 
 
 Harebell Farm had had another master for some years now. 
 Mrs. Owen lay by her husband in Hurst Leet churchyard 
 (though, if popular gossip might be believed, he did not lie 
 quietly, even yet), and William Owen had migrated into 
 Dorsetshire. Philip Tillett occupied Harebell Farm. It was 
 well known that Randy Black's vexation was excessive when 
 he found the farm had been ceded privately to Mr. Tillett. 
 Some friend of Black's, with a good amount of money and 
 apparently respectable character, had been looking out for it 
 — for the fact that Owen entertained thoughts of leaving had 
 oozed out — and Black openly said it was a mean trick Sir 
 Dene had served the public. However, the " trick" was one 
 that nobody had power to undo. Mr. Tillett went into the 
 farm, and told Black to his face that if he saw Robert Owen's 
 ghost every night of his life, it would not drive him off it 
 again. Nevertheless, in spite of his brave assertion, it was 
 observed that Mr. Tillett did not put himself much in the way 
 of the grove of trees by the two-acre meadow after dark, 
 which that supernatural figure with the silver beard was wont 
 to haunt in the moonlight. Not that there was any authentic 
 
After the Lapse of Years. 229 
 
 or recorded history of its having been seen for some few years 
 past now. And that is enough of retrospection. 
 
 It was a green Christmas : bright, lovely, almost as warm 
 as spring : and as the congregation turned out of Hurst Leet 
 church, they congratulated each other on the fine weather as 
 much as on the festive day. Everybody had walked to 
 church : there was no necessity to bring out carriages on such 
 a day as this. 
 
 Everybody, except one : Sir Dene Clanwaring. Hale as of 
 old, though his years had long passed those allotted as the 
 age of man, he had a weakness in his limbs that rendered 
 much walking, or exertion of any kind, difficult. As he 
 stepped from his pew, allowing most of the congregation to 
 depart first, Lady Lydia held out her arm, and he took it. 
 She counted more than fifty years now : but she was tall and 
 meagre as ever, looking the scarecrow she always did, her face 
 worn and sharp, her small black eyes grievously restless. But 
 that it was very much the natural expression of her face, one 
 might have said some inward torment troubled her. Sir 
 Dene's pew had been full that day, for all Irs grandchildren 
 had come to the Dene for Christmas. They might be seen, 
 most of them, wending their way homewards beyond the 
 churchyard. 
 
 Close by the waiting pony-carriage, stood a young, slender, 
 gentlemanly man. His fair, fresh Saxon face, with its fine 
 frank features and good-natured, deep blue eyes, was some- 
 thing strangely pleasant. Those who were old enough to 
 remember Geoffry Clanwaring could never need to ask who 
 it was, the likeness was so great. He had waited, he so tall 
 and strong, to assist his grandfather into the carriage and 
 drive him home — as he had driven him in coming. But Lady 
 Lydia turned about impatiently, looking for some one else 
 to do it. 
 
 " Take care, Tom, the other leg up." 
 
 " Shall I drive you, sir ?" asked Tom, when he had care- 
 fully placed him in : for reared in the habits of complete 
 submission, he never presumed to put himself forward even to 
 do a service, without first asking leave. 
 
 " Ay, do : my hands are cold." 
 
 Lady Lydia interposed. She pushed Tom aside : not rudely, 
 but with cool, indifferent hauteur, and stepped in herself. He 
 did not appear in the least resentful; he had been used to 
 
230 Dene Hollow. 
 
 nothing but this contemptuous indifference always; and ho 
 arranged her petticoats under the warm rug with as much, 
 assiduous attention to her comfort as he had evinced for that 
 of Sir Dene. 
 
 " I was not aware you intended to go with Sir Dene your- 
 self, Lady Lydia," he remarked, his tone one of courteous 
 apology. 
 
 " There, that will do," she said, cutting him short. " Give 
 me the reins." 
 
 " No," spoke Sir Dene : who retained all his old detesta- 
 tion of being driven by a woman ; and who would rather have 
 had his grandson by his side than her. " Give them to me, 
 Tom. I shall drive, myself, Lydia." 
 
 With a flourish of the whip, and a cheery bow to the few 
 villagers and peasantry who had stayed to watch the depar- 
 ture, Sir Dene drove on, Tom lifting his hat to Lady Lydia 
 with as happy a smile as ever sat on man's face yet. Do not 
 mistake him, or think this courtesy to her put on — as in truth 
 it well might have been, considering all things : but the frank 
 sweetness of Tom Clanwaring's nature was such, that he had 
 genuinely kind looks even for her. Sir Dene's progress was 
 not a quick one : many acquaintances were waiting for a 
 word or a handshake, and the pony was pulled up continually. 
 Tom's long legs soon got ahead of it : and he overtook two 
 ladies ; mother and daughter, as might be seen by the likeness : 
 nice-looking women with pretty features and complexions of 
 delicate bloom: but the young lady's face was pleasanter than 
 her mother's. 
 
 " Mrs. Arde, I wish you a merry Christmas." 
 
 Mrs. Arde turned at the greeting. " Is it you, Tom Clan- 
 waring ? Thank you. I wish you the same." 
 
 Her tone was not a cordial one. The best that could be 
 said of it was that it was coldly civil. Liking Tom in her 
 heart as much as ever, a certain thought had startled her 
 lately, and caused her to treat him very distantly : it might 
 have been supposed that she was taking a lesson out of the 
 Lady Lydia Clanwaring's book. Miss Arde did not speak to 
 Tom at all : but as she glanced up shyly, there shone a smile 
 of welcome in her rich brown eyes, and the rose-bloom deep- 
 ened to carnation on her dimpled cheeks. 
 
 Tom just touched her hand. "And a very merry Christmas 
 to you, May," he said in a low tone. 
 
 The little carriage came rattling up. " What has taken 
 
After the Lapse of Years. 231 
 
 Arde that he was not at Church to-day?" called out Sir 
 Dene, as he checked the pony. 
 
 Mrs. Arde went round to the baronet's side. " Oh, Sir 
 Dene, I am sorry to say that he is ill. It is one of his bilious 
 attacks. We left him in bed." 
 
 " In bed !" echoed Sir Dene. " That won't do at all, you 
 know, Mrs. Arde. We dine at five sharp. He must not fail us." 
 
 " I hope not. He expects to be better by that time." 
 
 Lady Lydia's keen glances were taking- in everything — as 
 they had a habit of doing. Tom Clanwaring was talking to 
 Miss Arde : and she noted that the young lady's eyes were 
 cast down as she listened, that her face was flushed to a 
 beautiful crimson. My lady drew in her thin lips : she did 
 not like the signs any more than did Mrs. Arde. But at this 
 moment there came up one from the opposite direction, one 
 who could always dispel the gloom on Lady Lydia's face — 
 her eldest and best beloved son. 
 
 Two peas never were more alike than Jarvis Clanwaring 
 and his mother : not a bit of the Clanwaring was there about 
 him in looks. Tall, lean, dark, he had the same thin com- 
 pressed lips as hers, the shifty black eyes. His black mous- 
 tache was fierce, even for a soldier, very fierce indeed for those 
 days when such an adornment was uncommon, and he had 
 altogether a worn, dissipated air. But Captain Clanwaring 
 was popular with his friends and the world. A serious attack 
 of illness had entailed a long leave of absence to recruit 
 health, and he passed his time agreeably between London and 
 Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 " Jarvis," began Sir Dene, the tone a peremptory one, 
 " why were you not at church to-day ?" 
 
 " I overslept myself, sir." 
 
 " Overslept yourself ! Well, I don't know. I asked after 
 you half an hour before I came out, and Gander told me you 
 were up, and letter-writing in your room. I choose that 
 everybody about me shall attend church on Christmas Day. 
 I thought you knew that." 
 
 Jarvis Clanwaring slowly raised his hat in response, by 
 way of cutting short the discussion. A keen observer — which 
 Sir Dene was not, and never had been — might have detected 
 some covert scorn in the action. With a hearty adieu to the 
 ladies, and telling them not to be late for dinner, Sir Dene 
 drove on. 
 
 One little incident may be mentioned of the drive home. At 
 
23- Dene Hollow. 
 
 the turning to the road, Dene Hollow, Sir Dene drew the 
 right rein, and kept the pony on the straight road — the old, 
 long round. " Oh pray don't go that way, Sir Dene !" inter- 
 posed Lady Lydia with fractious haste, " I want to get home. 
 Take Dene Hollow." A shade of annoyance crossed Sir Dene's, 
 face ; but he complied, and let the pony take the way he had 
 wished to avoid. Slowly he drove now, at a snail's walk : 
 gentle though the ascent was, Sir Dene Clanwaring had grown 
 to dread Dene Hollow. 
 
 Meanwhile Jarvis and Tom Clanwaring continued to walk 
 along with Mrs. and Miss Arde. In a line at first ; but as 
 they turned off to the narrow path, the nearest way to Arde 
 Hall, they had to separate : Mrs. Arde in front with Captain 
 Clanwaring, Tom and May behind. The Lady Lydia, bowling- 
 on in the direction of Beechhurst Dene, mentally saw the 
 position' as surely as Mrs. Arde saw it. It did not continue 
 long : at the entrance to the enclosed grove belonging to the 
 Hall, the ladies wished the young men good morning, and the 
 latter went on. 
 
 Walking in silence. Captain Clanwaring never wasted 
 superfluous w r ords on Tom the scapegoat : Jarvis was twenty- 
 seven now, Tom twenty-four. Tom's intelligent eye was 
 noting all points as they walked, with the quiet air of one who 
 knows every inch of the land. The officer looked out straight 
 before him, seeing nothing : buried in thought was he, and 
 not pleasant thought. Thus they came in vieAV of the rural 
 lodge where Tom was born, and Maria, his pretty mother, 
 had died. Simmons the gamekeeper lived in it now. Jarvis 
 pointed to it with a wave of his hand. 
 
 " Go across and tell Simmons I shall want him to go out 
 with me betimes to-morrow morning. And to mind that he 
 brings my own gun this time." 
 
 There was supercilious command in every tone of the voice, 
 in every gesture of the raised hand. Tom Clanwaring turned 
 off with the obedience of a child : he had been made to know 
 that Jarvis and Otto were as his masters. Half-way through 
 the trunks of the bare trees, a thought caused him to halt. 
 
 " To-morroto morning, Jarvis ?" 
 
 " I said to-morrow morning. Can't you hear ?" 
 
 " But to-morrow will be Sundav !" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Sir Dene would not like it. Only think if he heard the 
 guns/ " 
 
After the Lapse of Years. 233 
 
 " I want none of your remarks, Tom Clanwaring. Do as 
 you are told!" 
 
 And Tom went to do it. 
 
 Lady Lydia Clanwaring, her bonnet and shawl thrown off, 
 met her son in the hall when he entered. Clutching at his 
 arm, as one who is in anger or pain, she drew him to the fire 
 — a large bright fire of wood playing in the hearth of the hall. 
 Standing there, ostensibly warming her hands before going in 
 to luncheon, she spoke to him eagerly and impressingly ; but 
 so quietly that Gander, who happened to pass, never saw that 
 her lips moved. 
 
 " Every hour of your existence you vex me, Jarvis ! Why 
 are you not more cautious ? You fly in the face of Sir Dene's 
 prejudices in the most foolish, reckless manner possible. To 
 think that you should have stayed away from church !" 
 
 " A man, worried as I am, has no fancy for church or for 
 anything else," returned Captain Clanwaring in a half-in- 
 different, half-sullen tone. "As to studying the old man's 
 prejudices — whether I study them or whether I don't, it seems 
 to come to the same thing : no money. Have you asked him 
 again ?" 
 
 " It's not likely. "Were I to enter upon busines matters to- 
 day, he would only stop me. Jarvis, indeed I don't think I 
 shall be able to get it. I have had so much money from him 
 for you that I am driven to my very wits' end to invent ex- 
 cuses for its use. I can't say it's for Louisa this time, because 
 she's here, and he might question her himself: neither can I 
 say it is for Otto, for the same reason. In these scarce visits 
 that Otto pays us, I am kept in a state of chronic terror, lest 
 the old man should speak to him and discover that he knows 
 nothing of the sums of money he is supposed to have drawn. 
 Otto was always so inconveniently truthful, you know." 
 
 " He is a close, steady-going muff. I knoAV that." 
 
 " Try Dene again." 
 
 "No good, mother. He told me yesterday I had bled him 
 once too often : and meant it too. The goose is killed in that 
 quarter." 
 
 " Well, Jarvis, I only speak the truth when I tell you that 
 I believe it will not be possible for me to get you this money 
 that you want. Sir Dene suspects, I think. He is not so 
 cordial with you as he used to be — and you do nothing to 
 conciliate him. Why were you not at hand to drive him to 
 church and back ?" 
 
234 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "Because I didn't go myself," was the cool rejoinder. "I 
 must have the money ; I cannot do without it. It would bring 
 ruin and double ruin." 
 
 There was a pause. Captain Clanwaring lifted his shapely 
 boot — in dress he was one of the greatest dandies going — and 
 pushed a falling log on to the blazing hearth. His mother 
 thought what a handsome leg and foot it was. 
 
 " Why don't you make better play with Mary Arde, 
 Jarvis ? " 
 
 " Why don't I ! Tou must ask that question of herself, my 
 lady. She is a vast deal more inclined to make play with the 
 goat than she is with me. I suspected it when I was down 
 here last." 
 
 " Ridiculous !" replied Lady Lydia, her tone one of passion- 
 ate irritation. " That is perfectly absurd, Jarvis ; and you 
 know it. He mate with Mary Arde ! The very idea is an 
 outrage on social decency." 
 
 " I know that she likes him. And that she does not 
 like me." 
 
 " Don't talk so loud. I tell you you might as well accuse 
 her of a liking for her father's bailiff as for Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 What else is he but a bailiff? You what do you say, 
 
 Jones ?" broke off Lady Lydia, as a servant came out of the 
 dining-room, and spoke. 
 
 " Luncheon is waiting, my lady ; and Sir Dene is asking 
 for you." 
 
 Lady Lydia gave a final rub to her hands over the blaze, 
 and went into the dining-room. But when the man said 
 " Luncheon is waiting," he used a figure of speech. Sir Dene 
 never waited luncheon for anybody, and he had nearly finished 
 now. It was only simple fare : they had breakfasted at nine, 
 and would dine at five. The table appeared to be crowded, 
 but Lady Lydia's place at its head was left vacant. Dene the 
 heir sat at it and his brother Charles, pleasant-looking slight 
 young fellows, hardly out of their teens. Otto was there ; a 
 dark, short man of twenty-sis, steady looking enough to have 
 had his barrister's wig on his head out of court as well as in 
 it. Louisa, the wife of Colonel Letsom, and her three little 
 ones, Sir Dene's great grand-children, completed the party. 
 Captain Clanwaring looked out for a seat. 
 
 " You young ones must sit closer together, " remarked Lady 
 Lydia in rather a cross tone, for she could not bear that her 
 favourite son should be put out in the very smallest degree. 
 
After the Lapse of Years. 235 
 
 " They might have taken.their luncheon upstairs, Louisa: they 
 are going to dine with us. Make room for your uncle Jarvis. " 
 " You can have my seat, Jarvis," interposed Sir Dene, 
 rising and catching up his stick to leave the room. As Jarvis 
 sat down, ill-humoured as usual, he said something about 
 hoping the dinner-table would not be as crowded, for it was 
 possible one or two of his friends might be dropping in. 
 
 " The dinner-table is always large enough when we know 
 how many are to be at it," said Lady Lydia. " Of course it 
 will be full to-day. In case of an unexpected guest arriving 
 late, Tom Clan waring must eat his dinner below." 
 
 " I'll be shot if he shall ! " exclaimed young Dene, with all 
 the authority of the baronet's heir. " It is Christmas Day, 
 Aunt Lydia, and Tom shall have his place at table for once, as 
 well as the rest of us. It's not often he gets it." 
 
 Lady Lydia, cutting a piece of cake, cut it so sharply that 
 the plate nearly came in two. Dene began again: he and 
 Charles both liked Tom. 
 
 " No. If Tom's place at table is filled up to-day, he shall 
 have mine. It would never do for him to be absent. What 
 would Mary Arde say ? " 
 
 Dene threw out this little shaft mischievously : he had his 
 suspicions of many things, and privately hoped that Tom 
 would in some magical manner get May, rather than cross- 
 grained Varges. My Lady's green cheek turned a shade 
 greener : and it is a positive fact that in moments of annoy- 
 ance her pale, putty complexion, took a tinge of green. At 
 this juncture, in came Tom. 
 
 Nobody moved, nobody made room for him. Dene began 
 ordering the children to sit closer, "two of you on a chair," 
 but Tom settled the matter by lifting one of them, taking the 
 chair himself, and putting the child on his knee. Social, cordial, 
 ever sweet-tempered, it was impossible for children to help 
 loving Tom Clanwaring : and the little thins: laughed in elee, 
 and put her fat hand up to stroke the smiling Saxon face. 
 
 " Did you see Simmons — and give him my message ?" de- 
 manded Captain Clanwaring of Tom, without the superfluous 
 courtesy of looking at him. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What did he say ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you by-and-by, Jarvis." 
 
2\6 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 sir dene's repentance. 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring passed a good deal of his time now in his 
 chamber, or in the small sitting-room next it. He was a dif- 
 ferent man from what he used to be : since he had been unable 
 to take long walks in the open air, but was confined much of 
 necessity to his chair or sofa, there was less of open, easy in- 
 difference in his manner, more of silent care. Advancing years 
 and infirmities brought serious thought in their train : arid 
 events had helped it on. 
 
 Strange though it may seem to have to say it, stranger still 
 to believe it, but it is nevertheless true, a great remorse, 
 repentance, gr'ef — call it what you will — had seized on Sir 
 Dene Clanwaring. And for what ? For having made the 
 road, Dene Hollow. In the lapse of years that we have skipped, 
 and of which no record has been taken, accidents had con- 
 tinued to occur occasionally: and cautious people preferred 
 to go the old round way, rather than use it. But in all the 
 mishaps that had taken place there, only one had been fatal : 
 and that was to the granddaughter Sir Dene so fondly loved 
 — Margaret Clanwaring. A conviction seized hold upon him 
 that the death of this fair young girl was nothing more than 
 a retribution on himself, sent direct from Heaven. 
 
 Sir Dene had surely sent the Widow Barber to her grave 
 earlier than she would have gone : he had grown to see the 
 fact clearly, and it came home to him in these later years 
 with a great remorse. He never spoke of it : but the shadow 
 of it lay on his mind always — just as the other Shadow was 
 said to lie at times on the unlucky road. The poor widow 
 was mere often in his mental eye than he would have liked to 
 confess : not as he had first known her, the hale red-cheeked 
 little woman stirring actively am'dst her milk-pails with her 
 more than seventy years on her back ; but as he had happened 
 to meet her a few days before she died : hollow of face, sad of 
 eyes, wasted to a shadow. Sir Dene remembered that he had 
 turned to look after her in some doubt, debating whether 
 that worn woman could be Mrs. Barber. 
 
 Bending forward from his arm-chair in the room above, on 
 this Christmas afternoon, his hands clasped on the top of his 
 
Sir Denes Repentance. 237 
 
 stick, his blue coat off and a loose one on, sat Sir Dene, think- 
 in" of this ; and of some other things that annoyed him, but 
 in a less degree. Lady Lydia came in to disturb him. Lady 
 Lydia was wont to boast in a quiet way of her influence over 
 Sir Dene — that she could " turn him round her little finger." 
 In truth he yielded very much to her sway, for he hated 
 contention, and loved to be at ease more than ever. The 
 wish to get Tom Clanwaring away from the Dene, which had 
 lain in abeyance for so many years, had sprung up anew of 
 late in my lady's heart : the interests of her dear son, Jarvis, 
 were rendering Tom's absence from the place, as she believed, 
 imperatively necessary. Jarvis must secure May Arde and 
 her twenty thousand pounds to get him out of his terrible 
 embarrassments: it would never do for Tom to stand in tic 
 way. There was no fear of Tom's marrying Miss Arde : their 
 relative positions forbade that : but Tom was a remarkably 
 good-looking young fellow (though it went against the grain 
 for my lady to acknowledge, even mentally, that fact), and 
 he and the young lady seemed to be on the best of terms. If 
 she got a fancy into her head that she liked Tom, she might 
 —why yes she might — reject Jarvis. To guard against this, 
 Tom must quit the neighbourhood ; and not continue to see 
 more of May while he stayed in it than could be helped. 
 Turning these things about in her mind, Lady Lydia quite de- 
 termined, as a preliminary, that Tom should not sit down to 
 the Christmas dinner-table that evening when May would be 
 present. At least, if any clever scheming of her own could 
 prevent it. 
 
 Stirring Sir Dene's fire into a blaze, she took a chair oppo- 
 site him, and began talking of a subject that was sure to excite 
 Sir Dene's ire — poaching and poachers. There had been more 
 trouble from that cause on the estate this winter than was ever 
 known before. Night after night these marauders came about 
 in the most audacious manner ; and with impunity, for they 
 had never once been caught. Randy Black was suspected to 
 be the ring-leader ; and Sir Dene had gone the length of causing 
 the Trailing Indian to be searched : but no game was found. 
 In talking of it now, Sir Dene, as usual, grew excited, and 
 said this should be done, and the other should be done ; my 
 lady agreeing in all, and suggesting measures on her own score. 
 Thus the afternoon wore away. 
 
 After luncheon, Captain Clanwaring had gone out somewhere, 
 returning home abont half-past four o'clock. Tom Clanwaring 
 
238 Dene Hollow. 
 
 was standing by the hall fire when he came in, and took the 
 opportunity of telling him that Simmons refused to attend 
 him on the morrow. 
 
 " "What the devil do you mean ? — or does he mean ? " de- 
 manded the captain. 
 
 " What he said to me was this : that he'd not go out shooting 
 on a Sunday for anybody, neither would Sir Dene allow him. 
 You cannot expect the man to do it, Jarvis, " added Tom in a 
 tone of reason. " Putting other considerations aside, it would 
 never do for the guns to be heard in our woods on a Sunday." 
 
 Jarvis swore a little — at Tom for his gratuitous opinion, and 
 at things in general. Saying that he would soon teach Sim- 
 mons what it was to disobey Mm, he strode off with a furious 
 step : and just then, down came my Lady Lydia from Sir 
 Dene's room. Advancing to Tom, she told him it was Sir 
 Dene's pleasure that he and the gamekeeper should be on the 
 watch that night in the oak coppice. 
 
 Tom Clanwaring verily thought she must be saying it for a 
 joke. Gander had not lighted up ; and as he scanned her face by 
 the light of the fire, he enquired whether she was not mistaken. 
 
 " Not in the least, " she decisively replied. " Something 
 has come to Sir Dene's knowledge' about the poachers having 
 laid fresh gins and snares in the oak coppice : it has put him 
 out worse than anything yet. This evening, when all the 
 world are supposed to be indoors, making merry, will be their 
 opportunity, he says ; and you and Simmons are to go at once 
 on the watch. With the best haste you can make, starting 
 now, you and he will not get to the oak coppice too early. 
 There's not a minute to be lost." 
 
 " But Sir Dene does not wish me to go now ? — before din- 
 ner ? " cried Tom, wondering more and more. For Sir Dene 
 was a man who not only liked to enjoy his Christmas dinner 
 heartily himself, but chose that all about him should enjoy it. 
 
 " Sir Dene wishes you and expects you to go at once," was 
 the emphatic rejoinder. " It has not come to the pass yet, I 
 hope, of your disobeying him." 
 
 " I have never disobeyed him yet, Lady Lydia, or wished to 
 do it, " was the young man's answer, as he turned to the 
 staircase. " I am ready to obey his wishes now and always. " 
 
 My lady stopped him with a peremptory question. 
 
 " What do you want upstairs ? " 
 
 " To change my coat." 
 
 She glanced at Tom's clothes, that sat so well on his 
 
Sir Dene's Repentance. 239 
 
 graceful figure : and mentally allowed -with a grant that 
 they were not quite the things to go a watching in. 
 
 " Take care that you don't disturb Sir Dene," she crossly 
 said. " He is trying to get a little nap before dinner." 
 
 Tom nodded and ran lightly up. But just as he was pass- 
 ing his grandfather's door, the baronet opened it and saw him. 
 
 " Is that you, Tom ? What's the time ?" 
 
 " It wants about twenty minutes to five, sir." 
 
 " Is it so late as that ? Come in and help me to get my 
 coat on. We shall have Arde here. I begin to think some- 
 times, Tom," added the old man as they crossed the sitting- 
 room to his bed-chamber, " that I shall be reduced to the 
 effeminacy of taking a valet in my old age. My legs and 
 arms won't serve me much longer." 
 
 " Make a valet of me, sir. You might let me help you more 
 than I do." 
 
 " I don't like to give in, Tom ; that's it ; I have waited on my- 
 self all my life. Sit down at the fire while I wash my hands : 
 you can put the water out for me. You are ready yourself I see." 
 
 " Ready for what, sir ? " asked the young man, not quite 
 understanding. 
 
 " Ready for what ? Why, for dinner." 
 
 "But I — I can't dine to-day, sir," said Tom impulsively. 
 
 Sir Dene took his hands out of the water, and turned round 
 to stare at Tom. 
 
 " Why can't you dine ? " 
 
 " There's no time, sir. I am going on the watch with 
 Simmons at once." 
 
 " What for ? Where to ? " 
 
 " The oak coppice. As you desire." 
 
 " Going on the watch with Simmons ! " repeated the 
 baronet, a great wonder on his fine old face. " On the watch 
 on a Christmas night ! No, no, my boy ; nobody belonging 
 to me does that. What put such a thing in your head ? " 
 
 " Lady Lydia has just told me " Tom Clanwaring 
 
 stopped. He was a true gentleman at heart ; ay, and a true 
 Christian, too, though some in the world, reading this, may 
 laugh at it. Not even in this case, barefaced though he at 
 once saw it was, would he take his own part at the expense 
 of others. But Sir Dene was looking at him, and he resumed. 
 
 " That is, I understood Lady Lydia to say you wished me to 
 go with Simmons this evening. Perhaps she misunderstood." 
 
 " You must have misunderstood between you. Send my 
 
240 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 people on the watch on a Christmas night ! " reiterated Sir 
 Dene. " I'm not a heathen." 
 
 " Lady Lydia talks of fresh gins in the oak coppice. What 
 have you heard, sir? " 
 
 " What I've heard will keep, Tom. She ought not to have 
 begun about it to-day ; she knows it is a subject that wor- 
 ries me. /S7/e heard it ; I didn't. Jarvis picked it up some- 
 where out of doors, she says. Any way, it must be left till 
 Monday. There : let it drop. See if you can give my hair 
 a brush. I must have got a touch of rheumatism in this arm, 
 Tom ; it's painful since morning. The driving home from 
 church did me no good. Priar talks of strained muscles 
 — but I fancy it's rheumatism." 
 
 Tom had brushed the white hair and helped on the coat, 
 when there came a smart knock at the door, and Lady Lydia 
 entered. Sir Dene at once began about the misunderstanding, 
 telling her she ought to have known better than to suppose 
 he should allow any of his people, whether grandchildren or 
 retainers, to go out on the cold watch on a Christmas night. 
 
 Tom Clanwaring quitted the room : ofnousenowto wait to 
 assist his grandfather downstairs : my lady took care that 
 Tom should never assist him in any way, when she could help 
 it. Scarcely had he gained the hall when he heard himself 
 called to. My lady was following him ; her face white with 
 anger, her restless eyes ablaze with pride. 
 
 " How dare you carry tales to Sir Pe \e ? " she hissed — 
 and really her harsh voice was often very like a hiss. " You ! 
 a dependent, a serpent — for that's what you are — you presume 
 to interfere and try to set aside my orders — and Sir Dene's ! " 
 
 " You are mistaken, Lady Lydia. I did not intention- 
 ally -" 
 
 " Be silent, sir ; I will hear no lying excuses from you. 
 As you are afraid of a little night cold for yourself and 
 Simmons, you may go and share his hearth with him this 
 evening. You don't dine in my presence. One of us must be 
 absent from the table ; you or I." 
 
 " Very well, Lady Lydia. I will not intrude upon you." 
 
 He went straight out at the front door. Really with no 
 purposed intention, but in the minute's vexation. Generous- 
 tempered though he was, patiently submissive as he had been 
 trained to be, he could feel anger at times when the oppression 
 or injustice was unusually great. And Mary Arde would be 
 at the table that he was thrust from ! 
 
Sir Denes Repentance. 241 
 
 Would she ! A few paces from the door he encountered a 
 footman. Tom recognised him in the evening's darkness for 
 one of the servants at the Hall. 
 
 " What is it, Mark ? " 
 
 "My mistress has sent me up with this note, sir. The 
 Squire's quite unable to come out this evening. They are 
 very sorry it should have happened so." 
 
 " Are none of them coming ? Not Mrs. or Miss Arde ? " 
 
 "No, sir; they intend to dine quietly at home," was the 
 man's reply, as he went on with the note. 
 
 " I'll go and ask them to give me some dinner," quoth Tom 
 to himself, his blue eyes brightening with an amused smile, 
 his heart giving a great leap in its happiness. " All happens 
 for the best." 
 
 Whether the love that existed between Tom Clanwaring and 
 May Arde — for it's of no use to disguise this ill-omened fact 
 any longer — would have sprung up had they been always on 
 the original terms of intimacy, cannot be told. Perhaps not : 
 the liking for each other might have continued to be more like 
 that of fond brother and sister. Not that Miss May had ever 
 pretended to be fond of Tom : she had teased him and tortured 
 him at will, like the capricious little damsel that she was. 
 When May was growing up, Mrs. Arde had a serious illness, 
 and the doctors ordered her abroad. She went with her hus- 
 band and daughter, and they were away nearly three years. 
 Three,years will make great changes, you know, in people's 
 looks as well as in other things. Tom was three-and-twenty 
 when they met again as strangers ; May turned nineteen : she 
 saw a most attractive man, tall and strong and noble ; he saw 
 a sedate, modest young lady, with a shy and sweet face. That 
 first interview sealed their fate : from that time they were as 
 passionately in love with each other, as ever man and woman 
 can be in this world — and that's saying something. Never a 
 word of it had been spoken by either: Tom Clanwaring, 
 remembering his position, was of too honourable a nature for 
 that : but each knew quite well how it was with the other. 
 There was about as much chance that Tom, poor and prospect- 
 less, would be allowed to win her, as there was that he might 
 win the moon. Each was contented to leave the future to 
 itself : as long as they met daily, or almost daily, the present 
 had bliss enough. 
 
 And so, this last year, since May's return, things had gone 
 on quietly and happily. That they would not continue so to 
 
 E 
 
242 Dene Hollow. 
 
 go on much longer, certain signs were telling. Matters 
 seemed to be approaching a crisis in more ways than one. 
 Captain Jarvis Clanwaring was getting into deep water — was 
 in it, indeed — and there appeared to be no way of extricating 
 him but by some grand coup-de-main ; such as espousing a 
 wealthy heiress. The heiress was at hand, and a very charm- 
 ing and lovable heiress too ; and Captain Clanwaring made 
 no end of visits to Beechhurst Dene on her account. But 
 there was one curious fact — he did not seem to make much 
 way with her. To Lady Lydia this had been utterly un- 
 accountable until quite recently — when the horrible fear had 
 suddenly suggested itself that May loved the scapegoat — the 
 name he had gone by amidst them for years — the miserable, 
 despised dependent, Tom Clanwaring. Somehow Mrs. Arde 
 was catching up the same fear : possibly it had been craftily 
 awakened by Lady Lydia, for we rarely see these things for 
 ourselves. Mrs. Arde was not at all sure about it. She 
 thought it next door to impossible that Mary could be so 
 much of an idiot. 
 
 Tom, laughing outright at the turn affairs had taken that 
 evening, walked on to the Hall. He knew quite well, if 
 nobody else did, that my lady's motive for banishing him 
 from the dinner-table was because Miss Arde was to be at it. 
 But, for once in a rare way, Tom had won and my lady lost. 
 Tom knew that the persecution, renewed of late, the under 
 current of effort that was at work again to drive him entirely 
 from Beechhurst Dene, arose from my lady's fear that he was 
 standing in the way of Jarvis. He could afford to laugh, he 
 thought : whatever the result might be as to himself, he felt 
 assured that May would never have anything on that head to 
 say to Jarvis Clanwaring. 
 
 When Mr. Arde had found in the afternoon that he grew 
 no better, a dinner was hastily prepared at home : his wife 
 and daughter declining to leave him. He had these bilious 
 attacks often, and would look as sallow as a guinea while 
 they lasted, which was sometimes three days. Mrs. Arde 
 wrote the note to Beechhurst Dene, and sent to ask the Miss 
 Dickereens to come in and dine at the Hall : two middle-aged 
 neighbours, cheerful and talkative ; who were made all the 
 more of because they had lost the greater part of their fortune. 
 The party was in the act of sitting down to this dinner, Mr. 
 Arde included, when Tom walked in. Every one looked 
 surprised to see him : May blushed scarlet. 
 
Sir Dene's Repentance. 243 
 
 " Will you give me some dinner, sir ? " 
 
 " If you want it," returned the Squire. " And -welcome. 
 Anything the matter at the Dene ? " 
 
 " I have offended Lady Lydia — no unusual thing, you 
 know, sir — and she forbids me to sit down with them. I 
 thought — as it was Christmas Day — perhaps you and Mrs. 
 Arde would take me in." 
 
 He spoke in a half-jesting, half-serious tone. The servant 
 put a chair for him next May : the Miss Dickereens sitting 
 opposite, in the warmth of the fire. The Squire's spirits went 
 up : Tom's good-looking face and kindly nature seemed to 
 impart a new element of cheerfulness to them all. George 
 Arde had always liked him from the time he held the little 
 unconscious infant in his arms by the bed where its mother 
 was lying cold and dead, and poor Geoffry sat in a chair 
 against the wall sobbing. The Squire, who had only come 
 into the dining-room to carve, protesting he could not touch 
 a bit, ventured on a morsel of turkey. It tasted so good that 
 he took a larger piece, and then another, and another. His 
 aching head seemed to grow better as if by magic, and he 
 soon felt as well as ever he had in his life. These impromptu 
 meetings are often more gay than premeditated ones. Have 
 you ever observed this ? It was the case here. You re- 
 member the remark of the good old Vicar of Wakefield in 
 reference to their last-recorded merry meeting : " I don't 
 know whether we had more wit amongst us than usual, but 
 we had certainly more laughter." The laughter at the 
 Squire's table that night might have been heard half way to 
 Hurst Leet. Every countenance was happy, every heart at 
 rest : even Mrs. Arde forgot her semi-doubts, and yielded to 
 the genial and happy influence of the moment. It was one 
 of the merriest Christmases spent that day within the three 
 kingdoms : an evening to be recalled with a thrill ; an hour 
 that would stand in the memory as one of unalloyed pleasure, 
 amid the stern realities, the dull cares of later years. 
 
 " What was the matter at home this time ? " asked Mary 
 of Tom confidentially, when they had a moment to themselves 
 at the end of the drawing-room. " Did my lady really forbid 
 your sitting down to table ? " 
 
 " She said that either she or I must be away from it. Of 
 course it left me no choice, May." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " Well, the ostensible reason was that I had carried tales to 
 
244 Dene Hollow. 
 
 my grandfather — which of course I had not. The real reason 
 was, that she did not want me to be at dinner." 
 
 " But why ? " again questioned Mary. 
 
 "Well, she. — she had her own reasons, I conclude," was 
 Tom's not very satisfactory answer, a smile playing about his 
 mouth. 
 
 Did Mary guess at the reason ? Faintly, perhaps. Her 
 face wore a blush. 
 
 " Tom," she softly said, glancing up through the shade of 
 the long brown eye-lashes, " I can't bear Lady Lydia." 
 
 "Now, May, that's what I call ingratitude," was his 
 laughing answer. " She says she adores you." 
 
 " Does she ! But, Tom, if I were you I'd not really 
 quarrel with her. She might send you away. I know she's 
 trying for it." 
 
 " I know it myself. Sometimes I think she'll do it." 
 
 "Would you like to go ? " 
 
 " Well — no. I'd rather stay where I am. On account of 
 my good old grandfather." 
 
 Had it been to save his life, he could not have helped the 
 expression that momentarily escaped his blue eyes meeting 
 hers. It quite plainly said that there was some one else also 
 he would like to stay for. Mary's heart fluttered fifty ways 
 in its sense of happiness. 
 
 " What are you thinking of, child ? " asked Mr. Arde of his 
 daughter, when their guests had departed, and he was fight- 
 ing his bed candles. 
 
 For Mary seemed buried in a profound reverie. She woke 
 out of it with a start at the question. 
 
 "Papa, I was thinking how very happy we have been to-night. 
 I was wondering if anything could ever look cloudy again." 
 
 Meanwhile the dinner and evening had progressed at 
 Beechhurst Dene. Not so merrily. Sir Dene was out of 
 sorts : the children were troublesome, allowed to take up 
 nearly all the attention — a very mistaken and unpleasant 
 thing at all times to everybody except themselves and their un- 
 wise mother. The friends Captain Clanwaring had said 
 might drop in, did so : two of them getting over from Wor- 
 cester in a gig. Both were, as Jones, helping Gander to wait at 
 table, expressed it, " millingtary." The one, Major Fife, was at 
 least fifty years of age: and there was something about his height 
 and uprightness, in his clearly-cut features, ay, and more than 
 all, in the long, flowing silver beard he wore, that put Sir 
 
Sir Dene's Repentance. 245 
 
 Dene strongly in mind of Robert Owen, dead nearly five-and- 
 twenty years before. Gander was so struck with the likeness 
 as to be excessively discomposed, for it brought to the man's 
 remembrance that long-past night of his great terror in Hare- 
 bell Lane. The resemblance was certainly remarkable ; but 
 the expression of the two faces wholly different : for while 
 Robert Owen's had been good and winning, Major Fife's was 
 that of a roue, bad altogether. Sir Dene had heard of him 
 as a hard drinker and hard player ; in short, as bearing not 
 too reputable a character in any "way, especially since he quit- 
 ted the army. The other, Lieutenant Paget, seemed an in- 
 offensive and rather a simple young man. But Sir Dene was 
 not pleased that Jarvis should have taken upon himself to 
 introduce these men to his table that evening ; he did not 
 care that entire strangers should join the family dinner on 
 Christmas Day. The baronet was of course civilly courteous 
 to them, as in duty bound to be ; but his manner had no cor- 
 diality in it, and he was very silent. That, or the absence of 
 the Ardes, or something else, undoubtedly threw a gloom on 
 the meeting. They were half through dinner before Sir Dene 
 noticed the absence of his favourite grandson. Ay, and in 
 his heart he was the favourite, little as my lady or any one 
 else might suspect it. 
 
 " Where's Tom ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 "No one answered. He repeated the question loudly and 
 sharply. Lady Lydia could no longer affect not to hear. 
 
 " Oh, Tom? He has gone over to Simmons's, I believe," 
 she carelessly said. 
 
 Sir Dene laid down his knife and fork. " To Simmons's ! " 
 he repeated, every feature of his still fine countenance harden- 
 ing to stern expression. " What has taken him there on 
 Christmas night ? " 
 
 "His low tastes, I conclude," was her hardy reply. "He 
 has that kind of taste for such company, you know, Sir Dene." 
 
 " H he has, my lady, it is thanks to you, for it w r asyou who 
 first drove him out to frequent it," was Sir Dene's retort. But 
 nevertheless he felt bitterly vexed at Tom, for absenting him- 
 self from dinner on Christmas Day. 
 
 Nothing more was said then. In the drawing-room Lady 
 Lydia took occasion to speak a few words in Sir Dene's ear. 
 She intimated that it was Tom who had wanted to go and 
 watch in the oak coppice ; that he was disappointed at not 
 spending the hours Avith Simmons, whose company he pre- 
 
246 Dene Hollow. 
 
 ferred, and so had gone off to do it at his home. Sir Dene, 
 angry and vexed, went to bed in the belief. He was not 
 feeling well that evening, and disappeared even before the 
 children. 
 
 A slight incident occurred to Tom Clanwaring as he came 
 home, which may as well be mentioned. Hurst Leet clock 
 was striking eleven when he turned in at the Dene gates : the 
 air was clear, though not cold enough for what is called season- 
 able Christmas weather, and the sound of the strokes came 
 up distinctly to Tom's ear. Rather to his surprise, as he 
 neared the house, he saw a gig standing before the front door. 
 One of their own grooms was in it, apparently asleep. 
 
 "What's this gig here for, James ? " he asked of the man- 
 
 " It belongs to two gents as come over from Ooster* to 
 dinner, sir," replied the groom, waking up. "Friends o' the 
 Captain's, Gander says. And don't I wish they'd come out," 
 he added partly to himself. " Stuck in this gig for an hour 
 or two's spell, bain't the work for a Christmas night." 
 
 "When all the rest are making themselves comfortable," 
 said Tom, with good-humour. 
 
 " That's it, sir," returned the groom, intensely aggravated. 
 " There they be, a roomful of 'em ; men and maids, a-drink- 
 ing hot punch round the fire ; and Gander a-telling of 'em 
 stories about Injee." 
 
 The picture of comfort was so vivid that Tom would not 
 disturb it. Intensely considerate of others, both by nature 
 and because he had been trained to be, was Tom Clanwaring. 
 Instead of ringing a peal on the hall bell, that must have 
 brought forth Gander or one of the others, he turned to go 
 round to the back door, which was never fastened until the 
 last thing. He was just emerging from the privet- walk, the 
 door in view, when a tall young person, showing a profusion of 
 light curls under her bonnet, came in his way. It was Miss 
 Emma Geach, — whom we have not met since she was a child. 
 
 "Why, Emma!" exclaimed Tom. " Is it you? Do you 
 want anything ? " 
 
 " Hush, please ! " she said, sinking her voice to a whisper. 
 " I was only waiting to — to speak to one o' the servants, Mr. 
 Tom." 
 
 " Which of them is it ? " he asked, insensibly dropping his 
 voice to assimilate with her tones. " Shall I call — " 
 
 * Worcestershire patoia for Worcester. 
 
Sent to tJw Trailing Indian* 247 
 
 " No, I don't want you to call nobody," she quickly inter- 
 rupted, as if the proposition startled her. " Go on your way 
 and take no notice on me please, Mr. Tom. If he comes out, 
 I shall see him: if he don't, I shall just run back home 
 wi'out it." 
 
 The sound of the whispering penetrated to the grove of 
 trees (bare now) at a few paces distance : and Dene Clan- 
 waring and his cousin Otto strolling about to smoke, looked 
 out to see who might be thus covertly talking. Emma 
 Geach drew back behind the privet hedge to hide herself: 
 Tom went on to the drawing-room. 
 
 Jarvis, his two friends, and Lady Lydia were at whisfc 
 when Tom entered, looking — they could but notice it — rather 
 particularly radiant. 
 
 " Hope you have enjoyed your evening with Simmons ! " 
 sarcastically spoke Mrs. Letsom. Like Sir Dene, she had 
 thought it very bad taste, even of Tom, to abandon the home 
 party. 
 
 " With Simmons ! " cried Tom in surprise. " I have not 
 been with Simmons, Mrs. Letsom." 
 
 " No ! Well, I thought it curious that you should go 
 there on a Christmas night," she rejoined. " Where have 
 you been, then, Tom ? " 
 
 " Dining at the Hall." 
 
 " Where ? What ? " sharply asked Lady Lydia, in a kind" 
 of shrill scream. 
 
 "I have been dining with the Ardes, Lady Lydia. A 
 right merry evening we've had. The Miss Dickereens were 
 there." 
 
 Grave as a judge was his face as he told it : never a ghost 
 of a smile did it wear, to betray that he knew what the 
 announcement must be to her. She made no answer ; only 
 bit her quivering lips. The captain threw down his cards, as 
 if something stung him, and his eyes wore an evil look as he 
 turned them full on Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 SENT TO THE TEAILING INDIAN. 
 
 Monday morning. The week seemed to be inaugurating 
 itself rather gloomily for some of the inmates of Beechhurst 
 Dene. At least, if the countenances of my Lady Lydia and 
 
24S Dene Hollow. 
 
 Captain Clanwaring might be any criterion. Gloomy enough 
 was the aspect of each, in all conscience ; cross too. My 
 lady was sitting a little back from the library window, in the 
 shade of the delicate green brocade curtain. The room was 
 as charming as it used to be : renovated from time to time, 
 tbe prevailing features and colours of its furniture were 
 always retained. 
 
 Gazing on outer things as one who sees them not, was 
 Captain Clanwaring. A suspicion of frost lay on the grass 
 of the park, the trees looked bare and bleak. He had been 
 telling Lady Lydia once again that he must have money, and 
 immediately ; and she had returned him the same answer as 
 on Christmas Day — that she did not see how it would be 
 possible. In truth he had more need of it than even his 
 mother knew — for he did not tell her of various little items 
 that were pressing him amidst greater ones. They were 
 passing through his own mind as he stood. Major Fife's 
 visit on Christmas Day, independent of partaking of a good 
 Christmas dinner, was to press Jarvis for a certain debt of 
 honour, lost to him in London. The major had made the 
 journey from London to Worcester to get it : and was 
 staying there at a great cost at the Hop Pole. Jarvis was 
 owing some money up at Black's at the Trailing Indian, and 
 that was pressing. Miss Emma Geach's appearance in the 
 privet- walk on Christmas night was, in point of fact, owing 
 to this : she was waiting in the hope of seeing Captain Clan- 
 waring — in spite of her plausible excuse to Tom. About 
 these two items of debt he said nothing to my lady : but 
 rather enlarged on certain claims he owed in town, and the 
 terrible embarrassment they brought him. Which was only 
 too true. 
 
 Jarvis Clanwaring was one of those men who cannot, or 
 will not, keep out of debt. His tastes and pursuits were of a 
 nature that must inevitably bring debt in their train to a poor 
 man — ay, and to a rich one. As to curbing his inclinations — 
 his expensive horses, his fine clothes, his dinners, his betting, 
 his gambling — such a course never entered his mind. Where 
 was the good of having a baronet for a grandfather, who 
 must possess pots of money laid by, unless he was of use to 
 you, the Captain was in the habit of arguing with his friends. 
 There was only he who wanted help. Young Dene and 
 Charley had money enough of their own. Otto made what 
 he earned at his profession do for him, did not spend a frac- 
 
Sent to the Trailing Indian. 249 
 
 tion more, and troubled nobody. Jarvis's private ojnnion 
 ■was, that Otto must live upon five shillings a day. Perhaps 
 he did. Close, prudent, hard-working Otto Clanwaring was 
 the one to make both ends meet, however small the means 
 might be. Jarvis had once got twenty pounds out of him. 
 Driving down to Old Square one day in a friend's curricle, 
 Jarvis had told a tale of some temporary need for twenty 
 pounds ; and Otto let him have the sum, relying on his 
 promise of honour to bring it back on that day week. " Sly 
 dog, that Otto ; he's putting by already," was Jarvis's com- 
 ment — and he had never repaid the money from that day to 
 this. Otto had left off asking him for it. Jarvis had money 
 from young Dene more than once ; " bled him," he called it. 
 Dene had grown wary now, and refused to lend another 
 stiver : he was not yet of age, and only had his allowance. 
 In short, all sources seemed closed to Jarvis, except Sir 
 Dene's. Sir Dene had helped him so much in response to 
 open applications, that he would lend no more. In point of 
 fact, he had helped him far more than he had any suspicion 
 of, through the contrivances of Lady Lydia. That lady 
 ■would get money from Sir Dene — ostensibly for herself, for 
 Otto, for Louisa Letsom. It was always for one or the other, 
 as she told Sir Dene : whereas, in point of fact, every coin 
 went into the yawning pocket of Jarvis. There seemed to be 
 no end to it, Sir Dene had recently told her — and added that 
 he strongly suspected she must be assisting her elder son in 
 secret. So my lady might well assure the captain that for 
 the present she was unable to do more. It was not at all a 
 bright state of affairs, and each one tacitly acknowledged it 
 to the other, on that wintry morning. 
 
 " Jarvis, it is as I have told you," spoke Lady Lydia. 
 " You must make play with Mary Arde." 
 
 "And don't I do it — and mean to do it?" fractiously 
 retorted Jarvis : who was just as undutiful to his mother in 
 manner and speech, as it is the pleasure of some of these 
 idolized and indulged sons to be. "I shall go in for her now 
 in earnest." 
 
 " Of the twenty thousand pounds that will be hers on her 
 wedding-day, ten of it will be settled on her ; ten will go to 
 her husband, if he be a man they like — Mrs. Arde told me 
 so much. Some of that loose ten thousand will set you 
 straight." 
 
 Set him straight ! Ay. Jarvis Clanwaring drew a deep 
 
250 Dene Hollow, 
 
 breath, and his face took a bright look as he thought of it. 
 The mines of Golconda could hardly have seemed to him 
 fairer and richer. 
 
 " Twenty thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and a 
 large provision for life besides," continued Lady Lydia. 
 " Of course Mary will come in for the Hall as well, and for 
 the whole of her father's fortune. A prize worth striving for, 
 Jarvis." 
 
 Yes. Jarvis felt it to his heart's core. And he liked 
 Mary for herself besides. A prize worth any strife, any 
 sacrifice. 
 
 " I shall not let her slip, you may rest assured," he said 
 aloud. "But, don't you see that I must contrive to go on 
 smoothly until that time comes ? Were my embarrassments 
 to leak out, old Arde might fight shy of me." 
 
 She did see it. Looking up at Jarvis, she told him she 
 saw it. 
 
 " Well, then, for that reason, if for no other, I must have 
 money." 
 
 " It is all very well to say ' must,' Jarvis. But how ? " 
 
 He turned from the window in some agitation, lifting his 
 hand to give emphasis to his words. 
 
 " Mother ! as surely as that you and I are talking here 
 together, — as surely as that we shall eat our dinner to-day, — 
 as surely as that we shall some time die, what I say is truth : 
 if I do not get money between now and this day week, some 
 inconvenient things will come out to the world. I cannot 
 put it more forcibly." 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 " What things ! Why, obligations that I owe. Liabilities. 
 Debts." 
 
 " You have been frightfully imprudent, Jarvis." 
 
 "A man of the world is obliged to be," carelessly remarked 
 the captain. " But a steady-going dromedary like old Arde 
 might not allow for that. I think he'd not. Once let him 
 get an inkling of the state of my exchequer, and I fancy he 
 would cut up rough." 
 
 " He and Mrs. Arde both like you, Jarvis. She especially 
 does." 
 
 " And to retain their liking, I must keep my name clear. 
 Don't you see it?" 
 
 Oh yes again, she did see it ; she saw it in all its truth 
 and force. Sitting on in silence, she bit her compressed lips. 
 
Sent to the Trailing Indian. 251 
 
 "There's no excuse I can invent that would weigh with 
 Sir Dene, Jarvis. It is not a fortnight since I had money 
 from him ostensibly for myself: and I cannot say it is for 
 Louisa or Otto while they are both here. There's no other 
 way. He has taken to settle the house-keeping bills himself 
 — through Gander." 
 
 " Gander be smothered ! " said the captain gloomily, straying 
 a little beside the mark. " You will have to say it is for me." 
 
 " It would not avail," she quickly answered. " At least — 
 I don't think it would. He told me to my face that he be- 
 lieved the last money was for you, and it was high time your 
 extravagance was checked. Jarvis, I think this — if you 
 don't mind, he will be warning Squire Arde himself." 
 
 " No ! " uttered Jarvis, aghast at the suggestion. 
 
 " Well, I fear he might. It is just an idea of mine. I 
 must have time to think this over, Jarvis." 
 
 Captain Clanwaring, stretching himself, strolled away, 
 leaving her to do it. Half way across the room he turned to 
 say something. 
 
 "There's the second trouble — that cursed scapegoat. He 
 must be got away somehow or other. Dining at the Hall on 
 Christmas Day ; drinking tea there yesterday — it won't do, 
 you know. He and May were coolly pacing the beech 
 avenue together for an hour in the afternoon. The idea of 
 there being anything between them is preposterous ; too 
 contemptible to speak of: he would never dare to lift his 
 eyes to her, nor would she stoop to him : nevertheless, he will 
 be better out of the way than in it." Jarvis reasoned exactly 
 as my lady reasoned, you see : their instincts were the same. 
 
 " Leave that to me," was the careless and yet assured 
 answer of Lady Lydia. " I've got it in hand." 
 
 And well in hand, too. 
 
 Jarvis, cramming his pipe with tobacco, lighted it, kept it 
 in his mouth unheld, by some habit of dexterity, and strolled 
 out at the side door, his hands in his pockets. A more 
 miserable mood than his could not well be. It was abso- 
 lutely necessary that he should have money, to avoid — well, 
 he hardly knew ivhat. Exposure, for one thing. If my lady 
 failed in getting this money for him, he would be reduced to 
 the necessity of selling his commission. 
 
 Brooding over these troubles, he had got as far as the gate 
 opening to Harebell Lane, and was leaning his arms upon it, 
 puffing away, when Tom Clanwaring came up the lane with a 
 
252 Dene Hollow. 
 
 quick step. The contrast presented by the two was re" 
 markable ; Jarvis, an idle, lounging, smoking, pale, dissipated 
 dandy ; Tom, fresh, active, upright, striding along in his 
 worn velveteen coat and splashed top-boots, as if he had all 
 the work of the parish upon him, his fair Saxon face bright 
 and beautiful to look upon. The one was a worker, the other 
 something worse than a dreamer. 
 
 " I'm not sure but we shall have snow, Jarvis," spoke Tom 
 cordially, as he went by. 
 
 " Snow — ah ! " responded Jarvis indifferently. " Do you 
 happen to be going past the Trailing Indian ? " 
 
 " No. Why ? " continued Tom, halting. 
 
 " I wanted a note left there. For Black." 
 
 " A note — for Black ! " echoed Tom, in surprise : wondering 
 what Randy Black and the fastidious captain could have in 
 common. 
 
 "About tobacco," Jarvis condescended curtly to explain. 
 " Can you take it for me ? " 
 
 "Yes, if you like: it won't be much out of my way," 
 responded Tom, with his usual cheerful good-nature. Jarvis 
 handed him the note from his pocket, and Tom went on. 
 
 Sir Dene had kept his bed all day on the Sunday, with the 
 rheumatism in his shoulder, and Mr. Priar came up to see 
 him. Tom went in twice, and was received coldly : Sir 
 Dene, who had not been enlightened as to the truth, retained 
 his anger at Tom's having gone (as he thought) to Simmons's 
 instead of staying at home to dine. He was too angry to re- 
 proach him : for one thing, his shoulder was in great pain, 
 and my lady had been flinging in a little edged shaft or two 
 against Tom. 
 
 To-day, Monday, Tom was very busy out of doors. His 
 post as overlooker was the great barrier Lady Lydia had to 
 contend with in her newly taken-up resolution to drive him 
 off the estate. Remembering the instinct that had hazily 
 warned her against his thus remaining, she thought how true 
 it had been. The arrangement had worked well hitherto, 
 separating in a wide degree the poor scapegoat from his kith 
 and kin : and but for this awakened fear in connection with 
 Squire Arde's daughter, Tom Clanwaring might have stayed 
 as he was, unmolested, till Doomsday. 
 
 " Don't make quite so much noise, Emma. Please don't, 
 there's a good girl ! " 
 
Sent to the Trailing Indian. 253 
 
 " If tliee kicks tip that there clatter, I'll shy this blessed 
 brush at th' yead. D'ye hear, wench ? " 
 
 The pleading appeal came from Mrs. Black ; the rough one 
 from her husband, -who caught up a short hearth-brush that 
 happened to lie inside the fender, as he spoke. They were 
 sitting on either side of the kitchen fire, objects to look 
 upon. Poor Mrs. Black, a helpless cripple now, — indeed, the 
 extraordinary wonder was that she had lived so long, — looked 
 a shadow, not a woman ; her small, meek face, with its per- 
 petual glance of terror, was weary, shrunken, piteous. In 
 point of condition, Black did not look much better than his 
 wife : he was worn almost to a shadow too : though he had 
 not been fat at the best of times. His countenance had ac- 
 quired an anxious, uneasy expression, and his eyes a restless- 
 ness, as if he were always waiting for some unpleasant surprise. 
 People accounted for it curiously : they said Black lived in 
 perpetual fear of seeing Robert Owen ; that the fear of it tor- 
 mented him. Just now Black was really ill : a week ago he 
 had taken a violent inflammation on his chest, necessitating Mr. 
 Priar's attendance, and was in some danger. The danger had 
 passed : he could sit up : but he was more ill-spoken and irri- 
 table than when in his usual health. And that need not have 
 been ! 
 
 The reputation of the Trailing Indian and of its landlord, 
 had not materially improved with the course of years. The 
 mysterious trade in smuggled and stolen goods, midnight 
 hearses, and the like, had dwindled away ; but there was more 
 of poaching carried on than ever. Somewhat perhaps of 
 smuggling still ; for nowhere could there be found such brandy 
 and tobacco as Black's. The men who had helped in the other 
 work had died off one by one ; Michael Geach, the last of them, 
 some five or six years ago. As to Mrs. Geach, she disappeared 
 entirely from English society at a remote period, and was sup- 
 posed to be in Australia. And Miss Emma had remained, a 
 permanent legacy, at the Trailing Indian : Mrs. Black kind to 
 her, Black generally swearing at her. 
 
 Emma Geach had grown up just what she promised to do r 
 a tall, fine, very good-looking girl, as impudent as she was 
 high. Her fair face and profusion of light hair, which was 
 really beautiful, gained for her much outspoken admiration 
 from the frequenters of the Trailing Indian, which was some- 
 times conveyed in broad language. Emma Geach took the ad- 
 miration as her natural due, and for the rest, she responded in 
 
254 Dene Hollow, 
 
 kind. Never backward -was she at retort ; no matter what its 
 nature, she was equal to it. A bold girl, undoubtedly, by in- 
 stinct as well as from circumstances, and the neighbourhood 
 did not speak too well of her. Not that any absolute charge 
 had been brought against her until quite recently, when gossip 
 had begun to say that there was palpable cause for scandal, 
 and respectability picked up its skirts against contact with 
 hers in the road. A laughing, bustling, capable young woman 
 as to household matters, was she, quite the right hand of the 
 Trailing Indian, and getting through more work in an hour 
 than poor Mrs. Black had ever accomplished in a day. 
 
 But she was always noisy with it. This morning — washing 
 up the Sunday plates and dishes — which she had chosen to 
 leave over till the Monday — she made clatter enough for ten : 
 one might have supposed the crockeryware was being broken 
 continually. Standing at the sink at the end of the kitchen, 
 a small tub of hot water and bucket of cold before her, 
 she rubbed the grease off the plates with a dish-cloth in the 
 hot water, plunged them for a moment into the cold, and put 
 them, wet, in the rack above. 
 
 " I shall ha' done soon," was all the notice she took of the 
 remonstrances given her : and went on with as little regard 
 to peace as ever. Her cotton gown was pinned up round 
 her under the coarse apron, her arms were bare, her shoes 
 were down at heel in a slatternly fashion ; but her very light 
 eyes glistened with almost unnatural brightness, and her hair, 
 as just said, w r as profuse and beautiful. Miss Emma was 
 proud of it; and if she did not always keep her shoes in 
 tidiness, she kept that so. 
 
 "Have Priar sent up that there dratted physic ?" demanded 
 Black, after a fit of coughing. 
 
 "Not as I've seen," replied Emma. 
 
 " Then you'll go off down and fetch it." 
 
 " As soon as I've got these here things i' the rack," said 
 Emma, with ready acquiescence — for she liked going out better 
 than any recreation in the world. 
 
 At this moment in came Tom Clanwaring, bringing the 
 note to Black. Tom was, so to say, quite at home with the 
 inmates of the Trailing Indian : he would often run in to say 
 a kind word to poor, miserable, suffering Mrs. Black, or have 
 a chat with Emma. The acquaintanceship, begun in the old 
 days over the whistle, had never ceased. Tom the child, 
 taught to look upon himself as an irredeemable vagabond by my 
 
Sent to the Trailing Indian, 255 
 
 lady and her children, saw not so mnch difference between him- 
 self and the other vagabond, Emma Geach. He of course learnt 
 better later, but he was by far too good- hearted to entirely 
 "cut" Miss Emma. Tom liked the girl very -well, and on 
 occasion had done her many a good turn in shielding her from 
 Black's furious passions. Emma liked him too ; what's more, 
 she respected him — and that's saying a vast deal for impudent 
 Emma Geach. Black on his side, from some cause or other, 
 had been always tolerably civil to Tom, and was rarely surly 
 with him as he would be with other people. 
 
 " Don't break the plates, Emma," said Tom in his open, 
 off-hand manner, as he went into the midst of the noise. 
 
 " Thank you for telling of me, sir," returned she — her 
 answer always ready. 
 
 Tom laughed. " I've brought you a note, Black," he said. 
 " Captain Clanwaring asked me if I'd leave it with you." 
 
 Black's hungry fingers grasped the note as if it were some- 
 thing good to eat: and Emma Geach glanced at him sideways, 
 a sharp, inquiring look in her light eyes. Tom sat down on 
 the table to speak to Mrs. Black. 
 
 "Wait till he comes down from Lunnon again! — not if I 
 knows it," broke forth Black, when he had torn open the note 
 and read the few lines it contained. " It's the money I wants, 
 and the money as I'll have. Promises 'on't do : folks knows 
 what his be, and I knows it. Mr. Tom Clanwaring, you " 
 
 " Does Captain Clanwaring owe you anything for tobacco ?" 
 interrupted Tom, wondering at the man's excitement. 
 
 "Well — yes, he do owe it me; it is for 'bacca," rejoined 
 Black, after a pause, and a hard stare full in Tom's face. 
 " He comes in here when he's down at the Dene, a saying he 
 can't get 'bacca like mine nowhere not all over Lunnun, and 
 runs up a heavy bill for 't—- and 'stead o' handing o'er the 
 money, sends me excuses and these here notes." 
 
 " I thought the note had been to order some," returned 
 Tom. " He said something about getting no tobacco like 
 yours, when he gave it me." 
 
 " The note is to say as he can't pay me the money he 
 promised to bring up here o' Christmas Eve," said Black, 
 deliberately and savagely. " You tell him, Mr. Tom Clan- 
 waring, as I says " 
 
 " I cannot carry back any message concerning it," inter- 
 rupted Tom, not choosing to interfere in Jarvis's debts. 
 " Captain Clanwaring saw me coming Mp this way, and asked 
 
256 Dene Hollow. 
 
 if I'd leave the note : but you must send your answer to him 
 yourself, Black." 
 
 Black growled some indistinct words under his breath — a 
 wheezy and short breath to-day. " When's the Captain a 
 going back to Lunnun ?" he asked aloud. 
 
 " Not yet, I fancy. In two or three weeks, perhaps." 
 
 "And in two or three days I hope to be on my out-o'-door 
 legs again, and I'll be on to him. Captain Clanwaring hain't 
 a going to play with Randy Black. He needn't think for 
 to ; ' 
 
 Black's menace was cut short by the entrance of some 
 customers demanding ale. A shooting party, sporting in the 
 neighbourhood, who had become thirsty over their work. 
 They came trooping into the kitchen with their guns : Otto 
 Clanwaring and his cousin Dene the foremost of them, Sim- 
 mons the hindmost. Tom laughed, jumped off the table, 
 exchanged a few words with his relatives, and then went off 
 on his morning's business. 
 
 " Be thee a going for that there physic, or bain't thee ?" 
 savagely demanded Black of the girl, as his customers dis- 
 appeared : for their entrance and exit had brought in a rush 
 of cold air, and set him coughing frightfully. 
 
 " I be a going now," she answered, swilling the last dish in 
 the cold water, and pushing it, splashing, into the rack. 
 
 "Thee'll put away the muck first," roared Black. 
 
 The "muck" meant the tub and the pail and the dirty 
 water. Black need not have reminded her. With all her 
 failings, she was a tidy housewife. 
 
 In a coarse red shawl — or, as it was called then, " whittle," 
 — and a smart bonnet, and shoes up at heel, Emma Geach 
 started. It was she who did all the errands, for there was no 
 ostler kept at the place since the death of the one who had 
 been there so long — Joe. If by chance a stray horseman rode 
 up to the inn, Black himself attended to the steed. Miss 
 Emma was not accustomed to hurry herself when on these 
 errands : and Black was often well-nigh inclined to strike her 
 for the delay. It made not the smallest difference — if she felt 
 inclined to stay out, she did stay out. 
 
 Hastening down Harebell lane at full speed, she came to a 
 sudden stop at Beechhurst Dene gate. Captain Clanwaring 
 was leaning over it still. Reviewing gloomily his difficul- 
 ties, financial and otherwise, he had never moved from the 
 place. 
 
Sent to the Trailing Indian. 257 
 
 "Where are you off to?" asked he, taking the pipe from 
 his mouth. 
 
 " He have sent me down to old Priar's for his physic," 
 replied the girl, her naturally free tone having become almost 
 shrinkingly timid. 
 
 Jarvis looked at her. The light eyes, generally glittering 
 with a peculiar kind of hard brightness, had taken a soft, 
 pleading look ; the cheeks were rosy with a delicate flush. 
 Never had Emma Geach looked prettier than at this mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " He is in a daze o' rage," said the girl. " The night afore 
 last, nothing 'ud do but I must go up to his bed-room — he'd 
 heard me come in, and shrieked out for me like mad. "When I 
 stood it out that I'd not got to see you cause o' visitors at the 
 Dene, and so couldn't deliver his message about the money, 
 he roared out at me 'twas a lie." 
 
 " I've sent him up a note," said Jarvis. 
 
 "It haven't done no good," said the girl "He swears he'll 
 have the money whether you've got it, or no. He said it out 
 before Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 Jarvis, who had begun to puff at his pipe lest it should go 
 out, glanced up with a start. " Before Tom Clanwaring ! 
 Black's a fool." 
 
 " ~No harm," returned the girl. " Were it money owing for 
 'bacca, says Mr. Tom a thinking, he says, as the letter were 
 only to order some. Yes it were money owed for 'bacca, says 
 Black, after he had stared a bit in t'other's face. Tom Clan- 
 waring took it in. Good-bye," added Miss Emma suddenly, 
 as the voice of the tenant of Harebell Farm, Philip Tillett, was 
 heard on the other side his hedge, talking with one of his 
 labourers : " Good bye t'ye." And she went on at a fleet pace. 
 Jarvis Clanwaring sauntered indoors, finishing his pipe. 
 Lady Lydia, writing a letter in the library, when he got in 
 inquired whether he had been to Arde Hall. 
 
 " No," returned Jarvis, in his most sullen manner. 
 
 " But I thought you were going there this morning, Jarvis." 
 
 " Time enough." 
 
 " Look here, Jarvis : you must make good play with Mary 
 Arde if you are to win her," returned Lady Lydia in as 
 urgently serious a tone as woman can well use. " Don't 
 waste the time — don't waste the shadow of a chance. Go 
 you down at once, and call there." 
 
 It was not bad advice. Captain Clanwaring brushed 
 
 s 
 
258 Dene Hollow. 
 
 himself up a little, so as to look more of a fascinating dandy 
 tban before, and started. 
 
 Alas for human hopes ! for human contrarieties ! Miss 
 Mary Arde descried the approaching visitor from a window, 
 and made a precipitate retreat to her own room. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Arde were out, and her maid came up to summons her. 
 It was Susan Cole still. But Susan grown into a middle-aged 
 woman. 
 
 " Captain Clanwaring, Miss May." 
 
 " I can't go down to him, Susan," said Miss May, colouring 
 violently; " I won't go." 
 
 " But I told him you be at home," remonstrated Susan. 
 " He's a waiting for you i' the drawing-room. You must go, 
 Miss May." 
 
 " I tell you I won't go," persisted the young lady, fond of 
 taking her own way as sbe had been when a child. " I won't. 
 There. Let him come again whem mamma's at home." 
 
 Susan stood in a dilemma : she liked her own way also. 
 " What excuse be I to make for ye, Miss May ? After saying 
 as you was at home ! " 
 
 " Ob, say anything," carelessly returned May. 
 
 " It's uncommon bad behaviour," debated Susan, standing 
 her ground. " I can't go and tell him as you tvon't come 
 down." 
 
 " Say I am ill. Now you go, Susan." 
 
 " That's a fine thing, Miss May — inventing a illness at a 
 pinch ! He'll know it's nothing but a excuse." 
 
 May laughed pleasantly. She rather hoped he would. 
 
 " I'm sure I can't think of nothing to say," obstinately per- 
 sisted Susan, pushing back her cap. 
 
 " Say I've got the mumps, Susan. My compliments to 
 Captain Clanwaring, and I'm sorry not to be able to see him; 
 but I can't talk, from an attack of mumps." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV; 
 
 MISS EMMA GEACH. 
 
 There was discord at Beechhurst Dene. Christmas week 
 — that is the week following Christmas — is generally re- 
 garded as one intended to be social and festive ; but this one 
 at Beechhurst Dene was especially unpleasant. The days, as 
 they went on were full of discomfort ; each day worse than the 
 
Miss Emma Geach. 259 
 
 last. The Lady Lydia seemed to be doing her work well — 
 that of getting Tom Clanwaring out of the house. Not only 
 out of the house and neighbourhood did she intend to send 
 him, but out of the country. She was devoting her whole 
 energies, her great influence, to the task. Circumstances 
 favoured her in rather a remarkable degree, as will be seen 
 presently : they were to favour her more ere the week should 
 be out. Dissension reigned. It was the whole household 
 against Tom, and Tom against the household. Some insults 
 were put upon him that stung him into retort. Petty charges 
 were brought against him: trifles in themselves, but magnified 
 into grave offences by the manner in which they were repeated 
 to Sir Dene Clanwaring ; and in these might lie just enough 
 of truth to render them plausible, and, at any rate, hard to dis- 
 prove. Graver charges were soon to be whispered — and Tom 
 might not have been able to refute them, even had the oppor- 
 tunity been allowed him. But it was not. 
 
 Sir Dene was keeping his room. Full of pain both of mind 
 and body, he was more irritable than he had ever been known 
 to be. His anger against Tom, for having absented himself 
 and gone to Simmons's (as he was led to think) on Christmas 
 evening, rankled within him. He felt too vexed, too proud, it 
 may be said, to speak of it to Tom : and Tom, knowing no- 
 thing, and suspecting nothing, could not, of course, refute it. 
 Be you very sure Lady Lydia did not — and therefore the false 
 impression remained with Sir Dene. The new feeling against 
 Tom was augmented by these other charges : they rankled in 
 the baronet's mind also : and there was great discomfort. 
 Never for a moment was Tom allowed to be alone with Sir 
 Dene : Lady Lydia with her specious contrivance managed 
 that — and nobody suspected there was any contrivance in it ; 
 least of all, Tom. 
 
 One day Tom was stung into retaliation. He was inso- 
 lent to Lady Lydia ; he retorted on Captain Clanwaring ; 
 he took something like a high tone with his grandfather. 
 The lion within him was aroused at last ; the patient bearing 
 of years, the calm enduring, gave way before a moment's 
 passion. It was his grandfather's changed manner to him 
 that stung him into this — not the insults of the others. Had 
 Sir Dene brought any specific charge against him, Tom could 
 have answered it quietly : but nothing of the kind was done ; 
 and, all the young man knew and saw was, that his grand- 
 father at length turned against him, out of, as it seemed, very 
 
260 Dene Hollow. 
 
 caprice. But the grievous state of worry this disturbed con- 
 dition of things kept Sir Dene in can be better imagined than 
 described. 
 
 The private arrangements Lady Lydia had been engaged in 
 succeeded. They -were now complete, ready to be acted upon ; 
 and she disclosed the matter to Sir Dene. She had been 
 negotiating with some of her relatives in Ireland, and had got 
 Tom an appointment there to manage the land of a large 
 estate. It was really a good post of its kind, and the salary 
 would be fair. To a young man seeking an opening in life it 
 certainly was an opportunity not often to be met with. 
 
 Nevertheless, Sir Dene turned a deaf ear. The very idea 
 of Tom's leaving Beechhurst Dene startled him. 
 
 "I'd not like it, my lady," was his short, imperative an- 
 swer. And by the words " my lady " it might be known that 
 he felt resentment to her, rather than gratitude. 
 
 She was not to be put down for that. She pointed out how 
 excellent the chance was, how fitted Tom was for the post, 
 and how great the returning peace his departure would bring 
 to the Dene. She had even found a man able and willing to 
 replace Tom on the estate — one Mr. Weston : a humble cousin 
 of the Miss Dickereens, who would be glad of the post. 
 
 But no: Sir Dene wholly negatived it. Dining at the 
 gamekeeper's on Christmas Day, and turning on the house- 
 hold since when they quarrelled with him, did not constitute 
 sufficient offence to entail banishment, he said. Lady Lydia 
 sighed and bit her lip, mentally telling herself that she must 
 have a little patience yet, but that, go Tom should. Little 
 did even she think how very soon it would be. 
 
 There's an old axiom — that people rarely accomplish any 
 great amount of evil alone. Two certainly can do more harm 
 than one. "Wild beasts hunt in couples. It takes two to 
 quarrel and fight ; it takes two to make an evil bargain. 
 When a man commits a murder, or a succession of murders, 
 the first public thought is — he must have had a helping com- 
 panion. Thus, in the ill-odour that latterly had attached 
 itself to Miss Emma Geach, the discerning neighbours had 
 been not so much asking whether she had a helpmate in ill- 
 doing — that went for a matter of course — as speculating who 
 that helpmate might be. Whatever it was she had done, or 
 was suspected of — whether she poached game, as Black did, 
 or robbed a house, or set a church on fire — the fact of her 
 having had an aider and abettor was very sure and certain. 
 
Miss Emma Geacli. 261 
 
 Public curiosity was always on the whet as to who this other 
 might be : and the untoward circumstance, that no one in 
 particular could be fixed upon, was, to say the least, mortify- 
 ing. Harry Cole, the farrier and veterinary surgeon — a good- 
 looking, fairly well educated man, who had succeeded to his 
 father's business — would be talked of one day ; Sir Dene's 
 groom, James, the next ; a smuggling acquaintance of Black's 
 who was often at the Trailing Indian, the third, and others ; 
 but when the utmost grounds of suspicion attaching to any 
 one of these men came to be summed up, it was found to con- 
 sist of one sole fact — that they might be seen on occasion 
 openly talking and laughing with Miss Emma. Not quite 
 enough this to justify an accusation of arson, or what not. So 
 that, in point of fact, the tantalised public considered them- 
 selves ill-used in the matter, and kept their eyes and their 
 curiosity agape. 
 
 Seeing Tom Clanwaring perched on the table at the Trail- 
 ing Indian, familiarly located there with Mr. and Mrs. Black 
 and Miss Emma, would have been nothing : young Dene 
 might have done as much himself, for he had just the same 
 sociable kind of nature, for sitting on tables, or elsewhere, as 
 Tom : but taken in conjunction with the private meeting and 
 whispering between Tom and Emma Geach on Christmas 
 night, that both Dene and Otto had been a witness to, it 
 looked like something. The interview in the grove wore all 
 the appearance of a secret one, of premeditation : and if 
 young Dene joked a bit about the look of things, and Otto 
 nodded assent in his steady manner, it was not to be sur- 
 prised at. They had taken up the notion that Tom might 
 have been the man who had helped to — fire the church, let's 
 say. Not that he was; they did not go so far as that; only 
 that he might have been. Certain things were laughed and 
 joked over more freely in those days than they are in these ; 
 were, in fact, regarded as but venial errors. Dene talked and 
 laughed about it indoors : and soon the only members of the 
 household to whose ears the new suspicion had not penetrated, 
 were Tom himself, Lady Lydia, and Sir Dene. 
 
 Strange to say, the sole one to reprove was Jarvis. " Hold 
 your foul tongues ! " cried he, savagely. " Any way, it's no 
 concern of yours." Which reproof only set Dene laughing 
 worse than before. And thus the week progressed, each day 
 bringing more of discomfort and drawing matters nearer to a 
 crisis. On the Thursday, Dene the heir and his brother 
 
262 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Charles took their departure for Scotland, to spend New Year's 
 Day with their mother. 
 
 Friday came in, a morning bright with sunshine. The 
 snow, threatened on the Monday, had cleared itself off without 
 falling, and the weather was really lovely. Somewhat frosty ; 
 but calm, fresh, and clear. 
 
 Talking together over the low gate of the narrow side 
 avenue leading to Arde Hall, stood Tom Clanwai'ing and the 
 Hall's heiress ; she inside, he out. As he was passing up 
 from Hurst Leet, she happened to be there, in her scarlet- 
 hooded cloak and white muff, the hood of the cloak drawn 
 round her bright face and bright brown curls. Fashions 
 changed less capriciously then than they do uoav — or perhaps 
 economy made things last longer. Tom's mother had worn 
 just the same kind of cloak ; but the cloaks had not gone 
 quite out, even yet. There they stood : Tom oblivious of 
 his business, May of the passing of time. 
 
 " I'm so glad he's better," said May, alluding to Sir Dene 
 — for Tom had been telling her that his grandfather was 
 downstairs again. " Mr. Priar came in to tea last night, and 
 was talking about him. He thinks he is changing so very 
 much." 
 
 " He has certainly changed in the last few days, for he has 
 been irritable with me without cause — that is, when he notices 
 me at all," replied Tom. " For the most part he turns his 
 head away from me, and when I speak gives me short and 
 snappish answers." 
 
 "Have you offended him ? " asked May. 
 
 " I suppose so : but I cannot imagine how. Altogether I 
 have not had a pleasant week of it, May. They are trying 
 me tolerably hard just now." 
 
 He laughed as he said it. Sunshine was always in his 
 heart, let be what would. The young make light of troubles, 
 May Arde's sweet brown eyes sparkled brightly in sympathy. 
 
 " When people are ill, they feel cross without knowing why, 
 Tom. I suppose Dene and Charley have gone ? " 
 
 " They started yesterday morning." 
 
 " I like Dene. Charley too, for that matter. But I like 
 Dene hetter than — yes, better than anybody else at Beechhurst 
 Dene," she added, casting a saucy glance at the handsome face 
 bending towards hers. " Dene is always — oh Tom, look here ! " 
 
 A clatter and commotion in the road caught her ear, and 
 the glittering silver of the sumptuous Clanwariug liveries 
 
Miss Emma Gcach. 263 
 
 caught her eye. The Beechhurst Dene cortege was approach- 
 ing at a gallop. It was the custom then to pay morning calls 
 in more state than royalty observes now. Two outriders rode 
 first ; and then came the large carriage with its four horses, 
 and the postilions' jackets laced with silver, harmonizing with 
 the liveries of the outriders and the two standing footmen 
 behind. Sir Dene did not drive four in hand. Tempted by 
 the fineness of the day, my Lady Lydia had come ont visiting : 
 her daughter, Mrs. Letsom, sat next her, Jarvis and Otto 
 opposite. 
 
 " Tom, I do believe they are coming to the Hall ! " cried 
 May under her breath. 
 
 Even so. The outriders took the sweep round that would 
 bring them to the carriage entrance, running nearly side by 
 side with the narrow beech avenue. Knowing, or suspecting, 
 the feeling obtaining in Lady Lydia's mind towards them, 
 both Tom Clan waring and May might have preferred to get 
 out of sight, had there been means of doing it ; but the trees 
 were bare in winter, affording no shelter. As the carriage 
 swept round like lightning, almost close to them, Tom lifted 
 his hat to Lady Lydia and Mrs. Letsom. My Lady answered 
 the courtesy by a hard stare. 
 
 " What a pace they are going at ! " exclaimed Tom. "Shall 
 you have to go in, May ? " 
 
 "I must. Of course, I must. Tom, he has been here every 
 day this week, " she cried in impulsive agitation, her bright 
 eyes lifted for a moment, and then cast down again. " Every 
 blessed day, as Susan phrases it. And mamma is beginning 
 to like him so very much ! " 
 
 " Every day, has he," returned Tom, pushing back the 
 breast of his velveteen coat, as if he were too hot. 
 
 " I would not come down to him one day : Susan was in 
 such a temper over it. Papa and mamma were out, and so 
 I could do as I liked. When's he going away to join his 
 regiment again ? " 
 
 " I don't know, May. He will have to do it soon, I should 
 imagine, or else leave it altogether." 
 
 " I'm sure he has got up his strength quite enough now." 
 
 " Strength ? — Oh, it's not that, May. There's an attraction 
 in the way. If he joined his regiment, he could not come 
 down here at will." 
 
 May understood quite well — that she was the attraction. 
 Deep in thought now, she was looking away, seeing nothing. 
 
264 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " I wish I had not any money of my own ! " she whispered, 
 really more to herself than to Tom. "It's that miserable 
 twenty thousand pounds of mine. Perhaps he'd not care for 
 me without that. If my dear little sister had but lived, it 
 would never have been mine." 
 
 " True," said Tom. 
 
 " Susan Cole used to tell me when I was naughty that 
 Master Tom — meaning you — would never care for me as he 
 did for that little sister," went on the young lady. 
 
 " Did she ? " said Tom, a great merriment in his deep-set 
 blue eyes, so marvellously beautiful. " I loved that child 
 dearly : I remember it still. I must have been very old when 
 she died, May : nearly four." 
 
 " I must go ; or they'll be sending for me," cried Miss May, 
 shrinking from the expression of the said eyes. " Good-bye. 
 To-morrow's New Year's Day, you know. Don't forget it." 
 
 " No danger," replied Tom Clanwaring. " Good-bye, May." 
 
 An ordinary shake of the hands, and away went Tom, 
 striding quickly to make up for lost time. 
 
 "New Year's Day," that May had reminded him of, implied 
 a meeting. A meeting for them. Just as it had grown into 
 a custom for the Ardes to eat their Christmas dinner at Beech- 
 hurst Dene, so had it for the Clanwarings to dine at the Hall 
 on the first day of the new year. If nobody else looked for- 
 ward with a heart-spring to the morrow's festive gathering, 
 the two who had just parted did. Parted reluctantly — for they 
 would have liked to linger away the whole morning together. 
 
 Rather surprised was Tom, upon going up Dene Hollow, to 
 see a few people congregated there ; half a dozen, or so. A 
 cart had come to grief on nearly the old unlucky spot. It 
 could not this time be charged on the " Shadow." The linch- 
 pin had disappeared from one of the wheels : and the cart, 
 which had contained grains (on their way to be conveyed 
 to Mr. Tillett's pigs), was overturned. The sweet-smelling 
 grains lay scattered on the highway ; Hodge, Mr. Tillett's 
 waggoner — for the cart was Mr. Tillett's — standing by with 
 a most rueful face. 
 
 The accident had occurred just as the "Beechhurst Dene 
 cortege was passing ; it had startled the carriage horses, and 
 sent them flying downwards at such a rate as to put the out- 
 riders to the gallop, and threaten another accident. Lady Lydia, 
 ignoring chances, always went the way of Dene Hollow when 
 she could : its level road and fair scenery were pleasant to her. 
 
Miss Emma Geach. 265 
 
 "Which accounts for the sharp pace they came round at," 
 thought Tom, as he listened to this, and recalled the speed of 
 the horses. 
 
 Leaving the cart and grains to their unhappy fate, he pur- 
 sued his way, and turned into Harebell Farm. Not to tell of 
 the disaster particularly, but because he had some business 
 ■with its master, Philip Tillett. Mr. Tillett, however, was not 
 at home, and Tom stayed a few minutes talking -with Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 For Mary Barber, the thoroughly capable and earnest- 
 minded woman — somewhat hard and superstitious though she 
 might be — had never quitted Harebell Farm. William Owen 
 did not want her when he migrated to his new home : he 
 meant to marry , and did do so shortly afterwards : and Mary 
 Barber remained with Mr. Tillett and his motherless young 
 daughter. She was called housekeeper, but was treated and 
 respected as one of the family ; having two maids under her, 
 instead of one as in Mrs. Owen's time. When Tom went in 
 she w T as seated in the parlour, hemming a white cravat of 
 Mr. Tillett's. 
 
 "Bless my heart!" she exclaimed, staring at Tom through 
 her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles when he told the news. 
 " The wheel off, and all the pigs' food a-lying in the road." 
 
 "Every grain of it," said Tom. " Cole's man had got the 
 wheel in hand, beginning to tinker it up." 
 
 " The wheel bain't much. The grains is the worst. And 
 for you to be a-laughing over it, Mr. Tom !" 
 
 " Oh, they'll get the grains up again. You'd laugh yourself, 
 if you had seen it, Mary Bai'ber. Hodge's face was better 
 than a picture." 
 
 " There's no luck with our pigs this year," lamented she. 
 " I said so to the master the other day. That last lot o' wash 
 made for 'em got put into a new painted barrel, through one 
 o' the men's carelessness, and a'most poisoned the pigs." 
 
 " Only not quite," put in Tom, always looking on the sun- 
 niest side of things. 
 
 " Well now, Mr. Tom — what caused the mishap to-day ?" 
 
 " Why, I told you, Mary. The wheel came off the cart." 
 
 " 'Twarn't that, sir." 
 
 " But it was that," returned Tom, looking at her. 
 
 u, Timi-ii , t that," came the emphatic repetition. "'Twas 
 the Shadow." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Rubbish !" 
 
266 Dene Hollow. 
 
 The retort nettled Mary Barber. The Shadow was there, 
 and would be always there, she said solemnly : and she put it 
 to him plainly whether horses were, or were not, in the habit 
 of starting at that place. Tom, half laughing, confessed they 
 were, saying no more about the cart-wheel, intending to drop 
 the argument altogether. Not so Mary Barber. Laying down 
 the cravat and her spectacles on the table, she bent her face a 
 little forward. 
 
 '' What is it that frightens the animals, pray ? Tell me 
 that if you can, Mr. Tom." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know," said Tom, "unless it's the shadow 
 of the branches, cast on the road by the sun." 
 
 " It's not that, sir; you must know it's not. The Shadow's 
 one of another sort. I give it a different name in my own 
 mind." 
 
 "What name?" 
 
 " A curse." 
 
 "A curse ! " 
 
 " A curse," she repeated, in her solemn tone. " Why, what 
 else is it, sir ? Hasn't it been as a curse to a good many folk ? 
 Sir Dene coudn't have thought it nothing less when he saw 
 his blooming grandchild a-lying dead afore him." 
 
 Tom made no rejoinders now. His cousin Margaret's sad 
 death had indeed brought grievous sorrow. To none worse 
 than to him. To him, who had been the one to pick 
 Margaret up. 
 
 " We thought it was the ice that made the horses slip. 
 There was ice on the road, you remember, Mary Barber." 
 
 " Bother the ice," irreverently responded Mary Barber. 
 *' 'Twas the excuse made, I know : but who believed it ?" 
 
 Very few, Tom might have answered — had he chosen. 
 Mary Barber resumed, her voice impressive again, hardly 
 raised above a whisper : 
 
 " That time when my poor mother spoke to me o' the 
 Shadow — dying she was, though I didn't see it — it sounded 
 but like so much gibberish in my two ears. But that 
 I knowed her to be sane, I'd ha' thought her mind was a- 
 rambling. The next day, when she was dead, the words 
 come back to me in a different way : for I've been a good deal 
 with the dead and dying, Mr. Tom, and I know that what they 
 speak just afore the soul departs is sometimes like a prophecy. 
 And as I stood at her grave i' the churchyard while the parson 
 was reading the bur'al over her out o' the Prayer-book, and 
 
Miss Emma Gcach. 267 
 
 thought o' what it was that had sent her to it afore her time, 
 there come into my mind a kind o' light. A light o' convic- 
 tion, one might call it : that mother's dying words were true 
 — and that a curse lay on the fine new road that had killed 
 her. It's a lying there to this day." 
 
 The less superstitious and more practical among the neigh- 
 bours were apt to smile at this fixed belief of Mary Barber's, 
 and call it her " crotchet." Her master, Mr. Tillett, a man of 
 good sound sense, told her to her face that she would go mad 
 upon the foolish point some day, if she didn't take care. Per- 
 haps Tom Clanwaring shared Mr. Tillett's scepticism, for he 
 took up his hat to depart without comment of any sort. 
 
 " Tell the master I'll look in again to-morrow, Mary Barber. 
 If he'll consent to make the alteration, Sir Dene will go half- 
 way in the cost. But we must have an answer. Good day." 
 
 Meanwhile the Lady Lydia paid her visits, a round of them. 
 Mrs. Arde's was the only one near home ; the rest lay at a 
 distance. While the afternoon was still bright, the outriders 
 came cantering round the corner by Cole the farrier's, and 
 took the old hilly road that led to Beechhurst Dene, the 
 nearest way from whence they were coming. The carriage 
 followed close upon the outriders ; and my lady, inside it, felt 
 tired to death. As it whirled round the corner — rather a 
 sharp turn, that, by Cole's — two people stood talking outside 
 the forge — having met accidentally a minute or two before. 
 Tom Clanwaring was one ; his occupation had taken him to 
 some land that lay out there : the other was Miss Emma 
 Geach. A traveller, whose horse became suddenly disabled, 
 had ridden in for refuge at the Trailing Indian, and the girl 
 was despatched to fetch Cole. Nothing loth, she : especially 
 as she seized on the opportunity to attire herself in her 
 Sunday-going things. 
 
 A gay gipsy hat upon her abundant hair, gleaming and glis- 
 tening in the winter sunlight, and some blue ribbons flying 
 amidst it, stood she. Otto Clanwaring looked from the car- 
 riage and made some remark to his brother in a low tone. 
 Not so low, however, but that its sense struck on the ear of 
 Lady Lydia. 
 
 " What? " she exclaimed. "What's that you say, Otto ? " 
 
 He answered by a light word or two, as if the matter he 
 spoke of were of no serious moment. Assuredly he did not 
 do it in ill-nature. "I don't affirm it, you know," he said: 
 " but appearances certainly are against Tom." 
 
268 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Ay, they were, unfortunately. A dusky red light, telling 
 of emotion, shone in my lady's dark face : she leaned out and 
 looked back. Tom was striding onwards then, and Miss 
 Geach was exchanging compliments with Cole. The disclo- 
 sure struck her quite as a revelation. She had shared the 
 curiosity of the public as to the doings of Miss Emma Geach. 
 Otto would have dismissed the subject with a few careless 
 words. 
 
 " What are your proofs, Otto ? " she asked, leaning forward 
 to speak in his ear. 
 
 " Proofs ? Oh, I don't know about proofs," was the 
 answer, still carelessly indifferent. And then he just men- 
 tioned what he and young Dene had seen. 
 
 My lady was virtuously indignant — of course. To do her 
 justice, she believed the story : and began talking of it in 
 private with her eldest son when they got home. 
 
 " Let it drop," said Jarvis, curtly. 
 
 " Drop ! " she retorted. " I'll let it drop when I have told 
 Sir Dene. He can let it drop if he will." 
 
 " Confound it, madam ! can't you hold your tongue ! " 
 savagely cried Jarvis. 
 
 "No, I can't, Jaiwis. This was just what was wanted to 
 get the fellow away." 
 
 " Eh ? what ? " returned Jarvis, a sudden gleam awaken- 
 ing in his sly dark eyes. 
 
 " Why, don't you see that it is ? I knew how worthless he 
 must be ; but the difficulty was to bring proofs of it to Sir 
 Dene." 
 
 Jarvis drew a long breath. He began to discern a little 
 light of way. Lady Lydia resumed. 
 
 " Putting all other considerations aside, Sir Dene could not 
 allow him to remain here now. It seems quite like a Provi- 
 dence, Jarvis. I thought something or other would turn up. 
 It's what I've been waiting for." 
 
 Not until the following day, the first of the new year, did 
 Lady Lydia get the opportunity of conveniently speaking 
 to Sir Dene. Their interview was a long one. What she 
 said at it never was known, but we may be quite sure of one 
 thing, that she did not tell her tale by halves. Otto — to his 
 own intense disgust — was called in to testify to it. 
 
 " I'll be shot if I'd have dropped a word to her had I 
 thought she was going to make this row over it, and do him 
 damage with the old man ! " mentally cried Otto, in wrath. 
 
An Event/id Evening. 269 
 
 But— always speaking the truth if called upon to speak at all 
 — he corroborated all, so far as he had cognizance of it. It 
 appeared to be conclusive to Sir Dene : as might be seen by 
 the look of utter sorrow on his pale face. In spite of all, he 
 had loved Tom ; had trusted him utterly ; and this struck upon 
 him as a cruel blow, rendering him ■unjust. What he ought 
 to have done was to question Tom himself: and this he did 
 not. His outraged pride, worked upon also by Lady Lydia, 
 forbade it. 
 
 How the day went on, even Lady Lydia hardly knew. 
 Never had one of greater unpleasantness been spent at 
 Beechhurst Dene. Tom came in during the afternoon : and 
 Jarvis picked a quarrel with him. For once he succeeded in 
 putting Tom in a passion — and there were rare moments, as 
 was previously said, when Tom could go into a passion with 
 the best of them. When he was in this white heat, Jarvis un- 
 wisely (or wisely as the reader may decide) ventured on a 
 word of insult more stinging than customary. In his cool, 
 supercilious, contemptuous manner, he threw in Tom's teeth 
 a reproach of the accusation they were whispering against him. 
 It was but a hint, a syllable ; but quite enough. Tom 
 Clanwaring lifted his hand and knocked the gallant officer 
 down. Sir Dene was a witness to it : it occurred in his own 
 bay parlour, which he was just entering. That brought on 
 the climax. Smarting under one thing and another, Tom 
 the scapegoat appeared in that moment to Sir Dene as a very 
 offshoot of Satan ; and he swore a round oath that he should 
 be out of Beechhurst Dene before night. The Lady Lydia had 
 received an opportune letter that very morning, urging Tom 
 Clanwaring's immediate acceptance of the post offered him, 
 or else it must be given away elsewhere. 
 
 Verily, as my lady had remarked, it seemed that Providence 
 was especially at work, ordering things in favour of the 
 interests of herself and Captain Clanwaring ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 AN EVENTFUL EVENING. 
 
 New Tear's Evening. The reception rooms at Arde Hall 
 were in a blaze of light ; not with stifling gas, as is too much 
 the fashion in these modern years, but with wax candles, cool 
 and pure. It was Mr. and Mrs. Arde's custom to give a 
 
270 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 grand dinner the first day of the new year to as many guests 
 as their dining-room would conveniently hold : and that was 
 four-and-twenty. Four-and-twenty had been invited for to- 
 day ; but only two-and-twenty came : Sir Dene Clanwaring 
 and his grandson Tom were absent. 
 
 Sir Dene sent an apology for himself: he had hoped to be 
 well enough to come, but quite at the last moment found he 
 was not. For Tom little was said — he was altogether too in- 
 significant to waste speech on. Lady Lydia spoke a few obscure 
 words about going a journey ; and Captain Clanwaring, 
 stroking his handsome moustache, made a supercilious remark 
 in May's ear as ho was taking her into dinner, to the effect that 
 Sir Dene found Tom could not longer be tolerated. That was 
 all. Tom's absence caused neither grief nor comment ; nobody 
 missed him or cared for it. Nobody, save one ; and she might 
 not show that she did. May heard Captain Clanwaring with 
 a bright eye and smiling face, but her heart was sick with 
 disappointment. The sunshine of the evening had gone 
 out for her : too keenly she felt it, sitting through the long 
 dinner. 
 
 The ladies rose to quit the dining-room; May went out 
 last, following her mother. Captain Clanwaring whispered 
 something to her as she passed — for it was he who bowed 
 them out. May laughed in response : a sufficiently light 
 laugh to listening ears. But her step grew slow and heavy 
 as the door closed. They were all within the drawing-room 
 before she was at its door. 
 
 " Miss May ! " 
 
 Turning round at the whispered words, she saw Susan 
 Cole. The woman had a folded slip of paper in her hand. 
 
 " Mr. Tom 'Clanwaring is outside, Miss May. There's 
 something wrong, I'm afeard. He asked me if I could manage 
 to give you this without anybody's seeing." 
 
 Opening the paper, she stood underneath the hall lamp 
 while she read it. Susan Cole, her mission executed, vanished. 
 
 " I am going away, Mary ; probably for years, possibly for ever. Will 
 you come out to me for one minute ? I am at the avenue gate. — T. C." 
 
 Her brain was confused ; her heart was beating with its» 
 wild pain. Going away for ever ! Showing herself for a 
 minute or two in the drawing-room as a matter of precaution, 
 May caught up a woollen shawl, and ran out at the hall 
 door. The avenue gate was only across the lawn. It was a 
 
An Eventful Evening. 271 
 
 starlight night, cold and frosty, but she did not at once dis- 
 tinguish any one, for the shrubs grew thick there. 
 
 He had his back against the gate, but he stepped to meet her 
 as she advanced. Involuntarily, in her deep agitation, she put 
 out both her hands. He clasped and held them fondly to him, 
 his agitation as great as her own. 
 
 In moments of agony — and these were nothing less — the 
 mind is for the most part in a state of bewilderment. It was 
 so with Mary Arde ; it was so with him. But a confused im- 
 pression was retained by her afterwards, as to what was said at 
 the interview. Perhaps the fault lay chiefly with Tom 
 Clanwarmg, for in his angry excitement he was less clear than 
 he might have been. Those who had always been against him, 
 trying to get him sent out of Beechhurst Dene, had done their 
 work at last, and ruined him with his grandfather, lie said. 
 He was being sent away, Heaven knew where ; certainly with 
 little prospect of ever being allowed to return. He had to de- 
 part for Bristol at once by the night-mail, and wait in that 
 city for orders on his way to Ireland. 
 
 She leaned against the gate for support : she would have 
 pardoned him had he taken her to his arms and held her to 
 his sheltering breast. But Tom Clanwaring, honourable as 
 ever, dared not. Many and many a time had the warm 
 words of love rashly trembled on his lips, and he had turned 
 them off with some light jest : if he had put a restraint on 
 himself then, how doubly needful was it that he should do so 
 now ! Even his own poor quasi-position in the baronet's house- 
 hold was torn from him, and he was being sent into the 
 world adrift, a real servant, to work for his living. The in- 
 consistency of his attempting to think of Squire Arde's daugh- 
 ter was more palpably present to him that night than it had 
 ever previously been. 
 
 " I would have liked to wish Mr. and Mrs. Arde good-bye, 
 May ; but I cannot encounter the crowd they've got here to- 
 night. So the will must go for the deed. " 
 
 " But what is it that you have done ? " she gasped. " Why 
 are they sending you away ? " 
 
 " I hardly know myself, May. " 
 
 " Oh, but you must know, " she said, thinking it was an eva- 
 sion, made to spare her pain. "What is it, Tom ? " 
 
 " You will hear no end of charges against me, I doubt not, " 
 he said, and the vagueness of the reply, as if it were still an 
 evasive one, did strike on her memory afterwards. " I don't 
 
272 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 know what they may say : and I don't think it is of much use 
 asking 1 you not to believe them. I was always the scapegoat, 
 you know ; I shall be so to the end. May, I can no longer 
 battle against the stream — and if I could, what end would it 
 answer ? It may be better for me that I should be away : but 
 for leaving my dear old grandfather, I'd say there could not 
 be a question of it. Think of me as kindly as you can, Mary. " 
 
 The tears were streaming down her cheeks. " Only tell me, 
 Tom, that you have done nothing very wrong, " she whispered, 
 her mind a chaos of confusion, of fear. Fear, she knew not 
 of what : and perhaps his own want of clearness led to it. 
 Mary Arde had never believed it possible that Sir Dene could 
 turn against Tom to the length of discarding him — without 
 some ample cause. 
 
 " If I have they have goaded me to it, " was his answer, 
 spoken in the moment's reckless irritation, as he recalled the 
 passion he had been in, the flooring he had given the captain : 
 for he attached no meaning to May's words, or suspected that 
 she could really believe ill of him. " God bless and be with 
 you always, Mary ! I cannot stay longer ; neither ought I to 
 keep you out here. But I could not leave the place for good 
 without seeing you." 
 
 " Why — why do you say it is for good ? " 
 
 " Be you very sure that they who have procured my banish- 
 ment will take efficient care I don't return, May. That's why, " 
 
 "Are we to part— like this ? " she wailed, her voice in its 
 anguish rising almost beyond her own controlling calmness. 
 
 " Mary, my darling, don't tempt me. Do you know what 
 it is costing me to part like this ? — to stand here and say 
 quietly to you, I am going ? Have you not known for some 
 time past that if I had dared — There, I must not go on : an- 
 other moment and the temptation to speak will be greater than 
 I can resist. You understand well, I fancy, Mary. Circum- 
 stances cast a wide barrier between us, and I may not presume 
 to think of ever passing it. If there were but the least pro- 
 spect of my achieving any position in the world, I might say 
 to you, I will hope, without forfeiting all honour ; but there is 
 none, and I do not. " 
 
 She put out her trembling hands once more ; she lifted her 
 streaming eyes to his. To those wonderful, blue ones in their 
 deep caves, whose beauty the night could not wholly hide. 
 The temptation was too great, and Tom Clanwaring bent his 
 face on hers. 
 
An Eventful Evening. 273 
 
 " It is but a cousin's kiss, Mary," lie murmured : " we used 
 to call ourselves cousins when we were children — taught 
 so by Susan Cole. Surely none will grudge it us in parting. 
 When I return — if I ever do — no doubt all danger will be 
 over. " 
 
 " Danger ? " she breathed, questioningly. 
 
 " The danger that the scapegoat might forget himself and 
 his honour by speaking of love. When you are the wife of a 
 more lucky man than I, I may come back, May. Never 
 before, unless my grandfather recalls me." 
 
 " You give me up, then ? " she exclaimed in her pain : in 
 the mortification that the renouncement undoubtedly brought 
 to her. 
 
 " I do. I have no other resource. My parting blessing be 
 upon you, May." 
 
 She drew her hands from his with a petulant gesture, and 
 sped aci^oss the lawn, one bitter sob breaking from her lips : 
 one more than bitter question from her heart — Did he care 
 for her ? When girls love as romantically as did Mary Arde, 
 they are apt to fancy that all else should give place to it. 
 Tom Clanwaring was Sir Dene's grandson — and May resent- 
 fully thought he might have been content to wait and see 
 whether fortune would not be kind before he renounced her. 
 He knew she had money — so they should not have starved ! 
 A few minutes alone in her chamber, effacing the traces of 
 the tell-tale tears, and then she w T as in the drawing-room, 
 quite unnaturally gay, whirling through a mazy country 
 dance with Captain Clanwaring. 
 
 There was one other person that Tom Clanwaring would 
 not omit to say farewell to before he left the neighbourhood : 
 and that was Mary Barber. In striding up to Harebell 
 Farm, he met Cole the farrier at the turning of the lane. It 
 will be remembered that this was the son of the man spoken 
 of as Cole the farrier in the first portion of this history. 
 Young Cole and Tom had always been good friends. 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Tom," said the man as he was passing. 
 
 " Good night, and good-bye," replied Tom. " I am going 
 away, Cole." 
 
 Cole wheeled round on his heel. " Ay, sir, so I gathered 
 at the Dene this evening. But not just yet, are you ? " 
 
 " In an hour's time. James drives me in the gig to catch 
 the Bristol mail at Worcester. Good luck to you, Cole ! " 
 
 " Stop a moment, sir — I beg your pardon. The servants 
 
 T 
 
274 Dene Hollow. 
 
 said something about a quarrel with Captain Clanwaring : is 
 that the reason you've got to go ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Nothing has happened since that to send you ? " continued 
 Cole, with an emphasis, as marked, on the one word. 
 
 " Nothing, whatever. Fare you well, Cole. I've no time 
 to lose." 
 
 As he went on up Harebell Lane, Cole stood and looked 
 after him, as if in some hesitation. Finally, he continued his 
 way towards his home. 
 
 Mary Bai'ber was alone in the kitchen when Tom went in ; 
 her mind intent upon a curious incident that had occurred to 
 her earlier in the evening, her hands busy with some prepara- 
 tion of cooking for the morrow. To say that she was struck 
 into herself with the news — that Tom was going into banish- 
 ment in Ireland — would be saying little. Ireland, to the 
 imagination of quiet country people, represented something 
 like the opposite end of the world. 
 
 " It can't be! " she exclaimed, dropping the fork from her 
 fingers, and leaving the eggs to beat up themselves. 
 
 " I'm going this very night, Mary. This very minute, I 
 may almost say ; for in a few minutes I must be off." 
 
 Mary Barber stood quite still. Like Miss Arde, she 
 thought he must have done something ill to turn his grand- 
 father against him to this extent. Banished to Ireland ! 
 The very extremity of the measure brought its own revulsion 
 in her mind. 
 
 " It won't be for long, Mr. Tom. Sir Dene 'ud never keep 
 you all out there. 'Twould be like transportation." 
 
 " I have got to go, Mary : whether it's for long or 
 short," 
 
 " What on earth '11 be done wi' the land ? Who'll look 
 to it ? " 
 
 " I don't know," he replied. " They'll get somebody, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Not they," dissented Mary Barber. " You'll be sent for 
 back to't, Mr. Tom. And a nice kettle o' fish I dare be 
 bound you'll find things in ! You away, and Sir Dene laid 
 by — fine times it'll be for the men ! " 
 
 Leaving her in this comforting belief without contradiction, 
 Tom crossed the lane and went in home. The time for his 
 departure was at hand : James waited in the gig to drive him 
 into Worcester, to catch the Bristol night-mail, coming 
 
An Eventful Evening. 275 
 
 through the town on its "way from Birmingham. He had 
 been in hopes of seeing his grandfather once more. 
 
 " It's o' no good, Mr. Tom," said Gander sorrowfully. 
 " Sir Dene he give orders he was not to be disturbed no more 
 to-night on no account whatever; and he locked his room 
 when he went up to bed. Tour portmanteau and other 
 things is in the gig, sir." 
 
 " Then there's nothing more to keep me here. Turned out 
 like a dog ! Good-bye, Gander," he added, shaking the man's 
 hand heartily as he went out to the gig. 
 
 "I'll drive, James." 
 
 The groom handed him the reins and took the seat by his side. 
 Gander watched the gig until the night hid it from his view. 
 There came into the man's remembrance the turning out of his 
 father, Geoffry Clanwaring. A prevision lay upon Gander that 
 Tom would never come back, to be forgiven as Geoffry was. 
 
 The departure of Tom Clanwaring took the neighbourhood 
 by surprise : and the more especially so because the precise 
 cause of his banishment could not be ascertained. Sir Dene 
 had issued a sharp general order to Lady Lydia and her 
 family that nothing should be spoken of abroad — meaning in 
 regard to ill-doing Miss Emma Geach. For once Lady Lydia 
 was glad to obey him : her object was gained ; Tom was 
 gone, and she coivld well concede the rest. Jarvis was silent 
 from policy ; Otto from vexation : and Dene and Charles 
 Clanwaring were away. So that scandal was buried ; never, 
 Sir Dene hoped, to be unearthed again. But there was 
 another sin, or rather a frightful suspicion of it, brought 
 against Tom : on which it might be well, for the honour of 
 the family, to be silent also. 
 
 By the time service was over on the following day, Sunday, 
 the second of January, the fact that Tom Clanwaring had 
 been sent from Beechhurst Dene in disgrace was pretty 
 generally known abroad. Servants will talk : and the news 
 had spread. Lady Lydia and her children talked, for that 
 matter, telling the fact that he was gone. Certain hints and 
 innuendoes were dropped by them (not by Otto) imparting a 
 confirmed notion that Tom must have been guilty of some 
 conduct too bad to be spoken of, and which for the sake of 
 the name he bore had to be hushed up. How near they were 
 to the truth — or, rather, to what was supposed to be the truth 
 at Beechhurst Dene — few guessed. 
 
276 Dene Hollow. 
 
 But, of all, none felt more surprise than Squire Arc! p. In 
 his secret heart he not only liked Tom Clanwaring but 
 thought well of him : and he could not imagine Tom could be 
 guilty of any really bad conduct. In candour it must be 
 added that the Squire had not the remotest suspicion of any 
 attachment existing between Tom and his daughter : in his 
 pride he would have deemed it utterly impossible. May had 
 not spoken of Tom's visit of the previous night. 
 
 Leaving his wife and daughter at their own home after ser- 
 vice, the Squire went on with Lady Lydia to Beechhurst Dene. 
 Sir Dene, only just up, and looking very ill, opened his heart 
 at the sight of his friend of many years, who stood, as may be 
 said, in the light of uncle to Tom the scapegoat. And, in 
 point of fact, the relationship, if it may be called so, of the 
 Squire Arde to Tom had always stood rather as a barrier in 
 my lady's plans against him. During the walk home she had 
 talked in the most motherly way of Tom, lamenting his deplo- 
 rable sins after the manner of a pitying angel. Not even out 
 of her did Mr. Arde get at the nature of the sins : but she did 
 drop a hint that he had shamefully wronged his grandfather 
 in some money transaction in the hour of his departure. Mr. 
 Arde asked the baronet point-blank what this wrong was. 
 
 " Why did Lydia speak of it ?" rejoined Sir Dene, a shade 
 of bitter mortification rising in his pale, sad face. "Ungrateful 
 as he has proved himself, unworthy the name of Clanwaring, 
 I'd not have it talked of abroad for the world. All this past 
 night, in spite of his conduct in the other bad affair, I've been 
 saying to myself that it surely cannot have been he. To steal 
 money is not the work of a Clanwaring." 
 
 " What other affair ? " questioned Mr. Arde, noting the 
 words. 
 
 " Never mind — nothing," returned Sir Dene sharply. " That 
 at least may be sunk in oblivion from henceforth. He has got 
 his dismissal for it, so let it be." 
 
 And on this point Mr. Arde found it was useless to question 
 further. So that he was no wiser than before as to the true 
 cause that had led to Tom's disgrace. They told him of the 
 other : as Lady Lydia had hinted at it, Sir Dene thought it 
 might be as well to disclose the whole. The baronet just 
 mentioned the heads, hating every word that fell from his lips, 
 and my lady supplied the details. 
 
 The facts were these. After the explosion had taken place 
 the previous afternoon, and Tom had been made to understand 
 
An Eventful Evening. 277 
 
 he must quit the place that night, Sir Dene, terribly upsut by 
 the disturbance, shut himself into the bay-parlour. The agi- 
 tation had made him too ill to think of keeping his dinner 
 engagement at the Hall, and he charged those who were going 
 to say so. My lady and Mrs. Letsom went up betimes to 
 attire themselves for the visit : Captain Clanwaring, reviving 
 from the effects of his overthrow, and Tom's blow, was en- 
 gaged with a visitor. One of the two gentlemen who had 
 dined there on Christmas Day had again driven over from 
 Worcester. It was Major Fife. He declined to come indoors, 
 saying he had no time, but asked the captain to walk about a 
 bit with him out of doors. So they made their way round to 
 that side of the house where the trees and shrubs were thick. 
 
 While Sir Dene was thus sitting alone in the dusk, almost 
 dark, Gander presented himself, saying that Mr. Parker had 
 called to pay his rent. Rather glad to receive it — for the 
 rent, half a year's, had been due since Michaelmas — Sir Dene 
 bid Gander to show him in. Mr. Parker entered, making 
 many apologies for not having been able to bring the money 
 before. Sir Dene, always considerate to his tenants, especially 
 the small ones, heard him with good-nature, and filled in a 
 receipt — some of which he kept ready written in that upright 
 piece of furniture, the secretaire — by firelight. The money, 
 forty-five pounds, was handed to Sir Dene in a canvas bag 
 generally used for samples of barley, the farmer observing that 
 twenty pounds of it was in gold, and the rest in notes on the 
 Worcester old bank, and that Sir Dene would find the amount 
 correct. Sir Dene nodded; he had no doubt of that; and 
 put the bag on the table unopened. Mr. Parker, declining 
 refreshment, left, being in a hurry, saying he would call for 
 his bag in a day or two and drink a glass of ale then. After 
 his departure, Sir Dene sat a few minutes in thought ; and 
 then with a deep sigh, stood up, undid the bag, and counted 
 the money. He was putting it back in the bag and tying the 
 tape round the neck when Tom Clanwaring came in. The 
 sight of him disturbed Sir Dene afresh. Hastily thrusting 
 the bag into the secretaire, the lid of which had stood open, 
 he was about to lock it, when, either from agitation or acci- 
 dent, he dropped the key. Tom stepped forward and picked it 
 up, to save his grandfather stooping. Sir Dene locked the 
 secretaire, but did not take the key out : for Tom had begun 
 to speak, and he turned quickly to confront him in his anger, 
 pointing imperiously to the door. 
 
278 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Quit my presence, sir." 
 
 ISTot on the instant did Tom obey. He had come in to 
 speak his contrition for the heat he had displayed an hour 
 before, the passion given vent to in the presence of him, his 
 grandfather. Not a syllable would Sir Dene hear : and by 
 way of summarily cutting short the discussion, he went out of 
 the room, leaving Tom in it. Gander, standing at his pantry 
 door, accosted his master as he was passing on to the dining- 
 room, to say that Cole the farrier was craving a minute's 
 speech of Sir Dene. 
 
 " I can't see him ; I can't attend to anything just now," 
 interrupted Sir Dene. " Let him come later." 
 
 Gander had no need to repeat this to Cole, for the man was 
 standing behind him and heard it. Cole had been regaled in 
 the servants' hall with the account of the explosion, and that 
 Mr. Tom was turned out. Saying he would call again towards 
 night, he took his departure. 
 
 After pacing the dining-room for three or four minutes in 
 much perturbation, Sir Dene returned to the bay-parlour. It 
 was empty then — as he expected — the door was shut and all 
 things were apparently undisturbed. Remembering that he 
 had left the key in the lock of the secretaire, Sir Dene took it 
 out before he sat down. 
 
 Rather a remarkable circumstance it was, taken in conjunc- 
 tion with another remarkable circumstance to be told of 
 immediately, that Sir Dene did not again quit the bay-parlour, 
 but remained in it for the evening'. He took nothing- but a 
 basin of soup for his dinner ; and that he caused Gander to 
 bring to him : the family, you remember, going to dine at the 
 Hall. Between seven and eight o'clock he sent Gander to 
 summon to his presence Tom Clanwaring, who was then up- 
 stairs packing his things. This was to be the last interview. 
 Very coldly and distantly did Sir Dene speak to Tom, gave 
 him a few concise instructions as to how he was to proceed to 
 take the mail that night as it passed through Worcester on its 
 way to Bristol ; and thence travel to the latter place, where he 
 would wait at an inn for instructions from Ireland. Taking 
 out his pocket-book, he handed him a sum of money in notes 
 for his journey, and something over, shook hands with him by 
 way of farewell, and dismissed him, wishing him, as a parting 
 injunction, better behaviour in another place than he had 
 latterly displayed at Beechhurst Dene. Tom would have lin- 
 gered. He earnestly desired to say a word in his own defence 
 
An Eventful Evening. 279 
 
 — though, be it always understood, he was entirely ignorant of 
 any particularly grave offence being attributed to him — to 
 plead this cause and ask why his grandfather was taking this 
 extreme measure of discarding him. But Sir Dene stopped 
 him at the onset : he refused to hear a word, and told him that 
 he would not. And this was their final leave-taking. Tom 
 completed his packing, and then went off to seek the interview 
 with May Arde. Sir Dene sat on, alone. 
 
 Between eight and nine, Cole came again, and was admitted. 
 His business was to get the prescription for some famous new 
 horse medicine : of which Sir Dene had spoken to him a week 
 before, and promised him the loan of. Sir Dene went at once 
 to the secretaire to get the paper, telling Cole to hold the light. 
 The first thing that struck Sir Dene on pulling down the lid, 
 was that the bag of money was gone. In his astonishment he 
 spoke words which disclosed enough to Cole — the circum- 
 stances of the loss and the amount of money in the bag. Even 
 as Sir Dene spoke, the thought flashed over him that it could 
 only have been taken by Tom — that no one else had had access 
 to the room : and in his horror and fear lest such a disgrace on 
 the name of Clanwaring should be published, he first of all en- 
 joined the man to silence, and then strove to smooth the matter 
 by saying it was possible the bag was not lost, but had been 
 removed to the safer quarters of his own chamber upstairs. 
 Cole took his cue, and affected to believe that his Honour would 
 there find it. The horse doctor was a keen man ; and some 
 muttered words of Sir Dene's, " What ! has he done this in 
 addition to the rest !" almost made him doubt whether sus- 
 picion might not be turning on Tom. However, it was not a 
 business that he could presume to intermeddle with. Thank- 
 ing the baronet for the prescription, Cole said good night with 
 the most unconscious look in the world. 
 
 Then Sir Dene called Gander in, and bade him shut the door. 
 " When I went out of this parlour to the dining-room earlier 
 in the evening — do you mind it, Gander ? " began he. " It 
 was when you told me Cole had come up, and I said I could 
 not see him. D'ye mind it, I ask ? " 
 
 "Yes, Sir Dene." 
 
 " I left Mr. Tom in this parlour. How long did he stay in 
 it ? Did you notice him when he came out ? " 
 
 " He didn't come out this way at all, Sir Dene. He must 
 have left it by the window here. " 
 
 " How d'ye know ? " 
 
2 So Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Well, sir, he was not in here -when you came back again 
 — I followed you in directly, if you remember, with the candles. 
 And I'm sure he had not come out at the door while you were 
 away, Sir Dene. If he had I must ha' seen him. Mr. Tom 
 oftener goes out by this here glass door- window nor any other 
 way, when he's a-wanting to go straight out o' doors." 
 
 Sir Dene paused. " Who came into the room besides, while 
 I was away from it ? " 
 
 " Not a soul," replied Gander. 
 
 And that exactly accorded with Sir Dene's own impression. 
 As he had not shut the door of the dining-room, he thought 
 he must have seen them if they did. Nevertheless, he hoped 
 it was the contrary, and spoke accordingly in his mind's exas- 
 peration. 
 
 " Somebody did, I know. " 
 
 " Somebody didn't, Sir Dene," returned Gander, with the 
 familiarity of an old servant. " They couldn't. I never was 
 beyond sight o' the door." 
 
 It was true. Gander's pantry and Sir Dene's door were 
 w T ithin view of each other on opposite sides of the passage. 
 It was simply impossible that any one could have entered the 
 bay-parlour during the short interval in question unseen by 
 Gander. 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Tom when he came into it ? " resumed 
 Sir Dene — as if willing to put the extent of Gander's sight to 
 the test. 
 
 " I watched him in, sir. 'Twere just after Farmer Parker 
 left. As Mr. Tom came down the passage, he asked me 
 whether Sir Dene was in the bay-pai*lour ; I said yes, and he 
 went in. I could hear him and you talk together for half a 
 minute, SirDene, and then you come out on't. Mr. Tom he didn't 
 come out at all : he must ha' went through the glass doors." 
 
 And with this conclusive evidence, what was Sir Dene Clan- 
 waring to think but that Tom was the culprit ? It was as clear 
 as though they had seen him do it, reiterated the Lady Lydia. 
 
 Such was the story told to Mr. Arde. In the impulse of the 
 moment he took up the belief as warmly as they did, assuming 
 Tom could not be innocent, except by a miracle ; that he had 
 been driven into crime at last. And though he regarded it 
 with nearly as much horror as Sir Dene — for was not Tom 
 connected with him ? — he yet felt a large amount of pity. 
 "Turned out nearly penniless, I suppose; and so the tempta- 
 tion was too great, " thought the Squire to himself, as he 
 
An Eventful Evening. 281 
 
 went out of the presence of Sir Dene. But this feeling of 
 pity Lady Lydia unconsciously crushed. 
 
 " And yet, I can hardly think he'd do it ! " burst forth Mr. 
 Arde, a revulsion of opinion setting in as he stood outside the 
 front door, talking with her. 
 
 My lady glanced round, making sure they were quite alone, 
 and sank her voice to a whisper. 
 
 ' 'You'd not say so if you knew all. The other thing he has 
 been guilty of is worse than that." 
 
 " Worse than that ! " 
 
 " At least — if not worse, it's something very bad indeed of 
 another nature. People estimate offences with different eyes, 
 you know, Mr. Arde. I think theft might only have been 
 expected from a man given to low tastes and low associates as 
 is Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 " But what is the other thing that he has done ? " resumed 
 the Squire. " Can't you tell it me ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell you, dear Mr. Arde. The probability isthat 
 you will hear of it before long — for I should think the neigh- 
 bourhood is sure to get hold of it ; but Sir Dene has forbidden 
 it to be spoken of by any of us. My good son Jarvis, too, 
 has begged me to be silent for the young man's sake. Ill as 
 Tom Clanwaring has behaved, Jarvis is yet considerate for 
 him." 
 
 Away went the Squire, the words burning a hole in his 
 curiosity, and puzzling him mightily. For he was no wiser 
 than ever, you see, as to what had driven Tom from 
 Beechhurst Dene. " He must have turned out an awful scamp 
 of some sort," was his mental thought. 
 
 " Well, what have you learnt ? — what has led to his abrupt 
 dismissal?" eagerly questioned Mrs. Arde, as her husband 
 entered. Most excessively curious on her own score, she had 
 been waiting with impatience the result of his visit to the 
 Dene. Mary, standing by, held her breath as she listened for 
 the answer. 
 
 " I can't come to the bottom of it," said Mr. Arde ; " neither 
 Sir Dene nor my lady seems inclined to speak out. There 
 has been a series of general misconduct, I fancy ; petty ill- 
 doings one after another ; Lady Lydia says no one can imagine 
 what they have had to put up with from him, and how for- 
 bearing they have been. But " — and Mr. Arde's tones fell to 
 something like fear — " whatever his petty offences might have 
 been, he need not have capped them with a crime." 
 
282 Dene Hollow. 
 
 May's trembling lips parted. "A crime! " echoed Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " He went off with a bag of money belonging to Sir Dene. 
 Stole it from the secretary." 
 
 " No," passionately cried May. " That he never did." 
 
 Mr. Arde turned his eyes upon, her in surprise. 
 
 " What are you frightened at, child ? It does not affect 
 you. I called out No, just as you have done, until I heard 
 the facts." 
 
 " And was this what he was dismissed for ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Arde. 
 
 " No, no ; did you not understand me ? This occurred 
 after his dismissal — as he was going away. I tell you I can't 
 get at the truth of what he was sent away for," continued Mr. 
 Arde : " Lady Lydia says it is too bad to be spoken of. I 
 don't think they'd have told me about the theft of the money 
 either, but for a word my lady let drop ; and so I asked Sir 
 Dene point-blank. But, mark you ; though it has been dis- 
 closed to me, this theft — I am connected with the fellow, un- 
 fortunately, and that makes a difference — not a syllable of it 
 must be breathed abroad. Lady Lydia, incensed though she 
 has cause to be against Tom, begged me to bury it in silence, 
 for his own sake. As if I should proclaim it ! The disgrace 
 d reflect itself on me almost as much as on the Clan- 
 war in gs." 
 
 Miss May metaphorically tossed her head, incipiently re- 
 bellious. " It's all of a piece," ran her mental thoughts. 
 "A 'long series of petty ill-doings,' finishing off with some- 
 thing too bad to be spoken of, and a bag of money ! Oh the 
 wicked slanderers ! They may just as well go and say that I 
 had done it." 
 
 But that was destined to be an eventful night in more ways 
 than one, and there's something else to be told of it. Some- 
 where about the hour that the money must have disappeared 
 — that is, during the short interval Sir Dene was absent from 
 the bay-parlour — a little earlier or a little later as might have 
 been, Mary Barber went over on an errand to Beechhurst 
 Dene. Neighbours in rural districts borrow household trifles 
 indiscriminately of one other : when no shops are within con- 
 venient reach, this is almost a matter of necessity. Harebell 
 Farm happened to be out of a very insignificant commodity — 
 lemons. Mr. Tillett, coming home in the course of the after- 
 noon from attending the corn-market at "Worcester, the first 
 market of the New Year, told Mary Barber that he had in- 
 
An Eventful Evening: 283 
 
 vited some friends to spend the following day at the farm, and 
 particularly desired that a lemon pudding should be made. 
 Vexed at her own forgetfulness, she made no demur, thinking 
 she could borrow the lemons from Beechhurst Dene. Some- 
 times the Dene borrowed things of her. So at dusk, Mary 
 Barber, putting on a shawl and bonnet, went across the lane 
 on her errand. She had just entered the gate when a man 
 came dashing down the path right upon her, and laid hold of 
 her, as if for protection from some pursuing evil. Very con- 
 siderably astonished was Mary Barber : and not the less so 
 when she recognised the intruder through the dusk to be 
 Randy Black. Randy in mortal fear. The man was com- 
 pletely unhinged : his face white, his hands shaking, his 
 breath coming in gasps. In the moment's abandonment he 
 confessed the cause of this — which he most assuredly would 
 not have done at a calmer time. He had just seen Robert 
 Owen. 
 
 The assertion startled Mary Barber into nearly as much 
 terror as .his own. It was so long, too, now, since anything 
 of the kind had been talked of. Black, it appeared — at least 
 this was his own account — was going to the Dene to try and 
 get speech with Captain Clanwaring. He was about half-way 
 down the path to the house when some man (as he first took 
 it to be) glided out from between the trees and stood facing 
 him. The next moment, Black saw that it was Robert Owen. 
 Black turned tail and took flight in awful terror ; and so met 
 Mary Barber. Mary Barber, listening to this, looking at the 
 gloomy path before her, the dark winter trees around her, 
 decided to let the lemons be just then, and send somebody 
 else for them by-and-by. 
 
 They passed out at the gate together, Black sticking very 
 close to her. 
 
 She went back to her own gate ; he went too : it actually 
 seemed as if the man dared not just then be without some 
 companionship. He was getting better of his illness, but was 
 very ailing still, and Mr. Priar had ordered him not to go 
 out. Which order Black paid no manner of attention to. The 
 carter's boy at Harebell Farm, leaving work for the night, 
 came through the Farm gate in his smock-frock, whistling. 
 
 " If ye'll go up along o' me to the inn, and bring down a 
 physic bottle as I wants took to Dr. Priar's, I'll give ye a six- 
 pence, Ned Pound," said Black. And Mary Barber could 
 not help noticing how the man's voice shook still. 
 
284 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " I'll go, and thank ye," replied Is'ed Pound after a pause 
 of doubt as to whether so astoundingly munificent an offer 
 could be real — for the boy had never had a sixpence of his 
 own in his whole life. " I say, what makes your teeth rattle 
 
 so 
 
 ? » 
 
 " It's this confounded cold night," replied Black : " enough 
 to freeze one's bones it is. Come along." 
 
 Mary Barber looked after them as they went up the lane, 
 Black's hand on the lad's shoulder. The extreme terror, dis- 
 played by such a hardened man as Black, struck her, and 
 always had struck her, as being marvellously strange. 
 
 " He didn't care to go on by hisself," thought she : " that 
 physic bottle's nought but a lame excuse. A whole sixpence 
 to give ! — Ked Pound'll be rich. And now — what should ha' 
 brought back the poor master again ? I'd thought he was 
 laid." 
 
 What indeed ! But, in this one instance, Black's sight and 
 fears misled him. The figure he had taken for an apparition 
 was no other than one of flesh and blood — Major File's. It 
 will be remembered that Sir Dene Clanwaring and Gander 
 both noticed the striking resemblance that Major Fife bore to 
 the late Robert Owen. 
 
 It happened that Major Fife had come over from Worcester 
 that afternoon to press his claims again on Jarvis Clanwaring. 
 Totally declining to be put off any longer with vague promises, 
 which Jarvis could alone give, the major, not caring in his 
 own interests to proceed to extremities, discussed the face of 
 things as they walked together about amidst the winter trees, 
 both of them smoking. To appeal to Sir Dene — as Major 
 Fife half threatened to do, there and then — would not serve 
 the cause, Jarvis assured him, but the contrary ; most pro- 
 bably destroy all hope from that quarter for the future. 
 Jarvis offered to give him a legal undertaking to repay a por- 
 tion of the money, if not all, by that day fortnight, the fifteenth 
 of January. It was the best he could do. You can't get 
 blood from a stone. Captain Clanwaring was tolerably candid 
 about the state of his affairs : and the major, clearly seeing 
 that there was no chance of making better terms, was fain to 
 accept these. While Jarvis went in to write the document, 
 the major, preferring still to remain where he was and finish 
 his tobacco, strolled in and out among the trees and down the 
 path : and thus ensued the encounter with Black. The man's 
 extraordinary conduct, evidently the result of terror, astonished 
 
At Sir Dene's Secretaire. 2S5 
 
 Major Fife not a little. He mentioned it to Captain Clan- 
 waring on his return with the paper. The captain fancied, 
 by the description given, that the intruder must have been 
 Randy Black. But his behaviour he could not account for. 
 Neither then nor later did it come to Jarvis Clanwaring's 
 knowledge that Major Fife bore a resemblance to the deceased 
 man of whom he had often heard — Robert Owen, of Hai-ebell 
 Farm. Major Fife at once departed in the gig; which James 
 the groom had been taking charge of at the front entrance. 
 
 And as Ned Pound was coming down Harebell Lane with 
 the physic bottle and the promised sixpence, he met Captain 
 Clanwaring striding up to the Trailing Indian. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AT SIR DENE'S SECRETAIRE. 
 
 In a day or two there arrived two letters from Tom Clan- 
 waring, dated Bristol. Very good and proper and nice letters, 
 both of them. The one, written to Mr. Arde, expressed his 
 regret that he had been obliged to leave without saying fare- 
 well to himself and Mrs. Arde, but that he had not liked to 
 intrude upon them when they were engaged with their dinner- 
 guests. It alluded to his abrupt dismissal, stated that he 
 knew not the cause of it, and was unconscious of any offence 
 of his that could have led to it, unless it was the quarrel with 
 Captain Clanwaring in the afternoon, when he confessed that 
 he had allowed himself to fall into undue passion. Not a word 
 did it breathe of any sense of injustice, or cast the slightest 
 reflection upon man, woman, or child ; the sweetness of Tom 
 Clanwaring's nature was never more unconsciously displayed 
 than in that farewell letter. Squire Arde read it over once, 
 and then began it again. 
 
 The other letter was to Sir Dene. Tom earnestly begged 
 his grandfather to believe that he had not consciously been 
 guilty of any offence towards him, or been willingly ungrate- 
 ful. Nothing, he said, could be further from his thoughts. 
 His greatest prayer and hope now was that Sir Dene should 
 sometime be convinced of this ; would see how much he had 
 always loved him, how he had done his best to serve him r 
 and how bitterly he was feeling the separation. Tom added 
 some directions in the last page as to certain matters con- 
 nected with the business of the estate, so that trouble might 
 
286 Dene Hollow. 
 
 be saved to those who should succeed him in its management. 
 It was a long letter, every word of it breathing the sentiments 
 of. a kindly and honest gentleman, and of the affection he felt 
 for his home and his grandfather. 
 
 Too kindly, too honest to be allowed to fall under the eye of 
 Sir Dene. Lady Lydia — who had taken the precaution to 
 break the seal and skim the contents — might put no belief 
 in the good faith of the letter : but she was by no means sure 
 it might not act so far on the old man's tender feelings as to 
 induce him to recall Tom. So she dropped it into the fire and 
 held her tongue about its arrival. The opening of other peo- 
 ple's letters was a grave offence in those days, not only against 
 the code of honour : but who observed any kind of code to 
 the humble dependent Tom Clanwaring ? 
 
 And Sir Dene never knew that he had written. 
 
 Now Squire Arde possessed a conscience. Before the letter 
 arrived, he had begun rather to veer round to Tom again and 
 doubt whether he had really been guilty of any grave offence ; 
 that letter only served to increase the feeling and the doubt. 
 He could not always forget that poor Tom, so hardly used 
 among them, was the nephew of his dead wife ; and he sud- 
 denly determined to go to Bristol and see him. It was under- 
 stood that Tom was waiting at Bristol, according to instruc- 
 tions received from Ireland, until some agricultural implements 
 should be ready, that he was to take over with him. Saying 
 nothing to anybody, except his wife — and to her only that 
 business called him away for a clay or two — Squire Arde sent 
 his servant to Worcester to engage a place in the Bristol mail, 
 and departed himself the same night for the latter city, as 
 Tom had previously done. 
 
 He saw Tom. He listened to his version of matters (given 
 in answer to authoritative questioning), of what his treatment 
 had been at Beechhurst Dene, especially in the past week ; 
 and Mr. Arde came to the conclusion that Tom had been more 
 sinned against than sinning. But when he came to speak of 
 some grave offence or crime, such as Lady Lydia had hinted 
 at, but would not explain, Tom declared she must have been 
 mistaken, for he had committed none. Mr. Arde, thinking it 
 impossible she could have been so far mistaken, pressed the 
 point ; but Tom adhered to what he said. 
 
 " It does not matter," he lightly observed in his good- 
 natured way. " I don't claim to be better than other people, 
 sir." He had never called Mr. Arde " uncle ; " had not been 
 
At Sir Denes Secretaire. 287 
 
 taught to do so. It niight have been different had his own 
 aunt, Mr. Arde's first wife, lived. The last thing Mr. Arde 
 spoke of was the money. 
 
 " By the way," began he in a careless tone, " there has 
 been a loss at the Dene since yon left : or, rather, the evening 
 you were leaving. A bag of money — forty-five pounds I am 
 told it contained — that Sir Dene put into his secretary, dis- 
 appeared in a mysterious manner." 
 
 "Was it the bag I saw him put in ? " cried Tom, raising 
 his honest eyes fearlessly to the Squire's face. "What a 
 strange thing ! It can't be lost." 
 
 " Yes, I believe it was that same bag. Sir Dene said some- 
 thing about your having been present when he put it up. It 
 seems he left the key in the lock, and was absent from the 
 room three or four minutes ; not more. During that time the 
 bag disappeared." 
 
 " Who went into the room ? " 
 
 "There it is. No one went in, save Sir Dene and Gander. 
 They did not see you come out, either." 
 
 " I ? Oh, I went out by the glass doors. The truth is, I 
 was so grieved at Sir Dene's refusing to hear a word of what 
 I wanted to say, that as he went out one way, I turned out 
 the other to walk my vexation off." 
 
 " Well, they both declare that no one whatever went into 
 the room. Sir Dene What now ? " 
 
 A sudden light, as of awakened remembrance, shone in Tom 
 
 Clanwaring's eyes. "Halloa!" he exclaimed, "I saw " 
 
 And there he stopped short. 
 
 " Saw what ? " asked Mr. Arde. 
 
 " No," said Tom, " I'll say no more. The fact is, I thought 
 I remembered to have seen somebody go into the room : but 
 perhaps I was mistaken. I daresay I was mistaken." 
 
 " Go in by which door ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; I'll say no more." 
 
 " You ought to say. The money was stolen." 
 
 " I never will, sir. I'd not say it, if I were certain. 
 No, not though I had seen it taken : which I certainly 
 did not. Let people fight their own battles." 
 
 " And suppose they were to suspect you of taking it ? " 
 
 Tom burst into a laugh. " Suspect me of taking money ! 
 Not they. They know me better than that, all of them." 
 
 " Suppose they were to accuse you of it ? " 
 
 " Accuse me to whom, sir ? Not to Sir Dene : it would be 
 
288 Dene Hollow. 
 
 ■waste of trouble. He knows that his money would be as safe 
 with me as it is Avith him. I am his grandson, Mr. Arde." 
 
 Mr. Arde looked at the open countenance, at the blue eye?:, 
 so fall of earnest truth, and he mentally saw that whoever 
 else had stolen the money, Tom had not. 
 
 " Were it told you that you had been accused of this thing, 
 you would surely speak, Tom ClanAvaring !" 
 
 " I don't think I should," was Tom's answer. " I'd rather 
 do a man a good turn than a bad one, be he friend or enemy. 
 That is the only safe way to get on pleasantly in this life. 
 It all comes home to us, sir. If w r e sow flowers, we are re- 
 paid by the perfume ; if we plant nettles, they must spring 
 up and sting us. I don't believe a man ever did the smallest 
 kindness, but it was in some way returned to him ; I feel 
 sure that for every injury a man or woman designedly in- 
 flicts on others a worse evil is returned. Mrs. Owen taught 
 me these truths when I w T as a little child, and I have seen 
 them exemplified scores of times since." 
 
 But, though Mr. Arde felt at rest on the score of Tom's 
 misconduct, he could not effect his return to the Dene. The 
 edict of banishment was gone forth, and it might not be re- 
 voked. Neither did Mr. Arde see any urgent reason why it 
 should be. He considered that some experience of the world 
 might be of benefit to Tom rather than the contrary : and 
 instead of telling Tom he would help him to return, he urged 
 him not to "kick" against the new place in Ireland, but to 
 do his best and make himself useful in it. Things might 
 brighten, he observed ; they generally did by dint of a little 
 patience and perseverance. Tom replied that he had no in- 
 tention of kicking against it : he was turned adrift, and it 
 appeared Hobson's choice — go there, or starve. 
 
 "No need to starve," retorted the Squire: "you've got 
 health and strength to work, and a good share of brains. 
 There's not a man in England, or Ireland either, knows 
 land better than you do, Tom. And look here : I've 
 brought a bit of money for you." 
 
 It was a hundred pounds that he took from his pocket — to 
 Tom's intense astonishment. The Squire explained. He had 
 been putting it by for him bit by bit ever since Tom was a child. 
 Foreseeing perhaps that Beechhurst Dene might not be a 
 home for him always, that the time might come when he 
 would be thrown upon his own resources, Mr. Arde, recogniz- 
 ing that Tom had some kind of claim upon him, put by this 
 
At Sir Denes Secretaire. 289 
 
 money by degrees for the rainy day. Had lie found Tom to 
 be -worthless he -would have kept it in his pocket : hence his 
 journey of inquiry to Bristol. 
 
 " Put it safely up, Tom, aud take car3 of it. Don't use 
 it unless you really require it. Should you never get your 
 recall to Beechhurst Dene, it may be useful to you." 
 
 Tom thanked him with all his heart ; his earnest eyes, 
 his expressive face, betraying his gratitude better than words 
 could do it. Throughout his life he had been singularly respon- 
 sive to kindness : probably from the little of it that -was shown 
 him. 
 
 On the morning following this, after Mr. Arde had quitted 
 Bristol, Tom received a letter from Cole the farrier, saying 
 that he had not been able to get his address before, and now 
 only surreptitiously through Gander's good-nature, he -wrote 
 to tell Tom that he had seen some one (whom he mentioned), 
 standing at the open secretaire that evening, just at the time 
 the money must have been taken : and that person -was no 
 doubt the thief. The reason of Cole's writing this was that 
 a hint had reached him, throwing some suspicion on Tom 
 Clanwaring — though, in his delicacy, he did not expressly 
 say so. Tom immediately sent the following letter back to 
 Cole :— 
 
 " Thank you for writing to me, my good fellow : your motive 
 was a right one, and I think I discern the prompting cause. 
 But say no more to anyone. You may he mistaken. Keep 
 silence. Even if you had proof as to who it was took the 
 money — which you have not — there may be private reasons 
 why it should not be told abroad. As to me — for, what I con- 
 clude is, that you have heard my name brought in — my back 
 is broad enough to bear anything put upon it by idle report : 
 and you must know, and I know, that no one whom I care for 
 or who cares for me, would suspect me of such a thing. Sir 
 Dene knows me better, and so do others. Be silent. I rely 
 upon you to be so. Let people fight out their own battles : it 
 is no affair of yours ; I do not intend to make it mine. Good 
 luck to you, Cole, in all ways. 
 
 " Sincerely yours, T. C." 
 
 Tom Clanwaring was right. Not for long did any one who 
 knew him continue the suspicion as to the money. A complete 
 revulsion of feeling set in with Sir Dene : and he called him- 
 
 u 
 
290 Dene Hollow. 
 
 self names for having allowed his mind to entertain such a 
 suspicion for a moment. Even Lady Lydia, upon sober reflec- 
 tion, grew to think that it could not have been Tom — for no- 
 thing in his past life had led her to suppose he would descend 
 to be a thief. Make the worst of him, and of the sins she had 
 been fond of attributing to him, he would scarcely sink so low 
 as that. No. Had there been nothing else against Tom, he 
 might have been recalled instanter. But there was. Not to 
 speak of those general petty sins, there was that other grave 
 charge, not easily refuted. It was that that troubled Sir Dene : 
 he had always believed Tom to be as morally good a man as 
 his father Geoflry was : and the discovery to Sir Dene was 
 bitter. No chance of that being refuted yet awhile : if it ever 
 was, or could be. 
 
 It must be remarked that Lady Lydia did at first believe 
 Tom had taken the money. In the teeth of the one great 
 assumed fact — that only he had been in the room — she could 
 not well think otherwise. The possibility that anyone else 
 had stolen in through the glass-doors, did not then occur to 
 her or to Sir Dene. But it was the theory taken up now : 
 though whether she would have arrived at it of her own 
 accord is uncertain. 
 
 On the Tuesday, the day following Mr. Arde's departure 
 for Bristol, Mrs. Arde and Mary Barber met accidentally in 
 Dene Hollow, the latter with a big market-basket in her hand. 
 The two invariably held a gossip together when they met : 
 and on this occasion Mrs. Arde (who considered Tom Clan- 
 waring belonged to Mary Barber at least as much as to anybody 
 else) chose to ignore her husband's injunction to secrecy, and 
 whispered to her in confidence the story of Tom's misdoings r 
 that is, of the one crowning act of them. Mary Barber's 
 hard face took a harder hue in her astonishment ; her grey 
 eyes fixed themselves with a stare on Mrs. Arde's. 
 
 " Steal a bag o' money ! You don't believe it of him ! " 
 she continued, fiercely and abruptly. 
 
 " But I can't help believing it, impossible though it seems 
 that he could do such a thing," returned Mrs. Arde. " There 
 was no one else near the room, you see." 
 
 " He went out at the glass-doors, did he ? " quietly observed 
 Mary Barber. 
 
 " They say so. " 
 
 " Which proves he must have left 'em undone, for they don't 
 fasten from the outside," reasoned Mary Barber. " What was 
 
At Sir Denis Secretaire. 291 
 
 to prevent somebody else from going in and helping theirselves 
 to the money? " 
 
 Mrs. Arde paused : the notion had not struck her. They 
 were not altogether conjurors in those parts : besides, the ac- 
 cusation of Tom, assumed to be a certainty, had kept suspicion 
 from being directed to other quarters. 
 
 " I fancy there could not have been time for anyone else to 
 get in," said Mrs. Arde, revolving matters. 
 
 " A thing like that's soon done — you must know it is, ma'am. 
 Thieves be deft o' fingers." 
 
 " Of course it might be so," spoke the lady slowly. "But 
 — was any ill-character likely to be close up at the house at 
 that hour ? " 
 
 " There's tramps and ill-folk about always at dusk, a-watch- 
 ing what they can put their hands on," said Mary Barber. " A 
 couple o' gipsies, big strong men, too, was at our house o' 
 Saturday, a-wanting to sell iron skewers. One on 'em might 
 get up to the Dene from Harebell Lane quite easy. And if 
 none o' the servants was on the look out, why he " 
 
 The woman stopped. Stopped as if a shot had taken her. 
 There had flashed into her memory one whom she saw flying 
 from the house at dusk on Saturday ; flying in terror. Not a 
 tramp ; but a man who would put his hand to worse deeds, . 
 if report might be trusted, than any tramp in the three king- 
 doms. 
 
 " What time was it exactly that this here theft happened ? 
 Do ye know, ma'am ? " she presently resumed. 
 
 " I don't know exactly. Some time between four and five. 
 Nearer five, I should think, for it was quite dusk. Why do 
 you ask ? " 
 
 " Well I — I was a- wondering," returned Mary Barber eva- 
 sively, saying no more in her prudent caution. She wanted 
 time to reflect first. 
 
 " Any way, Mrs. Arde, don't you go on a-suspecting Mr.. 
 Tom Clanwaring," were her parting words, spoken emphati- 
 cally. " He'd no more touch what's not his own than you or 
 me would. He's a gentleman to his fingers' ends ; ay, and a 
 right noble one. Warn't their sending of him off to that Irish 
 Botany Bay enough for 'em, but they must bring up this ? " 
 
 Mrs. Arde continued her way. Mary Barber put her back 
 against the railings to think. It happened to be in that part 
 of the Hollow where her poor mother's cottage had stood : her 
 feet were pressing what might once have been the kitchen floor ? 
 
292 Dene Hollow. 
 
 on which she had played in infancy. The cottage was gone, 
 and her mother was gone, so long ago now that its very re- 
 membrance was growing dim : and she and Sir Dene Clan- 
 waring were drawing nearer arid nearer to that other world, 
 to which so many connected with this history, and younger 
 than they were, had passed on before them. 
 
 Not that any of these thoughts were in Mary Barber's mind 
 then ; it was otherwise occupied. "What she wanted to recall 
 was, the precise time at which she had gone over to the Dene 
 on Saturday night. And, try as she would, she could not. 
 All she was sure of was that it was dusk ; not dark : but she 
 had not taken note of the time. The cuckoo clock (that had 
 passed with the other things into Mr. Tillett's possession from 
 William Owen) was getting old like herself, out of order 
 often. On Saturday it had stood still all day. 
 
 The more she reflected on it, the stronger grew her convic- 
 tion that the criminal w r as Black. Black, and nobody else. 
 One thought led to another. She began to doubt whether 
 Black's state of terror had not arisen from a fear that he was 
 being pursued ; that his assertion of having seen the apparition 
 of Robert Owen, was all an invention to account for the fear. 
 And this was the more likely from the fact that some years 
 had elapsed since any report of the ghost had been raised : 
 Mary Barber had been living in the agreeable assurance that 
 time had " laid" it. Turning back, for she had been on her 
 way to Hurst Leet, she w r ent straight in at the front gates of 
 Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 " It's right that they should know I saw Black where I 
 did," ran her thoughts, " and specially if any on 'em be a 
 really accusing Mr. Tom. Not as I believe that. Black, he's 
 a nasty one to make a enemy of: so I'll just say I see him, and 
 no more. Let Sir Dene and them do what they like in it." 
 
 Considerably astonished was Jones the footman, when he 
 flung open the door of the grand entrance, to find nobody at 
 it but Mary Barber. The woman knew proper manners as 
 well as Jones did, perhaps better, and apologized for not going 
 round to the side, on the score of her time being " precious" 
 that morning. But she did not get to see Sir Dene : he was 
 very poorly, Jones said, and not up yet : would Lady Lydia 
 do r Mary Barber considered, and then saying that my Lady 
 would do, put her basket down. But she would rather have 
 seen Sir Dene. So she was shown into the library to my 
 lady's presence, and to that of her two sons, who happened to 
 
At Sir Denes Secretaire. 293 
 
 be with her. My lady's curiosity was a little raised, as to 
 what the woman could Avant — she had heard her come to the 
 grand entrance. She sat near the window, working at some 
 silk patchwork for bed furniture : Jarvis and Otto were talk- 
 ing together by the mantelpiece. 
 
 Standing, for she was not asked to sit, Mary Barber told 
 what she had come to tell. Barely had she finished when Otto 
 Clanwaring brought down his hand on the table with em- 
 phasis, as he turned to his mother and brother. 
 
 " That's it. There's the clue. I told you from the first 
 what a shameful wrong on Tom it was, to suspect him. And 
 you accuse Randy Black!" he added, approaching Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 " Sir, I accuse nobody. Randy Black's one that I'd not 
 like to accuse myself — he might be for drowning me in return 
 — as perhaps he drowned somebody else, years agone. I only 
 tell you where I see him o' Saturday evening — a coming out 
 o' the back grounds here in a pucker o' fear. He give me a 
 plausible cause for his fright — which has nothing to do with it, 
 and don't matter : it mightn't ha' been true. I couldn't keep 
 this back on my conscience, hearing that you suspect Mr. Tom 
 Clanwai'ing." 
 
 " I never did, " spoke Otto. " It was too ridiculously ab- 
 surd to those who knew him. " 
 
 " Both to them as knew him and to them as didn't, " 
 amended Mary Barber. But at this moment Captain Clan- 
 waring stepped forward, pushing aside his brother. 
 
 "We are much obliged to you, of course, Mrs. Barber, for 
 this information," said he in his pleasantest tones — and the 
 captain's could be soft and pleasant when he chose to make 
 them so. " It is very good of you to come. But now — will 
 you add to the obligation by keeping this doubt of Randy 
 Black to yourself, at least until it shall have been enquired 
 into ? The fact is," he added, meeting the woman's question- 
 ing eyes, and speaking slowly, as if with unwilling reluctance, 
 " that my suspicions have been directed to a different quarter." 
 
 " Do you mean to Mr. Tom ? " independently demanded 
 Mary Barber. 
 
 " Oh dear no. We are sure it was not he." And as the 
 positive words fell from Jarvis's lips, Otto, put into the back- 
 ground, looked hard at his brother. 
 
 " Well, Captain Clanwaring, as to keeping my doubts of 
 Black to myself, I'll readily promise you that, for it's just 
 
294 Dene Hollow. 
 
 what I mean to do," answered Mary Barber. " I don't say 
 the man was guilty : lie might not ha' been anigh Sir Dene's 
 window : I must leave you to be the judge o' that. Seeing 
 him where I did, a rushing pell-mell down the path, in a 
 mortal fright, it was my duty to let you know on't. That's 
 all." 
 
 " But — how did he account for this state of fear himself? " 
 interupted Otto. " Surely you may tell, Mrs. Barber. " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Otto, what he told me was, that he had seen 
 something to frighten him amid the trees," she rejoined, after 
 a slight pause. "As I say, it might ha' been just an invention 
 of his own. Good day to you, my lady ; good day to you, 
 sirs." 
 
 Lady Lydia nodded in reply to the salutation : she had not 
 spoken one word throughout the interview. Otto civilly 
 went to the front door with Mary Barber, and she made him 
 a curtsey as she took up her basket and departed. Short 
 though the interval was before Otto returned to the library, 
 he found his mother and Jarvis talking fast, almost disputing. 
 On my lady's mind there rested not a doubt that the offender 
 was Black : her son would not admit it. 
 
 " This must be kept from everybody, Otto," spoke Jarvis, 
 wheeling round on his brother. " From Sir Dene especially. " 
 
 " And why ? " asked Otto, honestly. " I should take it to 
 Sir Dene at once, and clear Tom." 
 
 " Tom shall be cleared with him so far, never fear. In fact, 
 Sir Dene's own mind has cleared him already. Look here, 
 Otto : I must beg of you not to interfere in this. It is essen- 
 tial to me — I have been telling Lady Lydia so — not to exas- 
 perate Black just now. The fact is," added Jarvis, mentally 
 anathematizing his brother's straightforward turn of mind 
 that obliged the explanation, " I owe Black money, and can't 
 pay him ; and I believe he'd do me an ill turn were the oppor- 
 tunity afforded him. If we accuse him of this, it would bring 
 on an inconvenient climax for me, for he'd be safe to come off 
 to Sir Dene with the debt. I wish the devil had all money ! " 
 
 " What do you owe money for to Black ? " asked Otto, in 
 some slight wonder. 
 
 "Tobacco," shortly answered Jarvis. "A tough score. 
 Been accumulating for ages." 
 
 Otto knitted his brow. In his heart of hearts he despised his 
 spendthrift elder brother. It might be detected in his voice 
 as he spoke. 
 
At Sir Denes Secretaire. 295 
 
 "It is no just cause for the information, that this woman 
 has given us, being withheld from sir Dene." 
 
 " That's only cause the first, and personal to myself," re- 
 sumed Jarvis. " There is another reason, and a weightier 
 one. I don't believe Black had anything to do with taking 
 the bag. I suspect some one else — you heard me say so to 
 the woman — and I want to follow up the suspicion privately. 
 Accuse Black wrongfully, and he is sure to make a row over 
 it, and my efforts will be defeated." 
 
 " But who is it that you suspect, Jarvis ? " cried Lady Lydia, 
 impatiently. And the barrister's eyes were asking the same 
 question. 
 
 " Just at present I cannot tell you, from the same motive. 
 Be content to leave it with me for a little while, mother — and 
 I'll do my best to unravel it. It is a man you would never 
 think of — nor Otto either. Of course I may be mistaken ; 
 but I've got just a little clue, and I want to follow it up. It 
 will take time to do it — and not a word must be said. As to 
 Black, it was certainly not he. Bad as the man's character 
 is, in this I could almost answer for his innocence. Accuse 
 him wrongfully, and his anger would know no bounds. He'd 
 come straight off to Sir Dene in revenge and tell him of the 
 heaps of tobacco I've had, and the long amount I owe for it. 
 There's brandy as well. Sir Dene — you know the awful fuss 
 he makes about our keeping clear of debt round about here — he 
 is put out with me already, as it is : and he might just send me 
 adrift as he has sent Tom. On my honour I have reason to 
 believe it was not Black ; and I ask you, as a favour to my- 
 self, Otto, to bury what the woman has said in silence." 
 
 That Captain Clanwaring was terribly in earnest in this 
 request ; that he was moved almost to agitation in putting it, 
 both his hearers saw. My lady heartily gave into it without 
 further question, and told him it should drop. Otto tacitly 
 did the same, mentally washing his hands of the affair alto- 
 gether. It Avas nothing to him individually : and at the end 
 of the week he was croins: back to his work in London. 
 
2Cj 5 Dene Hollow, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BACK FROM BRISTOL. 
 
 Pacing the two rooms with slow and measured steps, from 
 the bed-chamber to the sitting-room, from the sitting-room to 
 the bed-chamber, his air not only that of a man pre-occupied 
 with his own thoughts, but as if utterly weary of this life, 
 went Sir Dene Clanwaring. Time was telling on him. Life 
 and its events were telling on him. Is it true that, according 
 as our course has been smooth and easy, imposing no check 
 on our own imperious will and pleasure, so will a period of 
 days more or less dark, more or less short, set in before life 
 shall finally close ? It had certainly been the case with Sir 
 Dene Clanwaring. 
 
 That he had felt his wife's death years ago, and his favourite 
 son Geoffry's death close upon it, as keenly as might be, was 
 indisputable. But these events are of a class that we cannot 
 avert ; they come direct from God: Ave recognise them as such, 
 and the wounds heal again. With these two exceptions Sir 
 Dene's life had been altogether one of prosperity and enjoyment. 
 He reigned supreme in his own neighbourhood ; he took his 
 pleasure abroad at will, in the metropolis or elsewhere; he 
 had an ample income ; no trouble disturbed him. And this 
 desirable state of things continued until he was past his 
 seventieth year. If ever and anon at odd moments a thorn 
 pricked his conscience touching that old affair connected with 
 the widow Barber, it soon disappeared again. But, almost 
 in proportion to the extreme ease of his long life, so had been 
 the tormenting discomfort of the past year or two. 
 
 The greater portion of Sir Dene's love had been concentrated 
 on his grand-daughter, Mai'garet, the eldest child and only 
 daughter of his eldest son. In her earlier years, when she 
 was not of strong health, and it had appeared a doubt whether 
 she would be reared, the physicians had recommended that 
 she should live always in the country air ; and therefore 
 Beechhurst Dene became nearly entirely her home. She was 
 a fair, gentle girl, merry of spirit, tender of heart, a favourite 
 with all. How deeply Sir Dene grew to love her, he was 
 perhaps not conscious of himself, until all was over. Tom 
 was very dear to him, but not so dear as Margaret. As a rule, 
 
Back from Bristol. 297 
 
 men never experience the same fondness for boys that they do 
 for girls. It was Margaret who made Sir Dene's home like 
 one ever shining beam of sunlight : he grew at last not to care 
 to leave it, because she was there. In age there was not 
 much difference between hers and Tom's, she being some few 
 months the younger. 
 
 The day of the end was a day in January, two years ago 
 this very month, when she was in her twenty-second year. 
 Sir Dene was recalling it all as he paced the carpet. He 
 was busy in his bay parlour with Mr. Tillett, who had come 
 over from Harebell Farm to pay his rent, when Margaret put 
 her bright face inside the door to disturb them. She wore 
 a blue velvet gipsy hat, and her overdress was of soft blue 
 cashmere with ermine fur about it. 
 
 " "We are going, grandpapa," she said. " Good-bye." 
 " Good-bye, my darling," responded Sir Dene, fondly kiss- 
 ing her smiling face. " Don't stay out too long." 
 " We shall only go there and back, grandpapa." 
 A young girl of sixteen, Charlotte Scrope, was visiting at 
 Beechhurst Dene at the time, and Margaret was going to drive 
 her as far as Henwick to see her governess — for in that healthy 
 suburb of Worcester, Miss Scrope went to school : a matter 
 of two miles or so from Beechhurst Dene. It was not the 
 custom for ladies to ride on horseback then ; the few who 
 did were called masculine women ; but they sometimes drove 
 a chaise or gig in the country for convenience sake. It was a 
 fine, clear morning, the roads frosty, with bits of ice here 
 and there ; and as the pony-carriage took its way out of 
 Beechhurst Dene, Margaret driving, and a mounted groom 
 behind them, Gander, watching at the hall door, said to him- 
 self they'd have a nice morning of it. 
 
 A nice morning ! In the field skirting Dene Hollow, the 
 field that had once been the widow Barber's, Sir Dene's team 
 was out, ploughing. Tom Clanwaring, riding through it on 
 horseback, halted to say something to the ploughman. As 
 the man, whose face was towards the road, raised his head 
 to answer, his words faltered on his tongue, and his eyes dilated. 
 " Hullo ! What's up ? Look out yonder, sir ! " 
 Tom turned, and was just in time to see the pony-carria^c 
 racing away as if flying for its life. Just in time to see some 
 one jump from it, and fall in the road. He was off his horse, 
 had leaped the railings, and was up with Margaret — for she 
 it was who had jumped — almost as quickly. 
 
298 Dene Hollow. 
 
 She lay still in her blue garments, her lifeless face white as 
 snow. Tom raised her in his arms, but the head fell : fell as 
 he had never seen a head fall in this world. Afraid, he dared 
 not think of what, he knelt down and let the poor head rest 
 upon him ; and, lifting his own white face, shouted out to 
 the ploughman to mount his horse and gallop to the Dene. 
 
 The pony stopped presently of its own accord. Charlotte 
 Scrope, who had sat still, was neither injured nor (she 
 acknowledged) much frightened. The groom, leading the 
 pony back again, the young lady still in her seat in the little 
 carriage, said he could not imagine what had frightened the 
 pony, that it should have put down its ears, and backed all of 
 a sudden, and then, giving a leap, sprung off at a gallop. 
 
 " I cannot think why Margaret should have been so fright- 
 ened as to jump out," cried Miss Scrope. " Has she fainted, 
 Mr. Clanwaring ? " 
 
 Alas ! as the reader has foreseen, it was worse than fainting. 
 Margaret Clanwaring was dead. Her neck was broken. 
 But there were two things that would remain, and did remain, 
 a marvel on thinking minds : why, as little Charlotte Scrope 
 put it, she should have been so frightened as to jump out at 
 all : and why, jumping from that low carriage, her neck 
 should have broken. Mr. Priar talked in rather a learned 
 manner, giving suppositions : that the head must have struck 
 here or struck there : but people wondered for all that. 
 
 Sir Dene came speeding down from Beechhurst Dene with 
 the rest : he could run still, for all his more than seventy 
 years. The first thing that particularly caught his eye was the 
 strangely piteous aspect of Tom's face. It served to startle him. 
 
 " She's not hurt much, is she, Tom ? " 
 
 " I — I — better not disturb her, sir, please," was Tom's 
 distressed answer. " We must get something fiat to lie her 
 upon." 
 
 Seven days afterwards, as Sir Dene Clanwaring stood over 
 her grave in Hurst Leet churchyard, the thought that had 
 been making itself more or less heard all the week, came 
 rushing full upon him with overwhelming force. Ashes to 
 ashes, dust to dust, read the clergyman. Ay : but Sir Dene 
 surely saw, and took home to him, the one great, indisputable 
 fact, indisputable to his conscience, that the curse of retribu- 
 tion lay on the road, Dene Hollow; and that this culminating 
 punishment had come direct from God. The sudden cutting 
 off of this favourite and most beautiful flower, who had 
 
Back from Bristol 299 
 
 become the best solace of bis declining life, was only the 
 righteous judgment of Heaven. Just as Mary Barber, when 
 consigning her poor oppressed mother to the grave, in the 
 same churchyard, had felt a sure and certain conviction that 
 nothing but a curse could lie on the fine new road which had 
 sent the aged woman to that grave before her time, which 
 bad been made, as she at times expressed it, out of her blood 
 and tears ; so did the conviction of his mistake and folly and 
 sin lay hold on Sir Dene as he stood over Margaret's. It was 
 the retribution coming home to him, he mentally said ; the 
 curse working itself out. 
 
 From that hour Sir Dene Clanwaring was a changed man. 
 The pleasantness in his days seemed to have dried up ; all 
 their sweet apples had turned to bitterness. Instead of 
 enjoying life carelessly, looking not beyond it, be began to 
 see how very near, in the course of nature, his own grave 
 must be drawing : he began to realise that he had not, in this 
 short world, been living for, or thinking much of, the eternal 
 one beyond. A kind of shadow, something like that which 
 was reported to lie on Dene Hollow, lay on his own heart 
 perpetually; the shadow of a vast sorrow. Sir Dene saw 
 quite well that it wovdd lie on his life to the end. The time 
 went on. Instead of shaking off petty cares and annoyances 
 as of yore, they clung to him and told upon him in an almost 
 unnatural degree. There were Lours still when he seemed to 
 be full of life and animation, to enjoy the social intercourse 
 with his family as much as ever ; but on the other hand, there 
 were times of depression, when he could truly say the evil 
 days had come, and he found no pleasure in them. 
 
 Such an hour was this. Pacing his carpet with heavy 
 and lagging tread, Sir Dene was dwelling on the two great 
 sources at present embittering his life, the one a thing of the 
 past, the other very recent — Margaret's death, and Tom 
 Clanwaring's base ingratitude. He could not have believed 
 that he should feel the departure of Tom as keenly as he 
 was feeling it, or have wished him back again so ardently. 
 We never know the worth of a thing until we have lost 
 it. Had Tom come back now, and thrown himself at Sir 
 Dene's feet in all humility to confess his sin, and said, 
 " Grandfather, forgive me," Sir Dene would have read him a 
 lecture, and stormed a bit, and then hugged Tom to him in 
 very happiness. The sin, be it always understood, by the 
 reader, was that one Tom had been unconsciously accused of in 
 
300 Dene Hollow. 
 
 conjunction with the young lady at the Trailing Indian. No 
 other rested on the mind of Sir Dene. 
 
 It is a bitter trial to be deceived in one whom we wholly 
 trust. Sir Dene had trusted Tom — had believed him to be of 
 conduct good and honourable — and the awakening brought 
 very sharp pain. Loose conduct was not thought over-much 
 of in those days, by Sir Dene, or by anybody else. It was 
 not that in itself; it was the deception Tom had practised on 
 him : been very black when he had appeared to be wholly white. 
 If Tom had deceived him in one point, he had perhaps in 
 others : at any rate, instead of being a young man of honour, 
 open and candid and upright as the day, he must have been a 
 very sly one, argued Sir Dene. And never to have written ! 
 Five days now since Tom's departure, and not a line from 
 him. What though he had turned him out with harsh words of 
 anger, Tom ought to haveallowed for the passion, and condoned 
 it : he was a young man, his grandfather an old one. Waiting 
 at Bristol, nothing to do with his time there, and yet he could 
 not write one word to the poor old man who had reared and 
 loved him ! Had Sir Dene been told then that Tom had 
 written, written a gentle loving letter, and that my lady sup- 
 pressed it, he had probably turned her out in his fury. And 
 there he was, telling over Tom's sins and ingratitude as he 
 paced the carpet, and lashing himself into a state of rage 
 about it all, when Squire Ardc was shown in on his return 
 from Bristol. 
 
 " Tom did not take that bag of money, Sir Dene," said the 
 Squire, impulsively, after explaining in two or three words 
 where he had been to, and that he had seen Tom. 
 
 " No, that he did not," was the somewhat unexpected but 
 emphatic answer of Sir Dene. " I was enraged against him 
 at the time, Arde, or I should never have thought it. Mad, I 
 think, I must ha' been. Poor Geoff was the soul of honour, 
 and Tom takes after him." 
 
 '■ It's a great pity, Sir Dene, that the suspicion was caught 
 up against him. Of course he did not take it. But who 
 did ?'" 
 
 " There ! Let the dratted dross go. I sha'n't make a stir 
 over it. Perhaps the rats — sink 'em ! — got at it. Much good 
 may it do 'cm ! " 
 
 The explosive answer proved how very much Mr. Arde's 
 comments, coming upon his own previous state of mind, told 
 on Sir Dene's temper. It was the custom in those days for 
 
Back from Bristol. 301 
 
 country gentlemen — and town gentlemen also, for that matter 
 — to use far broader terms of speech than these. Sir Dene 
 had usually been a notable exception, save at some rare 
 moments when passion o'ermastered him. It appeared that 
 passion could sometimes be in the ascendant still. 
 
 " Are you ill ? " asked Mr. Arde, wondering at the irrita- 
 bility. 
 
 " I don't know. Ill in temper, I suppose. I miss Tom. 
 Things go cross without him. That Weston that they've put 
 on has been in three times this very day, asking this and ask- 
 ing t'other. Three times ! I shall have my life bothered out. 
 Tom. was my right hand, Arde ; I didn't value him when he 
 was here, but now I look round for him every minute of the 
 livelong day." 
 
 " Have him back," suggested the Squire. 
 
 " Not just yet. Lady Lydia would say I did it to affront 
 her. He was insolent to her : there's no denying it. And 
 there's that other thing lying always against him. He forgot 
 his honour there." 
 
 " But what is that other thing ? " questioned the Squire, 
 thinking he was about to have his curiosity gratified at last. 
 " Torn declares he knows of nothing." 
 
 " Let it pass," snarled Sir Dene, putting up his hand im- 
 patiently to enforce the words. " I'll never give utterance to 
 it as long as I live : I'd rather open a running sore. Tom's 
 been a confounded fool — and that's enough. No, Arde : I 
 can't recall him yet to Beechhurst Dene." 
 
 " A spell of absence and of Ireland will do him good," re- 
 marked Mr. Arde soothingly — for he had rarely seen Sir 
 Dene put out so grievously as this. " It will give him the 
 experience of the world that he'd never learn at home : and a 
 dose of roughing it is always serviceable to young men. In 
 regard to that money " 
 
 "Hang the money ! " roared the old man. " I won't hear 
 any more about the money. But for thinking he had helped 
 himself to it — and I was an idiot for my pains — I might never 
 have let him go. When it came to the last interview, why — 
 things might have taken a turn. I never intended that to 
 be the last — when I gave him his instruction and funds for 
 his journey. Close upon that the loss was discovered, and I 
 locked myself up in these rooms, so as not to see him again, 
 and gave my orders to Gander." 
 
 " I was only about to say that some one might have come 
 
302 Dene Hollow, 
 
 in through the window, and taken it from the secretary," 
 quietly pursued Mr. Arde. " In my opinion there's no doubt 
 it went that way ; I think Tom has none, either. For all you 
 know, Sir Dene, some one may have been concealed amid the 
 shrubs outside and have actually watched you count the 
 money. Have watched all that passed/' 
 
 " Let it go, Arde. With one thing or another, you'll drive 
 me mad. Of course that's how it went — have I no brains, 
 d'ye suppose ? And to think how I slandered Tom ! — my 
 own boy's son ! Bury the money ! I wish Parker had been 
 buried before he'd brought it here that afternoon ! " 
 
 In all this, Mr. Arde could but discern one prevailing de- 
 sire : a longing to have Tom back again. The nest minute, 
 Sir Dene unconsciously confirmed it in a singular degree. 
 
 " Margaret gone ; gone in that awful manner ; and now he 
 is gone ; gone in disgrace ! What's the good of my life to 
 me ? They were the two I cared for." 
 
 " Not much difficulty, I fancy, in getting him back again 
 before he reaches Ireland at all," thought the Squire. " You'd 
 like Tom to be here, I see, Sir Dene," said he aloud. 
 
 "Better, I dare say, than he cares to come!" retorted Sir Dene. 
 " Never to write a word to me ! — it's too ungrateful, Arde." 
 
 Mr. Arde thought of the very nice letter he, himself, had 
 received from Tom, and wondered. During that interview at 
 Bristol, the subject was not started, and Tom did not happen 
 to mention that he had written to his grandfather. 
 
 " But — has he not written to you, Sir Dene ? " 
 
 " Not a word. He is bearing malice, you see. I didn't 
 think it of him. Or else he's ashamed to write. There : let 
 it go, I say. Come in at five and eat a bit o' dinner with me, 
 Arde. Goodness knows I'm dull enough ! We'll have it up 
 here alone together, you and me." 
 
 "Tom shall get a private hint from me not to hurry away 
 from Bristol, and to write to the old man forthwith," mentally 
 decided the Squire, as he accepted the invitation. " In a 
 week's time he'll be back at Beechhurst Dene." 
 
 Would he ! If things did but go according to our wishes, 
 well-laid plans might succeed. The first link in the chain of 
 events, destined to frustrate Squire Arde's good intentions, 
 was woven even as he left Sir Dene's presence. 
 
 Turning in at the library door, to say how d'ye do to the 
 family, and to tell them he had been to Bristol, Mr. Arde came 
 upon Otto. Otto alone. He was leaning back in an arm- 
 
Back from Bristol. 303 
 
 chair, his feet on the fender, reading some dry law book. The 
 barrister was going np to London by the morrow's night mail 
 from Woi'cester : a letter, received that morning, was taking 
 him away a day or two earlier than he had intended. Putting 
 the book down, he rose from his seat to shake hands with Mr. 
 Arde. 
 
 " I'm heartily glad you've been to see him, Squire," spoke 
 Otto earnestly, as they stood over the fire, and he listened to 
 the details of the Squire's journey. " In my opinion Tom has 
 been shamefully used among us." 
 
 " Sir Dene wants him back already ; I see that plainly," 
 returned the Squire. "As you say, he has been badly used." 
 
 "Fancy his being accused of taking that bag of money ! " 
 continued Otto. " Great asses they must all have been to 
 think it ! " 
 
 " Ay. But now — who could have taken it ? " 
 
 " Who ! Why Kandy Black." 
 
 " Randy Black ! " echoed Mr. Arde, in great amazement. 
 
 And the exclamation caused Otto to remember what in the 
 impulse of the moment he had quite forgotten — his brother's 
 earnest injunction not to speak of Mr. Randy. He set him- 
 self to repair the damage in the best way he could. 
 
 " Look here, Squire. I ought not to have spoken of this," 
 he said, dropping his voice. " Jarvey has got some idea in 
 his head as to another man — not Black — and has sworn us all 
 to silence in the interests of justice. Don't let it go any 
 further." 
 
 The Squire nodded. " Do you happen to know who the 
 other is ? " 
 
 " Jarvey won't say : it might defeat inquiry, he thinks. 
 For my own part, I privately believe there's no doubt it was 
 Black. Not to speak of the man's bad character, appearances 
 are nearly conclusive against him." 
 
 " Do you object to tell me what they are ? " 
 
 " Not at all — as I've told you so much. But mind you keep 
 counsel." , 
 
 " Of course I'll keep it," said the Squire. " I'd not help 
 to defeat the ends of justice for the world." 
 
 And Otto Clanwaring, perfectly satisfied of that, with or 
 without the assurance, related what had come to their know- 
 ledge. About the time the robbery was committed, Randy 
 Black was seen to fly down the side path, leading direct from 
 the bay-window, in what seemed to be an agony of terror. 
 
304 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Which terror might, of course, have been caused by a fear 
 of pursuit — and most pi'obably "was," concluded Otto. 
 
 "But -who saw this ? " questioned Mr. Arde. 
 
 " It was Mary Barber. She was coming across here, it 
 seems, to borrow something of the cook ; and met Black in 
 this state. I never knew any case that looked more like a cir- 
 cumstantial evidence of guilt in my experience," continued 
 the barrister, with as much assumption of dignity as though 
 he had been the Lord Chief Baron of the realm. 
 
 Mr. Arde agreed. In his own mind he deemed this evidence 
 perfectly conclusive against Black. " Sir Dene does not know 
 of this, does he ? " he asked. 
 
 " Not yet. Jarvis wants to follow up his suspicion first in 
 quiet : if Sir Dene were told, he would be sure to make a stir 
 in it, and accuse Black. And that would — would spoil sport," 
 concluded Otto, after a slight pause of consideration, during 
 which he had remembered that he had no right and no need to 
 allude to the other motive given by his brother for keeping 
 Black's name from Sir Dene — the debt. 
 
 " Any way, whoever it may turn out to be, I'll answer for 
 it that it was not Tom Clanwaring," concluded Mr. Arde, as 
 he shook hands to leave. 
 
 " I'd have ansAvered for that myself all along — and told them. 
 so," was the reply of Otto. " Mind you keep counsel abroad, 
 Squire. Above all, don't let out to Jarvis that I've said any- 
 thing. He'd think at once it was going to be proclaimed to 
 the parish." 
 
 Squire Arde nodded. " All safe. Trust me." 
 
 He went slowly down the front avenue with his hands in his 
 pockets. The Squire was in no hurry : upon arriving at his 
 home that day he had found his wife and daughter absent. 
 Not expecting him — in fact, not knowing when he would re- 
 turn, or where it was that he had gone — they had driven over 
 to spend the day with some friends, living in the neighbour- 
 hood of Powick. . One of the children at the lodge — it was a 
 fresh generation there now — ran out with a smiling face, and 
 held open the small gate for the Squire : for which he patted 
 her head, and dropped a halfpenny into her blue cotton pinafore. 
 
 " How's mother ? " asked he. 
 
 " Mother's a getting better, thank yer honour," said the 
 child, bobbing straight down. " Dick, he says we shall ha' 
 some snow-balling afore to-morrow," gratuitously added she, 
 her eyes brightening at the prospect. 
 
Back from Bristol. 305 
 
 " Maybe," returned the Squire. " There. Run in." 
 Outside the gate he stood, revolving what he had heard. A 
 slight covering of snow lay on the ground, just enough to ruako 
 the fields and roads white. The little girl, peeping from the 
 door, thought his honour was contemplating the landscape in 
 reference to the tempting prospect of snow-balling. Mr. Arde 
 was debating whether, instead of turning home at once, where 
 nobody waited for him, he would not rather go on to Harebell 
 Farm and question Mary Barber. He felt half inclined to 
 continue his walk also, from thence to the Trailing Indian. 
 
 " All safe. Trust me," the Squire had said to Otto Clan- 
 waring ; and said it in perfect good faith. He would no more 
 have gone talking of this matter to a stranger than he would 
 have set the Worcester bellman to cry it in that city the next 
 market-day : but it never occurred to him to think that he 
 might not speak of it privately to the only one to whom (apart 
 from Beechhurst Dene) the incident concerning Black was 
 known — who had been the one to witness it, and to carry it to 
 the Dene — Mary Barber. Rather, he considered, it was a 
 secret lodged between himself and her ; one that concerned 
 him in whom they were both interested, and of whose inno- 
 cence both felt equally sure — Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 " I'll go," decided the Squire. " I've got plenty of time on 
 my hands, and a longer walk this sharp day'll do me good. 
 Precious cold that homeward journey vvas : one's feet get 
 frozen, travelling such weather as this." 
 
 " Good clay, Squire. So you're back again, sir ! " 
 The salutation came from Cole, the farrier, who met the 
 Squire as he was wheeling round. 
 
 " Just back," returned the Squire. " I've been to Bristol." 
 A light shone in Cole's eyes. The words revealed to him 
 that he had been to see Tom Clanwaring. 
 " Is he really a-going to Ireland, Squire ? " 
 " That he is, Cole. According to present intentions." 
 "What a shame it was, their suspecting him about that bag 
 of money ! " resumed Cole. " As if Mr. Tom 'ud do dirty 
 work o' that sort ! " 
 
 " Pooh, that was all nonsense," said the Squire carelessly. 
 "It's known it wasn't him." 
 
 _ " Ay, sure : or else I might ha' put a spoke in the wheel for 
 him myself," returned Cole, in a significant tone that caught 
 the Squire's ear. " I saw somebody that same evening not a 
 hundred mile off Sir Dene's bay-parlour." 
 
 x 
 
306 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 " I know ! " cried the Squire ia Lis incautious impatience. 
 "'Twas Randy Black." 
 
 Cole glanced keenly at the Squire, as if in some slight sur- 
 prise : and then his eyes went straight out into the far-away 
 horizon. It was only that morning that he had received Tom 
 Clanwaring's letter, enjoining silence. 
 
 " As to Randy Black, if all tales be true, he's capable o' 
 worse things than stealing money," returned the farrier, care- 
 lessly. " But I'm not going to mix myself up in his affairs. 
 Good day, Squire." 
 
 " Good day, Cole." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 MISS EMMA GONE. 
 
 " All of a shake, he was, and his face whiter nor this here 
 kerchief I've got on," said Mary Barber, in answer to Mr. 
 Arde's confidential questionings, as she stood, cloth in hand, 
 and her gown drawn through its pocket-hole : for he had dis- 
 turbed her when she was hard at work in the best parlour, 
 " beeswaxing" the bright old mahogany furniture. 
 
 " There can't be a doubt that it's what he had been after — 
 that bag of money," returned the Squire. " The very absurdity 
 of his plea for accounting for the fright ; that he had seen — 
 had seen Robert Owen, would be almost enough evidence, 
 without anything else." 
 
 Mary Barber did not immediately reply. She had thoughts 
 and thoughts. Dwelling upon the matter very much, indeed, 
 as she had done since her visit to Beechhurst Dene, she had 
 come to a somewhat different conclusion from that which she 
 had mentally drawn then. 
 
 " Squire Arde, I think he saw the poor master. Any way, 
 that he fancied he did. Because " 
 
 "How can you talk such nonsense, woman? " interrupted 
 Mr. Arde — who had never liked the report at all. " I thought 
 that fools' gossip had died out long ago." 
 
 " So did I," said independent Mary Barber. " But it seems 
 it hasn't : though what on earth can bring him above ground 
 again — if he is above it — is more than I can tell. Look here, 
 Squire : that terror of Randy Black's last Saturday night was 
 real terror : and I don't believe it was caused, or could ha' 
 been caused, by anything but what he said. Supernatural 
 
Miss Emma Gone. 307 
 
 terror is different from other terror, say that caused by the 
 fear o' pursuit. Had Black been running from pursuit only, 
 he'd not have had his face ghastly, and his teeth a-chattering, 
 and his skin in a clammy sweat. He'd ha' been flying stealthily, 
 too, with steps as hardly dared touch the ground for 'fraid o' 
 being heard and tracked : not with a great bustle and noise, 
 as he was." 
 
 She paused, and gave a moment's vigorous rub to the table, 
 as if to enforce the argument. Squire Arde stood, knitting 
 his brow. Leaving the cloth where it was, she resumed : — 
 
 " Randy Black 'ud no more have showed that mortal fear 
 to living man or woman, if 'twasn't real, than he'd confess 
 himself a thief. It's the sort o' fear men be ashamed to own 
 to : and they never would own to it but for being took un- 
 awares like, in the minute that the fright's upon 'em. Why, 
 Squire, he was beside himself with fright ! He a'most clung 
 to my shawl for company ! If he'd only been a-taking the 
 money, would he have give Jack Pound's boy a sixpence to 
 walk up Harebell Lane with him, because he didn't dare to go 
 alone ? No ; he'd rather have slunk off somewhere by hisself, 
 and hid away from pursuit. Randy Black saw the old master 
 on Saturday night, Squire," she concluded emphatically, " or 
 thought he saw him, as safe as that my name's Mary 
 Barber." 
 
 " All the same he might have helped himself to the bag 
 of money." 
 
 "He might," she answered, with a stress on the word that 
 indicated doubt. " I don't feel so sure of it as I did in the 
 first burst o' the thing. Maybe time '11 tell, sir." 
 
 And somehow, Mr. Arde, a rather impressionable man, did 
 not feel so sure of it, either. Instead of returning home when 
 he left the farm, he walked across the fields towards the Trail- 
 ing Indian. The narrow path between the grove and the 
 fence, from whence poor Robert Owen had fallen (as was sup- 
 posed) to his death ; the pond in the lane underneath ; the 
 old cowshed in the two-acre meadow — all were there just as 
 they used to be a quarter of a century before. Squire Arde, 
 passing the familiar objects, had his thoughts back in that 
 bygone time. He remembered, as though it had taken place 
 but yesterday, that visit he and his relative, the quaint old 
 Squire, and Geoffry Clanwaring had made to the Trailing 
 Indian the day after Robert Owen's disappearance, and his 
 own vague doubts of Black. If the landlord had really had 
 
308 Dene Hollow. 
 
 any hand in Mr. Owen's death, it might account for these fits 
 of superstitious terror, that had occasionally assailed him 
 since. 
 
 Silent and deserted as usual looked the Trailing Indian 
 ■when Mr. Arde approached it. But no sooner had he entered 
 the yard gate than a stout young fellow of eighteen, Sam 
 Pound, came rushing out of the stable. His smock frock was 
 rolled up round his middle, he wore no hat, and he had 
 altogether the air of being at home and at work. 
 
 The Pounds were enough to puzzle people — there was such 
 a flock of them. John and Matty Pound, at whose cottage, 
 as may be remembered, the Widow Barber died, had fifteen 
 children. This young man, Sam, was the youngest of them ; 
 Jack, the eldest of the bunch, was the father of the little lad 
 "who was carter's boy at Harebell Farm. 
 
 " Is it you, Sam Pound ? " exclaimed Mr. Arde. " What 
 are you doing here ? " 
 
 "I be a come to live up here, Squire," was the answer — 
 and the young man appeared proud of having to say it, and 
 pulled his hair, that was like nothing in the world but tow. 
 " That there stable be in a rare muck o'pickle, so I were a 
 cleaning of it out a bit." 
 
 " Come to live hei'e ? " repeated the Squire slowly, thinking 
 it strange Black should take on a man when so little business 
 was doing to require it. " Are you to be ostler ? " 
 
 " Man of all work, indoors and out. Randy Black, he sent 
 for old feyther to come up yesterday, and they made the bar- 
 gain atween 'em. Five pound a year I be to earn and my 
 witl's and lodging. There be nobody but me to do nothing 
 for 'em nohow," added Sam Pound, who possessed about the 
 readiest tongue within a ten-mile radius. " Landlord, he be 
 bad of his cough ; and missis, her's bad ; and Miss Geach, 
 she've been and went off." 
 
 "Where's she gone to ? What's she gone for ? " questioned 
 the Squire. 
 
 " Well, I take it her didn't care to stay no longer i' the 
 face and eyes o' folks," returned the shrewd young man. 
 " After cocketing up of herself above the parish all these 
 mortal years, and a turning up of her nose at decent, hard- 
 working young men like our Jim, a fine market she've been 
 and went and brought her pigs to. And Jim, he's a doing 
 better nor any on us, and could ha' give her a good home, wi' 
 a side o' bacon in't !" 
 
Miss Emma Gone. 309 
 
 u But where' s she gone ? " repeated Mr. Arde. 
 
 Sam Pound shook his head to indicate his ignorance upon 
 the point ; shook it resentfully too. 
 
 " Her stopped the stage coach as it druv along the highway 
 yonder yester morn, missis says, and got up atop, and sot 
 herself down on't ; her, and her big ban'box o' clothes along- 
 side of her." 
 
 The first object Mr. Arde saw on entering the inn was 
 Black himself, groaning and coughing, and choking over the 
 kitchen-fire. Whether Black's disobedience of the Doctor's 
 injunction to stay indoors, had tended to bring on a relapse, 
 or whether it might have been the adventure in the Beech- 
 hurst Dene grounds that was telling on his nerves, certain it 
 was that the man looked very ill ; ominously so. The poor 
 ailing wife, worse than usual that day, was lying in bed up- 
 stairs. Mr. Arde sat down, his stout umbrella held out before 
 him. 
 
 Now, Squire Arde had not gone to the inn to accuse Black 
 outright of the theft ; rather, he intended by a series of delicate 
 pumpings, to glean what he could in an incidental manner, 
 and thence deduce his own judgment of things. But nearly 
 at the first, he found himself foiled. Black evidently could 
 not understand him ; and when Mr. Arde spoke out more 
 plainly, the man's surprise was so great, and apparently so 
 genuine, that Mr. Arde was fairly puzzled. 
 
 " Don't you know that Sir Dene lost a bag of money out of 
 his secretary on Saturday night ? " pursued Mr. Arde. 
 
 " I never knew a word on't," returned Black emphatically, 
 turning his white face (white from sickness) full on the 
 Squire's — and for once both face and tones seemed as truthful 
 as an honest man's. " What sort of a bag was't — how much 
 money had it got in't ? " 
 
 " Well, it was just a little sample barley-bag ; and the sum 
 was forty-five pounds," replied the Squire, giving him gaze 
 for gaze. 
 
 " Notes or gold, sir ? " 
 
 " Both." 
 
 Black slowly turned his eyes on the kitchen fire, and seemed 
 to be thinking. It must be owned that he had not the air of a 
 guilty man. 
 
 " Hearing that you were met flying out of the grounds 
 about the same time, Black — that is, at dusk — I was wonder- 
 ing whether you had seen anything of the robbery," continued 
 
310 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Mr. Arde, thinking ho was opening the ball with charming 
 finesse. " Any suspicious-looking people round the bay win- 
 dow, for instance ? " 
 
 Black shook his head. " I warn't anigh the bay-window, 
 Squire. I never got more nor half way up the path to'ard it." 
 
 "What put you in that state of fright, then? You had, I 
 believe, all the appearance of a man flying from pursuit." 
 
 " Well, because I got a fright, Squire. It don't matter 
 what 'twas. I " 
 
 Black stopped short, turned sideways, and looked at his visi- 
 tor questioningly, the sickly face growing a little dark. Mr. 
 Arde thought the man had suddenly divined that he was sus- 
 pected of this thing. 
 
 " I had got a fright," he repeated sullenly. 
 
 " Fancying you saw Mr. Owen's ghost ! " 
 
 " Did you hear that there from Mary Barber ? " questioned 
 Black after a pause. 
 
 " Well — yes. That's near enough. What a foolish coward 
 you must be, Black, to fancy anything so ridiculous ! " 
 
 " I see him as plain as I see you at this moment, Squire," 
 burst forth Black in excitement. "He stood i' the pathway 
 right in front of me, and I were close up again him afore I 
 knew what 'twas, a-standing there i' the dusk, I swear I 
 saw him. I'd swear it if 'twas my last breath." 
 
 The recollection, even now, seemed to bring out a cold 
 sweat on Black's face. Mr. Arde, his hands leaning on the 
 top of his umbrella, and his chin on his hands, could but look 
 at him. For some moments nothing was to be heard but the 
 ticking of the eight-day clock, standing in its upright case 
 against the wall by the chimney-piece. 
 
 " Never a thing did I see i' the grounds but the ghost o' 
 Robert Owen," resumed Black, with the same amount of 
 earnestness but with less excitement. "Nothing frighted me 
 but that. As to the theft o' money from Sir Dene's parlour, I 
 saw nothing on't, nor nobody about to help theirselves to't. And 
 I'll take my oath as I never hcered o' the loss till this minute." 
 
 Had it been anybody but Black, the Squire would have 
 given to this the most implicit ci'edence. Being Black, know- 
 ing the man's habitual cunning and ruses — his assertions of 
 innocence when accused of poaching end the like, every 
 word of which was always a deliberate lie — he knew not what 
 to think. A question suddenly occurred to him after he had 
 risen to depart. 
 
Miss Emma Gone. 311 
 
 " What brought you in the Beechhurst Dene grounds at all, 
 Black?" 
 
 " I was a-going to ask leave to speak to Captain Clanwaring," 
 replied the man readily. " He's owing me a trifle for baccy, 
 him ; and I thought I'd go across, and ask him for't. " 
 
 A very reasonable plea, presenting neither doubt nor diffi- 
 culty to the mind of Mr. Arde. Sometimes he owed for to- 
 bacco at the Trailing Indian himself. 
 
 " I hear that Emma Geach is gone away," he remarked, the 
 door in his hand. 
 
 "Drat her, yes ! — and I be glad on't," exploded Black, in a 
 very different tone. " I'd sooner have her room nor her com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Where's she gone ? " 
 
 " Her didn't tell me. Took French leave, and was off afore 
 I got out o' bed ! Let her go ! — go where her will. Dratted 
 baggage ! " 
 
 A sense of failure, in regard to the result of his expedition, 
 lay on Squire Arde's mind as he and his umbrella went down 
 Harebell Lane. 
 
 " I don't know what to believe, and that's the fact," he told 
 himself. " Every word the man spoke seemed true. But then 
 — who can trust Black ? But for Otto Clanwaring's stidct in- 
 junctions to be silent, I'd ask the captain who the other one is 
 that he suspects. As it is — well, it's of no good for me to med- 
 dle further in it. Tom's cleared among 'em, and so let it go." 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring and the Squire spent a pleasant even- 
 ing together, Gander waiting on them. Sir Dene avoided the 
 topic of Tom Clanwaring (and indeed all topics connected 
 with home troubles), but ever and anon a chance word would 
 drop from him inadvertently, by which Mr. Arde gathered how 
 much Tom was missed. At nine o'clock he took leave, for 
 the host was weary, and wanted to go to rest. 
 
 " Sir Dene feels Tom's absence very deeply," innocently re- 
 marked the Squire to Lady Lydia, when he looked into the 
 drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. Captain Clan- 
 waring and Mrs. Letsom were dining abroad ; Otto had gone 
 out to post a letter. " Sir Dene wants him back again." 
 
 " Wants him back again ! " repeated my lady, letting fall 
 her knitting. 
 
 " That he does," cried the blundering Squire — who was 
 one that could never see an inch beyond his nose. " I think 
 we shall have him back, too, before a week, or so's, gone over. 
 
312 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Every drop of blood in Lady Lydia's veins seemed to stand 
 still as she listened. Have the scapegoat back again ! — after 
 all her trouble ! but she was a thorough diplomatist ; and she 
 smiled sweetly on the Squire as he stood before her. 
 
 " You have been to Bristol to see him, I hear." 
 
 " Aye, I thought I'd better go. And really, Lady Lydia, I 
 must say, I think he has been sent away unjustly. Tom as- 
 sured me that he had done nothing to merit expulsion, as far 
 as he knew." 
 
 " Tou are so kind-hearted, dear Squire ; and so unsus- 
 picious ! Of course, Tom Clanwaring would not proclaim his 
 naughty deeds to you." 
 
 " The question, my lady, is — has he done any ? " was the 
 somewhat blunt answer. 
 
 Standing beside him on the hearthrug, glancing round as 
 if to make sure that they were indeed alone, her voice quite 
 affectionately low, her smile sweet still, my lady breathed into 
 the Squire's ear, a whisper of Miss Emma Geach. 
 
 " No ! " broke out the Squire. " That never was Tom." 
 
 " Yes, it was. Tom." And then she told what she had 
 heard from Otto. Woven into a tale (as she had been weaving 
 it in her mind this past week) it seemed to be a charming 
 history of proofs, one fitting into another. Lady Lydia, her- 
 self, fully believed in it. 
 
 The Squire gave vent to a long, dismal whistle. " I'd never 
 have believed it of him," he cried, his mouth falling. " What 
 a confounded hypocrite he must be ! " 
 
 " Believe me, dear Mr. Arde, it is better that he should be 
 away than here," she plaintively said. " Better for the peace 
 of this house ; better for that miserable girl at the Trailing 
 Indian ; better for you, especially better for your daughter. 
 Rely upon it, all things are ordered for the best." 
 
 " What difference does it make to my daughter ? "demanded 
 Mr. Arde, opening his eyes at the words. 
 
 " Ah — what ! But perhaps I ought not to speak out so 
 fully," she added, in her candour. " I should not to any one 
 but yourself. He was a presuming, designing villain, dear 
 Mr. Arde. He dared to fall in love with May — there's no 
 question of it ; there's no doubt he dared to cherish the prospect 
 of making her his wife. Yes, even he, Mr. Tom Clanwaring ! " 
 
 The Squire's eyes dilated : the Squire's eyes grew round with 
 horror. He! — the penniless obscure scapegoat, Tom Clan- 
 waring ? 
 
Miss Emma Gone. 313 
 
 " Make tip to Miss Arde — to my daughter ! " he stuttered. 
 " Why the fellow must possess the impudence of Belial ! Is 
 he mad ? " 
 
 " But that your own eyes must have been held, you would 
 have seen it for yourself," she said. " I think Mrs. Arde saw 
 it. There's no knowing what he might have beguiled May into, 
 had he remained— a secret marriage, possibly : girls are inno- 
 cent and persuadeable. Secret marriages run in his race, you 
 know." 
 
 It was a side fling at poor dead Geoffry and Maria. Mr. 
 Arde, overwhelmed with a conflict of feelings, wondered 
 ■whether he was awake or asleep. 
 
 " Believe me, Squire, it is good for us all that he should be 
 at a safe distance. Once in Ireland, the sea will flow between 
 him and us. Let him stay there." 
 
 Squire Arde acquiesced with his whole heart, and with a 
 few strong words. He would have moved heaven and earth 
 then to keep Tom Clanwaring and danger away, rather than 
 help to recall him. His daughter ! — and her twenty thousand 
 pounds on her wedding-day, coveted by him ! He began to see 
 that he was a scapegoat, and nothing less : he began to think 
 it likely that he had taken that money ; all the enormities of 
 which Tom Clanwarins' had been accused found a willing- echo 
 in his mind. So prone is frail human nature to be swayed by 
 self-interest. 
 
 Going down the avenue on his way home, and stamping as 
 he went, as if to throw the flakes of snow off his boots, in 
 reality to stamp off his indignation, whom should he meet just 
 before he got to the lodge but Otto Clanwaring. In a few r 
 angry words the Squire stormed out the news he had heard, 
 and compared Tom to the arch-enemy. 
 
 " Confound it ! I wish I had lost my tongue before I'd ever 
 mentioned the thing," was Otto's sharp retort. "We are 
 none of us so white ourselves, Squire, I dare say. As to that 
 Gcach girl and her native impudence, she's not much to make 
 an outcry over." 
 
 " It's not that," foamed the Squire : " it's the two-faced 
 hypocrisy of the fellow altogether. I believed in him a'most 
 as I believed in myself, Otto Clanwaring." 
 
 And away he went ; stamping furiously amidst the snow- 
 storm. 
 
314 Dene Hollow. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 SELLING OUT. 
 
 The days and weeks went on. Tom Clanwaring's departure 
 got to be a thing of the past. Tom. was in Ireland, hard at 
 work, filling the post he had been sent to. It was no sinecure. 
 He had been pretty active on his grandfather's estate ; he had 
 to do a vast deal more now ; and his personal responsibility 
 was greatly increased. The rumour, that he had stood in the 
 relation of sweetheart to Miss Emma Geach had become pub- 
 lic property — but I think this has been said before : and Hurst 
 Leet concluded that Sir Dene — or perhaps my lady — had 
 banished him by way of punishment. Considering the light 
 estimation anything of sweethearting was then held in, and 
 the lighter estimation in which Miss Geach was held, Hurst 
 Leet came to the conclusion that the punishment was harder 
 than it need have been. 
 
 In January, when Otto Clanwaring returned to London, the 
 captain ran up with him, having, as he said, business there. 
 But Jarvis was soon back again. Sir Dene, responding to 
 some dexterous j)ersuasion of my lady's, helped Captain Clan- 
 waring temporarily with a tolerably fair sum. It ought to have 
 set him on his legs. Perhaps everybody thought it had, save 
 the captain and his creditors. 
 
 In one thing the wise captain showed himself unwise. Un- 
 wise as a child. Xo sooner was he down at Beechhurst Dene 
 again, than he made an offer of his Land to Mary Arde. In 
 the whole, Tom had not been gone three weeks ; the remem- 
 brance of him and his shallowey disguised love was full on 
 May ; and Captain Jarvis Clanwaring's own sense (for he cer- 
 tainly suspected the love) might have told him so. May 
 refused him, with a few pretty words of thanks. "What else 
 could he expect ? Privately cursing his precipitancy, the gal- 
 lant captain made her a soft bland speech, intimating that his 
 love for her could never die ; and that he was willing to wait 
 and work for her as Jacob (to whom he compared himself) did 
 for Rachel, and think it no hardship. To this May replied 
 that she begged he would not think of waiting for her ; she had 
 made up her mind not to marry at all. They parted good 
 friends, apparently on the same terms that they had been 
 beforehand. 
 
Selling Out. 315 
 
 After this, Captain Clanwaring divided his time pretty 
 equally between London and Beechhurst Dene. No lover 
 could ever pay his court more silently and unobtrusively than 
 he did to May, hoping to rectify that first mistake. Not a 
 day passed but he was at the hall : but he pressed no more 
 attentions on May than he did on her mother. He had made 
 up his mind to win her, and win her he would, but he knew 
 that he could not do it by storm. Lady Lydia made the best 
 play for him, especially with Mr. and Mrs. Arde. 
 
 And in Mr. Arde's great fear lest his daughter should bo 
 beguiled by Tom Clanwaring and bestow herself and her 
 twenty thousand pounds upon so miserable a scapegoat (for 
 over that twenty thousand pounds Mr. Arde had no control 
 whatever), he looked with something like favour on the pre- 
 tensions of Jarvis Clanwaring. Captain Clanwaring was not 
 a particular favourite of his : he had disliked him as a boy, he 
 did not much like him as a man ; and he would not have pre- 
 ferred a soldier for May. Still the captain seemed strangely 
 desirable by the side of Tom. We estimate all things by com- 
 parison, and shall as long as the world lasts. Mr. Arde knew 
 no particular ill of Captain Clanwaring : it was generally be- 
 lieved that the captain had a few debts ; but debt was so 
 common an appendage at that day to young men of fashion 
 that Mr. Arde did not give that a second thought. Lady 
 Lydia whispered that Jarvis would inherit a large amount of 
 Sir Dene's savings, and all of her own. What her savings 
 might be, or whence they came, she did not state : but Mr. 
 and Mrs. Arde, both single-minded people in the main, never 
 doubted her word. 
 
 To his wife, and his wife alone, Mr. Arde had whispered 
 the tale of Tom's evil-doings, of the incredible manner in 
 which they had been deceived in him, of the infamous hypocrisy 
 he must have carried on. Rushing home that January night 
 through the snow-storm, he found his wife, just returned, sitting 
 over the fire in her bedroom, and he told her all. Mrs. Arde 
 was shocked. She had a high esteem for Tom : putting aside 
 that semi-fear as to her daughter, she liked him excessively; and 
 she could not at first give credit to the tale. Her husband 
 assured her it was positively true : having no doubt of it him- 
 self, you see. They agreed to keep it from May ; it was not 
 suitable for her ears ; never to breathe it to her, save in the 
 extremity of necessity. May gathered that Tom had done some- 
 thing or other frightfully wrong — a vast deal worse than having 
 
3 16 Dene Hollow. 
 
 knocked down Captain Clanwaring in a passion ; but when 
 she asked her mother what it was, Mrs. Arde replied that it 
 would not bear talking of. 
 
 Just a word here about Miss Emma Geach. She was sup- 
 posed to be hiding her diminished head in some shelter, near 
 or distant, as might be convenient to herj taking rest, and 
 gathering fresh strength and (as the people put it) brass, 
 against the time that she should come forth again to adorn 
 the world. And that she would come, and live amongst them 
 as usual, Hurst Leet made no sort of question of. And thus 
 the time went on. 
 
 The next news was that Captain Clanwaring had quitted 
 the army — sold out. Lady Lydia was the first to carry the 
 tidings to Arde Hall ; Jarvis being in London completing the 
 negotiations. Two causes had induced him to take the step, 
 she said : the one was, that he could not bear to separate from 
 May — as he must have done, for he was unable to get a further 
 extension of absence ; the other, that he knew Mr. A.rde 
 would like him better if he were not a soldier. In reference 
 to May, Mr. Arde certainly would : but he observed to Lady 
 Lydia that he thought it a pity : young men were so much 
 better with some occupation than without it. 
 
 The same reasons were assigned to Sir Dene Clanwaring, 
 upon whom the news came with intense surprise. Sir Dene 
 w T as rapidly failing in health. Both body and mind were now 
 so weakened that a state of something like apathy had set in ; 
 and he rarely took much note of anything. This selling out 
 of Jarvis's, however, aroused him in an extraordinary degree, 
 and he stormed over it as he had been wont to storm over 
 annoyances in the days gone by. Lady Lydia quietly shut 
 the doors while it lasted, then answered his questions and set 
 herself to soothe the tempest. How did the fellow think he 
 was going to live, flinging up his profession in that mad w T ay, 
 demanded Sir Dene ; and my Lady calmly answered that he 
 was going to marry Squire Arde's daughter, and would suc- 
 ceed to the Hall (as a matter of course) in the lapse of time. 
 Sir Dene shook his head, only half convinced — half convinced 
 of the wedding project, not at all of the expediency of the 
 selling out — but his physical powers were unequal to maintain 
 either passion or contention long. Dear Jarvey had quitted 
 the army because of this contemplated marriage, she urged ; 
 he would for the present take up his abode at Beechhurst 
 Dene, and make himself useful to his revered grandfather. 
 
Selling Out. 317 
 
 Such was my lady's specious whispers. But what, in all 
 sincere truth, were the real inducing facts of his selling out ? 
 Simply, that he could not keep in. Captain Clanwaring was 
 so deeply involved in debt that he was obliged to get the pro- 
 ceeds of his commission to extricate him — or, rather, partially 
 to extricate him ; -for it would only go half way to it. Assist- 
 ance he must have to avoid exposure and disgrace. In some 
 way or another, he had managed to stave off the evil day until 
 now : when it could no longer be staved off by any mortal 
 contrivance known in this world, save some of its golden coin. 
 There was but one way of getting it, and that was by selling 
 the commission. Lady Lydia had absolutely none to give 
 him ; and Sir Dene it was of no use asking. My lady 
 had sounded the baronet in a delicate way, and found him 
 more inexorable than a flint. Not another pennypiece should 
 Jarvis have from him, he said — nay, swore — as he buttoned 
 up his breeches pockets emphatically ; he had let him have 
 too much already for his own good. Press it, Lady Lydia 
 dared not ; still less might she hint at the embarrassment her 
 son was in ; lest Sir Dene should talk of it to Mr. Arde (as 
 he would be sure to do), and Jarvis 's hopes be ruined with 
 May. 
 
 So the commission was disposed of, and Captain Clanwaring 
 — retaining his title by courtesy — took up his permanent 
 abode at Beechhurst Dene. Weston, the new superintendent 
 of the estate, had not proved a very efficient successor to Tom 
 Clanwaring ; my lady, my dint of prayers and tears, and 
 almost going on her knees to beg it, got Jarvis to ride out on 
 the land once a week, or so : and regaled Sir Dene's ears with 
 dear good Jarvis's anxious industry in Sir Dene's interests. 
 Sir Dene took no notice : thoroughly put out with the ex- 
 captain, he was barely civil to him. 
 
 Grating ever on the baronet's mind was the one bitter fact 
 of Tom's ingratitude. Not a line had he received from him 
 since his departure. He concluded — as what else could he 
 conclude ? — that the young man had shaken off the ties and 
 obligations of years as we shake off an old garment when it 
 has served our turn, and abandoned him, his grandfather. 
 Never was there a greater truth written than that of Shaks- 
 peare's — " Blow, blow, thou wintry wind ; thou art not so un- 
 kind as man's ingratitude;" and Sir Dene was feeling it to 
 his heart of hearts. 
 
 But now — what was the fact ? If Tom had written one 
 
318 Dene Hollow * 
 
 letter to Sir Dene, he had written ten. All bad been confis- 
 cated by Lady Lydia as that first one was, sent from Bristol. 
 At length Tom wrote to lier : asking how it was he did not 
 hear from Sir Dene ; or, indeed from any one. My lady an- 
 swered him forthwith. Sir Dene was poorly and ailing, too 
 much so to be crossed or troubled, she represented. He was 
 still incensed against Tom, and she did not wonder at it, 
 remembering what discomfort he had caused in those latter 
 days at the Dene : she added (in a parenthesis) he could not 
 bear to see one of Tom's letters arrive, caused them always 
 to be put in the fire unopened; my lady therefore coun- 
 selled Tom not to write again. 
 
 To suppress letters or to present them to their owners, was 
 an equally easy task for Lady Lydia, since they were 
 delivered at Beechhurst Dene in a closed bag, of which she 
 now kept the key. 
 
 Another person that Tom had written to again, was Mr. 
 Arde. When he had been about a fortnight in Ireland, he 
 wrote to tell him what the place was like, what be had to do, 
 and so on ; he also once more thanked him for his unexpected 
 liberality. Now, what did Squire Arde do on the receipt of 
 this letter ? He went into a passion and sent it back again. 
 Snatching a sheet of paper, he penned a few strong words, 
 commenting on Tom's rascally presumption in daring to 
 address him, forbidding him so to offend again, wrapped the 
 letter inside, and despatched it to Ireland, unpaid. So, 
 between them all, Tom got hardly used. 
 
 And now things went on swimmingly. Captain Clan- 
 warm g, in feather as to casb, at least, temporarily, was the 
 gayest of the gay. He was a fairly good-looking man, popular 
 in the county, and he made the most of his attractions The 
 report, whispered by Lady Lydia — that her son Jarvis would 
 inherit all, or nearly all, of Sir Dene's property not entailed 
 — the entailed portion of course descending to young Dene — 
 spread eveiywhere ; and people, judging hastily, took it for 
 granted Jarvis would be rich. Mothers far and near courted 
 Captain Clanwaring; daughters ran wild to get from him 
 only a look. He was the fashion; the one cynosure of 
 society ; and that, in a country district, and in the long-past 
 days we are writing of, implied a great deal. But he had 
 only eyes and ears for May Arde; his tender words, his 
 sweetest smiles, his fascinations altogether, were lavished 
 upon her. Mrs. Arde favoured the Captain's pretensions far 
 
Selling Out. 319 
 
 more than the Squire did. Good looks, good family, irre- 
 proachable name (and for all the Squire or any of his friends 
 suspected, the captain's was sufficiently irreproachable), 
 devoted love, and the star of fashion are all good things in 
 their way, but they do not entirely compensate for lack of an 
 assured position, of a safe income, or for a kind of innate dis- 
 like that the Squire could but be conscious of. But these 
 objections of his were not absolutely insurmountable. Who- 
 ever married May would obtain by the act present money and 
 future position, for Arde Hall would descend to May : and in 
 regard to liking or disliking 1 , that was May's affair more than 
 her father's. Altogether, the Squire was at length brought to 
 say that if May set her mind upon Captain Clanwaring, he 
 would not hold out against the marriage. Captain Clan- 
 waring in answer (for the concession was spoken to him per- 
 sonally) seized the Squire's two hands in his, and thanked 
 him with deep emotion, his dark eyelashes wet with tears. 
 
 "I think the fellow has some good in him," decided the 
 Squire. 
 
 And so, once more, all things being propitious, the captain 
 tried his chance, and had another fling with the die. It was 
 a lovely day in June, and Mary was sitting outside the window 
 on the lawn bench, under the walnut tree, reading a new 
 book. She wore a dress of some thin pink material, its low 
 body and short sleeves (still the fashion) adorned with white 
 lace. Her brown eyes were bright, her pretty hair was tossed 
 back, her cheeks had a radiant blush. Something in the 
 book had called up the signs, for the story put her in mind of 
 her own story and Tom Clanwaring's — a rich heroine was 
 constant to a poor lover. May in her heart was just as con- 
 stant to Tom, and meant to be ; but the secret was buried five 
 fathoms deep within her breast. 
 
 " How I long to peep at the end ! I know it must all come 
 right there ! " she softly said, turning over some of the leaves. 
 " But, no, I'll not : it would spoil my pleasure in reading. 
 And something else will come right, if we only have patience. 
 I wonder what he is thinking all this while. If — oh, my good- 
 ness, here comes that other one ! " 
 
 The other one was Captain Clanwaring. Glancing round 
 in desperate hopelessness of escape, May could only sit on 
 where she was. The captain, decked out in nankeen trousers 
 and all the other fashionable adjuncts of the period, was 
 kissing the tips of his tan-coloured glove to her, as he ad- 
 
320 Dene Hollow. 
 
 vaneed, flourishing his cane. May wished the grass-plot 
 would open and let him in. 
 
 Not at all. He came on safely, and sat down beside her. 
 Possibly seduced to it by the sweetness of the summer day — 
 the balmy air, the rich hues of the flowers on which the bees 
 hummed and the butterflies sported, the scent of the new- 
 mown hay in the side-field, the universal loveliness of all 
 things around — or perhaps by the winning beauty of May 
 herself. Captain Clanwaring again spoke the few magic 
 words to her, that many another girl in the country might 
 have given her ears to hear. " May, will you be my wife ?" 
 
 " Oh — thank you — thank you very much," responded May, 
 in a desperate flutter. " But — I — can't." 
 
 " Do you mean that you won't, May ? " 
 
 " I — can't — thank you ; I don't want to marry," stammei^ed 
 May. " Please, Captain Clanwaring, don't ever say anything 
 about it again." 
 
 She had risen to escape ; but he caught her hand and de- 
 tained her. Holding her before him while he poured forth 
 his love-tale, her face so pretty in its distress, the blushes 
 chasing each other across it, was more than he could with- 
 stand ; May suddenly found his handsome black moustache 
 bent upon her lips, and a kiss taken. With a sharp wrench 
 of her hands out of his, and a cry of pain, May got away 
 from him and ran indoors. 
 
 Susan Cole, putting her young lady's things to right in the 
 wardrobe, was astonished to see her dart into the chamber, 
 fling herself on a chair, and burst into tears. 
 
 "What on earth has took you now, Miss May ? " 
 
 " I wish I could run away somewhere ! I wish I could ! " 
 exclaimed Miss May, passionately. " It is a wretched world ! " 
 
 " Indeed, and I think it's a very good world, for them that 
 like to make the best on't," said Susan. 
 
 At that moment some lines of an old song were heard 
 through the open window ; a tolerably old song even in that day. 
 The singer was probably unconscious that he had an audience. 
 
 " Don't you remember a poor carpet weaver, 
 
 Whose daughter loved a youth so true. 
 He pre mised one day that he never would leave her, 
 
 Down in the vale where violets grew. 
 Never, he told her, would he be a rover : 
 
 She fondly thought he told her true. 
 Ah, how shall this maid his truth discover ? 
 
 Ah, will he plight his vows anew ?" 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie. 321 
 
 Susan Cole's head -went cautiously out. " It's Captain 
 Clanwaring, Miss May ! " she whispered, bringing it in again. 
 " He's a-sitting on that there seat below, under the walnut 
 tree." 
 
 " And I wish he was hanging on the tree instead ! " re- 
 turned Miss May. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 LETTER TO HAVE LET THE DOUBT LIE. 
 
 Still as a statue, her face white and rigid, almost like one 
 that is carved out of stone, sat Mary Arde. There's an old 
 saying, " Desperate causes require desperate remedies" — and 
 a desperate remedy had just been applied to Mary's obstinacy. 
 In the vexation brought to Mrs. Arde by her daughter's second 
 refusal of Captain Clanwaring ; in the worse vexation inflicted 
 by the full persuasion that the rejection was caused solely by 
 the young lady's liking for Tom, Mrs. Arde suffered herself 
 to impart some hints to May, which she would have been sorry 
 to do under less exacting circumstances. 
 
 It could not be (to go back a few months) but that the 
 gossiping charges, laid to the door of Miss Emma Geach, 
 should have penetrated the ears of Squire Arde's daughter. 
 Not a man, woman, or child in the place but heard the com- 
 ments freely bestowed upon that young person's ill-behaviour, 
 and May amidst the rest. But that Miss Emma's doings, 
 good or bad, could by any possibility concern her, or any of 
 her friends or acquaintances, never crossed the mind of May 
 Arde. How should it ? May — to confess the truth — had al- 
 ways liked Emma Geach ; with May the girl was never im- 
 pudent, but pleasant and good-natured; and May had thought 
 her very pretty. So that, when she grew to be talked of, 
 May's feeling on the point was one of intense sorrow ; and 
 very little of blame. Indeed, as sensible people remarked, the 
 wonder was, not that the girl had gone wrong now, but that 
 she had kept straight so long, reared amidst the disreputable 
 influences of the Trailing Indian. 
 
 Nothing whatever had been heard of Emma Geach since that 
 black January morning when she took her abrupt departure by 
 coach from the inn. As the months went on, and she did 
 not make her re- appearance, as expected, people grew tired of 
 looking for her. They regarded her prolonged absence as a 
 
 Y 
 
322 Dene Hollow. 
 
 kind of slight offered to their cariosity, and resented it. 
 Where was she ? What had become of her ? Surely she had 
 had time enough and to spare, to repose herself in her retreat ! 
 Who was she with ? — what was she doing ? All the gossips in 
 the parish asked it one of another. But for any answer that 
 ensued, they might as well have put the questions to the moon. 
 
 Late in the spring ; nay, at the commencement of the sum- 
 mer ; a kind of solution came. There arose a rumour in the 
 place that Miss Emma's retreat was discovered. It was 
 affirmed that she was in Ireland, paying a friendly visit to 
 Mr. Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 This clinching assertion could not at first be traced to any 
 one person in particular. Z heard it from Y ; Y from X ; 
 X from W ; and so on ; but to get all the way back to A, 
 step by step, seemed impossible. At length it was said that 
 Black at the Trailing Indian was the authority, and that his 
 wife had received a letter from Ireland from Emma Geach. 
 Upon that, all eyes were opened in a most wonderful and con- 
 vincing manner ; and people asked one another how they 
 could have been so obtuse as not to discern that when she went 
 off by the stage coach it must have been because he had gone 
 before, and that she probably went straight to Bristol, the 
 horses' heads being set that way. High and low, up and 
 down, went this report : to Beechhurst Dene and its grieving 
 master ; to Mr. and Mrs. Arde ; to the village shopkeepers, 
 to the peasants in the hay-fields. 
 
 " The girl in Ireland? — It cannot surely be true!" cried 
 Mrs. Arde, aghast. 
 
 " Nay, but it is true ; there's no doubt of it," replied Lady 
 Lydia — for it was she who had first carried the news to the 
 Hall. " Jarvis went up to the Trailing Indian, and put the 
 question direct to Black." 
 
 A charming dish of well-seasoned hash, all this to tell May. 
 Or, rather, to hint to her ; for Mrs. Arde, respecting her youth 
 and innocence, did not speak out very plainly. And there 
 sat May alone in her chamber after the communication, feel- 
 ing more dead than alive. 
 
 Tom Clanwaring worthless — and so worthless ! Tom Clan- 
 waring whose love she had fondly thought was given alone 
 to her, and who had, and knew that he had, her whole heart ! 
 Oh, what a simpleton she had been ! What a poor, soft, 
 deluded simpleton. 
 
 On the past Christmas night — barely sis months — but 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie. 323 
 
 ■which seemed to May, looking back, ages and ages — she had 
 been so intensely happy as to wonder whether anything in 
 life could ever look cloudy again ; now, sitting there in her 
 miserable chamber, with that most miserable blow weighing 
 down her head, that utter despair her heart, she felt that life, 
 no matter how long it might endure, would never emit for her 
 one ray of brightness. 
 
 " Poor child ! " exclaimed sympathising Susan Cole, who 
 divined what the nature of the interview between mother and 
 daughter had been as sharply as though she had made a third 
 at it. " It's too bad o' missis to ha' told you that ! " 
 
 May looked up with a start : her frame shivering, her 
 cheeks hectic. She could not have spoken openly of the 
 trouble for all the world ; she would have died rather than 
 let it be suspected how it was trying her. But, to this woman, 
 who had nursed her in infancy, scolded and kissed her at will, 
 her heart yearned for what none could impart — consolation. 
 
 " I don't think you know anything about it, Susan," she 
 said, speaking in the lightest tone she could call up. " I don't 
 know what you mean." 
 
 " Not know about it ! Why, Miss May, every soul i' the 
 parish has knowed about it for months past, but you. After 
 keeping it from you so long, I say it might ha' been kept always. 
 
 " It can't be true, Susan ! " 
 
 "Miss May, don't you try to go again common sense," 
 reprimanded Susan. " Facts is facts. And, now that you've • 
 been made to hear 'em, it's o' no use to hope to shut your eyes 
 again 'em. There's nobody i' the whole place as does, but 
 one : that there brother o' mine, down at the forge." 
 
 A light as of half-hope shone in May's eyes. " Does he not 
 believe it, Susan ? " 
 
 " What, Harry Cole ! Not he. If he see Mr. Tom Clan- 
 waring a setting his neighbour's rick afire, Harry Cole 'ud 
 shut his eyes, and only believe in him all the more. He 
 swears by Mr. Tom Clanwaring ; he do." 
 
 " Do you believe in it, Susan ? " breathed May, quite hating 
 herself for stooping to put the question. But, in great 
 misery, it is something to have even a straw to catch at. 
 
 " I should be a soft sawney if I didn't," was Susan Cole's 
 answer. 
 
 " It is very dreadful," sighed May, with a sob of the breath. 
 
 " Oh well, of course it is, Miss May," came the only half- 
 acquiescing rejoinder. " But young men oe young men, all 
 
324 Dene Hollow. 
 
 the world over. Por the most part, you may just trust 'em 
 as far as you can see 'em. I be bound poor Mr. Tom had 
 a rare example set him by Captain Clan'ring — in smoking 
 and chaffing and what not," continued Susan, tossing her 
 head. " The one manages not to get found out, and the 
 t'other can't manage it ; that's the chief difference, I expect, 
 Miss May." 
 
 Susan -whirled away from the room with as little ceremony 
 as she had used in whirling into it. May sat on with her sorrow. 
 
 But, thinking here and thinking there, a reaction took place 
 in her mind. All the deep regard and esteem given to Tom 
 Clanwaring for years could not thus be set aside in an hour's 
 time. May began to remember how unjustly Tom Clanwaring 
 had been traduced, always ; and to ask herself what proof 
 there was of this new charge ; to question whether there 
 could be any. 
 
 "Susan," she said, when the maid next entered, "all this 
 may be only a tale. Where's the proof of it ? " 
 
 "Proof P " returned Susan. "Well, there's only two 
 people 'i the place can furnish that, Miss May — Black and 
 his wife at the Trailing Indian." 
 
 " How I wish I dare ask them ! " thought May in her 
 desperation. 
 
 Por thi'ee days and nights May brooded over the question — 
 mi glit she ask them ? And what at first she began by answer- 
 ing to herself " decidedly not," ended in "I will." During 
 those three days and nights she neither ate nor slept : hope 
 and fear alternated, the latter greatly predominating : and the 
 whole time was as one long mental agony. 
 
 Perhaps she might never have gone, but for a rather 
 singularly good opportunity, of doing so, presenting itself. 
 These opportunities are the occasion of half the good and of 
 half the evil that takes place in the world. On the third day, 
 in the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Arde Avent to a dinner-party, 
 a drive of seven miles, leaving May at home alone. 
 
 It was one of those lovely summer evenings, when the 
 moon is rising just as the sun sets. Bright, warm, still, the 
 world seeming to be at rest, under its flood of golden light. 
 It had been too hot for walking in the day ; May had sat 
 about in garden seats and under trees, nursing that hidden 
 w r eight that lay on her heart. A wish to go for a walk now 
 arose suddenly ; and with it an impulsive thought that it 
 should be to the Trailing Indian. 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie. 325 
 
 " I shall go out, Susan," she said In her pretty imperative 
 way. " Pat your things on." 
 
 As Susan Cole had no objection to this, but rather the 
 contrary, she obeyed ; and they started. 
 
 Behold them emerging from the Squire's grounds on the 
 upper road. Miss May in a pretty hat trimmed with a 
 garland of roses, and with a green parasol held against the 
 light in the west where the sun had set ; Susan Cole in her 
 every-day bonnet, which was just the shape of a big coal- 
 scuttle, and made of black silk : and in a spotted cotton 
 kerchief crossed upon her shoulders. May had some dainty 
 "white frilled affair on over her summer muslin, and black lace 
 mittens that went to the elbows. The young lady turned to 
 the right on reaching the road. 
 
 " Going that way !" exclaimed Susan Cole, in an accent of 
 surprise mingled with a little tartness. " What on earth for, 
 Miss May ? " 
 
 " Because I choose to," answered Miss May. 
 
 Susan Cole gave a sniff. The way did not please her. She 
 liked to meet sociability and gossip when she went out. To 
 the left there were houses and cottages and men and women. 
 To the right, the way Miss May had chosen, there was 
 nothing but the solitary road ; Sir Dene Clanwaring's pai'k 
 wall bounding it on one side, the landscape beyond Dene 
 Hollow on the other ; and not a chance of encountering so 
 much as a waggoner. 
 
 " Well, this is a lively way to take," cried Susan dis- 
 paragingly. " Be you agoing to call at the Dene, Miss 
 May ? " 
 
 "Not if I know it, Susan." 
 
 Another sniff or two, particularly crusty, and Susan Cole 
 stepped on, in her tied shoes and white stockings, at the 
 young lady's side. Her cotton gown, a buff-coloured sprig 
 upon its light ground, reached nearly to the ankles. By the 
 very way she walked, long strides, and her feet planted firmly 
 upon the path, May saw she was in one of what the young 
 lady was wont to call " her tempers." All things considered, 
 May thought it might be well to conciliate her. If Susan set 
 her face obstinately against the expedition, they might never 
 get there. 
 
 " I am going to the Trailing Indian, Susan." 
 
 The avowal took Susan aback. Abstractedly she had no 
 objection ; for to get a word or two of gossip with Black and 
 
326 Dene Hollow. 
 
 his wife was better than getting none. But her mood just 
 then was contrary. 
 
 " And what i' the name o' wonder should be a taking you 
 Here, Miss May ? " 
 
 " I'm going to see how poor Mrs. Black is. And," she 
 added, partly in her straightforward honesty, partly because 
 Susan would be sure to know the true motive just as well as 
 she did, " I shall ask whether that thing is true that has been 
 said of Mr. Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 " And why need you want to know whether it's true or 
 not?" demanded Susan Cole provokingly. 
 
 " Oh — because I think it is a great shame of people to raise 
 reports behind his back, when he cannot refute them," her 
 face turning as red as the crimson sunset. " We were children 
 together, and I can't forget it : cousins you know. That's 
 why." 
 
 "You'd a deal better let it alone, Miss May." 
 
 May's countenance took a defiant turn. " You think so, 
 -do you ! And why, pray, Susan Cole ? " 
 
 " Black be the only folk i' the parish able to confirm the 
 story, and say as it's true. Nat'rally tJiey must know — as the 
 girl lived at their place. Better stop i' the doubt, Miss May, 
 nor hear as there's no doubt about it." 
 
 But this was just what May did not intend to do. For, in 
 her heart of hearts, she believed that a word of inquiry might 
 prove Tom innocent instead of guilty. 
 
 In silence they proceeded up Harebell Lane, shady and 
 gloomy in even the bright summer evening, round by the 
 pond, and on to the inn. Seated on a wooden stool before the 
 closed side door, was Black ; while Mr. Sam Pound sauntered 
 about the yard with a moody look on his face and his hands 
 in his pockets, thereby looping up on either side his smock 
 frock. Whether May's courage failed her at seeing Black, 
 when she had hoped to see only his wife ; or whether she 
 would not let it be thought she was coming up expressly, cer- 
 tain it was that she went on past the house. Then, turning 
 suddenly, she came across to Black. 
 
 " How is your wife ? " she asked. For Mrs. Black's chronic 
 state of ill-health was such that people rarely failed to inquire 
 after her. Black, instead of answering — as if he neither 
 heard the question or saw his visitor — lifted his face towards 
 the upper part of the yard, and shouted out to the young man 
 in the smock-frock. 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie. 327 
 
 " Hang ye, Sam Pound ! Get off, "will ye, and fetch that 
 there mare in. What d'ye mean by slouching about there, a 
 doing o' nothing ? " 
 
 "Be the mare to come in to-night?" responded Sam 
 Pound. For -which apparently dissenting question, his master 
 gave him some abuse ; and Sam went off. The mare belonged 
 to a traveller, -who had left it for a week to the care of the 
 Trailing Indian. 
 
 " What did ye ask — how the missis be?" resumed Black 
 to Miss Arde, at his leisure, after this. " Her bain't no great 
 things. Her never be." 
 
 " We should like to go in and see her," said the young lady 
 timidly, " if you please." 
 
 " Ye can't then. Her bain't to be seen." 
 
 " Where's your manners, Randy Black ! " put in Susan 
 Cole sharply. " Is that the way you answer the Squire's 
 young lady ? " 
 
 Randy Black took no notice whatever of this. Stooping 
 down, he picked up a dirty pipe that lay on the ground beside 
 him, got some tobacco from his pocket, and began filling the 
 bowl. The man looked somewhat better than he did in the 
 winter ; but his sallow face had strangely haggard lines upon 
 it. He was seated so immediately before the door that they 
 could not attempt to go in, unless he moved. Of late, the 
 door in front, facing the road, had not been used; it was hardly 
 ever unlocked. 
 
 "'Tain't o' no good your stopping," he suddenly said, just 
 as Susan Cole was on the point of another explosion. "The 
 missis be abed. I bain't agoing to let her be disturbed at this 
 time o' evening." And as Black was not a man to be persua- 
 ded by any means, but always stuck to what he said, good or 
 bad, May knew that all hope of seeing Mrs. Black was over. 
 Susan Cole caught the look of depression that took her 
 face. 
 
 "Look here, Randy," said Susan, diplomatically coming 
 round to a kind of hail-fellow-well-met tone, " as we be here, 
 I may as well have a word with you about Emma Geach. How 
 was she getting on when you heard from her ? " 
 
 " 'Twarn't me as heerd ; 'twere the missis," ungraciously 
 returned Randy. 
 
 " Well, how was she ? " 
 
 " Tolerable, I b'lieve. Baby were dead." 
 
 " 'Twas a sad pity for her it should have happened, Randy," 
 
328 Dene Hollow, 
 
 continued Susan, as if all her best sympathies were in full 
 play for Miss Emma. 
 
 Randy gave an ungracious grunt. " Her made her own 
 bed, and must lie on't." 
 
 " And — was her sweetheart really Tom Clanwaring ? " 
 asked Susan, dropping her voice to so low a tone that even 
 May scarcely caught it. The young lady suddenly turned her 
 back, as if she saw something passing in the lane. 
 
 " Why, who else should it ha' been ? " retorted Randy, lift- 
 ing his eyes in surprise at Susan Cole. 
 
 " One was slow to believe ill of Mm, you see," she observed 
 with something like a sigh. 
 
 " So one is o' most folks as have carried white faces — till 
 they be found out," said Randy, pressing down the tobacco 
 with his dirty little finger. 
 
 " And is it true again that she's with him over in that there 
 place o' bogs — Ireland ? " 
 
 " Where else d'ye suppose she is, Susan Cole ? " 
 
 " And that she went straight off to him at Bristol when she 
 runaway from here? " continued Susan Cole, her own inter- 
 ests in the colloquy getting high. 
 
 " I dunno about her going off straight to him," was Black's 
 answer. " Should think her'd not be such a fool as that, for 
 fear o' being tracked. He'd never ha' been such a fool as to 
 let her." 
 
 " Any way, she did go to him ; then or later." 
 
 " In course she did. And I wish 'em joy o' one another's 
 company ! ' ' 
 
 " Are you going to talk all night, Susan ? " came the in- 
 terrupting voice of Miss Arde at this juncture — and no one 
 living had ever heard her speak so sharply. " We must be 
 getting homewards." 
 
 " And so we must, Miss May. Well, good evening, Randy 
 Black. Tell the missis my young lady called in to ask after 
 her. Good evening to you, boy," civilly added Susan, as they 
 turned out of the yard, and encountered Sam Pound bringing 
 in the mare. 
 
 Back down the lane in the same silence that they had come 
 up it, went they. May's face Avas white, her frame shivering : 
 this confirmation of the worst was to her more than death. 
 In passing the pond, Susan spoke in a half-whisper. 
 
 '• Miss May, I told you it might be better for you to let 
 doubt alone." 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie, 329 
 
 " No, it is best as it is," she resolutely answered, biting her 
 poor lips to get some colour into them. " Best that the doubt 
 should be set at rest." 
 
 Dingy and gloomy seemed the lane, now ; not as much as 
 a glimmer of the moon shone through the trees : but it was 
 not so gloomy as May's heart. They stepped on side by side, 
 saying no more. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! — is it you, Susan Cole ? And you, Miss 
 May ! Good evening." 
 
 The salutation proceeded from Mary Barber. She stood 
 at the gate of Harebell Farm in her white cap and 
 crossed kerchief, that might have been the fellow one to 
 Susan's. 
 
 " What be you doing up this way ? " 
 
 " We've been to fetch a walk — 'twarn't possible to go out 
 afore, this sultry day," replied Susan promptly. 
 
 " It have been sultry," assented Mary Barber. " I'm a stand- 
 ing here to get a breath of air. The heat's made you look 
 pale, Miss May." 
 
 " Has it ? " carelessly returned May. " How is Fanny Tillett, 
 Mary Barber ? " 
 
 " She's nicely, Miss May, I'm obleeged to ye. We've got 
 her two cousins a staying here ; the Miss Tilletts from the 
 Wych. Nice merry-hearted young ladies, they be : one of 
 'em, Miss Eliza, sings like a nightingale." 
 
 The dull pain at Mary's own heart seemed very bad just 
 then. Merry-hearted ! She envied the Miss Tillets. 
 
 " Fanny's going back to stay with them when they return," 
 
 continued Mary Barber. " The master, he Why, who's this 
 
 now, a clamping down the lane ? " 
 
 The " clamping " proved to be from the heavy hob-nailed 
 boots of Mr. Sam Pouud. That gentleman was coming along 
 at full speed : his hands swaying, his smock-frock flying behind 
 him, his shock of hair waving on his bare head. He made 
 direct for the gate and Mary Barber, touching his hair to 
 Miss Arde and the company generally. 
 
 " Ud ye please to let 'em ha' the loan of a candle up there, 
 missis ? " he asked, jerking his head towards the Trailing 
 Indian. 
 
 "The loan of a candle," repeated Mary Barber. "Be yon 
 out o' candles up there, Sam Pound ? " 
 
 " We be. Our last bit, it were a' burned out i' the night; 
 and the master, he clean forgot it till just now. He'll a got 
 
33° Dene Hollow. 
 
 some in to-morrow ; lie telled me to say so ; and ye shall have 
 it back." 
 
 Not being particularly interested in the subject of the can- 
 dle borrowing, Miss Arde and Susan said good night, and 
 walked on. Mary Barber stood on at the gate ; the fresh air, 
 gently fanning her face, was grateful. Sam looked at her. 
 
 " Be you a going to lend us that there candle, please, 
 ma'am ? " he asked again in a minute or two ; and his voice 
 had a kind of pressing urgency in it. 
 
 " I'll fetch it directly. Be you in such a mortal hurry, Sam 
 Pound ? " 
 
 " I bain't, but the master be," was his answer. " He can't 
 abear to be i' the house wi'out a light a'ter dark." 
 
 " Can't he," retorted Mary Barber, with composure. "How's 
 the missis ? " 
 
 Sam Pound looked about before he answered, as if to make 
 sure the hedges would not hear, and dropped his voice to a 
 low key. 
 
 " I think the missis be a dying, I do." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the startled Mary Barber. 
 
 " I does," he said. " She ha' been right down bad this two 
 days, just a turning about in her bed like one as can't keep 
 still. All sorts o' things she've been a calling out — about 
 hearses, and diamonds, and lace, and murders ; a reg'lar hodge- 
 podge on't. When Black found she was a talking like that 
 last night, he bundled me down stairs, a saying as she was off 
 her head. " Look here," added the lad, lifting his eyes, full of a 
 kind of fear, to Mary Barber's, " it bain't right for her to die 
 up there all by herself. I don't like it. She've been a moan- 
 ing to-day like anything. I heered it down in the kitchen." 
 
 " Has Dr. Priar been fetched to her ? " questioned Mary 
 Barber. 
 
 " Nobody haven't been fetched to her : Black says the doctor 
 can't do her no good. Fact is," added shrewd Mr. Pound, 
 " Black don't want nobody to hear what her talks of. I say, 
 d'ye mind hearing talk of a pedlar as was lost up there 'i 
 'Twere afore my time." 
 
 Mary Barber nodded. 
 
 " Last night the missis was a calling out about him. "Oh ! 
 don't hurt the pedlar ! Where be the pedlar ? What ha' you 
 done wi' him ?' Black, he turned the colour of a grey horse 
 
 and shoved the blanket over her head. Bat 'tain't right 
 
 for her to lie there all by herself to die, and not a Chris'n 
 
Better to have let the Doubt lie. 331 
 
 anigh her. Black, he stumps up a bit now and then, and he've 
 sent me up wi' things to-day : but mostly she'll be all alone, 
 a moaning like a poor hurted animal." 
 
 Mary Barber, making no comment, turned to go indoors, 
 leaving Sam -where he was. She came back with two candles 
 held between a bit of paper, and her bonnet on. 
 
 " You run on down to Dr. Priar, Sam Pound, and ask if 
 he'll be so good as to step up to the Trailing Indian, and say 
 I sent ye. I'll take the candles on there myself." 
 
 Sam Pound hesitated. He thought the Trailing Indian 
 might not approve of seeing Mr. Priar, and that he himself 
 should have to bear the blame of it. 
 
 "Now you just be off," cried Mary Barber. " The sooner 
 you be gone, the sooner you'll be back again. Don't stand 
 staring like a stuck pig, Sam Pound." 
 
 Thus urged, Mr. Pound clattered off on his errand. And 
 Mary Barber made the best of her way to the inn. 
 
 It was quite dusk indoors, and moonlight out, by the time 
 she entered it. Black, regardless of the heat, had made up 
 a roaring fire in the kitchen, for the sake perhaps of the light, 
 and sat before it in his old wooden arm-chair fast asleep. Seeing 
 him thus, a thought prompted Mary Barber not to wake him ; 
 but rather to go up in unmolested quiet to Mrs. Black. 
 An iron candlestick stood on the table, put ready, no doubt, for 
 the return of Sam Pound. She slipped into it one of the candles 
 she brought ; lighted it at the blaze, and stole up stairs. 
 
 The sick woman lay on her bed — a low bed in a lean-to 
 room — in utter stillness. She was not dead ; but that she 
 had not many hours of life left in her Mary Barber saw. 
 The light of the candle, or perhaps the stir, caused her to open 
 her eyes : she looked quite sane now, whatever she might 
 have been in the hours preceding. Mary Barber knelt down, 
 and took the thin crippled hand that lay outside the clothes. 
 
 " I'm afraid you be very bad, poor thing," she said, in her 
 least hard tone. 
 
 "Ay, I have been. It's a'most over." 
 
 " I've sent to tell Doctor Priar. He'll be up presently." 
 
 " No good, no good," said Mrs. Black, feebly attempting to 
 shake her head. " Black, he'd ha' sent for 'm, had it been 0' 
 use. My time's come." 
 
 Mary Barber, looking at her countenance, believed it was true 
 — that no doctor could have done her good this time, or pro- 
 long her days. The dying woman resumed. 
 
332 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " ]\Iine lias been a weary life, and I be glad to go. I'd like 
 to ha' gone years back — but the Lord, He knows best. I hope 
 he'll remember Avhat I've had to bear here, and gi' me a little 
 corner in heaven." 
 
 "And so He will; never fear," said Mary Barber heartily. "I'll 
 send for the parson and he shall come to say a prayer to ye." 
 
 " I've said it for myself," said the woman, closing her eyes. 
 But her feeble fingers held the strong ones gratefully. There 
 was a pause. 
 
 " Look here," said Mary Barber, breaking it, her thoughts 
 recurring to that one great — and in its surroundings most un- 
 satisfactory — calamity of the past, that was never entirely 
 absent from them long together, although so many years had 
 gone by, " look here. Have ye never a word o' certainty to 
 say to me about the death o' the master ? " 
 
 Mrs. Black opened her eyes and stared, evidently not un- 
 derstanding. Her perceptions were becoming dim. 
 
 " My poor old master, Robert Owen o' the farm. Did ye 
 know at the time anything about his death ?" 
 
 The meaning was caught now,fcaught"vividIy. Mrs. Black's 
 face assumed a look of terror, and she caught hold with both 
 hands of Mary Barber. 
 
 " I've lived in mortal dread o' seeing him," she cried, with 
 a sobbing of the breath ; " I've not dared to go out i' th' 
 gloaming all them years." 
 
 "Ah ! But was he murdered?" 
 
 " I don't know. I never did know. Oh, it have been a 
 fearsome life for me — fearing this, fearing t'other, and know- 
 ing nought. I'm glad it's ended." 
 
 " Who the plague be that, a cackling upstairs ?" called out 
 Black at this moment, his voice not at all the steady voice of a 
 man at ease. 
 
 " It's me, Black," said Mary Barber, tartly, going to the 
 head of the staircase. " I've come to see if aught can be 
 done for your wife. Just bring up a drain o' wine if ye've 
 got it, and some fresh cold water." 
 
 Before the astonished Black could find words strong 
 enough to growl out his wrath at this summary invasion of 
 his domestic privacy, Mr. Priar came in. Sam Pound had 
 encountered him turning out of the gates of Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 But the surgeon could not prolong the life of Black's wife. 
 Her poor, worn spirit, crushed by care and fear, flitted away 
 as the summer's morn was dawning 1 . 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 333 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 SEEN THROUGH THE VENETIAN BLINDS. 
 
 Continued dropping will wear away a stone. During the 
 whole of the summer months, poor Mary Arde, her heart drag- 
 ging along always its heavy weight in silence, was subjected 
 to a species of amiable persecution, the chief agents in which 
 were her mother and Lady Lydia Clanwaring. The praises of 
 Captain Clanwaring were being ever said or sung ; the disre- 
 putable conduct of the scapegrace Tom reiterated. Xo' openly 
 reiterated : that might have defeated its ends : just a hint 
 of this thing and a hint of that, something or other ever looming 
 out to his discredit. Mr. Arde was not quite so active an ally. 
 But it was hardly right of him to let his daughter tacitly think 
 there could be no doubt of Tom's catalogue of crimes, the 
 stealing of the money amidst the rest. Mr. Arde believed 
 quite enough against Tom without letting her remain in the 
 assurance that Tom was guilty of much that he, the Squire, 
 knew he was not. Self-interest makes some of us wink at 
 deceit enacted in its cause : as it did Mr. Arde : and he was 
 on the brink of incurring a life-long penalty as his reward. 
 
 May fought against the influence as long as she could ; and 
 then she yielded to her fate. At least, yielded to it so far as 
 conditionally to accept Jarvis Clanwaring and promising to be 
 his wife. The captain was ever near her ; but so kind, so 
 gentle, so unobtrusive in his claims and attentions, that she 
 felt ashamed even tacitly to show that she could not reward 
 his love. A saint himself might of late have believed in 
 Captain Clanwaring : Mr. and Mrs. Arde sang his praises 
 every meal-time. May's own feelings prompted her to take 
 the captain in spite of her repugnance to him. She w r as but 
 a woman ; and she longed for a bit of revenge on Tom, who 
 had been so disgracefully false to her in secret, and who allowed 
 young persons to pay visits to him in Ireland. It was but in 
 accordance with human nature that she should pant to show 
 the false deceiver she cared for somebody else as well as he did, 
 and show him she would, whatever the cost to herself. 
 
 It was in September that she accepted Captain Clanwaring. 
 The promise she gave was full of hesitation, her manner nro- 
 
334 Dene Hollow. 
 
 vokingly listless. " As good Jarvis Clanwaring as any other, 
 if niarriage it must be," the refrain of despair kept beating in 
 her heart. The captain, all tender kindness and impulsive 
 gratitude, ventured to press for an immediate union. But 
 here May rebelled : absolutely refusing not only to fix a speedy 
 epoch, but to give an idea of when any such epoch might be fixed. 
 Now, nothing upon earth could have been more untoward 
 for the captain ; nothing have caused him greater incon- 
 venience than this. The proceeds of his commission bad kept 
 him afloat for a short while ; but during these summer months 
 he had not known what to do for money. The back claims 
 that he had been unable to pay pressed more heavily upon him 
 day by day ; and in this September month, the month that 
 witnessed May's promise, his condition had grown desperate. 
 Many an anxious hour did he and his mother spend together, 
 plotting to see what could be done. Once let an exposure 
 come, and the probability was that May would seize upon it as 
 a plea for retracting her word, and the Squire uphold her. 
 Lady Lydia was her son's only confidante : and she but a par- 
 tial one. Jarvis gave her no details ; and did not tell her the 
 worst of his embarrassments. My Lady had been at her wits' 
 end many a time before, contriving how to do the best for him 
 in his troubles ; but never so completely as now, when the 
 glorious prospect of the marriage with the heiress had become 
 a certainty, and must, by hook or by crook, be allowed to go 
 on to completion. To get money out of a flint stone would 
 have been as likely a result as the attempt to get any, now or 
 hereafter, from Sir Dene. Nevertheless, got it must be, even 
 though the means used were desperate. Desperate causes (the 
 reader must pardon us for repeating a proverb quoted before) 
 require desperate remedies. 
 
 The bright sunshine of September lay on the London streets, 
 as a lumbering hackney coach passed on its slow way from a 
 fashionable hotel at the West End towards Lincoln's Inn. It 
 drew up before a door in Old Square ; and Captain Clanwaring 
 stepped out of it. His black moustache was charmingly 
 curled : his whiskers shone ; his appearance was altogether 
 that of a stylish buck of the day. 
 
 Flinging his fare to the old coachman — who had on a heavy 
 great-coat with about fifteen capes to it, in defiance of the 
 weather's heat — the captain began to toil to the topmost 
 chambers of the house. He anathematised the way a little as 
 he went up, and struck his cane round once or twice angrily. 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 335 
 
 Arrived at the last flight, a door faced him, bearing a barrister's 
 name on its panels. " Mr. Otto Clanwaring." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring worked just as much during the vacation 
 as he did in term time.- Jarvis, going straight in without the 
 ceremony of knocking, found him with a law parchment of 
 some kind spread out before him on the table, and his head bent 
 over it between his hands. Seated sideways to the door, and 
 supposing it was only his clerk who had come in, Otto did not 
 look round. 
 
 "What a deuced long way it is, up these stairs, Otto ! It's 
 my belief you've got another flight added on, since I was here 
 last." 
 
 Up went Otto's head with a start. " Why, Jarvis ! " 
 
 Laughing a little in his surprise, the barrister rose and held 
 out his hand to his brother. Jarvis resigned to it the tips of 
 his fingers encased in their delicate straw-coloured kid. The 
 contrast between the brothers was remarkable. The one tall, 
 handsome, elegant, attired in all the height of the fashion ; the 
 other, little and plain, his clothes of homely grey, and some- 
 what shabby. 
 
 "How hot you feel up here!" remarked Jarvis, sinking 
 languidly into a chair on the other side of the table. 
 
 " Rooms up in the roof are always hottest," replied Otto. 
 
 " And highest. Why don't you move down lower ? " 
 
 " This suits my pocket best, Jarvis. When did you come 
 up to town ? " 
 
 "Night mail," shortly answered Jarvis. 
 
 " All well at the Dene ? " 
 
 " Passably," yawned Jarvis. " Old man gets more crot- 
 chety than ever. Shuts himself up in his chambers for days 
 at a time. Lets nobody go in at all hardly but Gander." 
 
 Otto, who had resumed his seat, bent his head on his work 
 again. That Jarvis never condescended to trouble his 
 chambers unless for some purpose of his own was a long-ago 
 proved fact ; and Otto knew he had only to be still to hear it. 
 He would not inquire : not at all approving of these missions 
 of Jarvis. The probability was that he had come now to try 
 and borrow money, or to badger him to accept a bill. In the 
 latter, Jarvis had never succeeded yet : the barrister was too 
 cautious. 
 
 Leaning a little forward on his chair, and lightly tapping 
 the table with his cane, sat the captain. Either he had 
 nothing to say, and had actually come from the West End 
 
$t,6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 merely to while away an idle moment, or else he was taking a 
 long time to say it. Tapping here, tapping there, he happened 
 to tap a letter lying amidst other letters, and the tap flirted it 
 upwards and turned it over. The direction was uppermost 
 then, and caught the eyes of Jarvis, somewhat awakening 
 them from their lazy indifference. 
 
 " That's Tom Clanwaring's writing, Otto ? " 
 
 Otto quietly lifted his face. " That ? Yes. I got the 
 letter this morning." 
 
 Jarvis curled his lip. " I wonder you suffer him to corre- 
 spond with you ! " 
 
 " He is welcome to correspond with me if he likes. That's 
 the first letter, however, that I have had from him." 
 
 Jarvis wished to know what the letter was about, but did 
 not ask. His brother had a civil way of declining to give 
 information, if it suited him not to give it. The next moment, 
 Otto spoke ; quite readily. 
 
 " Tom writes to ask me if I will tell him how things are 
 going on in his old home. He says he can get no news what- 
 ever. Nobody writes to him. 
 
 "What does it concern him, how things are going on ? " 
 growled Jarvis. 
 
 " I suppose he possesses common remembrances and affec- 
 tions," returned Otto, pushing up the cuff of his grey coat. 
 " The way Tom was treated among us all that time was an 
 infernal shame." 
 
 " Y"ou didn't do much toward the treatment at any rate," 
 retorted Jarvis. " Given you your way, and you'd just have 
 shut your eyes to everything, and kept the fellow where he 
 was." 
 
 " Of course I would. And I've not forgiven myself yet for 
 having been the means of letting out that thing about the 
 Trailing Indian. No, and not forgiven some of the rest of you 
 cither, for taking it up in the manner you did. 'Twas a 
 cowardly shame." 
 
 " Perhaps you'd like to say it ought to have been hushed 
 up? That the fellow should have been let off scot- 
 free ? " 
 
 " One man may walk into the house while another may not 
 look over the hedge," remarked Otto. " Had you or I been 
 found out in a bit of a scrape, Jarvis, nothing would have been 
 said. Not that I have anything to do with such scrapes, thank 
 goodness." 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 337 
 
 Which almost sounded as if Jarvis had. The latter 
 answered sharply. 
 
 " He had been the bane of our house long enough. 'Twas 
 time he -went out of it." 
 
 " Well, I see no reason for his being sent to Coventry, now, 
 in the way you all seem to be sending him. Just an answer 
 to his letters once in a way, telling him how Sir Dene is, 
 would not hurt any of you." 
 
 Captain Clanwaring threw back his head and waved his 
 scented handkerchief; as if to wave off anything so low as 
 Tom Clanwaring, that might come between the wind and his 
 nobility. 
 
 " I w r ould not condescend to write to the goat if he were 
 dying. One would think you might employ your leisure better, 
 Otto ! " 
 
 " It's not the first time my leisure will have been taken up 
 in doing w'ork neglected by others," quietly replied Otto. 
 
 "Just as you please, of course," was the rejoinder of Jarvis, 
 scornfully delivered, as if the subject were altogether beneath 
 him. 
 
 A silence ensued. The Captain leaned back in his chair, 
 softly whistling. Otto turned over a leaf of his parchment, 
 and made a pencil mark on its margin. Presently he spoke 
 again. 
 
 " Has that Emma Geach come back. Jarvis ? " 
 
 "I've not heard of it." 
 
 " I wonder where she is." 
 
 " Don't know. There was a report in the summer that she 
 was in Ireland." 
 
 " Oh," said Otto. And went on with his reading again. 
 
 " How is it you've not been down at all this year ? " asked 
 Jarvis, tapping his boot. 
 
 " I have had a good bit of work one way or another, and 
 thought I could not do better than stick to it. Holidays run 
 away both with time and money : I cannot well afford either 
 yet. Talking of money, Jarvis — has that thief been discovered 
 vet?" 
 
 "What thief?" 
 
 " You know. He who stole the bag out of Sir Dene's 
 secretary on New Year's Day. You were going to follow up 
 some suspicion upon the point. Did you ? " 
 
 "No. At least — I did what I could, but it was not enough. 
 Nothing has come to lie-ht." 
 
338 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " And nothing -will until Black confesses," observed Otto. 
 " He was the thief. If I were down there, and Sir Dene would 
 let me have the handling of it, I'd risk my reputation on 
 bringing it home to the man in a week." 
 
 Jarvis pushed his dark face forward, and looked hard at his 
 brother. The indifference on his countenance had given place 
 to what seemed quite like alarmed interest. 
 
 " DonH meddle, tvitli it, Otto. You might do incalculable 
 harm. At least, the harm of condemning the thing to remain 
 for ever in its present obscurity. It was not Black. It was 
 no more Black than it was you or me." 
 
 " Have you still an interest in warding suspicion off 
 Black ? " questioned Otto. 
 
 " I ! Why what interest did I ever have in doing that ? " 
 retorted Jarvis, as if he had forgotten so much of the past. 
 
 " That tobacco debt of yours." 
 
 " Oh — that ! Ay, I remember. That has been settled long 
 ago, and a fresh score run up," added Jarvis slightly laughing. 
 " See here, Otto," he continued seriously, " I have a private 
 reason of my own for wishing the facts connected with that 
 matter to be brought to light. In my own mind I am as sure 
 who it was as though I had seen the money taken. Give me 
 time and I'll track it home to the right one yet." 
 
 " Can't you tell me who it was ? " 
 
 " No. No. And if I did, it would not particularly interest 
 you." 
 
 "Black's wife's dead, I hear." 
 
 " Went off two or three months ago," carelessly rejoined 
 Jarvis. " I don't think Black will last very long. He seems 
 to be on nearly his last legs." 
 
 " And how are the Arde Hall people ? " continued Otto, 
 privately wishing his idle brother would betake himself away, 
 and leave him to his work. " How's May ? " 
 
 " They are all right. May is engaged to me." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Otto, darting a quiet glance at the 
 Captain. 
 
 " She is. Why need you be so surprised ? " 
 
 " Because, to tell the truth, I thought she'd never consent 
 to have you," said Otto, candidly. He did not add the other 
 thought, though, that lay in his mind : " She cared only for 
 Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 " Much indebted for your good opinion," derisively spoke 
 Jarvis. " She has consented, and so you were wrong, you 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 339 
 
 see. As for me, I'm glad the matter's set at rest : I have 
 been dangling after her long enough." 
 
 " I congratulate you, Jarvis. May Arde is the sweetest 
 girl I know." 
 
 " Thank you. Yes, the prospect is not bad," complacently 
 continued the Captain. " Ten thousand pounds settled on 
 her ; ten thousand pounds to be handed over to me on the 
 wedding-day. And all the rest of the property, including the 
 Hall, when the old people fall in." 
 
 "A widely different prospect from mine — who have to work 
 hard for my bread and cheese : and probably will have to 
 work to the end," returned Otto, with good-natured cheerful- 
 ness. " You were born, I take it, under a luckier star than 
 I, Jarvis." 
 
 Jarvis slightly nodded his head, and took another look at 
 his handsome boots. In his opinion there could not be a more 
 unlucky star than one that entailed work of any sort. They 
 were interrupted by a knock at the door. 
 
 " Come in," called out the barrister. 
 
 A little bald-headed gentleman dressed in black, with a 
 broad-plaited frill standing out from the bosom of his shirt, 
 and a heavy bunch of handsome seals hanging, answered the 
 mandate. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm so glad to find you in, Mr. Clanwaring," he 
 said, standing with the door in his hand. "Don't disturb 
 yourself. The serjeant is obliged to forestal the hour fixed 
 for the consultation, and name an earlier one. Four o'clock 
 instead of six. Will it suit you ? " 
 
 Otto considered. At four o'clock that afternoon he had in- 
 tended to proceed elsewhere on business. It was, however, no 
 appointment, and he could take another time for it. 
 
 " I suppose it must suit me, Mr. Lake," he said aloud. 
 "Yes. I'll be over at the Serjeant's chambers at four." 
 
 " That's all, then, Mr. Clanwaring. Four o'clock precisely, 
 please. I've been to the other two. Good morning." 
 
 " That was the great Serjeant Sterndale's chief clerk," 
 observed Otto to his brother. " Lake is the cleverest little 
 man in Lincoln's Inn. Three parts of those written opinions 
 of the Serjeant's, so renowned for their depth and 
 wisdom, are his. It's said he gets twelve hundred a year 
 salary." 
 
 Silence set in again. Captain Clanwaring was sunk in a 
 brown study ; the barrister went on with his parchment. A 
 
340 Dene Hollow. 
 
 glint of hot sunlight took a corner of the ■window and threw 
 its rays on the table almost like a burning-glass. 
 
 " I am in an awful mess, Otto." 
 
 The acknowledgment sounded so strange after the former 
 declaration of glowing prospects, and perhaps so unexpected, 
 that Otto looked across as if he hardly believed his ears. 
 
 "Debts again ? " 
 
 Jarvis nodded. " Neaidy done to death with 'em." 
 
 " That's what he has come about, is it," thought Otto. "1 
 can't help you, Jarvis," he said aloud, forestalling any request 
 of the sort. " It's as much as I can do to get along and pay 
 my own way." 
 
 " Nobody asked you to," retorted Jarvis. " I believe I 
 shall be able to help myself." 
 
 Otto silently wondered how. 
 
 " Do you know anything of a man named Pale ? " 
 
 " Pale the money-lender ? Yes, I know him." 
 
 " Had transactions with him yourself, perhaps ? " went on 
 Jarvis. 
 
 " Never. Not in the way you mean. Why do you ask 
 about him ? " 
 
 " I want you to tell me, if you can, whether, or not, he is a 
 man whose discretion may be depended on. Is he one who 
 would keep a client's counsel ? — or would he go blabbing of 
 business to other people ? " 
 
 " I should think his discretion might be entirely depended 
 on. It is the impression he gives me. I don't know much 
 of him." 
 
 " Might be trusted then, you think ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do." 
 
 Jarvis lifted his cane on the table again, and stirred about 
 some papers that lay in the glint of sunlight. His manner 
 was very absent. 
 
 " What's his precise ne of business, this Pale ? " 
 
 " Lending monev.' 
 
 ,, Of course. But what upon ? Postobits ? — and promis- 
 sory notes ? — and — " 
 
 "Upon anything," interrupted Otto. "It's all fish that 
 comes to Pale's net." 
 
 " Just what I heard. Has heaps of property in his hands. 
 Plate and diamonds, and things of that kind." 
 
 "I dare say. Sure to have." 
 
 " Exacts hard terms, no doubt ?" 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 341 
 
 ''They all do that. I don't suppose Pale's worse than 
 others. For what he is, they say he is tolerably fair-dealing." 
 
 " Where does he live, this man ? " 
 
 " His rooms are in Pall Mall." 
 
 " Got a heap of clerks there ? " questioned Jarvis, his face 
 assuming* a moody look, as if it did not please him that Mr. 
 Pale should have " a heap " of clerks. " Eh ? " 
 
 " Got some, I suppose. I have never been there." 
 
 " Why I understood you to imply that you had done busi- 
 ness with him ! " exclaimed Jarvis, lifting his eyes. 
 
 " My business with him had nothing to do with money- 
 lending. It was of so strictly private a nature that I preferred 
 to find him out at his own residence, rather than go to his 
 public rooms." 
 
 Jarvis paused a moment. " Where is his private residence ?" 
 
 " In Goodman's Fields ? " 
 
 "Where the deuce is Goodman's Fields ? " 
 
 "East-end way. Towards Whitechapel." 
 
 " Oh," said Jarvis. 
 
 *' Are you going to get money from him, Jarvis ? " 
 
 "Well, he " another pause. "He has been recom- 
 mended to me as a man likely to lend some. I think I shall 
 try him." 
 
 " He'll want a first-rate security. I warn you of that." 
 
 " As if the fraternity didn't all want that — and be hanged 
 to 'em ! " growled Jarvis. 
 
 " Shall you be able to give it ? " 
 
 " I shall give him a bill at three months backed by a good 
 name," replied Jarvis, after stopping to consider whether he 
 should answer the question or not. " An undeniably good 
 name ; safe as the Bank of England." 
 
 " And how do you propose to take up the bill at the three 
 months' end ? " 
 
 " With some of the money that will come to me on my 
 marriage. The knot will have been tied before that." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring laid down his pencil and looked at his 
 brother. Every feeling of justice within him felt outraged. 
 
 " Jarvis — it is of course your business ; not mine. But I 
 would suffer any trouble rather than so foredestine Mary 
 Arde's money. 'Twill be desecration." 
 
 " She'll never know it. You needn't preach. I should net 
 do it but for being compelled." 
 
 " Suppose the marriage should never come off? " 
 
342 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Jarvis turned blue with anger at the supposition. " Suppose 
 yon sun never sets ? " said he, wrathfully. " Keep your 
 croaking for yourself, Otto. And, here — tell me how I. am to 
 ferret out this house of Pale's. If I don't find him in Pall 
 Mall, I may go there." 
 
 Otto wrote down the directions, his brother standing beside 
 him to look on. "And you think he may be trusted to keep 
 dark ? " repeated Jarvis, as he took the paper. 
 
 " Certainly I do. Most money-lenders may be trusted for 
 that. It is their interest to be silent," added Otto. And the 
 Captain departed without the ceremony of saying good 
 morning. 
 
 " Curious that he should harp so upon secresy when secresy's 
 the rule," thought the barrister as the other went down. " He 
 must have some especially urgent motive for wishing it. I 
 should like to know whose that other name is. Curious, too, 
 that I should be going to pay Mr. Pale a visit myself to-day 
 or to-morrow." 
 
 But that he was so reticent by nature, and perhaps also 
 that he could not hold his brother in any favour, Otto might 
 have mentioned the latter fact. He was engaged in the 
 friendly office (not as a barrister) of striving to establish the 
 innocence of a young man upon whom a suspicion of forgery 
 rested. Mr. Pale could materially aid him if he would, but to 
 get him to do so was difficult. It was altogether a matter of 
 great delicacy. 
 
 The day went on. At four o'clock, Otto Clanwaring 
 attended the chambers of Mr. Serjeant Sterndale. The con- 
 sultation therein lasted until six, after which Otto took his 
 dinner, consisting of two lamb chops and potatoes, supplied by 
 his laundress. To save cost, he lived in his chambers. Then 
 he indulged himself in his pipe, sitting at the open window in 
 the twilight while he smoked it, and glancing, while he 
 thought, at the redness left in the western sky after the 
 setting of the sun. 
 
 With his methodical habits, his industry, and his anxiety to 
 make use of every minute of his time, the barrister's evenings 
 were generally appropriated beforehand to some work or other. 
 This evening was an exception : the changing of the consul- 
 tation hour had put things out of their regular groove. When 
 his pipe was smoked, Otto sat on, feeling himself entirely at 
 liberty for the evening, and accordingly something like a fish 
 out of water. 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 343 
 
 " Why should I not go down to Pale's now ? " he suddenly 
 exclaimed. " I will. He's nearly sure to be at home. And 
 it will save time to-morrow." 
 
 Descending the stairs and passing out of the square, he got 
 into the line of principal streets, preferring their cheerful 
 route to that of the more obscure ones. A good many people 
 were abroad that genial evening : hot London strolling out 
 for a breath of air. Some of them jostled Otto as they passed : 
 be bore steadily on, and jostled in his turn. Half-way down 
 Cheapside there was a stoppage on the pavement, caused by 
 a crowd gathering round a man who had fallen down in a fit, 
 or pretended fit. Otto was elbowing his way through it, just 
 as a girl was elbowing hers the other way. They met face to 
 face, in the broad glare of a silversmith's shop, and Otto Clan- 
 waring exclaimed aloud with surprise. It was Emma Geach. 
 
 " Whence have you sprung ? — from over the seas ? " he 
 asked, the little bit of information given him by Jarvis that day, 
 as to her being in Ireland, flashing into his mind. 
 
 " From over the seas or out of the earth," she answered in 
 her customary light and free manner. " How are all the folks 
 in your country, Mr. Clanwaring ? " 
 
 " What have you been doing with yourself, and where have 
 you been hiding all this while ? " returned Otto, passing over 
 her joking question for what it was worth. 
 
 " I've been in a trance," said the girl, saucily. " Just come 
 out on't." 
 
 " Do you know that your old home has had a loss ? " con- 
 tinued Otto, determined to ask no more questions and get 
 chaffing answers. " Black's wife is dead, poor thing." 
 
 " Yes, I know it," replied the girl, her voice and face both 
 passing into sadness. " I should ha' liked to see her again. 
 But she's better off." 
 
 " When are you going back to the Trailing Indian ? " 
 
 " That's amid the doubtfuls, sir. Maybe sometime, maybe 
 never. I get a bit o' news o' the old place once in a way ; 
 but I don't get much. It have been told to me that Sir 
 Dene's breaking: up fast." 
 
 " I fear he is." 
 
 " How be the Ardes ? " she suddenly asked. 
 
 " Oh, they are all well. Miss May's thinking about getting 
 married." 
 
 "Is she? "was the remark, evidently given in surprise. 
 "And who be it to, sir ? — Youn,g Squire Scroj^e ? " 
 
344 Dene Hollow. 
 
 u Can't tell," shortly returned Otto, for it was by no means 
 his wish to talk of family matters to this damsel : indeed, the 
 remark about May had slipped from him unintentionally, as 
 it were. " Are you living in London ? " 
 
 " I be lodging in it — just now. And there's my landlady 
 a-waiting for me, and looking cats and dogs at this hindrance," 
 she added, " for we be in a hurry to get home. Her son met 
 with an accident down at the docks to-day, and she asked me 
 to go along of her to see him." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring turned at the words, and saw a decent 
 woman standing a few paces off. Before he could turn his 
 head back, Miss Geach had slipped away, and joined her. 
 They passed up Cheapside together, the girl flinging a nod 
 and a good night back to Otto in her freedom. He went on 
 his way, his mind full of the encounter. 
 
 " I suppose she has been in Ireland and come back from it," 
 ran his thoughts. " She's looking well, wherever she may 
 have been." 
 
 Pui'suing his route on foot, by the time he got to his des- 
 tination, which lay in the neighbourhood of Mansell Street, 
 he felt somewhat lagged, and devoutly hoped Mr. Pale would 
 be at home, so as not to have had the walk for nothing, The 
 money-lender's house was little to look at outwardly : it made 
 the side of a small paved court, the opposite side of it being a 
 dead wall. The court was no thoroughfare, and nobody had 
 any business in it, unless it was with Mr. Pale's homestead. 
 In fact, it was altogether as private a place as might be found 
 in the heart of London. The door, level with the pavement, 
 was in the middle of the dwelling, a parlour window on either 
 side of it. 
 
 " Oh come, I think he is at home," said Otto Clanwaring, 
 seeing a strong light shining behind the white blind of the 
 first window, as he turned up the court. For Mr. Pale was 
 a bachelor, and the family consisted of himself alone. 
 
 Now, perhaps for the reason that the court was considered 
 safe from passers-by who might look in ; or else through some 
 careless inadvertence of the attending servant, the white 
 roller blind behind had not been drawn to its full extent. 
 Venetian blinds ran across the bottom of the window ; and 
 the white blind left about three or four inches of the space 
 uncovered. The staves happened to be turned straightwise, 
 so that the room was exposed. 
 
 Otto Clanwaring halted, and glanced in. Not from any 
 
Seen through the Venetian Blinds. 345 
 
 intention of slyly spying — whatever might be the failings of 
 some of his family in this respect, he Avas too honest for it — 
 but simply to assure himself that the money-lender was at 
 home. Yes. There sat Mr. Pale ; his grey hair close to a 
 shining and brilliant lamp. At the same small round table 
 sat another man, to whom Otto's eyes naturally turned. It 
 was Captain Clanwaring. 
 
 It is to be feared that Mr. Otto Clanwaring burst out with 
 a most unorthodox word. Very far indeed was it from his 
 purpose to interfere in any way with his brother's affairs ; ho 
 would a great deal rather keep aloof from them : and he cer- 
 tainly had not cast so much as a thought to the possibility 
 that Jarvis might choose this night hour for a visit to Mr. 
 Pale. After all, Otto felt that he might have taken his walk 
 for nothing. 
 
 " If I thought that his business was likely to be over soon, 
 I'd Avait about in some back street and come again after he is 
 gone," soliloquized Otto. " It wouldn't do to let him see me; 
 he'd jump to the conclusion that I had come down to spy 
 upon him : Jarvis was always suspicious. Wonder if he'll 
 be long ? " 
 
 Still with no idea of prying, only to gather a hint, if might 
 be, whether the interview was, or was not, coming to an end, 
 Otto looked in again. They were seated facing each other at 
 the table, sideways to the window, and very near it, for the 
 room was small. It almost seemed as if Otto made a third at 
 the meeting, so close and plain was everything. 
 
 He gave a sudden start. A start of simple, disbelieving 
 astonishment in the first place. Mr. Pale, lifting something 
 into the lamp's rays, and gently waving it, a great flood of 
 dazzling light flashed forth. Otto recognized the family 
 diamond case with Sir Dene's arms upon it, and the family 
 diamonds. 
 
 Only astonishment at first. It was succeeded by a sensa- 
 tion of dismay, bringing pain and shame. Too surely he 
 drew the right conclusion — Jarvis was raising money on 
 these, the Clanwaring diamonds. 
 
 Valuable diamonds. "Worth at the least some two or three 
 thousand pounds. They had not seen the light since the 
 death of Sir Dene's wife, so many years before. They went 
 with the title, and would lapse to young Dene when he should 
 come into it. 
 
 " Has he stolen them ? " wondered Otto bitterly, wiping his 
 
346 Dene Hollow. 
 
 face from the moisture which shame had brought out there. 
 But no : only for a moment did he think so ill as that : good 
 sense led him to what was in fact the truth — Lady Lydia had 
 lent them to him for his temporary need. But she must 
 have done it without the cognizance of Sir Dene ; so it was 
 not much better than stealing, after all. Otto felt that he 
 would rather have had his arm cut off than see this. 
 
 The impulse crossed him to go in, denounce Jarvis for a 
 villain, and secure the jewels from desecration. Only for an 
 instant. He saw how impolitic and impracticable such a 
 course would be ; how much worse it would make it all. No, 
 there was nothing for him but to be silent ; to be a tacit 
 party to the transaction, and to hug his shame. 
 
 He continued looking. He saw no meanness in that now. 
 Mr. Pale clasped up the case again — Otto heard the sharp 
 click where he stood — put it inside a small bureau, and 
 brought back some bank notes from the same receptacle. Not 
 many ; three or four. Then he wrote out a cheque ; and 
 handed both cheque and notes to Jarvis. What the amount 
 in the whole was Otto could not see — and he resented it. The 
 next thing, Jarvis wrote something, which Mr. Pale took 
 possession of. This seemed to complete the transaction; 
 Captain Clanwaring rose, and was coming swiftly forth. 
 
 The barrister glided out of the court, and bolted into a 
 dark passage of a friendly shop that was putting up its 
 shutters. It was a blow that had struck home to the family 
 pride of Otto Clanwaring. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 BEEN WITH THE OLD SQUIKE IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Knock, knock, knock ! 
 
 The knocking, very gentle, was at Sir Dene's chamber 
 door. Gander stood there, in the dull light of the November 
 morning. " If my bell does not ring, call me at nine o'clock," 
 were Sir Dene's orders to Gander the previous night. Very 
 unusual orders indeed. 
 
 For Sir Dene, unless he was actually ill, liked to be up 
 betimes as of yore. The once hale old man was breaking up 
 fast : more than age was telling upon him. Generally speak- 
 ing his bell rang for his shaving water long before eight. 
 
 He had felt out of sorts the previous day. " Not ill — out 
 
With the Old Squire. 347 
 
 of sorts," lie answered when questioned. News Lad come in 
 of a sad stage-coach accident on the awkward old bridge at 
 Powick : and it had recalled to Sir Dene all the back trouble 
 of the accidents of Dene Hollow. Not that the trouble needed 
 recalling : more or less, it was ever present with him. 
 
 Knock, knock, knock. Rather louder. 
 
 " Come in, then. Can't ye hear ? " 
 
 By which irritable answer Gander found his master must 
 have spoken before. The feeble voice had failed to catch his 
 eat. In went the old serving-man — for Gander was himself 
 getting tolerably old now — in the striped jacket he always, 
 winter and summer, wore in the morning. Sir Dene, a cotton 
 nightcap on, with a hanging tassel, raised his head on the 
 pillow. 
 
 " "Where's the hot water ? " For Gander had come empty- 
 handed. 
 
 " I've not brought it, Sir Dene. I thought maybe ye'd 
 take a bit of breakfast afore stirring." 
 
 Now Sir Dene was feeling weak, shaky, feverish : almost 
 as though he should like some breakfast first. But he had 
 an unconquerable aversion to giving way. 
 
 " I don't know, Gander, I'd like to be up and doing as long 
 as I can." 
 
 " It's a regular stinger of a morning, master. Wind nor- 
 east, and enough to cut one in two. Air bleak, and as dull 
 as ditchwater." 
 
 " Is it ? We don't have the fine weather we used," re- 
 marked Sir Dene — as many another old man is apt to say 
 and think. " There's no good bright days now, Gander : no 
 sparkling, crisp, sunshiny frost. What's become of 'em ? " 
 
 " It have been a dull autumn ; and it seems to be a setting 
 in for a dull winter," returned Gander. " I'll fetch you up 
 a cup o' tea Sir Dene. It'll do ye good." 
 
 Quitting the chamber before Sir Dene could make any 
 denial, he speedily reappeai-ed with a small tray of breakfast. 
 A cup of tea, hot buttered toast, and an egg. Sir Dene sat 
 partly up, drank some of the tea, and then lay down again. 
 
 " You'll try a bit of the toast, sir ? " 
 
 A slight wave of the hand answered him. Gander, who 
 must have been ill indeed not to relish his own breakfast, 
 pressed it with concern. 
 
 " You'd relish it, I think, Sir Dene. It have got plenty 
 o' butter on't." 
 
34^ Dene Hollow, 
 
 " I've no appetite, Gander. I think my time's coming." 
 Gander understood the allusion — that he meant for death — 
 and felt a little uncomfortable. As he stood looking down at 
 Sir Dene, he saw that the once fresh and healthy face had an 
 unusual pallor on it. Between the white nightcap and the 
 white pillow it looked nearly as white as they did. 
 
 " You'll be better after breakfast, Sir Dene. It's this 
 nasty grey east-winded morning, as is upsettiug everybody. 
 I wish you'd try the toast." 
 
 " Squire Arcle came and paid me a visit in the night, Gander. 
 I think we shall soon be together again." 
 
 Gander could not make out what Sir Dene was rambling 
 about. He had drawn up the blinds and now glanced round 
 to the grey skies he had been talking of — as if that would 
 help him. 
 
 " The old squire, ye know, Gander. He looked just as he 
 used to look ; he'd got his pepper-and-salt suit on, and the 
 little old drab over-coat atop. We were having a comfortable 
 chat together, him and me. 'Twas like old times." 
 " It must ha' been a dream, master." 
 
 "Well, I suppose it was. It seemed like reality. As happy 
 as kingfishers, we were, us two, chatting together. It seemed 
 good to be with him." 
 
 " This toast '11 be cold, sir. I know a bit on't 'ud bring 
 you round." 
 
 " Won't be long, I take it, Gander, before I go to him. 
 It's getting a'most time. God, He knows best. But I don't 
 think it'll be long." 
 
 Drinking up the rest of the tea, Gander dexterously put 
 some toast into the old man's hand in exchange for the cup. 
 Sir Dene eat it up : perhaps half unconsciously. Never- 
 theless, he did seem better after it, and then said he would 
 take some more tea. 
 
 " It was that dratted coach, a overturning of itself on 
 Powick Bridge, as upset him," soliloquized Gander, going 
 out Avith the cup to replenish it. " But there's times now 
 when he's not a bit like himself. Fancy his saying he've had 
 a visit from old Arcle ! " 
 
 The postman's ring echoed through the hall as Gander 
 crossed it : and the locked bag was taken up as usual to 
 Lady Lydia. In going back with the tea, Gander halted at 
 my lady's door to inquire if there were any letters for his 
 master. 
 
With the Old Squire. 349 
 
 Two. Sir Dene looked at their handwriting as lie sipped 
 Lis tea. They were from two of his grandchildren : Dene 
 the heir, and the barrister Otto. Laying- them on the coun- 
 terpane unopened, he began to eat another bit of toast, the 
 faithful servant standing by. 
 
 " Ay. They think it's right to show the old grandfather 
 that they don't forget him, these young blades ! But there's 
 one of 'em that doesn't write, Gander." 
 
 Gander knew quite well to whom this alluded. Sir Dene 
 was in the habit of talking to him of things that he never 
 mentioned to other people. 
 
 " Well, Sir Dene, — I've said it afore, and I says it again — 
 my opinion is, as Mr. Tom have wrote, and his letter must 
 ha' dropped into the sea a crossing it. J ' 
 
 " Nonsense ! " peevishly cried Sir Dene, " Letters don't 
 get lost like that." 
 
 "'Tain't like Mr. Tom to bear malice ; and I know he dont 
 bear it. I'd write him a word, Sir Dene, if I was you, and 
 tell him to come. Likely, he don't dare to make no move 
 without a word from you." 
 
 It was just what had been, off and on, hovering in Sir Dene's 
 mind for some weeks past — to write and summon Tom. 
 Perhaps it wanted but this word of urging to put it in 
 practice. "I think I will," he said. "He has been banished 
 long enough for punishment. I'll do it as soon as I'm up, 
 Gander." 
 
 And, having an object to accomplish, Sir Dene got up at 
 once. When shaved and dressed, he sat down by the blazing 
 fire in the next room, and penned to Tom a letter of recall,, 
 short, kind, and peremptory. His hands shook, but the words 
 were clear. Folding it up, as letters were folded in those days- 
 when envelopes were unknown, he sealed it with a big red 
 seal and stamped it with the Clauwaring arms, Gander hold- 
 ing the lighted taper. When the seal was cold he dipped his- 
 pen in the ink and began to address it. 
 
 "Tom Clanwaring, Esquire." Thus far had Sir Dene pro- 
 ceeded, when he looked up. 
 
 "What's the direction, Gander? " 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Gander. " I heard it once — - 
 a place with a crackjaw name." 
 
 Sir Dene laid down the pen in consternation. Was Tom 
 in some unknown region of Ireland where he could neither be 
 written to nor got at ? Reassurance came to Sir Dene. 
 
350 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " My lady must know, Gander. It's "where some of her 
 people live. Go and ask her for it." 
 
 Away went Gander. Never a suspicion of any treachery on 
 my lady's part, in regard to Tom, had occurred to this simple 
 man and his simple master. Simple in all confiding honour. 
 My lady and her eldest son were cosily sitting together at a 
 well-spread breakfast table, by a blazing fire. My lady in a 
 kind of brown " saqne," the pattern of which might have 
 been taken from a pillow case ; Jarvis in a flowery dressing 
 gown. Their conversation was brought to a sudden standstill 
 as the servant went in. 
 
 " My lady, will you be so good as to give me Mr. Tom's 
 direction ? " 
 
 For answer, my lady, a little taken to, stared at Gander up 
 and down. 
 
 " Sir Dene has sent me for it," added the man. 
 
 "What does Sir Dene want with it ? " she questioned. 
 
 "I b'lieve it's to address a letter to him," said Gander, who 
 never was too obliging to my lady. " Sir Dene is waiting for 
 it now, please." 
 
 Quite equal to the occasion was Lady Lydia, without the 
 help of that interchanged glance with her son. " I must 
 search in my desk for it, Gander. My best regards to Sir 
 Dene, and I'll send it to him almost immediately." 
 
 " The goat is being recalled," remarked Jarvis when they 
 were alone. 
 
 " I daresay. He is not coming, though." 
 
 "'Twould hardly be policy. You must fail to find the 
 address." 
 
 " I'll give one that won't reach him," whispered Lady 
 Lydia. 
 
 She soon appeared in Sir Dene's room, and found him rest- 
 lessly waiting — for he retained a great deal of his old impa- 
 tience still. On a piece of paper in her hand was written a 
 long address that Gander might have decidedly pronounced to 
 be " crackjaw." 
 
 " Dear Sir Dene ! How are you to-day ? Tom's address, 
 do you want ? Here it is." 
 
 Sir Dene read it over, and slowly copied it on the letter. 
 
 "You take care of this and post it when you are at Wor- 
 cester to-day, Gander," said he, handing the letter to the man. 
 
 " It can go in the bag, Sir Dene," interposed my lady. " I 
 shall have letters myself to send off to-day." 
 
With the Old Squire. 351 
 
 " Gander's going to "Worcester : he'll post it there," persis- 
 ted Sir Dene, really from no other motive than a spice of 
 obstinacy. And Lady Lydia turned green as she thought how- 
 very near the letter would have been to reaching Tom, but 
 for her precaution in regard to the address. 
 
 " Have you been writing to Tom at last, Sir Dene ? " 
 
 " I've been writing for him to come home, Lydia : he has 
 been banished long enough. I can't help it if it offends you. 
 
 I don't think 1 don't think I shall be very much longer 
 
 among you all, and I'd like to have him here. He was poor 
 Geoff's legacy to me you know." 
 
 " Oh, Sir Dene, don't say that. You'll be among us for 
 years yet, I hope." 
 
 " It strikes me not. I've been with old Squire Arde three 
 parts o' the night : a token, I take it, that I shall soon be 
 with him in reality." 
 
 Lady Lydia stared a little, and glanced at Gander. 
 
 " I've not got much to keep me here now," went on Sir 
 Dene. "But I should like to live to see Tom come home." 
 
 " You have your letters from Dene and Otto," observed 
 Lady Lydia, by way of drowning the last remark. " What 
 do they say ? " 
 
 " They don't say much. Dene and Charley are comino- for 
 
 the wedding. Otto Well 1 have not read Otto's, 
 
 have I, Gander?" 
 
 " I didn't see you read it, Sir Dene," replied Gander, who 
 was busying himself about the room. " The letter's at your 
 elbow, sir." 
 
 " It's not often Otto writes," remarked Sir Dene, breaking 
 the seal of the barrister's letter. " His time's too well taken 
 up : if Jarvis had only half his patience, 'twould be better for 
 him, Lydia. Otto will make a name in the world, once he 
 can work himself into note — get on to be a judge, I shouldn't 
 wonder." 
 
 "He was of a plodding nature, even as a boy," rather 
 scornfully rejoined Lady Lydia. She had no superfluous love 
 for her son Otto. 
 
 " Now, look here ! " cried Sir Dene, as he read his letter. 
 " Here's Tom been writing from Ireland to Otto to ask how I 
 am, and saying he cannot get to hear a word of Beechhurst 
 Dene from anybody. That was two months ago, Otto says. 
 So Tom doesn't quite forget the old man ! " 
 
 Lady Lydia, taking in the sense of the words as well as her 
 
352 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 anger allowed, felt that she should like to annihilate that 
 blundering fool Otto. 
 
 "But why the deuce doesn't Tom write direct, and ask? " 
 burst forth Sir Dene, rather explosively. " It's his temper 
 keeps him from it; that's what it is. He must have got a 
 touch of the Clanwaring obstinacy, after all ; though poor 
 Geoffry hadn't. Any way, he'll have my letter now as soon 
 as the post can take it to him. Don't you forget it, Gander." 
 
 " No danger, Sir Dene. I'll be too glad to see Master Tom 
 back at home myself, to forget it," added bold Gander for the 
 particular benefit of my lady. " The house have never been 
 the same without him." 
 
 " And see that his room is got ready, and all that, Gander, 
 mind." 
 
 " It's always a' ready and waiting for him, Sir Dene." 
 
 "What else does Otto say, Sir Dene?" inquired Lady 
 Lydin, with an impassive face. 
 
 " What else ? Well, he says he shall hope to be down at 
 the wedding. There : you may take his letter away and read 
 it if you like." 
 
 The wedding, thus mentioned by Sir Dene's grandsons was 
 that of Captain Clanwaring. For May Arde, yielding to per • 
 secution (as she regarded it) and fate, had at length been won 
 over to fix the probable time. When told by her father and 
 mother that it must take place before the year was out, and 
 bade to say when she answered in her desperation, " After 
 Christmas, then." 
 
 Her conscience smote her as she said it ; smote her of sin. 
 For, down deep in her heart lingered vividly as ever the 
 image of that scapegrace Tom : and in spite of her secret 
 prayers, her tears, her strivings, she could not thrust it out. 
 Since that summer evening's visit to the Trailing Indian, not 
 a doubt had rested on her mind of Tom Clanwaring's dis- 
 loyalty to her, and of his utter worthlessness ; and yet — love 
 him less she could not. " I may be able to forget him, once I 
 am married, she said to herself — over and over again : and as 
 good marry Jarvis as anybody else ! " 
 
 And in a short while after making the concession, May 
 absolutely began to regard it as a boon, and to look forward 
 to the marriage with something like a satisfaction. Not in 
 the marriage itself, poor girl ; but as a release from un- 
 certainty. The unrest of her life was so great as to be abso- 
 lute torment. Thus matters were arranged to the satisfaction 
 
With the Old Squire. 353 
 
 of everybody : other people were all agog with pleasure : and 
 on May's part there was no thought of drawing back. Sir 
 Dene liked the proposed union immensely. He privately 
 deemed May a great deal too good for Jarvis : but that was 
 the Ardes' business, not his. Lady Lydia was in the seventh 
 heaven of delight ; and the Squire's wife wrote sundry letters 
 to intimate friends, apprising them of the completion of the 
 contract of marriage between Captain Jarvis Clanwaring and 
 her beloved daughter, Millicent Mary Arde. The reader will 
 therefore readily understand how objectionable would be the 
 return of Tom Clanwaring to upset, or possibly to upset, the 
 onward stream of events, coursing along so smoothly. 
 
 " Once get the wedding over, and he shall come, if it so 
 must be," said Lady Lydia to Jarvis; "but that must take 
 place in safety first." 
 
 Jarvis resented the intimation. It was as much as to insinu- 
 ate that May cared for Tom still, more than she did for him : 
 his hair and his temper alike bristled up. The Captain was 
 a very attentive lover ; never a day passed but he would be at 
 the Hall once or twice. But any attempt to enter on the en- 
 dearments lovers suppose they have a right to offer, was so 
 promptly discouraged by May ; in fact, he saw they would be 
 so evidently distasteful, that the gallant Captain prudently con- 
 fined his display of affection to warm hand-shakes. Now and 
 then he ran up to town for three or four days ; and May 
 would again feel free as a bird in the air. 
 
 In the afternoon of the cold and bleak November day, 
 spoken of above, May, well muffled up, returned to the Hall 
 in her father's open carriage, having been with him to Wor- 
 cester. Whether it was her chronic state of low spirits and 
 the inanition they caused, that rendered her chilly, certain it 
 was, she now always felt more or less cold. Her errand to 
 Worcester had been to the dressmakers ; to try on certain of 
 the dresses that were being prepared for the wedding. Mrs. 
 Arde, suffering from some temporary indisposition, had re- 
 mained at home. 
 
 " You look cold, May," said the Squire, as he gave his hand 
 to help her down. 
 
 " Do I, papa? It is cold. I think I will run about a bit 
 to warm myself, before going in." 
 
 May's "running about to warm herself" consisted in a 
 listless kind of slow sauntering. She was not in spirits to run. 
 Walking about the premises, back and front," buried in her 
 
 A A 
 
354 Dene Hollow. 
 
 over-sad thoughts, she was about to turn in at the gate leading 
 to the kitchen garden, "when she saw Cole, the farrier, turn 
 out of the stables. A favourite carriage horse of the Squire's 
 was ill at the time. May waited at the gate till the man 
 came up. 
 
 " Is old Jack better ? " she asked. 
 
 "Not much, Miss May. I've been giving him another 
 ball." 
 
 "What a cold day it is !" cried May — and she shivered a 
 little as she spoke. 
 
 " Coldish," returned the man. " It strikes me we shall 
 have a hard winter of it, Miss May." 
 
 " I hope not — for the poor's sake," was May's answer. 
 Her sweet brown eyes, with a whole flood of sadness lying in 
 their depths, went straight oat to his. Cole and Miss May 
 had been on quite familiar terms always, so to say : the result 
 of his sister being the young lady's attendant. When Miss 
 May was a little tottering damsel in back-strings, Harry Cole, 
 the good-natured, laughing stripling, would toss the little lady 
 "up to the moon." They were great friends still. 
 
 " I hear Mr. Tom's sent for back, Miss May." 
 
 At the unexpected words, a rush of crimson dyed May's 
 face. Harry Cole, who had more innate delicacy than many 
 gentlemen, had stooped to get some spots of mud off his 
 trousers at the ankle, and missed the sight. 
 
 " Indeed," said May, constraining her voice to indifference. 
 
 " While I was at the Dene just now, Gander got in from 
 Worcester. He told me he had been posting a letter for Mr. 
 Tom, that Sir Dene has wrote to call him home again. It's 
 too bad to have kept him over in that Irish place so long, 
 Miss May." 
 
 " They say it has been for punishment," returned May, 
 fiddling with the latch of the gate. 
 
 " I know they say it. Anyway, Miss May, that does for 
 an excuse. Punishment for what, I wonder ? " 
 
 " All kinds of things were laid to his charge." 
 
 " Well, so they were, Miss May. But they didn't go down 
 with them that knew him." 
 
 May felt as if her life's blood were coursing about anyhow. 
 As Susan said, Cole had rever been able to see a fault in 
 Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 " There was that bag of money, you know. That was 
 absurd." 
 
Over the Claret Cup. 355 
 
 " Oil dear, yes," answered Cole, with a laugh. "And lots 
 more beside that. Some things are believed in to this day 
 as if they were gospel. Mr. Tom's one person, and I be 
 another, Miss May : but I know this — that if it had been me, 
 I should have come back and faced my enemies long ago. 
 Any way, I hope he'll soon be here now." 
 
 "Susan has got the toothache," said May, by way of turn - 
 ing'off the subject. 
 
 " Serve her right : why doesn't she get it took out ?" said 
 Cole, who had none too much sympathy with Susan : she, in 
 the right of her superior years, having been accustomed to 
 domineer over him from his childhood upwards in the most 
 unscrupulous manner. " I've told her, Miss May, and others 
 have told her, that she'll get no proper rest till she's got rid 
 of the tooth : but she's just as pig-headed over it — " 
 
 " Is that you, Harry Cole ? Come here." 
 
 Cole turned at the calling voice, to see the Squire. Touch- 
 ing his bat to the Squire's daughter, he hastened away. 
 
 "Sent for at last, is he !" mused May. "But I don't 
 think he will dare to come. Oh dear ! what an unhappy 
 thing this life is ! " 
 
 She went indoors at once, too miserable to stay out. Utterly 
 wretched was she, half reckless ; and felt that she would give 
 all the chance of future happiness in this life to get away 
 from marriage and Jarvis Clanwaring. Not that there was 
 the smallest thought that she could. Fate was fate, and she 
 might not turn aside from it. Susan Cole, her apron held up 
 to her cheek, came forward to meet her in the hall. 
 
 " Here's Captain Clanwaring a waiting for you in the 
 little parlour, Miss May." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 OVER THE CLAEET CUP. 
 
 " It seems very odd, Gander." 
 
 "Never a answer to it of any serf;, Mr. Otto; neither of 
 coming nor writing. Never no more notice took on't than if 
 it had been dirt." 
 
 " Well, I cannot understand it." 
 
 The glitter of plate and glass was on the supper table, at 
 which Otto Clanwaring sat. He laid down his knife and 
 fork to talk to the old serving man, the butler at Beech- 
 
356 Dene Hollow. 
 
 hurst Dene, who stood close to him. Gander's eager face was 
 bent forward with excitement, under the was lights. 
 
 It was the Wednesday before Christmas, and Otto Clan- 
 waring had just arrived at the Dene for two purposes ; to kill, 
 as may be said, two birds with one stone. The one to spend, 
 as usual, the Christmas-tide ; the other to assist in celebrating 
 the marriage of Captain Clanwaring. 
 
 The wedding was fixed for Tuesday, the twenty- seventh 
 of December. Miss Arde had held to her original deter- 
 mination — not to be married before Christmas. Captain 
 Clanwaring pleaded for an earlier period in vain : and was 
 at length fain to show himself grateful for the tardy one 
 ultimately fixed. So the preparations were put in hand, 
 and the invitations sent out. 
 
 Christmas Day would fall this year on a Sunday. This, 
 you understand, was the week preceding it. On Monday, the 
 nineteenth, Squire Arde went to London on business con- 
 nected with his daughter's settlements, and also to procure 
 the marriage licence. He intended to return by the Thurs- 
 day night's mail so as to be at home on Friday morning ; which 
 would be the day before Christmas Eve. The Hall was in full 
 swing of preparation for the festivities attendant on the wed- 
 ding. Beechhurst Dene had made ready, too, in anticipation 
 of its expected guests. 
 
 Mrs. Letsom and her children had accompanied Otto from 
 London. It had not been Otto's intention to quit his work 
 until the Friday, but his sister appealed to him to accompany 
 her ; and she would not start later. Colonel Letsom was in 
 India with his regiment. They took the day coach to Wor- 
 cester, a,nd thence drove over to the Dene : reaching it as the 
 clocks were striking ten, amidst a sharp fall of snow. 
 
 Sir Dene, weak in health, subdued in spirit, but dressed 
 with extreme care as usual, his coat blue, his fine white hair 
 (scanty now) powdered, sat in the large drawing-room to re- 
 ceive them. Lady Lydia was with him, and also a shrunken- 
 looking little lady in grey silk with hair as white as Sir 
 Dene's, and a close white net cap on, with satin bows. It was 
 Miss Clewer : sister of Sir Dene's late wife. The reader had 
 the pleasure of once seeing her — at that stormy interview that 
 witnessed the turning out of poor Geoffry. She was con- 
 siderably turned seventy ; but she had come posting over in 
 her carriage and four from her residence in Gloucestershire, 
 to be present at the first marriage that was to take place amid 
 
Over tJie Claret Clip. 357 
 
 her grand-nephews. The nephews and Louisa Letsom called 
 her Aunt Ann, just as their fathers bad done. 
 
 During the commotion caused by the entrance of the tra- 
 vellers, Jarvis came in, the bridegroom elect ; came in from his 
 usual evening visit to the Hall. In spite of the elaboration of 
 his getting up, the curled hair, the shining mustache, and all 
 the rest of the attractions, Otto thought he looked strangely 
 haggard. Almost as much so as Sir Dene. And Sir Dene's 
 looks had struck the barrister painfully. 
 
 " How dreadfully he is changed, mother," whispered Otto, 
 under cover of the bustle. 
 
 " Changed ! " repeated Lady Lydia, her eyes and thoughts 
 on her well-beloved son, the gallant Captain. " Who's 
 changed ? " 
 
 " The poor old grandfather." 
 
 " Oh. He. He is getting On for eighty, Otto. You can- 
 not expect him to be blooming for ever." 
 
 " It's not exactly that — blooming. There's so intense a 
 sadness on his face. He looks just as though he were worn 
 with sorrow." 
 
 " Did you ever see such a shrivelled-up mummy as old Aunt 
 Ann ! " returned my lady, behind her fan. " If you'll believe 
 me, Otto, she has brought a cat and a parrot with her and 
 two maids : one for herself, the other for the animals." 
 
 " She has never had children, you see, mother," was Otto's 
 considerate answer. " When we live a lonely life, we are apt 
 to make pets for ourselves." 
 
 Gander had supper ready laid in the dining-room. Mrs. 
 Letsom — her head aching intolerably from the cold and the 
 very long journey, for they had left London at six in the 
 morning — declined to take any, saying she would rather go 
 at once to bed : so Otto went in to his supper alone. During 
 which he and Gander had a dish of confidential chat together, 
 after the custom of old times. They were talking of Tom 
 Clanwaring. The summons sent to Tom by Sir Dene had 
 brought forth no response whatever : as Gander was telling. 
 
 "I don't believe he ever got it," exclaimed Otto. 
 
 " He must ha' got it," exclaimed Gander resentfully. "Don't 
 I tell ye, Mr. Otto, that I put it myself into the slit o' the box 
 at Worcester ? As good suppose that the mail didn't go out, 
 as that there letter didn't go along of it. Try a bit o' that 
 raised-pie, sir." 
 
 Otto shook his head. Pies so late at night were too heavy 
 
358 Dene Hollow. 
 
 for him. " If lie did get the letter, and could not respond to 
 it in person, he might have written to Sir Dene." 
 
 " That's what Sir Dene says. It have tried him more nor 
 anything a'most that went afore it, Mr. Otto. For days and 
 days, ay and weeks, after there was time for Mr. Tom to get 
 here, Sir Dene was waiting and watching for him. ' Perhaps 
 he'll be here by morning, Gander/ he'd say to me when he 
 went to bed at night ; and i' the morning the first question 
 'ud be, ' Gander, has he come ? ' It has just been like a heart- 
 break to him." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring, his supper finished, leaned back in his 
 chair. There was something in all this that greatly puzzled 
 him. 
 
 " To be recalled was all he wanted; I am sure of it," re- 
 marked the barrister. " I cannot think why he should not 
 have come." 
 
 Neither could Gander. Neither could Sir Dene. Neither, 
 truth to say, could many other people. Sir Dene supposed 
 that Tom was too conscious of his unorthodox doings in con- 
 nection with the Trailing Indian to show his face again yet 
 awhile : and Sir Dene resented it accordingly. 
 
 The Chinese have a noted proverb : " To expect one who 
 does not come ; To lie in bed and not to sleep ; To serve and 
 not to be advanced, are three things enough to kill a man." 
 
 It would almost seem as if the non-arrival of his favourite 
 grandson were killing Sir Dene. But the yearning wish to 
 see him, the deferred hope, the grievous disappointment, were 
 giving place now to angry implacability. 
 
 " I never thought as Mr. Tom was one to resent affronts in 
 this fashion," spoke Gander, beginning to remove the supper 
 things. "Poor Mr. Geoffry wouldn't ha' done it." 
 
 " Nor I. He has the most forgiving disposition in the 
 world. Besides ■ " 
 
 Otto stopped. The door was pushed open, and Sir Dene 
 came tottering in, leaning on his stick. 
 
 " I hope you've got what you like, Otto. There's 
 been nobody to take it with you." 
 
 " I've done famously, grandfather. No, thank you : no 
 more. I never dare take much late at night, or I should get 
 in for a headache on the morrow. Gander and I were 
 talking about Tom, sir. It seems a very strange thing that 
 he " 
 
 " Don't speak of him to me ; don't mention him in my pre- 
 
Over the Claret Cup. 359 
 
 sence," roared Sir Dene, lifting his stick menacingly at an 
 imaginary Tom in the distance. " If he were to attempt to 
 enter Beechhnrst Dene now, my servants should thrust 
 him forth. Never again : never again." 
 
 "There's something or other wants explaining in all this," 
 thought Otto. "However, it is no business of mine," he 
 mentally concluded, with his usual rather selfish indifference 
 to other people's interests. 
 
 Gander brought in some mulled claret in a silver cup, and 
 Sir Dene and Otto sat over the fire and sipped it. Little things 
 troubled Sir Dene now : and he began mentioning the state of 
 expectancy he had been in all day, looking for his two eldest 
 nephews, Dene and Charles. Eldest in point of precedence, 
 youngest in age. They were to have arrived at the Dene that 
 morning from Scotland : and had not come. 
 
 " Sure they've never been so foolish as to take ship — 
 which Dene's fond of doing in summer," said Sir Dene, rather 
 fractiously. " They might be kept out at sea a couple of 
 weeks, if they've done that." 
 
 " They'd be sure to come by land, sir, at this season of the 
 year; and with time limited," returned Otto. "Is their 
 mother coming with them ?" 
 
 " She can't," said Sir Dene. " I'm sorry for it ; for she's 
 a great favourite of mine, and I've not seen her for these two 
 years. There's more things than one going contrary just now, 
 Otto." 
 
 " But why can she not come, sir ? " 
 
 " Because she's ill. I believe it's intermittent fever, or 
 something of that. D'ye think the boys can get here to-night, 
 Otto ?" he added, after a pause. 
 
 " Well — of course it is possible," replied Otto, in some con- 
 sideration : and he felt sure now that the old man was sitting 
 up, expecting them. "They'd come by coach, no doubt, to the 
 nearest place to this that the stage touches at, and then post 
 on. I don't think they'd be likely to come so late as this, 
 grandfather. We shall see them in the morning." 
 
 " Ay, I suppose one must give 'em up for to-night," con- 
 ceded Sir Dene. " And how is the world using you, Otto ? 
 Are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am getting on, grandfather," returned Otto, proud 
 in his independent spirit of being able to say it. " My name 
 is becoming known, and business drops in. No fear now but 
 I shall make my way ; and make it well." 
 
360 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "Ay, I always said you -would, give you time, though you 
 have been so kept back by struggles and expenses," observed 
 Sir Dene. " You have been steady and hard-working from, 
 the first, Otto ; and those who are so are sure to get on. It 
 is the conviction that has lain on my mind of your steady 
 perseverance, my lad, that has induced me to help you so 
 readily in your embarrassments." 
 
 Happening to be holding the claret cup to his lips at that 
 moment, Otto looked at Sir Dene over its brim. He did not 
 quite understand. 
 
 " I have had no embarrassments, sir," he said, as he put it 
 down. 
 
 "Well, expenses then: I suppose I ought not to say em- 
 barrassments. Whatever they were, I only felt they were 
 legitimate. And I let you have the money with a very differ- 
 ent feeling from any I ever let your spendthrift brother have ; 
 I can tell you that." 
 
 Less and less did Otto understand. " I have not had any 
 money from you since you first started me in life, grandfather. 
 There are moments," he added, with a slight laugh, "when I 
 feel proud of that fact. At least I am thankful for it." 
 
 " What do you call your first starting in life?" cried Sir 
 Dene, looking hard at his grandson. 
 
 "After I had kept my terms and was called to the bar, you 
 generously put a cheque for five hundred pounds into my hand, 
 sir. To start me in my profession, as you called it." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Well, it did start me, grandfather. I set up my chambers 
 with it — that didn't cost much : for all the furniture in them, 
 bed included, is not worth twenty pounds. And the rest I 
 husbanded, and lived as economically upon as I could until 
 work came in. I have never had cause to ask you for more, 
 grandfather ; and I never have asked it." 
 
 " Don't quibble, my lad. If you've not asked yourself for 
 it, you have had it." 
 
 " Had what, sir ? " 
 
 " Had what — why money. And I say, Otto, I have given 
 it you with more satisfaction than any ever given to 
 Jarvey." 
 
 " But, grandfather, I have not had any from you at all, I am 
 happy to say. Except that first five hundred pounds." 
 
 Sir Dene and his grandson were staring at each other with 
 all their might. Sir Dene openly. Otto covertly: for he 
 
Over the Claret Cup. 3 61 
 
 thought the poor old man's imagination was solely at work : 
 that his memory was rambling, 
 
 " Five or six times at the very least, Otto — more I think ; 
 my books will tell — have I helped you to money within the 
 last two or three years. Sometimes for large sums. Why 
 should you wish to deny it ? " 
 
 " It must be all a mistake, sir. I have had none." 
 Sir Dene leaned back in his chair, his lips compressed. 
 Were all his grandchildren turning out false ? He had believed 
 Otto to be so strictly truthful. 
 
 " How dare you say this to my face, young man ? " 
 " It is the truth, grandfather. I don't know what else to 
 say." And so earnestly did Otto say it, that Sir Dene almost 
 began to wonder whether he himself was dreaming. 
 
 " Only a month or two ago — 'twas sometime in October — 
 I sent you up a cheque for a hundred pounds. Sent it up in 
 a letter direct to your chambers. Come ! What do you say 
 to that ? " 
 
 " I received it, sir, all safely, and acknowledged it to my 
 
 brother, as he desired I should," quietly answered Otto. " I 
 
 paid it away the same day, in conformity with his instructions." 
 
 For some moments Sir Dene did not speak. A light seemed 
 
 to be breaking upon him. 
 
 " Paid it away for yourself, or for Jarvis ? " 
 " Oh, for Jarvis." 
 
 " I see. Just tell me what you know about it, Otto." 
 " I don't know much, grandfather. Two letters were de- 
 livered to me that morning, each bearing the Worcester post 
 mark. The one contained a few unimportant words from you 
 to myself, hoping I was well, and that, and a cheque for a 
 hundred pounds. The other was from Jarvis : saying I should 
 receive such a cheque, and if I would kindly pay it away to a 
 person (a lawyer) who would call on me in the course of the 
 day. The lawyer called ; and I paid it to him." 
 
 " One more question, Otto : and yet, my boy, I hardly need 
 to ask it. Is it true what you say — that you have never had 
 any money from me since that first five hundred pounds? " 
 
 " It is perfectly true. Neither have I asked you for any, 
 sir." 
 
 "No : but others have, in your name." 
 " Jarvis, I suppose." 
 
 " Once or twice. Tour mother, chiefly, Otto," continued 
 the baronet, bending his fine old face forward, and sinking his 
 
362 Dene Hollow. 
 
 voice to a troubled whisper. " She'd sell her soul for that first- 
 born son of hers. It's my belief she'd sell her soul." 
 
 There was an ominous silence. Sir Dene sat, half beaten 
 under the discovery ; his head bent in thought, lifting this 
 hand, lifting that, as he recalled the false pleas pressed upon 
 him from time to time — Otto's non-success in his profession, 
 his heavy expenses, and urgent need of money to rub on with, 
 so as to keep his head above water. Never had the conduct 
 of Captain Clanwaring appeared so flagrant as now. A groan 
 burst forth from the old man. 
 
 " Otto, I hardly know whether I ought to let this wedding 
 take place. Whether in honour I should not show the Squire 
 what a false man he is, — a spendthrift, — a coward." 
 
 " There's no doubt, sir, that Jarvis ran recklessly and 
 foolishly into debt while he was in the army, and that he has 
 been driven to his wits' end to find money to stave off the 
 embarrassments it entailed upon him ; but marriage may make 
 the turning point in his life. I should say it would." 
 
 And Sir Dene groaned again in very bitterness of spirit, as 
 he rose to go up to his room for the night, leaning on the 
 held-out arm of Otto. 
 
 The morning brought disappointment, in the shape of a 
 letter from Dene, the heir. He wrote to say that a change for 
 the worse had taken place in his mother. She was becoming 
 so dangerously ill that neither he nor his brother could think 
 of leaving her, even to attend the wedding. The letter con- 
 cluded with a half-jesting wish that Jarvis might find a better 
 groomsman. For young Dene (considered as first and fore- 
 most in the Clanwaring family, after its head) had been soli- 
 cited by Jarvis to undertake that office. Jarvis, with rather 
 an ill grace, observed to the barrister that he supposed the 
 honour must fall to his lot now: and said it as if he grudged 
 it to him. 
 
 " It's none such an honour — as I look upon it," was the 
 significant retort of Otto Clanwaring. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 AN ARRIVAL AT THE TRAILING INDIAN. 
 
 The snow flakes were falling, large and thick. Falling on 
 the hat of Mr. Sam Pound, swinging by one leg on the gate 
 of the Trailing Indian. His master was out. Black had gone 
 
An Arrival at the Trailing' Indian. 363 
 
 down to Hurst Leet on some urgent private business : no 
 doubt connected with certain poaching friends of bis who 
 lived there. At least, such was the conclusion drawn by 
 young Mr. Pound, who was tolerably shrewd. Finding it 
 rather lonely indoors as twilight appeared, for not a soul 
 was in the dreary inn but himself, Mr. Pound had stepped 
 out to have a look at the lane, by way of taking a slight 
 change. 
 
 "Mother Goose be a plucking of her geeses," quoth he to 
 himself, raising his eyes to the floating feathers that filled the 
 air. " Us han't had a reg'lar snowy Christmas for this ever- 
 so-long. Bids fair for't now." 
 
 This was Friday. On and off since "Wednesday the snow 
 had been falling ; so that the roads were already pretty thick 
 with it. Regarding a fall of snow chiefly as a medium for the 
 recreative exercise of snowballing, and especially of snow- 
 balling some unsuspicious individual, whom the blow caught 
 unawares, Mr. Pound was extremely satisfied with the pro- 
 pect before him. 
 
 "We shall ha' the morris- dancers here," cried he, sucking 
 up bis breath. For he was very fond of the morris-dancers : 
 and thought them, next to snowballing his friends and enemies, 
 the best things brought by a hard winter. 
 
 Swinging to and fro on the gate was rather slow work, 
 particularly as the snow had got into the gate's hinges 
 and prevented it swaying quickly. Taking his foot off, he 
 picked up a handful of snow, and sent it bang against the 
 opposite hedge of holly. A sure marksman he, when a snow- 
 ball was the weapon hurled. 
 
 "Hul— ur 
 
 This exclamation was caused by surprise. Just as Mr. 
 Pound was manipulating a second ball to fling after the first, 
 a huge mountain of snow- — and it looked like nothing else — 
 loomed slowly into view on the high road that crossed the end 
 of the lane. Peering at this extraordinary phenomenon as well 
 as circumstances permitted him — that is, between the fading 
 daylight and the storm of snow — Mr. Pound at length made 
 it out to be the "waggon." 
 
 "Well, I never!" cried he. " That there waggin haven't 
 hurried herself ! " 
 
 In those days the waggon was an institution in England ; 
 and was used for the conveyance of parcels and passengers 
 from one town to another. This particular waggon in ques- 
 
364 Dene Hollow. 
 
 tion was in the habit of passing along the road weekly, gene- 
 rally at dawn on a Friday morning — for waggons travelled night 
 and day. They could not afford to halt by night on the road ; 
 not they : on they blundered, crawling and creeping, and 
 dragging their slow length along. A distance that a stage 
 coach might take twelve or fifteen hours to accomplish, the 
 waggon would get through in a week. That this one had been 
 a tolerably long time on its journey was proved by the mound 
 of snow collected above it. • 
 
 " Black, he said as he hadn't a seen the waggon go by, and 
 I telled him it had went by afore he was up. Thought it had. 
 Hullo ! it be a stopping ! " 
 
 The stopping of the waggon opposite the lane was less sur- 
 prising to Mr. Pound than the sight of the waggon itself had 
 been; for it sometimes brought parcels for the Trailing 
 Indian. Now and then it let out passengers at that place, to 
 claim the inn's hospitality, or to go on to Hurst Leet. Strictly 
 speaking, this was what might be called a cross-country 
 waggon, communicating with the London and Worcester 
 waggon, the London and Gloucester waggon, and other 
 waggons of importance. Mr. Pound began to trudge towards 
 it, to receive anything that might be there for his master. 
 He could not resist the temptation of sending a snowball or 
 two at the horses. 
 
 " I'll lay a twopence as it have brought that there box o' 
 baccy from Lunnon ! " thought he as he advanced. "Black 
 have been a growling over it this " 
 
 Mr. Pound's words failed him in very surprise. Of all the 
 surprises brought by the waggon, this was the greatest. In- 
 stead of the expected "box o' baccy" disinterring itself from 
 the inside, there appeared, helped out by the waggoner — 
 Miss Emma Geach. 
 
 Mr. Pound's first movement was to halt where he stood 
 and give vent to a low whistle ; his second, to turn tail, 
 scutter home, bang-to the inn door behind him, and slip the 
 bolt. The return of this young person displeased him ex- 
 cessively. Of the two, he would rather the waggon had 
 brought a wild bear. Miss Geach was at the door almost as 
 soon as he ; rattling at it in an authoritative manner, when 
 she found it fastened. 
 
 " Now then, Sam Pound, open the door ! What do you 
 mean by this ? " 
 
 So she had recognized him, in spite of the falling snow and 
 
An Arrival at the Trailing Indian. 365 
 
 the twilight ! Not seeing his "way particularly clear to keep 
 her out, Sam unbolted the door. 
 
 She came in with her old warm cloak drawn round her, 
 worn and shabby now, and a ragged shawl tied over her- 
 bonnet. She had gone away grandly by coach, plump, bloom- 
 ing, her big bandbox of clothes beside her : she came home 
 humbly in a waggon, thin and cross-looking, and with no 
 luggage at all — unless a handful of things tied up in a cotton 
 handkerchief could be called such. Sam Pound, backing 
 against the rack behind the door, made his observations in 
 silence. 
 
 " Take a cup o' beer to the waggoner, Sam Pound. And 
 be quick over it." 
 
 Whatever Miss Geach had lost in the way of looks, she 
 had kept her tongue. Sam would no more have dared to 
 disobey the imperative order than he'd have attempted to 
 fly. Drawing the beer, he went out with it, walking as slowly 
 as he could, and sullenly kicking up the snow before him. 
 In the first place, Sam held Miss Geach in no favour : her 
 scornful treatment of his brother Jim excited his resentment, 
 and he also disliked her on his own account. In the second 
 place, suppositions were crossing his mind that now she was 
 back, he might no longer be wanted at the Trailing' Indiar. : 
 and, as it was a tolerably idle service, it just suited Mr. 
 Sam. 
 
 When he returned indoors, and he took his time over the 
 errand, Miss Geach had been upstairs to her room, had put 
 on a gown of hers that had stayed all this while at the inn, 
 and was down in the kitchen again, making some tea. 
 Brushed up a little from her cold journey of several days 
 and nights, she looked tolerably the same as usual ; a little 
 thin, perhaps, but quite as good-looking. 
 " Toast this bread, Sam Pound." 
 
 Sam Pound's mind was so entirely stunned by her proceed- 
 ings altogether, that he complied mechanically, and stooped to 
 toast the bread. Two rounds of it, off the quartern loaf. 
 When toasted, Miss Geach put on plenty of salt butter, drew 
 the table closer to the fire, and sat down to her tea. 
 " Where's Black ? " she asked then. 
 " He's a went off to Hurst Leet." 
 
 Sam had squatted himself on his hams against the wall on 
 the other side of the fireplace, and sat facing her, his hands 
 clasped round his smock frock and legs. The reflection of the 
 
366 Dene Hollow. 
 
 flame played on the red bricks; the kitchen looked homely 
 and comfortable in the fire light. 
 
 "Wonder when her had any tea last ?" thought Sam, as he 
 watched the eagerness with which she ate and drank. 
 " Shouldn't think 'twas o' one while." 
 
 "And how's the place going on, Sam Pound ? " demanded 
 Miss Emma, pouring out another cup of tea and beginning 
 upon a second round of toast. 
 
 " Mortal dull. Us haven't had a customer in all to-day, 
 not for as much as a pint o' beer." 
 
 " Who was asking aboat this here inn ? I mean the place 
 out o' doors. Hurst Leet and that." 
 
 " It be as it al'ays is, for what I see," returned Sam, un- 
 graciously determined to give no more information than he 
 could help. 
 
 " Anybody dead ? " 
 
 " The missis here be dead." 
 
 " Don't I tell ye I warn't asking about this here house, 
 Sam Pound ? " was her answer, given wrathfully. " How's 
 Harry Cole, down at the smithy ? " 
 
 " He've had a bad wrist, he have, through a beast of a horse 
 what up and kicked him a being shoed. It be got well again." 
 
 " Is Mr. Tom Clanwaring come back ? " 
 
 " The face her must have to aek that ! " thought Sam, as he 
 sat and stared. "No, he hain't back, he hain't." 
 
 " I suppose the rest of 'em be a coming to the Dene for 
 Christmas. The heir and his brother — be they here ? " 
 
 " I ha'n't seed 'em." 
 
 " Be the Lunnon lawyer here yet ? " 
 
 " I dun know," shortly answered Sam. " Them there 
 quality folk don't concern me : nor me them." 
 
 Miss Geach was not to bo repressed. 
 
 " The Captain — be he come yet? " 
 
 " The Captain ha'n't been away, as I've heerd on," growled 
 Sam. 
 
 " Not away ! " 
 
 " No, he ha'n't. He lives at the Dene now, he do." 
 
 " I'm sure he don't." 
 
 " I'se sure he do. There." 
 
 Miss Geach, about to drink up a saucerful of tea, paused, with 
 the saucer to her mouth. " Who says he do, Sam Pound ? " 
 
 " I says it, for one. All the parish knows he do. Bain't he 
 about the place everlasting ? " 
 
An Arrival at the Trailing Indian. 367 
 
 " Be you sure ? " 
 
 " Be you sure as that there's buttered toast you be a 
 swallowing of? " was Sam's conclusive retort. " The Captain 
 have lived along o' Sir Dene and Lady Lyddy a most a year 
 now, he have." 
 
 A peculiar kind of light stole slowly over Miss Geach's 
 face as she at length took in the assertion, making it look 
 very hard. Sipping up the tea deliberately, she filled the 
 saucer again. 
 
 " And the Squire's people, how be they ? " she resumed, 
 but with an air of pre-occupation and of utter indifference to 
 the question. " Is Miss May married yet ? " 
 
 " Not as I've heard on," said churlish Sam, more than ever 
 resolved to tell nothing of his own accord. 
 
 " And how be your own folks a going on since I left these 
 parts, young Sam ? " she continued, condescendingly. 
 
 " They bain't dead yet, our folks bain't, and there bain't 
 none of 'em married," was the spoken response. " Nasty 
 greedy gut!" mentally continued Sam, for his own private 
 benefit. " Her's a gobbling up all that there nice toast, her 
 is, and never offering a fellow a bit ! Soaking in butter, it 
 were ! " 
 
 Miss Geach had "gobbled up" the first half of the last 
 round, and was beginning the second half. Also she was now 
 stirring the sugar round vigorously in her third cup of tea. 
 Sam, who was inordinately fond of good things, did not know 
 how to suppress his ire. 
 
 "Where's the young 'un ? " suddenly asked Sam. 
 
 " What young 'un ? " 
 
 " That there babby o' your'n. Left it on the road ? " 
 
 At this most unexpected and insolent close questioning, 
 Miss Geach dropped the spoon and some of the tea together. 
 Sam quailed before her hard look. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean, Sam Pound ? What 
 babby ? " 
 
 " Oh well, 1 thought — as you might ha' — bought — a 
 
 babby, you know, since you've been away." 
 
 " Did you ! Who gave you leave to think, pray ? Me 
 bought a babby ? What should bring me a buying of a 
 babby?" she continued, peering hard at Sam's countenance, 
 and wondering perhaps how to take his words, and whether 
 he was as simple as he was just then looking. " I haven't 
 bought a babby ; nor haven't sold one; nor haven't got one 
 
363 Dene Hollow. 
 
 nor Lad one. There ! Be I married, d'ye suppose, that you 
 should set on and ask me that daft thing ? " 
 
 Sam had sundry retorts ready at his tongue's end : but he 
 deemed it prudent to let them stay there. In the old days 
 she used to think nothing of slapping his ears. She had hard 
 hands of her own, too. 
 
 " Take and fish out the biggest lump o' coal you can find i' 
 the coal-hod, and put it on, Sam Pound. After that, you may 
 shut the shutters and light the candles." 
 
 The final piece of toast was being bolted — to use Mr. Sam's 
 private expression — as he slowly rose to obey her. He had 
 a great mind to tell her to put on the coal herself — but it 
 might not be policy. Suppose she took and turned him out 
 that night ? 
 
 " Mother used to say her had as much stock as Old Nick," 
 thought the young man. " Her've got more on't now, her 
 have. Wish the waggin had froze her, I do ! " 
 
 He had his ten fingers in the large wooden coal-hod, search- 
 ing for a big lump of coal, when the door was pushed sharply 
 open, and a rush of air, a cloud of snow, and Randy Black 
 burst in together. By the evident haste the latter displayed, 
 one might have supposed he had been seeing another ghost. 
 
 " Well, Black, and how be you ? " 
 
 In the hurry of his arrival, he had not at first noticed her 
 presence. The salutation brought him up, and he stood 
 without motion. Had she been a ghost herself, he could not 
 have gazed more intently. 
 
 " It's me, Black. You needn't stand stock still, a staring, 
 as if you didn't know me." 
 
 " I might well stare, to see you" retorted Black, in no 
 pleasant tone. " You impudent huzzy ! How dare you come 
 back here in this bold wfty ? " 
 
 "Because it's my home," returned she with equanimity, as 
 she be^an to wash up the tea-things. 
 
 Leaving them to the battle — which Miss Emma Geach 
 would be tolerably sure to gain ; for Black, in his failing 
 health and strength, was no match for her now — we will go 
 on to Beechhurst Dene. Something a little curious was 
 happening there this self-same evening. 
 
 Sir Dene, dressed for guests, was standing in the bright 
 light of his sitting-room fire. He was thinking that, what 
 with one non-arrival and another, things Avere not going as 
 pleasantly as they might have gone. The disappointment 
 
An Arrival at the Trailing Indian. 369 
 
 about the heir and his brother was still felt by him, and now 
 he had just heard a report that Squire Arde had not returned 
 from London. Gander gave him the information while help- 
 ing him on with his coat. Captain Clanwaring, just come in 
 from the Hall, said its master had not arrived. There was 
 this snow, too ! 
 
 One of the grandest dinners given for many years at the 
 Dene, was to take place this evening. All in honour, of 
 course, of the coming wedding. Invitations had gone out to 
 the first people in the county, including some of its resident 
 nobility, and were accepted. The entertainment was to be 
 on a grand and lavish scale : amidst other things, a band was 
 engaged to play in the hall during the banquet. 
 
 On Sunday, Christmas Day, the Ardes would dine quietly 
 at the Dene as usual. On Monday there would be a grand 
 dinner at the Hall. 'Not so grand as this one to-night : Arde 
 Hall was not foolish enough to attempt to vie with Beech- 
 hurst Dene, or put itself into the same scale of pomp and 
 expenditure. And on Tuesday, the wedding-day, of course 
 the Hall gave a breakfast. 
 
 With all his heart, Sir Dene wished this evening over. 
 Truth to say, his strength was not equal to the entertaining 
 of guests : though, in his old-fashioned courtesy, he intended 
 to try and do it as in his best days. But if his old friend and 
 neighbour were to be absent, half of its charm, for him, 
 would have left it. Squire Arde was to have been home 
 certainly that morning. Sir Dene thought it very hard that 
 he had not come. 
 
 " I hope the carriages will be able to get along the roads," 
 thought he, as he went to the window and looked forth on 
 the snowy landscape, shining far and wide in the light night. 
 " It is a long drive for some of 'em : they'll be twice as long 
 doing it as they would if the roads were clear. Hope they'll 
 take care to set off in time ! " 
 
 It was past five now, and the dinner hour was seven. As 
 Sir Dene stood, looking and thinking, the door was tapped 
 at, and Captain Clanwaring put his head in. 
 
 " Mr. Arde is not back, sir." 
 
 " And why's he not back ?" retcrted Sir Dene in a tart 
 tone. The tartness not meant for the absent Squire, but for 
 Jarvis himself. Sir Dene had taken his resolution — not to 
 speak at all of the deceit in regard to money matters that 
 had come to his knowledge through Otto ; at least, until the 
 
 B B 
 
370 
 
 Dene Hollow. 
 
 ■wedding should be over. But the fact lay solely on his mind 
 and had rendered him barely civil since to either the Captain 
 or Lady Lydia. 
 
 " He couldn't get his business done in time to leave London 
 last night; he leaves to-night, and will be home to-morrow," 
 said Jarvis. " Mrs. Arde has just had a letter from him." 
 
 " A letter at this time o' day ! What d'ye mean ? " 
 
 " It was delivered about three o'clock this afternoon, sir. 
 The mail was, no doubt, late at Worcester : and the road is 
 very heavy just now between there and here." 
 
 " There's no uncertainty about it, then — that he won't be 
 here to dinner ? " 
 
 " No, sir : he can't be." 
 
 Sir Dene turned his back, and Jarvis retreated from the 
 room. By-and-by, when the old man was dosing in his easy 
 chair by the fire, he was woke up by a resplendent vision 
 kneeling at his feet. 
 
 It was Mrs. Letsom. She was in a pale pink silk, richly 
 trimmed with lace ; but she wore neither flowers nor jewels ; 
 her fair neck and arms were bare. 
 
 " Grandpapa, I have come with a petition," she coaxingly 
 said, winding her pretty white arms about him. " Oh, if you 
 will but grant it ! " 
 
 " What is it, my dear ? " he asked, bending to kiss her. 
 For he loved her very well : though not as he had loved 
 Margaret. She kept his head down to whisper in his ear. 
 
 " Let me wear the diamonds to-night." 
 
 Up went Sir Dene's face with a jerk. Ajerk of puzzled surprise. 
 
 " The diamonds, Louisa. What diamonds ? " 
 
 " Yours, grandpapa. The Clanwaring diamonds." 
 
 Sir Dene shook his head. " Those diamonds have never 
 been got out, except to be looked at, since my wife died." 
 
 " Then I'm sure it's time they were aired," returned the 
 young lady. 
 
 " Our diamonds are never worn, you see, but by the wife 
 of the reigning baronet, Louisa," he explained, with a touch 
 of the pride that was not yet at rest within him. " They 
 will go to young Dene when I die ; and be worn by his wife 
 when he shall marry." 
 
 " But why need you be so exclusive, grandpapa ? Dene's 
 not married yet ; nor likely to be." 
 
 " It is our custom, child. Your mother once attacked me 
 on the subject of the diamonds ; trying to persuade me to let 
 
An Arrival at the Trailing Indian. 371 
 
 her wear them. If I remember aright we were going to 
 the ball at the Worcester Music Meeting, with the Foleys, 
 and others. But I gave her to understand, once for all, that 
 it could not be." 
 
 " That was different, grandpapa. This would be only in 
 our own house, just for to-night. If you would let it be the 
 necklace only, then ! " 
 
 " I don't like to break through the rule, Louisa. Dene might 
 not like it, either." 
 
 " Dene's not here. Besides, he has no business to like or 
 dislike anything of the kind, as long as you are with us. I 
 think Dene would be the first to say I should wear them, 
 grandpapa. 
 
 Sir Dene remained silent, as if considering. Mrs. Letsom 
 rose, and began turning herself round in the light of the fire, 
 her hands held out. 
 
 " My dress looks well, doesn't it, grandpapa ? It's new on 
 to-night." 
 
 " Very well, my dear." 
 
 " But don't you see that I have neither bracelets nor neck- 
 lace on ? I'll tell you why. While I was dressing just now, 
 my maid discovered the calamity that my jewel-box had not 
 come. Not that there was much value in it, except the pearls. 
 I have nothing to wear to-night, grandpapa." 
 
 " Your mother has jewels. Borrow some of her." 
 
 " I'd not wear any she's got — wretched old trumpery! Oh, 
 grandpapa, if you would ! Just the necklace only. You 
 Avould enjoy the pleasure of seeing it worn on a neck once 
 again." 
 
 And Sir Dene yielded. With the fond face kissing his, and 
 the white arms entwined about him, he could but yield. But 
 only the necklace, he said ; he was resolute in that. Only 
 the necklace. 
 
 " Ring for Gander, then, Louisa." 
 
 The diamond case was kept at the bottom of a chest in the 
 next room, Sir Dene's chamber. Getting his keys, Sir Dene 
 unlocked the chest himself ; and Gander dived down with his 
 hands to get it out, in somewhat the same manner that 
 Mr. Sam Pound had just dived into the wooden coal-hod 
 at the Trailing Indian. He had to remove sundry things ; 
 Sir Dene's military orders (he had one in his coat to-night): 
 parchments belonging to the estate, and such like. Mrs. Letsom, 
 her face and fingers alike eager, stood by and held the light. 
 
 But the case of diamonds was not there. It was not there. 
 
3/2 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Sir Dene sunk down in a chair speechless. Gander raised a 
 hullabaloo. 
 
 For once the faithful old man-servant lost his wits. He 
 flew out into the passages, shouting out wildly, " Thieves I 
 Thieves ! " Louisa followed, wild too, screaming in her turn, 
 and whiffling the candle about. 
 
 It brought out the people who were attiring themselves in 
 their dressing-rooms. Lady Lydia, Aunt Ann, Captain Clan- 
 waring, and his brother Otto. The Captain demanded whether 
 the house had gone mad. 
 
 '•No," said Gander, "it's the diamonds that be gone. We've 
 had thieves in." 
 
 " The beautiful Clanwaring diamonds," shrieked Louisa. 
 " And I was to have worn them to-night." 
 
 Otto stood, half paralyzed. He looked at his mother, he 
 looked at his brother ; but they both went suddenly into their 
 rooms again, and shut the doors. Going up to Louisa, he 
 caught her hand. 
 
 " Say no more now, Lousia," he whispered in some agitation. 
 " Hush it up. Hush it up, by any means in your power — if 
 you value this house's peace and good name." 
 
 " Hush it up ! " retorted Louisa Letsom, in a loud tone of 
 rage. " Hush up the theft of our diamonds ! You cannot 
 know what ycu are saying, Otto Clanwaring." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 A DARK, thick night, that of Friday, the twenty-third of De- 
 cember. The London and Worcester mail was toilino- its slow 
 way along towards the latter city under difficulties. Snow was 
 falling heavily : snow had been falling, more or less, for some 
 days. The coach was unusually laden. Although in was the 
 Royal Mail, and carried his Majesty's letters, it was not on 
 that account exempt from parcels, especially at the busy 
 Christmas season ; and it was crammed with presents from 
 people in London to their friends in the country. . Baskets of 
 codfish, barrels of oysters, small hampers of wine ; and pas- 
 sengers' luggage. Never had the Worcester mail been more 
 weightily charged. 
 
 Four passengers sat inside; none out. People had not 
 cared to risk the cold journey for so many hours outside when 
 
The Snow Storm. 373 
 
 they could gat an inside place. Of the passengers, one was a 
 lady; the other three were gentlemen: and they leaned in 
 their corners, well wrapped up, wishing the night was over, 
 and inwardly grumbling at the tardy pace to which the state 
 of the roads condemned them. 
 
 Slower and slower went the horses. After leaving London, 
 the mail had got along pretty well and kept its time tolerablv 
 at the different halting-places for the change of horses : it was 
 only within an hour, or so, that the roads had become what 
 they were — nearly impassable. The poor horses toiled and 
 pulled : never a handsomer team to look at than those four 
 bright brown steeds ; but they could not get along. The 
 coachman — himself half blinded by the drifting storm — alter- 
 nately coaxed and whipped them. The guard rose perpet- 
 ually, in his seat behind, to look out on the white mist, so far 
 as he could see of it in the light given by the mail lamps. 
 Then he would put his horn to his mouth, and blow a blast; 
 sometimes short and snappish, sometimes patient and pro- 
 longed. To what end ? It only went shrieking and echoing 
 away to the lone country, its sound losing itself in the snow. 
 
 The horses came to a standstill, and the coachman turned his 
 head to speak, from the midst of his mufflers. " Light your 
 lantern, Jim, and see whether I be in the road." 
 
 The guard got down with his lighted lantern, and at once 
 sunk up to the knees in snow. "This can't be the highway," 
 he muttered to himself. " If 'tis, the storm must have fell 
 here kindly." 
 
 It was impossible to tell whether they were in the road or 
 not. Snow was everywhere. So far as could be seen of the 
 limited space on which light was thrown, the look-out pre- 
 sented nothing but one white plain : and those small white 
 mountains, revealing glimpses of themselves in places, might 
 be heaping drifts that had gathered, might be hedges that 
 were covered : no human being could tell. The horses, pant- 
 ing after the laboured exertions they had made, tossed their 
 heads to the reins and tried to shake themselves free : but the 
 leaders would not go forward of their own will, and to urge 
 them might bring death. 
 
 " It is o' no use, Smith," spoke the guard to the coachman 
 at length, from the depths of his many capes and comforters. 
 " We can't go on." 
 
 " What's us to do, then ? " 
 
 '■ May I be pressed if I know ! " 
 
374 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Meantime the inside passengers were gradually awaking 
 from their state of semi-sleep to the fact that they had come to 
 a standstill : that the mail was not progressing at all. Two 
 of the gentlemen wore white cotton night-caps ; the third 
 had a purple silk handkerchief tied on his head ; the lady was 
 enveloped in a quilted bonnet. In those days of long night 
 stages, it was the custom to prepare for sleep inside the 
 coaches with as much regard to comfort as circumstances per- 
 mitted. One of the windows was let down, and the purple 
 handkerchief, together with the head wrapped in it, thrust 
 itself out to ascertain the cause of the delay. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 The guard with his lantern trod his way to the window at 
 the call, as quickly as the depth of snow allowed him. 
 
 " We can't get on, sir." 
 
 " Not get on !" came the half angry, half authoritative rejoin- 
 der, in tones that are familiar to the reader. For the traveller 
 with the purple silk handkerchief was Squire Arde. 
 
 "No, sir," repeated the guard, "we can't get on at all. 
 The snow has been uncommonly heavy here, and the horses 
 are not able to make their way in it. It's coming down now 
 as thick as ever I saw it : getting worse with every minute." 
 
 The startling news fully aroused the whole of the passen- 
 gers. As many of the four heads as could come out at the two 
 windows, came out, their faces presenting various phases of 
 that undesirable emotion — consternation. 
 
 " We must get on, guard," spoke Squire Arde, with a stress 
 on the "must" and the authority of one who is accustomed to 
 command. 
 
 " I can't see how it is to be done, sir," civilly replied the 
 man. " The leaders refuse to move of their own accord, as 
 'twere ; and Smith dare not force 'em on. We don't know 
 that we be in the road." 
 
 " But we must get on," pursued Squire Arde. " To-mor- 
 row will be Christmas Eve ; and I — I — I have engagements 
 at home that I cannot break or put off." 
 
 "To-day is Christmas Eve, sir," corrected the guard: 
 " morning has been in some time. But we cannot get on any 
 the more for that." 
 
 " Whereabouts are we ? " was heard from a passenger who 
 was unable to get his head out. 
 
 "Not such a great sight off Chipping Norton, sir," was the 
 lucid answer. " Halfway, may be. But it's all guess-work.'* 
 
The Snow Storm. 375 
 
 " Is there any danger, guard ?" called out the lady, in her 
 quick, pleasant voice. 
 
 " Not as long as we keep still, ma'am." 
 
 " But surely "\ve are not to keep still all night ! Good 
 gracious, guard ! Why suppose — suppose another coach 
 comes up and runs over us ? " 
 
 " Another coach couldn't any more come up, ma'am, than 
 ■we can get on," returned the guard; who seemed as much at 
 a loss and as full of dismay as his passengers. " We might 
 have done well to stop at Woodstock : the ostler there told 
 Smith it would be a wonder if the mail made her way to 
 Chipping Norton." 
 
 The gentleman with the largest cotton night- cap was strik- 
 ing his repeater. By the hour it gave back, he knew they 
 could not hitherto have been very seriously delayed. 
 
 "Oh come, guard," said he, "it's not so bad. I dare say 
 we can get on with a little perseverance. The snow must 
 have drifted just here." 
 
 " That's what it is, sir. If it had been as bad before, we 
 couldn't have got along at all. But it's of no use trying to 
 get through this." 
 
 " What is to be done, Smith ? " roared Squire Arde at the 
 top of his voice to the coachman. " What is to be done ? " 
 
 " Nothing so far as I see," was the substance of the coach- 
 man's reply, given with equanimity. " If I tried to force 
 the animals on, it might result in a upset down a bank, and 
 cost all on 'em their lives, men and cattle too." 
 
 Even Squire Arde's impatience would not wish to risk that 
 result. But he urged a cautious trial : as indeed did his 
 fellow travellers. They thought it possible that the great 
 drift of snow was confined to this one spot, and might be got 
 through. 
 
 An effort was made. The guard and the passenger of the 
 repeater went to the heads of the leaders ; and for a short 
 space and with great caution some few yards of the way were 
 surmounted. But the snow got deeper : or rather, they got 
 deeper into it. The coachman's decided opinion was, that 
 they had lost the road ; and that even this cautious moving 
 was extremely perilous. So they desisted : life is sweet, and 
 none of us are willing to risk it lightly. There appeared 
 nothing for it but to remain as they were — stationary. 
 
 And, remain so, they did, until morning light. None of 
 the passengers ever forgot that night. The fame of it went 
 
376 Dene Hollow. 
 
 abroad ; and it is talked of to this day in the counties of 
 Worcestershire, Oxfordshire, and Gloucestershire. 
 
 When day dawned it was found that the coachman's con- 
 ecture was correct. They were off the road : and how they 
 had penetrated without accident to the spot where they found 
 themselves was a marvel. Inside a ploughed field stood the 
 coach, its previously broken fence having removed the barrier 
 between it and the highway. But the fence was broken only 
 for a very short space, not much more than enough to allow of 
 the horses and mail getting through. It was this that rendered 
 it remarkable — that they should have passed through at that 
 one particular spot. The snow fell incessantly : the road, 
 even could they have got back to it, was utterly impassable ; 
 to attempt to go on to Worcester out of the question for the 
 present. By dint of exertion and skill, they reached a lonely 
 farmhouse beyond the field ; and, within its hospitable Avails 
 and stables, man and beast obtained the most welcome rest 
 and shelter that any of them had ever enjoyed in their need. 
 
 I must beg you to note the days : for there was a singular 
 romance attached to this detention of the mail and its pas- 
 sengers. People interested in the fact, were wont to say that 
 it had been stopped by the Finger of Heaven. This day, 
 Saturday, was Christmas Eve ; Sunday would be Christmas 
 Day : and Monday, the 26th, would be the eve of Miss Arde's 
 ■wedding-day. 
 
 When Mr. Arde went to London on the Monday, putting 
 up at the Castle and Falcon, it had been his full intention to 
 quit it by the Thursday night's mail, so as to reach Worcester 
 on Friday morning, and his own home in the course of the 
 day. But when Thursday came, he found he was not able to 
 do this ; and he wrote to his wife saying he should be home 
 on Saturday. As we heard in a previous chapter. 
 
 This delay in London rather vexed him. For one thing, it 
 prevented his joining the state dinner given by Sir Dene 
 Clanwaring on Friday : and Mr. Arde was fond of good din- 
 ners. The fault was his lawyers' ; they were preparing Miss 
 Arde's marriage settlement, and did not get it ready. He 
 blew them up sharply : and on the Friday morning the deed 
 was handed to him. On the Friday afternoon he was at the 
 Bull and Mouth, and put himself into the Worcester mail — - 
 which in those days started early, either at four or five in the 
 afternoon. He had with him the marriage settlement, and the 
 marriage licence : a fine cod-fish, and two barrels of oysters. 
 
TI.e Snow Storm. ^jy 
 
 So the mail set off on its journey cheeringly enough ; and 
 traversed part of the distance only to find it could not traverse 
 the rest. Mr. Arde, when writing to his wife, had said he 
 should be home on Saturday " without fail." But, here he 
 was instead, snowed up in that lonely farmhouse, somewhere 
 in the unknown regions about Chipping Norton : and, on the 
 whole, glad that a farmhouse was there to be in. 
 
 Nevertheless as the hours on the Saturday went on, and 
 there appeared to be no chance whatever of their moving, for 
 the snow continued to come down heavily at intervals, Mr. 
 Arde chafed at the delay : showing some irritation on the 
 point to his fellow-travellers, and telling them that urgent 
 business awaited him at his home in Worcestershire. Very 
 true ; it did so. But had the business been ten times as 
 urgent, had it involved life or death, he could not any more 
 have helped the detention. When the elements set themselves 
 against man, man is powerless to contend with them. 
 
 Beds were improvised for the travellers on Saturday night. 
 The farmer and his family were hospitable to the last degree, 
 and did their best in every way to make their unexpected 
 guests comfortable. The mail-coach, covered well with sacks 
 to keep it dry, stood out in the snow ; the horses were in the 
 stables ; the coachman and guard made themselves happy 
 with the farmer's servants, and no doubt secretly enjoyed the 
 holiday as an interlude of rest from their life's occupation. 
 
 Many were the anxious looks cast out on the weather when 
 the travellers rose on Christmas morning. One sheet of white 
 presented itself everywhere, and there was at least no chance 
 of their getting on that day. The farmer feasted them right 
 i*oyally with turkeys, and other good things incidental to the 
 season ; amidst which appeared Mr. Arde's large cod-fish, and 
 one of his barrels of oysters : a rare treat to the farmer and 
 his people. They drew round the fire for dessert, to make 
 merry, telling anecdotes and stories ; and for a time Squire 
 Arde forgot his vexation. Some friends in the locality, who 
 were to have partaken of the family's hospitality, dinner 
 guests, could not get there for the snow. 
 
 On Monday, matters out of doors remained in the same 
 state, and the prisoners had to be prisoners on that day still. 
 Worse still, there seemed to be no indications that thine s 
 would alter; and Mr. Arde was at his wits' end. He chafed, 
 he fumed, he marched to the doors, he opened the windows, 
 he took counsel with the coachman and smard. All to no 
 
378 Dene Hollow. 
 
 purpose. The rest rallied him ; the lady laughed at him good- 
 humouredly : cheerful-hearted herself under all circumstances 
 of existence, however untoward, she merrily told him that the 
 adventure was agreeable, rather than otherwise, and would 
 serve them to talk of the remainder of life. Mr. Arde at 
 length disclosed the reason of his impatience — his daughter, 
 whose wedding was fixed for the following day, could not be 
 married without him, as he bore the licence and the settle- 
 ments. They allowed the plea : agreeing with him that the 
 detention was unfortunate : but they were unable to speed 
 him onwards. 
 
 " Only think if I should not be home by to-morrow morn- 
 ing \" cried Mr. Arde in accents of fear at the very thought. 
 
 " They would only have to postpone the ceremony for a day 
 or two," cheerily pointed out the lady. 
 
 Squire Arde shook his head. " I don't like weddings post- 
 poned," said he. " Old wives say it bodes ill-luck, you know, 
 Mrs. W . We must get away somehow to-night." 
 
 And out he went again in his restlessness, to see the guard • 
 and coachman. 
 
 Must get away to-night ! Squire Arde might as well have 
 said he must go up in a balloon and get the clerk of the 
 weather to change the aspect of affairs. There was as much 
 possibility of his doing the one as the other. Monday wore 
 on. The travellers sat by the fire, and played cards, and the 
 good farmer feasted his guests again. Not one of them in 
 after life forgot his genuine hospitality and kindness. For 
 I am recording only what took place in actuality. Up to this 
 time ; all Saturday, all Sunday, all Monday ; they had been 
 detained. So prolonged and heavy a snow-fall had not been 
 known in the country for years and years. 
 
 Tuesday morning. Squire Arde was the first to gaze out 
 anxiously. It was the wedding-day — or ought to have been — 
 and he was nearly rampant. For though a very easy man in 
 general, it was in Mr. Arde's nature to put himself fiercely 
 out when anything went wrong on great occasions : and 
 perhaps the consciousness of the very fact that in his heart he 
 did not cordially like Captain Clanwaring for his daughter's 
 husband, made him all the more impatient to get the marriage 
 over and done with. Doubt would then be off his mind. 
 Ever and anon in the past few weeks a voice had been whis- 
 pering to him that he and his wife might be wrong to have 
 urged Jarvis Clanwaring upon Mary : she was young enough 
 
At BcechJmrst Dene. 379 
 
 and could have waited to make another choice. However, 
 what was fixed, was fixed : and the Squire now only wanted 
 to be at home and get it over. But this snowstorm was pre- 
 venting him. 
 
 As an imprisoned bird flutters his wings against the bars of 
 his cruel cage, vainly endeavouring to escape from it, so it 
 was with George Arde. He chafed as before, he fretted, he 
 fumed, all to as little purpose as the poor caged bird. As the 
 one cannot break his wire bars, neither could the other his 
 fetters. What mattered it to Mr. Arde though the weather 
 on this Tuesday morning was changing — giving evident signs 
 of a speedy break up ! It did not serve him. Had the roads 
 between that farmhouse and Hurst Leet been instantaneously 
 rendered, by some miracle, clear as a bowling-green, he could 
 not have reached home in time for the ceremony : no, not by 
 
 the help of the fleetest horse. Mrs. W , good, trusting 
 
 woman that she was, then, and throughout all the trouble 
 that was destined to come to her in later life, said to him that 
 these vexatious impediments sometimes intervened only to 
 answer some wise end. But Mr. Arde wholly refused to see 
 it in this instance, and chafed amazingly. 
 
 By Tuesday night the high road had become passable for 
 large vehicles : and the mail, leaving London that afternoon 
 for Worcester, absolutely passed on its way. Nothing of this 
 was known at the farm. News certainly did come in that the 
 highway was tolerably clear. What of that ? — it only served 
 to exasperate Mr. Arde the more. For this mail of his, this 
 miserable mail, embedded deep in the ruts and snow, could 
 not as yet be got by any manner of means to the highway. 
 And thus another night passed, and the prisoners were pri- 
 soners still. Squire Arde decided that fate and fortune 
 were alike against him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 AT BEECHHURST DENE. 
 
 In Gander's pantry, a sociable kind of room panelled with oak, 
 stood over the fire Otto Clanwaring and the butler ; the latter 
 in his usual striped morning jacket, which he wore summer and 
 winter, and with a tea-cloth in his left hand. Gander was 
 frightfully discomposed. In all the years that the man had 
 lived with Sir Dene, he had never been so put out as he was 
 
380 Dene Hollow. 
 
 now, at the disappearance of the case of diamonds. It was 
 Saturday morning, and Christmas Eve, for we have to go 
 back a little to record what had been taking place, during the 
 snow-storm, at Beechhurst Dene and elsewhere. The grand 
 dinner, as may be remembered, took place on the previous 
 night, Friday ; and Sir Dene, fatigued with his exertions as 
 host, was not yet up. 
 
 " No, Mr. Otto, you had better not go in to see him," 
 Gander was saying with quite the same amount of decisive 
 authority that he had used when the barrister was a boy. 
 " When my master says to me ' Gander, you'll take care that 
 I am not disturbed for a bit,' why it's my place to take 
 care he's not, sir : and Sir Dene knows that I shall take 
 care." 
 
 " I should be the last to disturb him against his will, 
 Gander." 
 
 " Yes, I think you would be, Mr. Otto." 
 " The dinner was too much for him, that's the fact," 
 observed Otto. "A courteous-natured man, as my grand- 
 father eminently is, exerts himself at all cost to entertain 
 guests when they are around him : and a state occasion like 
 that last night, involves a continual strain on the exertion, 
 mentally and bodily. Sir Dene should have given up the 
 presidency to — to Captain Clanwaring ; and sat, himself, as a 
 guest." 
 
 " He'd not do that," disputed Gander. "While he's able to 
 appear among 'em at all, it'll be as head and chief. Quite 
 right too. To Captain Clanwaring he never would give up," 
 boldly added Gander: "he don't like him well enough. I 
 can't tell but what he might ha' give up last night after what 
 happened, had the heir, Mr. Dene, been here." 
 
 Otto said nothing to this. Whatever might be his own 
 private contempt for his elder brother, he did not choose to 
 speak of it to the butler. 
 
 " What a snow-storm we are having, Gander ! " he cried, 
 turning his eyes on the white landscape outside the window, 
 by way of changing the conversation. 
 
 "'Twas not the entertaining o' the folks, Mr Otto; my 
 master's equal to that once in a way yet ; though I think it'll 
 be the last time he'll ever attempt it," resumed Gander, dis- 
 regarding the remark about the snow. " 'Twas that awful 
 upset just as the company was arriving. It shook him fright 
 fttl. My wonder was that he sat down to table at all. I'm 
 
At Bccchhurst Dene. 381 
 
 sure I didn't know whether I stood on my head or my heels 
 all the while I waited." 
 
 "Yes," said Otto, looking close at the fire; "it is not 
 pleasant to miss one's family diamonds." 
 
 " No, it's not" significantly spoke Gander. " Not a wink 
 o' sleep has the poor master had for thinking on't. And he 
 has been getting a notion into his head in the night about it 
 that makes him feel worse." 
 " What notion's that ? " 
 
 "Weil, he thinks 'twas no common thief that took 'em," 
 returned Gander, gently swaying his tea-cloth. 
 " No common thief! " 
 
 " No housebreaker, nor nothing o' that sort. ' Don't yom 
 be put out about it, Gander,' said he to me ; ' you'd not touch 
 the diamonds ' — for you see, Mr. Otto, 'twas an awkward loss 
 for me, and I told him so ; nobody but me, besides himself, 
 having access to the keys that unlocked the box. He had 
 been thinking it over in the night, the master went on to say, 
 and he had come to the notion that somebody had took them 
 diamonds to make money on 'em." 
 
 Knowing what he did know, the usually impassive face of 
 the barrister turned as red as a school-girl's. Glancing up at 
 Gander's clock he made some light remark about the hour. 
 But the butler was not to be repressed. 
 
 " It have been nothing but worrying him for money this 
 many a year past. Worry, worry, worry ; I wonder some- 
 times that the master stands it, and so 'ud you wonder, Mi. 
 Otto, if you were in the midst on't. My lady's at him 
 perpetual : it's money for herself she wants, or for the 
 Captain, or for you. As for the Captain, he have not dared to 
 ask on his own score this long while, for Sir Dene '11 never 
 hear him." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring opened his lips to say that none of the 
 solicited money had been for himself; but closed them again 
 without speaking. A shrewd doubt lay upon him, gathered 
 from Gander's glance and from Gander's tone, that the man 
 guessed it perfectly, or else that his master had enlightened him. 
 " And so, Mr. Otto, Sir Dene thinks, seeing lately he has 
 not responded much to the demands, but just shut up his 
 breeches pockets, that perhaps the diamonds have been took 
 to make money upon. Borrowed, you know." 
 
 Again an idea crossed the mind of Otto Clanwarino-, that 
 Gander had his suspicions that he, Otto, knew something of 
 
382 Dene Hollow. 
 
 this ; suspicions drawn no doubt from his perhaps too evident 
 efforts to hush up the matter on the previous night when the 
 loss was discovered. Otherwise the man would hardly so 
 have spoken. 
 
 " I can only say, Gander, that I have not borrowed the 
 diamonds — as you call it." 
 
 " Not likely, Mr. Otto. But now you look here, sir. If 
 them diamonds could be brought back, or if proof could be 
 given to the master that they bain't lost outright — sold, say — 
 'twould comfort him." Otto really knew not what to answer. 
 
 " I was thinking, sir, that perhaps we might ha' got up a 
 little bit of a plot; you and me. If you could get tho 
 diamonds, I'd carry the case in my hand to Sir Dene, and 
 say, ' Look here, master, at what I've done ; at my poor old 
 foolish memory ; ' and vow to him that I had put 'em else- 
 where for safety when I was a- rubbing of 'em up, and forgot 
 it. — Just as the widow Barber put away that paper of her'n 
 years ago, and couldn't find it again, and had to turn out of 
 her place in consequence." 
 
 " Are you suggesting this out of consideration for Sir Dene, 
 or for others? " inquired Otto. 
 
 "Why, for Sir Dene, of course, sir," replied Gander, with 
 an emphasis and a flick of the tea-cloth, that seemed to imply 
 he'd not trouble himself to do it for others. " I'd spread the 
 diamonds out before him to comfort him ; and he'd believe, 
 seeing 'em and listening to me, that they had never been lost, 
 but in my stupid memory. 'Twould be a pack o' lies : but 
 heaven 'ud forgive me for the sake o' the poor master. He's 
 too old to have these tricks played him, Mr. Otto : and the 
 . loss o' them diamonds is just telling upon his mind : and I 
 dun know what the end on't '11 be." 
 
 There was a pause of silence. The barrister had his head 
 bent as if in thought ; Gander and his cloth were perfectly 
 still, waiting for an answer. 
 
 "Tell me freely why you are saying this," said Otto, 
 looking up suddenly, his indifferent tone changing to a frank 
 one. "You have something in your thoughts, Gander." 
 
 " Well, sir, as it's you, and you ask me, I think I will tell. 
 Captain Clanwaring has got the diamonds." 
 
 An exceeding disagreeable sensation, resembling shame, 
 seized hold of Otto on hearing this. He gave the man a word 
 of reprimand and bade him not talk so fast. It was not Otto's 
 duty to betray his brother. 
 
At Beechhurst Dene. 383 
 
 " I am just as sure of it as that we two be talking here, 
 Mr. Otto," persisted Gander. "After the company had gone 
 last night, Miss Louisa — Mrs. Letsom that is — came into my 
 pantry here, and began again about the diamonds, vowing she 
 would have every nook and corner o' the house turned out, 
 and every servant in it searched, them and their boxes. All 
 in a minute, in come Captain Clanwaring. He seized hold of 
 her and said — w r ell, I hardly know what he said, Mr. Otto, 
 and at the time he didn't see me, for I'd gone behind the 
 screen there. Just a few words, it was, ordering her to be 
 quiet, but they startled me. His face was as white as white 
 paint when it's got varnish on't, a kind o' blazing white. He 
 had took enough to drink, too. I knew then who had got the 
 diamonds ; and Miss Louisa, I fancy she knew, for she turned 
 as white as he was, and never spoke another word. 'Twas 
 my lady who cribbed 'em out o' the chest, I guess, Mr. Otto. 
 Must ha' been. Nobody but her could get to Sir Dene's keys 
 — save me." 
 
 Otto Clanwaring, the rising barrister casting glances towards 
 a future chief judgeship, possibly to something higher than 
 that, bit his lip almost to bleeding. How painful this was to 
 him, a man of honour, his sharp accent told. 
 
 " Then it was you who instilled these suspicions into the 
 mind of Sir Dene, Gander ! " 
 
 " Not a bit on't, sir. I've never let 'em out o' my mind till 
 this moment, and I shan't speak of 'em again. Sir Dene took 
 'em up for himself in the night, while he lay awake. Hinting 
 at 'em to me this morning when I went in, I pretended to say 
 that he must be mistaken." 
 
 "And you must be mistaken, Gander," spoke Otto, de- 
 cisively. " Better not let Captain Clanwaring hear you." 
 
 " Let it go so, Mr. Otto," returned the man calmly. " But 
 — if there's any means o' getting the diamonds back, get 'em 
 back, for the poor master's sake." 
 
 " Sir Dene must talk to you very confidentially, Gander ? " 
 
 "So he do, sir. There's been nobody else here the past 
 twelvemonth for him to talk to but me, and he has got into 
 the habit on't. You've all been away but the Captain ; and the 
 master wouldn't talk to Mm. If Mr. Tom was here 'twould 
 be different." 
 
 The ringing of Sir Dene's bell broke up the colloquy. 
 Gander threw his tea-cloth on a chair, and hastened up stairs : 
 leaving Otto standing over the fire. 
 
384 • Dene Hollow. 
 
 It was a painfully humiliating moment for Otto Clanwaring. 
 That the affair had taken place exactly as the old serving-man 
 had divined — his mother abstracting the case from the chest, 
 and handing it to Jarvis — Otto felt as sure of as though he had 
 seen it done. With his whole heart, he hated the clear-sighted- 
 ness of Gander in this. Although the man had been in the 
 family so many years as to have become almost like one of 
 themselves, it was not pleasant that he should be cognisant of 
 this disgraceful act. 
 
 " What a curse are spendthrift habits ! " cried the barrister 
 in his bitterness. 
 
 Quitting the pantry, he bent his steps to the library, where he 
 expected to find his mother and brother alone. He intended 
 to act on Gander's suggestion, jand ask them to redeem the 
 diamonds, if possible. The time had gone by for mincing the 
 matter, in the opinion of Otto Clanwaring. 
 
 With the snowy landscape out of doors so suggestive of cold, 
 and the blazing fire within, the library presented a picture of 
 warm comfort. Lady Lydia and Jarvis sat on a sofa, and were 
 evidently consulting together. Jarvis lay back against one of 
 its cushions, yawning and stretching, and not looking any the 
 fresher for the quantity of wine taken at the past night's din- 
 ner. Otto took up his stand before them ; and in a low voice 
 and in a few words said what he had to say. It brought my 
 lady bolt upright. She told Otto he was mad. 
 
 " I know you have pledged the diamonds, Jarvis," went on 
 Otto. " Wbat did you get upon them ?" 
 
 " It's a lie !" said polite Jarvis. 
 
 " Look here," quietly rejoined Otto, " this sort of thing will 
 do no good. The job is a bad job altogether, but it's done ; and 
 all that remains now is to see whether it can be undone. 
 Don't trouble yourself to deny it to me, Jarvis. I have known 
 of the transaction all along." 
 
 '■ What an infernal lie !" amended Jarvis. 
 
 " Pale the money-lender holds the diamonds. I saw you 
 leave them with him at his house ; I saw you receive the 
 wages.' 
 
 An explosive burst of abuse from Jarvis. Abuse of the 
 money-lender, who must, as he concluded, have betrayed trust ; 
 fiercer abuse of Otto. Lady Lydia, fearing the noise might 
 penetrate beyond the room, stood between them, praying 
 them to be tranqui 1 . 
 
At Beechhurst Dene. 385 
 
 " It could not be helped," she said to Otto, finding how 
 useless it would be to play longer at denial. " Jarvis was 
 obliged to have money, and there were no other means what- 
 ever of raising it. The diamonds were lying there useless, 
 not looked at from year's end to year's end ; and I assumed to 
 a certainty that they would be replaced before Sir Dene could 
 find it out. There's no great harm done," she concluded in a 
 slighting tone. 
 
 "As he has found it out, they must be brought back," was 
 Otto's answer. " For Sir Dene's sake. Do you hear, Jarvis? " 
 " They can be brought back, and will be brought back, as 
 soon as the wedding is over, without any of your confounded 
 interference," spoke Jarvis sullenly. " But for the delay in 
 that, they'd have been home before." 
 
 "Some days to wait yet!" remarked Otto. "Were the 
 roads clear — but it's hardly to be expected with this continued 
 fall of snow — I would go up to London and get them, if you 
 could find the money." 
 
 Jarvis half laughed in derision. He find the money ! When 
 the ten thousand pounds to be allotted to him of Mary Arde's 
 fortune should have passed with herself into his own possession, 
 he would have more than enough money for everything. 
 Until then he had not a stiver. 
 
 " What did you get from Pale on them ? " asked Otto. 
 " Only a trifle. Three hundred pounds." 
 Three hundred pounds ! In truth it was a sum far beyond 
 any possible means to find. Otto imparted a hint that Sir 
 Dene suspected something, but held his tongue about Gander. 
 A great pity crossed his heart when he thought of Mary Arde. 
 Tied to this spendthrift, what would her future be ? But that 
 Jarvis was his brother, and brotherhood involves obligations, 
 Otto had certainly opened the eyes of the ruling powers at 
 Arde Hall. 
 
 "It is nothing short of a fraud," exclaimed Otto. 
 " What is ? " snapped his mother. 
 " The marrying Mary Arde." 
 
 My lady's eyes and tongue alike blazed forth their denun- 
 ciation of Otto and his gratuitous opinion; and he was fain to 
 hold his peace. 
 
 She went into Sir Dene's room as soon as she could get ad- 
 mittance, which was not until the baronet had dressed for the 
 day, and was sitting by his fire. There she set herself, in her 
 plausible way, to disperse any doubt that might lie on Sir 
 
 C c 
 
386 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Dene's mind of Jarvis in connection with the diamonds. He 
 heard her in silence, saying nothing, and whether she made any 
 impression npon him, or not, or whether he really did entertain 
 any doubt of Jarvis, she coald not tell. Of course she was 
 unable to speak out on the matter, or to defend Jarvis openly : 
 it had all to be done by implication. That Sir Dene was looking 
 unusually worn and ill that clay, was plainly observable ; he 
 seemed to be nearly prostrate, sunk far in a state of apathy. 
 
 " I quite think with dear Jarvis, that it is no common thief 
 who has taken them," remarked Lady Lydia: for she conti- 
 nued to pursue the subject long after Sir Dene's silence might 
 have warned her it had been wiser to drop it. " As you said 
 last night, Sir Dene, whoever took the diamonds must have 
 known they were kept in the chest " 
 
 " And known where my keys are kept too, my lady, when 
 I have not got them about me." 
 
 It was the first time he had spoken, and the interruption 
 was a quick one. My lady coughed. 
 
 " Ah yes, no doubt," she blandly said. " Those diamonds, 
 I fancy, had not been looked at for a year. Perhaps not for 
 considerably more than that." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " There is only one possible solution of the mystery that 
 occurs to me ; and that may not be the true one. But you 
 know, dear Sir Dene, we cannot help our thoughts." 
 
 Still no answer. Sir Dene was bending forward, his 
 hands resting on his stick, his eyes bent on the carpet, as if 
 he were studying its pattern. Lady Lydia brought her face 
 a little nearer to his, and her low voice took a confidential 
 tone. 
 
 " Did that worthless, ungrateful fellow, Tom Clanwaring, 
 help himself to them before he went away ? It is the 
 question I am asking myself, Sir Dene. He knew where the 
 keys " 
 
 Not quite at the first moment had Sir Dene gathered the 
 sense of the implication. It flashed across him now. He 
 started up in fierce passion, grasping his stick menacingly. 
 Perhaps the fact of his laioiving Tom could have had nothing 
 to do with the loss, rendered his anger at the aspersion 
 the greater. For it happened that both Sir Dene and Gander 
 knew the diamonds were safe six months ago. Searching 
 the chest in the month of June for something wanted, they 
 had seen the case there. 
 
At Bcechhurst Dene. 387 
 
 Barely had Lady Lydia heard a 6irailar burst of reproach 
 from Sir Dene's lips. In spite of the animosity which he had 
 been professing for Tom latterly, as well as really indulging, 
 his true feelings for him peeped out now. How dared she 
 so asperse his best grandson, the son of his dear dead son 
 Geoffry, he asked her. Tom was a gentleman at heart, and 
 would be one always ; a true Clanwaring he, with all a Clan- 
 waring's honour ; and he had a great mind to despatch 
 Gander to Ireland when the snow had melted, that he might 
 bring him back to the Dene by force. Things had never gone 
 well since Tom left. As to that bold baggage up at the 
 Trailing Indian — it must have been her fault more than his ; 
 she was older than Tom, and had got ten times the brass. 
 Many a light-headed young fellow had done as much in 
 his hot blood, and repented afterwards, and made all the 
 better man for it. Sir Dene was a fool for sending Tom 
 away — did my lady hear ? — a fool. A fool for that and for a 
 good deal more. 
 
 Thus he went on, saying in his passion anything that came 
 uppermost ; but no doubt giving vent to his true sentiments. 
 My lady became meek as a lamb, and metaphorically stopped 
 her ears. Especially to the repeated insinuation that other 
 folks knew where his keys were kept, and the diamonds too, 
 as well as Tom : the " other folks " pointing indubitably to 
 herself, if not to her son Jarvis. 
 
 When the storm died out, and Sir Dene had sunk back in 
 his chair, exhausted, Lady Lydia made a pretence of gently 
 tending the fire, talking about the snow, and the weather 
 generally, and the past night's company while she did it ; 
 any safe topic that occurred to her. She then withdrew 
 from the room and left Sir Dene to his repose. It would 
 not do, she saw it clearly, to say too much about the 
 diamonds while he was in this untoward frame of mind. 
 That he had a doubt of her she felt convinced ; but she was 
 not so sure that he doubted Jarvis. With her whole heart 
 she wished the wedding over and the diamonds replaced. 
 Had it been in her habit to pray, she would have prayed 
 that Tuesday might arrive on eagle's wings. 
 
 Meanwhile as the day wore on, some Uneasiness was excited 
 in the Arde family at the non-arrival of its master. The 
 ball was in a vast commotion of preparation, not only for the 
 wedding itself, but for the dinner entertainment that was to 
 be given on its eve, Monday night. Towards Saturday night 
 
388 Dene Hollow. 
 
 the non-appearance of Mr. Arde was explained. Some 
 farmers, making their slow way home from Worcester market, 
 brought word that the London coaches, including the mail, 
 had not been able to reach Worcester, from the impassable 
 state of the roads. Report spoke of " mountains of snow" 
 in the low-lying lands around Moreton-in-the-Marsh. Mr. 
 Tillett of Harebell Farm, knowing that Mrs. Arde was anxious 
 and uneasy, called at the Hall to tell her this. 
 
 " Dear me ! ' she exclaimed, at the news. " Will the 
 coaches not be able to get in to-day at all, think you, Mr. 
 Tillett ? " 
 
 Looking out on the snow, remembering what the signs 
 abroad were, Mr. Tillett thought it hardly likely that the 
 coaches could get in. 
 
 " If anyone of them does, it will be the mail," he remarked. 
 " That is sure to make its way when it can, ccount of 
 
 the letter-bags." 
 
 " I suppose it is bad between this and Worcester ? " said 
 Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " Worse, madam, than I have ever known it. In places I 
 hardly thought I should get my horse along." 
 
 " A pretty long while some of the people must have 
 been getting home last night from the dinner at Sir 
 Dene's ! " exclaimed May. 
 
 Mr. Tillett laughed. " They'd arrive in time for breakfast, 
 Miss May." 
 
 " Mamma," said May, in an eager kind of tone, after Mr. 
 Tillett was gone, " if it's like this, we shall not be able to 
 dine at Beechhurst Dene to-morrow." 
 
 " Nonsense, May. There can be no difficulty at any time 
 in going that short distance. Besides, the upper road is not 
 one for the snow to lie upon : it slopes slightly all along on 
 the one side, you know." 
 
 May sighed. Only the not dining at the Dene on the 
 morrow in the company of Jarvis Clanwaring, would have 
 seemed a relief. Now that the union with him was drawing 
 near, all her old horror of it had returned. She hated it 
 and dreaded it in what seemed, even to herself, a most 
 wicked degree. And yet — how was she to help it ? She 
 did not know, poor girl. Many and many a minute did she 
 pass, praying on her knees to God, that He would pity her 
 and help her to put away the sin. 
 
A Disk of Tea at the Forge. 389 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 A DISH OP TEA AT THE FORGE. 
 
 Christmas Day. Before the morning had well dawned, the 
 children from the gatekeeper's lodge trooped np to Beech- 
 hurst Dene, were admitted by the servants, and gathered 
 themselves in a group at the top of the stairs near the doors 
 of the best chambers, to sing their carol. It was a universal 
 custom, this carol singing, in those days ; and, as a rule, ser- 
 vants in every great house were up early, expecting it. Gan- 
 der had been on thorns, wishing to get into his master's cham- 
 ber to see how he had slept, and to take him some tea ; but as 
 Sir Dene chose to be first of all aroused on Christmas Day by 
 the carol singing, almost as if it were a religious rite, and that 
 nothing else should previously disturb him, Gander waited. 
 
 The carol chosen by the children this year — or rather 
 chosen for them by older heads — was a new one, called " The 
 Carnal and the Crane." It was tolerably long, and sung to a 
 monotonous kind of chant. At the first verse of it, Mrs. Let- 
 som's little ones, in their white night-gowns, were peeping 
 down through the balustrades above. While below, collected 
 near the foot of the stairs, stood all the servants, including 
 Gander. Partly hiding themselves, however, that the sight of 
 them might not daunt the shy young carol singers. The 
 verses well through to the end, came the final benediction ; 
 spoken, not sung. 
 
 " Wish yo a merry Christmas, Sir Dene, and ladies and 
 gentlemen all: and a happy new year, and a many on 'em." 
 
 The little white-gowned people above clapped their hands ; 
 the servants clapped theirs, and applauded. Now, it had been 
 the invariable custom, during this applause, for Sir Dene's 
 door to open from the inside and a small shower of sixpences, 
 agreeing with the number of singers, to be pitched forth 
 among them. Be you very sure the singers looked for this 
 observance with eager eyes. But on this morning they looked 
 in vain. The door remained closed. 
 
 " Come you down, dears," called out gently one of the 
 head women-servants, breaking at length the waiting pause. 
 " Come you down to your hot coffee. Sir Dene's asleep, maybe ; 
 he's not well just now. He'll send you out the sixpences later." 
 
 A good breakfast was always provided for the siugers in 
 the kitchen. And again on Xew Year's morning, with a 
 
3Q0 Dene Hollow. 
 
 second sixpence. For the same ceremony took place then. 
 Only the carol chosen was a different one, and the after 
 wish for a merry Christmas omitted. 
 
 In obedience to the call, the children went down as quietly 
 as their timid feet allowed them. And Gander went up. 
 " May be he's not well enough to get out o' bed himself," ran 
 his thoughts in regard to his master, " and is waiting for me 
 to fetch the sixpences. I know he had got 'em put ready last 
 night/' 
 
 Knocking gently at the door, and receiving no response, 
 Gander went in. The chamber appeared to be just as he had 
 left it the previous night, none of the curtains undrawn. 
 Turning to the bed, he saw his master. 
 
 " The Lord be good to us ! " ejaculated Gander. 
 
 For Sir Dene Clanwaring was lying with his face drawn, 
 and apparently senseless. He had had some kind of attack, 
 probably paralysis. 
 
 Mr. Priar pronounced the attack to be a very slight one, 
 quite unattended with present danger. But there was no 
 warranty that another might not succeed it : and the doctor 
 enjoined strict quiet in the chamber and out of it. 
 
 " I'll lay a guinea as it comes o' the worry about them 
 there diamonds ! " was Gander's private comment to Otto 
 CInnwaring. 
 
 There was no dinner company. A message was despatched 
 to inform the Ardes of what had occurred and to stop their 
 coming. Neither did any of the Beechhurst Dene people attend 
 morning service, although it was both Sunday and Christmas 
 Day, the snowy state of the roads preventing it as much as the 
 state of Sir Dene. The Ardes and their servants went, but 
 they were nearer the church. Mrs. Arde and May would 
 dine quietly at home, Captain Clanwaring their only visitor. 
 It was the Captain who had carried down the news of what 
 had occurred, and then got his invitation. The Miss Dick- 
 ereens were not sent for as on the previous Christmas Day : 
 perhaps Mrs. Arde thought they might not care to encounter 
 the snow. Mrs. Arde was thoroughly put out by the prolonged 
 absence of her husband. His decision was wanted on many 
 details connected with the wedding, and he was not there to 
 give it. 
 
 As for May, in her heart she could very well have dispensed 
 also with Captain Clanwaring. Never had she felt more 
 
A Dish of Tea at the Forge. 391 
 
 wretched than on this day. Try as she would she was un- 
 able to rally her spirits. A weight, as of impending evil, 
 seemed to lie upon her : and had the coming Tuesday been to 
 witness her hanging instead of her wedding, she could not 
 have looked forward to it in a more gloomy spirit. As she re- 
 called the happiness of the last Christmas, a half groan burst 
 from her lips : the contrast between that day and this was so 
 great. Then she had wondered whether things could ever 
 look cloudy again : noiv the secret cry of her heart was — that 
 never again could they look bright. Ah, should not expe- 
 rience have taught her a lesson ? That unclouded brightness 
 had all too soon faded into a darkness as of night : might not 
 the present darkness clear itself into day ? Heaven however 
 was at work for Mary Arde, though she knew it not. 
 
 " I suppose, Miss May, there's no reason why I may not 
 run home," spoke Susan Cole, towards dusk in the afternoon. 
 " They've invited me there to take a dish o' tea." 
 
 "What reason should there be?" replied Miss May with 
 apathy. 
 
 " You won't want me, I mean ? I thought you'd be out, 
 you see, Miss May, when I promised to go. Mother, she's 
 getting old now and looks out for one, once she expects one's 
 coming." 
 
 " I shall not want you for anything, Susan," said May, 
 rousing herself. " You'll have a fine snowy walk, though." 
 
 " I'll borrow a pair o' Mark's gaiters, and pick my petti- 
 coats up round me," was Susan's unceremonious avowal. 
 '"Twon'thurtme." 
 
 " I am glad to dine at home, for my part, instead of at the 
 Dene," remarked May. " Friday's dinner there was so 
 tedious." 
 
 Susan shook her head. " Miss May, I don't like them 
 break-ups to old customs. For ever so many years now, till 
 the last, the Hall has dined at the Dene on Christmas Day ; 
 and the Dene with the Hall on New Year's Day. Last year 
 'twas broke through. The master here warn't well enough to 
 go to the Dene, or thought he warn't, and so none of you 
 went ; and when New Year's Day come round, Sir Dene, he 
 warn't well enough to come here. ; Twas odd that the 
 custom o' both days should be interrupted. I said then 'twas 
 like a break-up, Miss May ; and so it have proved. All the 
 rest o' Beechhurst Dene come here, but Sir Dene. He didn't 
 though ; and he's the master." 
 
392 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " The rest did not all come," said May, quietly. 
 
 " All but Mr. Tom. And lie ceased to be one o' the Beech- 
 hurst Dene folks that same night." 
 
 " Yes," said May. " Turned from it." 
 
 " Served him right," retorted Susan. " What did he get 
 into mischief for ? " 
 
 May's face took a sudden glow of colour, red as a fire coal. 
 
 " I wish I was over in Paris, or somewhere," she suddenly 
 exclaimed after a pause, " and all this worry over." 
 
 "What worry ?" questioned Susan. 
 
 " Of the wedding,— and the people." 
 
 "Weddings comes but once in a life-time. It's right to 
 have a show and bustle over 'em, Miss May." 
 
 May, seated on a low toilette-chair covered with white dim- 
 ity, for the colloquy was taking place in her bed-room, began 
 scoring her blue silk dress across with her nail, and made no 
 answer. Very pretty she looked. Her cheeks were some- 
 what thinner than of yore, but they had not lost their rose- 
 colour : her beautiful, soft brown eyes were lustrous still, her 
 hair was bright. The allusion to Paris meant more than the 
 chance remark the reader may have imagined it to be. A 
 visit to Paris was in those days a very uncommon thing : and 
 Captain Clanwaring had proposed to take May there after the 
 marriage. They were not to settle down in a home yet awhile, 
 for some months, at least ; but take their pleasure. In fact, 
 the question of where the home should be was left in abey- 
 ance : Mr. and Mrs. Arde naturally wished it to be near them ; 
 Captain Clanwaring secretly wished they might get it. He 
 could not live long away from London and its attractions, 
 and did not mean to try to. " Once she's my wife, safe and 
 sure, she will have to do as I please," he told himself. And 
 — to prevent the question of their home being decided before- 
 hand, he had ingeniously laboured to inoculate his bride elect 
 with a wish to see Paris and its wonders, which he had never 
 seen himself; as well as other places. Poor May thought 
 that seeing wonders might help her to bear her lot— which in 
 prospective was looking cruelly hard, whatever it might prove 
 to be in reality. She had her private thoughts also as well as 
 he. "Once lam his wife, I shall be able to put away all 
 these old regrets — and longings — and misery. And the fur- 
 ther I am away from here, the better chance there'll be of my 
 doing it. Nothing like old associations for keeping up old 
 feelings." So the proposal of sojourning in Paris, London, 
 
A Dish of Tea at the Forge. 393 
 
 Bath, and elsewhere, had been rather eagerly received by 
 May. In summer they were to come on a visit to the Hall. 
 
 " Talking o' Tom Clanwaring, that there girl's back again 
 at the Trailing Indian," cried free-tongued Susan, with her 
 usual lack of regard to what was expedient to be spoken of, 
 and what was not. 
 
 May lifted her head in a kind of quick surprise ; and drop- 
 ped it again. 
 
 " I come out o' church to-day with Matty Pound," continued 
 Susan. " While picking our way through the snow in the 
 churchyard, she began a telling me that Emma Geach was 
 back — maybe, the sight o' Mr. Geoffry Clanwaring's gravestone 
 put Matty in mind on't. Sam Pound called in at their cottage 
 yesterday, and told 'em the girl got home o' Friday evening 
 by the waggon. Sam's in a fine way over it, his mother says, 
 afraid he won't be wanted at the inn no longer, now she's come. 
 And a nice stock of impudence she must have, to take Black 
 by storm in that way, without saying with your leave or by 
 your leave^now she's got tired of Ireland ! " added Susan on 
 her own score. " Or perhaps it is, that Ireland have got tired 
 of her." 
 
 " That's enough," coldly interposed Miss May, rising from 
 her seat with a haughty gesture, on her way to quit the room. 
 " These things are nothing to me." 
 
 Neither had Susan Cole supposed they were, or could be, 
 anything to her now. But in Susan's insatiable love of retail- 
 ing gossip, she had not been able to keep her tongue still. 
 
 "Won't you dress now, Miss May ? " 
 
 " I shall not dress to-day more than I am dressed." 
 
 " Well, and I don't see that there's need on't," acquiesced 
 Susan. " That's a lovely pretty frock, that silk is." 
 
 The frock — as a young lady's dress was invariably styled 
 then — was of that dark bright blue colour called Waterloo 
 blue, after the somewhat recent battle of Waterloo. It was 
 made in the fashion of the day — low neck and short sleeves, 
 each edged with a quilling of white net, a bit of drooping lace 
 falling beneath. Only a young girl did May look in it : not 
 much more than a child. Susan watched her down the stairs ; 
 the graceful head thrown back further than usual. 
 
 "It's a sore point still, I can see, about that Emma Geach," 
 muttered Susan. " Why couldn't Tom Clanwaring have kept 
 the wench there till the wedding was over and Miss May 
 gone ? He " 
 
394 Dene Hollow. 
 
 The words were stopped by the return of May. " Susan, 
 mind yon give your mother that little present I left out for 
 her : and take her some of our mince-pies," she said. "And 
 tell her — tell her that I will be sure to come and see her the 
 first thing when I am back here again in summer." 
 
 In her red cloth cloak and black poke bonnet, with her 
 petticoats gathered up nearly to the tops of the beaver gaiters, 
 thick shoes on, and no pattens, for pattens were only an in- 
 cumbrance in the snow, their rings getting clogged continually, 
 away started Susan at the dusk hour to partake of the " dish 
 of tea " at her brother's forge. It was open road all the way, 
 and less difficult to traverse than she had expected. The forge 
 was waiting for Susan : though rather doubtful as to her 
 coming. Mrs. Cole, the mother, a mild, loving woman always, 
 doubly so now she was getting in years, sat in her arm-chair 
 in the full warmth of the parlour fire, with her two sons : 
 Harry, the prop and stay of the home and business; and Ham, 
 who shoed the horses, beat the iron, and did the other rough 
 work. They wei*e good sons : and it was thought that Harry, 
 so good-looking and popular, had kept single for his mother's 
 sake. On the table stood a substantial tea : plum cake, cold 
 savoury sausages, and plates of buttered toast that the young 
 servant brought in. One guest had already arrived, uninvited : 
 and that was Miss Emma Geach. In the old days Emma 
 Geach had made herself tolerably at home at the forge : and 
 after ill report had touched her name, gentle Mrs. Cole, willing 
 to " think no evil," had received her and been kind to her as 
 before. 
 
 " That's Susan ! — I thought she'd come," exclaimed Ham, 
 as a thumping was heard at the door, together with a stamping 
 of feet. " She's knocking the snow off her shoes." 
 
 Ham (a contraction of his name, Abraham) ran to admit 
 her, and took the opportunity of holding a whispered colloquy 
 on the mat, the parlour door being shut. 
 
 " I say, Susan, Emma Geach is in there ! " 
 
 "None of your stories, Ham ! " cried Susan, sharply. 
 
 " She walked in just now, a saying she was come to have 
 tea with us, if mother 'ud let her, for it was awful dull work 
 up at the Trailing Indian," continued Ham. " She's just the 
 same, Susan." 
 
 "What did mother say ? " was Susan's indignant question. 
 
 "Say? Why nothing : except that she was welcome. You 
 know what mother is." 
 
A Dish of Tea at the Forge. 395 
 
 "And Harry?" 
 
 " Harry's the same as mother for being civil to people,'' 
 returned Ham. 
 
 "I've a good mind not to go in," said Susan. " Perhaps I 
 might get telling her a bit o' my mind." 
 
 " I'd not do that, Susan — it's Christmas Day. Besides, her 
 affairs isn't any business of yours. She has not harmed you." 
 
 " I'm not so sure o' that," disputed Susan sharply. " 'Twas 
 not by straightforward means she got Tom Clanwaring into 
 her clutches, I know — and I nursed him all through his baby 
 years. Is she going to stop to tea with us ? " 
 
 " "Well," said Ham, simply, " we can't turn her out. Nei- 
 ther mother nor Harry 'ud like to do it, Susan." 
 
 Susan, arming herself for any possible battle, went in with 
 her head up. Miss Geach looked completely at home. Her 
 out-door things were off; her abundant hair, well cared for, 
 shone in the glow of the fire, and she was talking and laughing 
 with Harry Cole in the old light and free manner. Susan, 
 after greeting her mother, took off her things, and sat down 
 to make tea. It might be, that her propensity for gossip and 
 to have her curiosity somewhat appeased as to the past, in- 
 duced her to postpone hostilities, for she nodded to Miss Emma 
 without much show of disdain. 
 
 " And when did you get back ?" demanded Susan, when 
 she handed the young person her tea. 
 
 " Friday night," said Emma promptly. 
 
 " Oh ! Had a stormy passage on't ? I've heered it's 
 mortal bad at sea at this season o' the year." 
 
 Whether Emma Geach did not understand the allusion, or 
 whether she would not take it, remained a question. After 
 staring at the speaker for a minute or two in silence, she 
 tasted her tea and asked for another lump of sugar. 
 
 " And Ireland ? What sort of a place might it be to live 
 in ?" began Susan again satirically. 
 
 Another stare from Emma Geach. She had got a saucer- 
 ful of tea up to her mouth then, and gazed over the brim at 
 Susan all the while she drank it. 
 
 " How should I know what sort of a place Ireland is ?" she 
 retorted, when putting the saucer down. Susan Cole looked 
 upon it as an evasion, and was in two minds whether, or not, 
 to tell her so. But at that moment her brother Harry kicked 
 her under the table ; and she knew it was as much as to say, 
 She's our guest for the time and must be treated as such. 
 
396 Dene Hollow. 
 
 So the conversation turned on other matters. Sir Dene's 
 seizure ; and the non-gathering at the Dene for the Christmas 
 dinner in consequence, which Susan told of. Next the pro- 
 longed absence of Mr. Arde came up, aud the old lady ex- 
 pressed a devout hope that he would be home for the wedding 
 011 Tuesday. 
 
 "What wedding? Who's a going to be married?" en- 
 quired Miss Geach when she heard this. 
 
 " Why, my young lady, Miss May's a going to be married," 
 said Susan, proud of relating so much. "Have you lived in 
 a wood, Emma Geach, not to ha' heerd on't?" 
 
 " That there Trailing Indian's worse nor a wood now, as 
 far as hearing news goes," was Emma Geach's rather wrath- 
 ful answer. "'Tain't lively at the best o' times ; but nobody 
 cares to come up to it through the snow. Since I got into 
 the place I've not seen a soul but Black and Sam Pound. 
 Black, he's sullen and won't talk : and t'other knows he 
 must keep his tongue still afore me, unless I choose to let him 
 wag it. No fear as I should ha' got to hear of a wedding 
 being agate from them two." 
 
 " We've got a grand dinner o' Monday night," spoke Susan, 
 by way of continuing her revelations. " The Hall be a'most 
 turned inside out. I can't think what'll be done if the Squire 
 don't get here." 
 
 " Report says that no coaches are getting into Worcester," 
 said Harry Cole. " It's to be hoped the roads '11 clear for the 
 wedding." 
 
 " So 'tis," said Susan. "They be a going to Paris and 
 Prance, they be, when the wedding's over. Miss May's full 
 on't." 
 
 "My!" exclaimed Emma Geach. "It's young Squire 
 Scropc, I suppose." 
 
 " Miss Charlotte Scrope's to be bridesmaid," went on Susan, 
 her tongue too busy to heed the question. " She and Miss 
 May's to be dressed all in white ; only Miss May's to have a 
 veil and orange flowers in her bonnet, and t'other not." 
 
 " I thought May Arde would have him some time if ho 
 stuck up to her well," remarked Emma Geach. "Though 
 Tom Scrope isn't the man for every girl's money. Scrope 
 Manor's a nice place : 'tain't a bad match for her." 
 
 " Who was a talking anything about Tcm Scrope, pray ?" 
 loftily demanded Susan. " Tisn't him" 
 
 " No ! Why who is it then ? " 
 
A Dish of Tea at the Forge. 397 
 
 " Captain Clanwaring. That Trailing Indian must be a 
 wood, for news, it must." 
 
 The revelation seemed to have some effect on Emma Geach. 
 A piece of plum cake, being conveyed to her mouth, was sum- 
 marily arrested half way : her face became of a burning red, 
 and then changed to a deadly whiteness. 
 
 " Captain Clanwaring ! It's not him that's going to marry 
 Miss Arde ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! perhaps you know better than me," cried 
 Susan. "It's Captain Jarvis Clanwaring, and nobody else, 
 Emma Geach." 
 
 Emma Geach appeared to be making an effort to recover 
 her surprise — or, at least, to hide it. She was eating away 
 at the cake with a great show of appetite, and looking at it 
 closely as if trying to count the plums. 
 
 " Once get away from a place for a few months, and all 
 sorts o' changes takes place to surprise one," she said with an 
 air of indifference. " Since when has lie been a making up to 
 her?" 
 
 "Since when?" repeated Susan. "Well, it's a'most a 
 twelvemonth since he asked her first. She'd have nothing to 
 say to him then : no, nor for a long while after. He's got her 
 now, though ; leastways will have her Tuesday next : but I 
 don't believe any man ever strove so hard for a girl yet, as the 
 Captain have strove for her." 
 
 " And a whole twelvemonth he have been trying for her ? " 
 casually remarked Miss Emma. 
 
 "Ay, " assented Susan. "And he had begun it in secret 
 afore that : only he didn't dare to say nothing. I say, mother, 
 have ye heerd that Mr. Otto's to be his groomsman, through 
 the hen not being able to come for't ? " 
 
 "Mr. Otto, is he?" returned the old mother. "I wish 
 'twas better weather, Susan : I'd ha' liked to walk to the 
 church to see 'em married." 
 
 " Won't it be full !" was Susan's answering comment. 
 
 Thus, one topic succeeding another, the sociable evening 
 passed away. About eight o'clock Susan took her departure : 
 absolutely forbidding either of the brothers to escort her. 
 She'd not have 'em go wading through the snow that night, 
 she said : and as her will had been law with them always, 
 they obeyed her. Harry Cole was ten or twelve years 
 younger than she, and Ham twenty. 
 
 So Susan set off alone. She had got a few yards down the 
 
398 Dene Hollow. 
 
 road when she heard footsteps after her, floundering quickly 
 through the snow. Believing that one of the two must 
 be coming in spite of her injunction, she turned round, a 
 sharp reprimand on Lerlips. But it proved to be Emma 
 Geach. 
 
 " I just want to ask you something, Susan Cole," she said, 
 her voice sunk to a whisper, " I had my reasons for not say- 
 ing more afore 'em at the forge. What did you mean by 
 asking did I have a stormy passage over the sea, and how did 
 Hike Ireland?" 
 
 "Why shouldn't I ask it?" returned Susan. "It's Ire- 
 land you've been a stopping at, as all the world knows." 
 
 " I've not been a-nigh Ireland," said the girl earnestly. 
 
 "Not a-nigh Ireland?" echoed Susan, struck with 
 truthful accents. " Everybody said you went there." 
 
 "Went for what?" 
 
 " Well — 'twas said that you went with Mr. Tom Clan waring 
 from Bristol. Or else followed on over the sea after him." 
 
 Even in the starlight, Susan Cole could see the puzzled 
 wonder that sloAvly spread itself on the girl's countenance. It 
 seemed that just at first she did not understand the implica- 
 tion. 
 
 " Why what fools they must be ! " she indignantly cried 
 when the meaning dawned upon her. " They couldn't think 
 it, Susan Cole." 
 
 " Everybody thought it ; the whole parish, from one end 
 on't to t'other, thought it," was Susan's answer. "And said 
 it, too." 
 
 " Not everybody; 'twarn't possible. Not Black — nor Cap- 
 tain Clanwaring." 
 
 "Both o' them did," said Susan, emphatically. "'Twas 
 Black, I b'lieve, first spread it, and the Captain retailed it after 
 him. I've heered 'em both say it." 
 
 " They both knowed better." 
 
 A few minutes longer they talked together, regardless of the 
 cold night and the depth of snow they stood in. Susan Cole 
 went on her way at last with uplifted hands. She had heard 
 something that nearly stunned her. 
 
 " May heavon have mercy on my poor young lady ! " she 
 groaned aloud to the frosty air. " What a sinner the man is ! 
 — what a good-for-nothing hypocrite ! Letting the good name 
 of another be blackened for his ! Drat the ruts then ! " 
 
 Paying no attention just then to whei'e she put her feet, 
 
The Wcddi?ig Day. 399 
 
 Susan had sunk into a drift of snow up to her knees. Getting 
 out of it as she best could, she shook her legs and petticoats, 
 and went on again. A great question lay on her mind : ought 
 she to impart what she had just heard to her mistress ? 
 — or keep silence on the point now that the wedding was so 
 near ? 
 
 Perhaps what really turned the scale was Susan's love of 
 gossip. With a story like this burning her tongue, it was next 
 to an impossible task for her to keep silence. After Mrs. 
 Arde went to her chamber for the night, she found it invaded 
 by Susan. 
 
 The woman whispered her tale, the substance of what 
 Emma Geack had said, standing with her mistress on the 
 hearth-rug. As the red light played upon Mrs. Arde's face, 
 Susan saw it take a pale hue, a haughty expression. That she 
 was overwhelmed with dismayed indignation at the first 
 moment, was all too evident. The next, she had burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 " The girl has been playing a trick upon you, Susan. How 
 could you be so easily taken in ? Captain Clanwaring indeed ? 
 Now, does it stand to reason ? " 
 
 And, so prone to yield to persuasion is the human mind, 
 that Susan Cole veered round to her mistress's impression. 
 It called up her temper. 
 
 " The vile huzzy ! — to try her tricks upon me ! Let me come 
 across her : that's all." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE WEDDING DAT. 
 
 Snow, snow, nothing but snow. It lay on the ground as per- 
 sistently as though it meant to stay with the world for ever. 
 The tops of the houses at Worcester on one hand ; the distant 
 Malvern Hills on the other ; the trees and hedges, the fields 
 and dales intervening between each, and the whole vast sur- 
 rounding landscape, presented a surface whiter than the 
 whitest alabaster. 
 
 In the drawing-room at Mrs. Arde's was a motley company. 
 Motley in regard to appearance. For, while some of them 
 wore the gala attire suitable for a marriage, others presented 
 quite an ordinary aspect. Take Captain Clanwaring, for 
 instance: he was in the choicest of bridegroom's costume; 
 
400 Dene Hollow. 
 
 May, on the contrary, had on a homely dress of ruby stuff. 
 The Lady Lydia Clan-waring was resplendent in shining silk 
 and lace ; Mrs. Arde and her sister were in morning gowns. 
 Otto Clanwaring was attired to match his brother ; Charlotte 
 Scrope, the bridesmaid, a very pretty young girl, was plain 
 as the bride. 
 
 For this was Tuesday, the wedding morning ; and the great 
 question agitating those assembled, together with two or three 
 other guests not necessary to mention, was — should the mar- 
 riage take place, or not. 
 
 When the previous day, Monday, did not bring Mr. Arde, 
 and it was likewise known that none of the London mails or 
 other coaches, due some days now, had reached "Worcester, the 
 Hall fell into real consternation. Captain Clanwaring protested 
 most strongly against the ceremony being delayed, even 
 though Tuesday morning should not bring the Squire ; but 
 Mrs. Arde answered to this, sensibly enough, that without her 
 husband there could be no marriage, as he was bringing the 
 licence with him. May said little on the Monday, for or 
 against ; nothing indeed ; for she assumed to a certainty that 
 she could not be married under these drawbacks. 
 
 The dinner had been held at the Hall the previous night, 
 and was somewhat of a failure in its master's absence. Some 
 of the invited guests, too, could not get there for the snow. 
 Mrs. Arde presided ; and her sister, who was staying with 
 them, helped her to make the best of it. And so Tuesday 
 came in, and had not brought the Squire. Mrs. Arde then 
 despatched hasty messengers to as many friends bidden to the 
 marriage as were within reach, to say it would not take place 
 that day. Sir Dene was progressing favourably ; but Mr. 
 Priar, together with the physician called in from Worces- 
 ter, enjoined the strictest quiet. 
 
 Captain Jarvis Clanwaring was on the wing early, on his 
 part. While it was yet dark, he quitted Beechhurst Dene, 
 rode into Worcester, and procured a licence. By ten o'clock 
 he was at home again, somewhat sooner than he had hoped, 
 and brought word that the weather was breaking-up. 
 
 " I cannot risk the chances of its being delayed even for a 
 day," he observed in some agitation to his mother, as he 
 went to attire himself for the ceremony. And my Lady Lydia 
 answered, " Of course not : " though perhaps he had no idea 
 of the imminent peril he was in. So Captain Clanwaring was 
 driven to the Hall in full fig, the licence in his hand ; and my 
 
The Wedding Day. 401 
 
 lady, with the rest of the company at Beechhurst Dene, 
 speedily followed. His dismay was excessive when he» found 
 his bride not dressed, and Mrs. Arde quietly saying there could 
 he no wedding that day. 
 
 " It is cruel, cruel ! " spoke the Captain to Mrs. Arde — and 
 his agitation, that he could not quite disguise, spoke volumes 
 in that lady's mind for the depth of his love. " There is no 
 impediment now : here's the licence : and perhaps by the 
 time we are at the church Mr. Arde will be here, for the 
 roads are undoubtedly becoming traversable. Don't, don't 
 put off the wedding : it always brings ill-luck. Let May 
 dress ! " 
 
 Mrs. Arde glanced at her daughter, as much as to ask what 
 her decision should be — at least, the sanguine Captain so 
 interpreted it. 
 
 May, calm as the snow outside, and perhaps as cold, shook 
 her head. "No, no," was all she said. 
 
 " But May, my dear May, surely " 
 
 "No, not without papa," interrupted May, cutting short 
 the bridegroom's remonstrance — -and this time her voice took 
 a tone of fear. " I will not be married in this uncertainty. 
 My father may not be safe." 
 
 In Captain Clanwaring's angry vexation, he gave vent to a 
 word, spoken contemptuously. " Safe ! " Recollecting him- 
 self on the instant, he softly implored her not to persist in 
 her decision ; not to invoke ill-luck upon their union. May 
 remained quietly firm : and, to the Captain's angry fancy, it 
 almost seemed that she was glad of the respite. 
 
 At that moment the church bells burst out, a merry peal. 
 Mrs. Arde, though she had sent to the clergyman, had for- 
 gotten to send to the clerk. That functionary had gone to 
 the church with the bell-ringers, expecting the wedding party 
 every minute : and this was the result. Captain Clanwaring, 
 unmindful of the cold, threw up the window at which they 
 were standing. 
 
 " Listen, May ! Surely you will not let them ring for 
 nothing ! " 
 
 " Indeed, and I think the wedding ought to be to-day, my 
 dear," spoke up old Miss Clewer, from the depth of her large 
 white quilted satin bonnet, and grey dress of twilled silk. 
 " As my grand-nephew observes, a put-off wedding sometimes 
 brings ill-luck : it has resulted, within my own knowledge, in 
 there being none at all." 
 
 D D 
 
402 Dene Hollozv. 
 
 An awful suggestion for the bridegroom, flushing his pale 
 face to a hot crimson. Lady Lydia came to the rescue : not 
 attacking the decision of May, but of Mrs. Arde. But that 
 lady proved to be as firm as her daughter. She had never 
 had any intention of being otherwise. 
 
 " My dear Lady Lydia, you ask an impossibility. I hinted 
 to Captain Clanwaring yesterday, that the deeds of settlement 
 were not signed : cannot be, until the arrival of Mr. Arde ; 
 and now you oblige me to speak out. Were it my daughter's 
 own wish that the ceremony should be solemnised, I could 
 not accede to it. She cannot marry until the completion of 
 the settlements." 
 
 Mrs. Arde spoke very decisively. She had of course right 
 on her side, and her child's interests to see to. Failing any 
 settlement, all that May possessed would become the property 
 of the gallant Captain. Even he and his mother could not 
 decently urge that. 1Mb more was to be said. It would only 
 be putting off the wedding for a day, as everybody agreed : 
 say until the morrow : now that the weather was breaking, 
 a few hours Avould no doubt bring the Squire. Captain 
 Clanwaring, terribly glumpy, had to submit : but he did it 
 with a bad grace, not caring to conceal his mortification. As 
 to the barrister, Otto, he had not spoken a word, for it or 
 against it. 
 
 And so the bells, clanging out in their innocence, clanged 
 out still, unconscious that there was no wedding to ring for. 
 It had the effect of calling innumerable gazers to the church 
 from far and near. A report had gone about the previous 
 night that perhaps the ceremony might be postponed if the 
 Squire did not arrive : but when the bells were heard, it was 
 assumed to be taking place. 
 
 " Do send to stop the bells, mamma ! " pleaded May. 
 
 With her whole heart, Mrs. Arde wished her visitors would 
 depart. It was an uncomfortable morning for her. ISTo one 
 seemed at ease ; she least of any. Soon after twelve o'clock 
 struck, when some of them were preparing to go, a party of 
 morris-dancers came on to the green lawn. Of course all 
 stayed then, and crowded the windows to look. 
 
 " Harriet," whispered Mrs. Arde to her sister, " I cannot 
 stand this longer ; my nerves have been on the strain all the 
 morning, and are giving way. Do you play hostess for 
 a bit." 
 
 She slipped out of the room, put on a warm shawl and 
 
The Wedding Day. 403 
 
 hood, and made her way to the foot avenue, that ran beside 
 the lawn and the approach to it. The snow had been swept, 
 and she paced it thoughtfully, lifting her face to the cold fresh 
 air, and looking through the bare side branches at the morris- 
 dancers. Fleet of foot and not ungraceful were those men ; 
 their white attire was decorated with all kinds of coloured 
 ribbons, that kept time and waved about to their steps and 
 their staves. The figures were prolonged ; and the men did 
 their best ; at Arde Hall the morris-dancers were sure of a 
 meal and a largesse, whenever it was a hard winter and they 
 were shut out from their legitimate labour. 
 
 Though a tolerably common sight in those long-past 
 winters, it was not a very frequent one, and idle spectators 
 from the road were running in to gaze, quite a small crowd of 
 them. The disappointed ones, who had been to the church 
 and found no wedding, happened to be passing back again, 
 and flocked in at the large gates. Mrs. Arde, pacing the 
 solitary avenue, chanced to turn her attention from the 
 dancers to these spectators, and saw amidst them Miss 
 Emma Geach. 
 
 And yet, not exactly amidst them. They were thronging 
 the gate and the railings before the lawn : this girl had 
 drawn herself up close to the fence that skirted the side of 
 the avenue, as if she did not care to be noticed. She stood 
 there, leaning one arm against it, her old cloak muffled about 
 her, and looking at the dancers with a listless air. 
 
 Obeying the moment's impulse, Mrs. Arde stepped through 
 the beech trees and approached her. Putting aside the girl's 
 naturally bold manners, Mrs. Arde always rather liked Emma 
 Geach, and had pitied her isolated condition — isolated from 
 all good associations — at the Trailing Indian. This alone 
 might have caused her to accost the girl ; but she had 
 another motive. At the time that communication was made 
 to her by Susan Cole on Sunday night, Mrs. Arde had fully 
 disbelieved it, regarding it as a foolish scandal on Captain 
 Clanwaring : but since then, a doubt, a very ugly doubt, had 
 insinuated itself ever and anon within her mind : and instinct 
 now prompted her to set it at rest. 
 
 " Is it you, Emma ? I heard you were back." 
 
 "Yes, it's me," replied Emma, turning her head at the 
 salutation. " I've been to the church to see the wedding 
 ma'am ; but it's said there is to be none." 
 
 " Not to-day. The Squire is absent." 
 
404 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 " Can't get home for the choked-up roads," freely remarked 
 Miss Emma. " I had a tine slow journey of it in, the 
 waggon." 
 
 " Where did you come from ? " 
 
 " Well, I came from Lunnon. No need to hide it, that I 
 know of." 
 
 " Not from Ireland ? " 
 
 The girl's eyes flashed with quite an angry light. " Yes, 
 I hear that that have been brought again me, but it's false 
 as " 
 
 " It has been said that when you left here you went to 
 Bristol to join Mr. Tom Clanwaring," interrupted Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " When I left here I went straight to Lunnon town, as I 
 was bid to go by him that led me wrong ; and I've never 
 been away from Lunnon till I took the waggon to come down 
 here again." 
 
 Mrs. Arde gazed in the girl's face, reading it eagerly. 
 There was a savage look in it, a passionate ring in her voice, 
 that spoke too surely of the naked truth. 
 
 " It was Tom Clanwaring's name that was coupled with 
 yours, you know, Emma, even before you left the place." 
 
 " Mrs. Arde, I never did know it. If I had, I bain't sure 
 but I should ha' set it to rights then. 'Twas a shame on 
 him for folks to say it. Mr. Tom ! — why, he had always been 
 as good as a brother to me from the time I was that high," — 
 slapping a lath that ran along the fence. " Leastways, as 
 much o' one as a gentleman can be to a poor girl. Mr. Tom 
 Clanwaring is just as good and noble and straightforward, as 
 t'other is a cheating and lying sneak. Black and him must 
 ha' put their heads together, and laid it on Mr. Tom." 
 
 " The other being Jarvis Clanwaring ? " spoke Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " Him, and none other : Jarvis Clanwaring. When he got 
 his turn served he just threw me over, Mrs. Arde. He did, 
 the raskil ; and I don't mind who knows it now. It's six 
 months a'most since he've been to see me or sent me aught to 
 get me a crust o'bread. I've been nigh upon starving. I 
 might ha' starved outright but for a good woman whose room 
 I lodged in : she helped me what she could." 
 
 " You are telling me the truth ? " asked Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " It's the truth — as God hears me. I'd a mind to ha' told 
 it out to Captain Clanwaring's face i' the church this morn- 
 ing when he was a being married : and I think I should ha' 
 done't. 'Twas only the thought of one thing might ha' 
 
The Wedding Day. 405 
 
 stopped me — and that's the trouble and pain 'twould ha' gave 
 Miss May. When I heard 'twas him she was a going to 
 marry I pitied her a'most to crying; a good-for-nothing 
 knave like him can't bring her much good." 
 
 "You should have told of this before to-day, for Miss 
 May's sake," said Mrs. Arde sharply. 
 
 "I knew nought about the weddinsr till the ni°dit afore 
 last," spoke the girl; " I never knew as he was living down 
 at Beechhurst Dene. He let me think he was about in places, 
 a serving with his regiment : but it seems he have sold 
 out on't." 
 
 " Where is the baby ? " whispered Mrs. Arde. 
 
 " It died when it was born, ma'am. And a lucky thing 
 too. Jarvis Clanwaring, grand as the world thinks him, is 
 just a bad man, Mrs. Arde, made up o' deceit and heartless- 
 ness. Bring me to him, and I'll say it to his face. He have 
 been up to his ears in debt, too, this long while. Perhaps 
 you didn't know o' that, either." 
 
 Mrs. Arde made no answer. The morris-dancers had 
 brought their performance to an end ; and the spectators were 
 coming away. Perhaps Mrs. Arde did not care to be seen 
 talking to Emma Geach : for she wished her good morning, 
 and turned towards home. What she had heard three parts 
 stunned her. May came into her chamber almost as she was 
 entering it. 
 
 " Mamma," she cried, her face pale, her voice beseeching, 
 " you will not let this wedding take place before papa returns ? 
 Promise me ! Captain Clanwaring is saying " 
 
 " Be at rest, May," interrupted Mrs. Arde, bending to kiss 
 her. " You shall certainly not marry before your father is here." 
 
 And the very emphatic tone, telling of strange anger, a 
 little surprised Miss May. 
 
 Careering into the faithful city of Worcester, the coach- 
 man driving his four fine horses at a somewhat faster speed 
 than their usual majestic pace, the guard's horn blowing 
 blasts of importance, went the Royal Mail. Along Sidbury, 
 up College Street and High Street, through the Cross, and 
 on to the Foregate Street; where it finally drew up before 
 the two principal inns of the town, the Hoppole and the Star 
 and Garter. People had run out at their shop doors to see it 
 pass ; a small crowd collected round it almost before it 
 stopped : for it was the first mail that had reached Worcester 
 
406 Dene Hollow. 
 
 since the detention. The supposition prevailing was, that it 
 was the mail known to have been so Jong on the road, the 
 one that started from London the past Friday. The curious 
 people, running up, were eager to learn what it had been 
 doing with itself, and where the detention had been. Quite 
 a chorus of questions assailed the guard and coachman as 
 they descended from their seats : and then it was discovered 
 that this was not the lost mail at all, but the regular mail 
 that had made the journey in due course and without much 
 delay ; having quitted the Bull and Mouth the previous after- 
 noon. In the check their curiosity sustained, they began to 
 walk off again one by one. This was Wednesday morning. 
 
 The mail brought but one passenger : a sharp-looking 
 active man, who leaped out of the inside, and had no luggage 
 with him. He was a little stared at. It was concluded that 
 his business must be of importance, to travel in that ungenial 
 weather and risk being buried in the snow on the road. 
 
 " Didn't ye see nor hear nothing o' that there lost mail, 
 that have been so long a coming ? " questioned a bystander 
 of the guard. 
 
 " No ; nothing. It passed Woodstock, and it didn't get to 
 Chipping Norton ; so must be somewhere between the two 
 places," was the guard's answer. " But whether it's above 
 ground or dead and buried below the snow, and its folks dead 
 and buried with it, is more than I can say." 
 
 " Had you much difficulty in getting along, guard ? " ques- 
 tioned a gentleman. 
 
 " No, sir. The worst was between Woodstock and Evesham. 
 In places there we a'most stuck fast ; but " 
 
 " Can I charter a horse and gig from this hotel, guard ? I 
 want one immediately." 
 
 The interruption, spoken in a sharp, gruff, imperative tone, 
 came from the passenger. Finding that he could charter a 
 horse and gig, he ordered it to be got ready without any 
 delay, and ran into the Star to drink half a glass of hot brandy- 
 ami- water. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like some breakfast, sir ? — or luncheon ? " 
 asked the barmaid. 
 
 " I have not time for either." 
 
 The gig came to the door, together with a man whom the 
 traveller had requested should accompany him : a tall, strong 
 young fellow belonging to the Star and Garter stables. The 
 landlord came out to see them start. 
 
The Wedding Day. 407 
 
 " Have you far to go ? " he asked. 
 
 " About three or four miles, I fancy," was the reply. " I 
 am a stranger in these parts." 
 
 Away they started ; he taking the reins himself, and whip - 
 ping the horse into a canter ; turning down Broad Street, 
 onwards over the Severn bi'idge, and so out of the town that 
 way. In due course of time he came to the neighbourhood 
 of Beechhurst Dene, and there arrested Mr. Jarvis Clanwaring. 
 It was accomplished without the slightest trouble. 
 
 On the Tuesday evening a note had been delivered to Cap- 
 tain Clanwaring at Beechhurst Dene from Mrs. Arde. It 
 stated in unmistakably decisive terms that until the return of 
 Mr. Arde there would be no marriage ; all things must remain 
 in abeyance. The Captain could do nothing — save relieve his 
 feelings by a fit of hot swearing in his chamber. On the fol- 
 lowing morning there was still no Mr. Arde ; but in the course 
 of it Captain Clanwaring walked over to the Hall. He did 
 not get to see the ladies- — which he considered very strange. 
 Susan Cole brought him a message that Miss May was very 
 poorly with a headache (" and not to be wondered at ! " put 
 in Susan in a parenthesis), and her mistress was busy writing 
 letters. So Captain Clanwaring, rather discomfited, took his 
 way back home again. He was crossing the upper road in a 
 sauntering kind of manner, his eyes moodily bent on the 
 ground to pick his way over the snow, which was still lying 
 there, when a passing gig came to a sudden standstill, its 
 driver leaped down, and Jarvis Clanwaring, gentleman and 
 ex-captain, found himself in custody. 
 
 " Curse you, Rilling ! " was all he said, gnashing his teeth 
 with impotent rage. For he knew the capturer very well. 
 
 " 'Twould have been done an hour or two earlier, Captain, 
 but for the snow keeping the mail back," was the man's 
 equable answer. " A fine tether you've had of it altogether." 
 
 The arrest was for a very large sum of money, and it was 
 of no use to fight against it. Persuasion and resistance would 
 alike be futile, as the unfortunate Captain knew. Fate is 
 stronger than we are. The public arrest had been witnessed 
 by at least two people, one of whom chanced to be Mark, the 
 servant at the Hall, the other, Sam Pound ; and the news 
 went about with a whirr. 
 
 The captor and the captured, the gig and the supernumerary, 
 proceeded to Beechhurst Dene. Jarvis Avas in an awful fever 
 to get free : we should have been so in his place. There was 
 
408 Dene Hollow. 
 
 only one way by which it could be acomplished — the paying 
 of the money ; or else by bail that was as good as money. 
 It was possible, though not very probable, that Sir Dene 
 might have settled the matter could he have been appealed to ; 
 but the state in which Sir Dene was lying, partially if not 
 quite insensible, put any appeal to him out of the question. 
 The heir, Dene, was not there ; nobody was there but the 
 barrister. 
 
 "You will give bail for me, Otto?" said the crest-fallen 
 Captain, who felt as if he would very much like to shoot 
 somebody — perhaps himself. 
 
 " Couldn't take Mr. Otto Clanwaring's bail," interposed 
 Mr. Rilling, gruffly ; for nature had endowed him with an 
 uncommonly gruff voice. " Couldn't accept anybody's 
 undertaking, except the baronet's, Sir Dene." 
 
 " But Sir Dene is ill, you hear ; paralysed," remonstrated 
 the unhappy Captain. 
 
 " Yes, Captain. More's the pity for you." 
 
 " If my brother gives you his undertaking it will be as sure 
 as Sir Dene's, Rilling," urged the Captain. "He " 
 
 " I could not give it, Jarvis," interposed the cautious bar- 
 rister. " You must know that I am not in a position to take 
 a debt upon me that might prove an incubus for my lifetime. 
 And where should I get the money from, do you supjoose, if 
 called upon later to pay it ? " 
 
 " It will stop my marriage," breathed Jarvis, biting his 
 feverish lips. " I have been looking to that to save me from 
 this gulf. Those cursed roads ! But for Arde's delay, I should 
 have been married and safely away. Otto ! stretch a point 
 for me." 
 
 " The counsellor's promise would be of no more worth 
 than yours, Captain — begging pardon of him for saying it," 
 reiterated the sheriff's officer. " Besides, there's more behind 
 this," was the candid avowal. 
 
 As Otto Clanwaring had felt fully sure of. If this one debt 
 on which Jarvis was arrested were settled, a host of others, 
 on which judgment had been obtained, lay behind it. In fact, 
 it was pretty plain that Captain Clanwaring's career was for the 
 time over. 
 
 " And my marriage ? " he groaned. " What's to become of 
 that? " 
 
 " You could not think of marrying Miss Arde now, though 
 you were free," urged Otto, in his strictness. " At least, with- 
 
The Wedding Day. 409 
 
 out informing them of the facts. It would be a most dis- 
 honourable thing, so to deceive the Arde family." 
 
 " Hold your cant," retorted the exasperated prisoner. 
 
 There was no loophole of escape for him ; none, in later 
 weeks, when Sir Dene was cognisant of the affair and able to 
 converse upon it, he said that Jarvey's sins had come home to 
 him. Mr. Rilling and the extra man and the Captain all took 
 their departure together in the gig; the latter wedged securely 
 in between the two others. 
 
 "When the Lady Lydia Clanwaring got home towards 
 dinner-time — for she, with Miss Ann Clewer and Mrs. Let- 
 som, finding there would be no wedding that day, had driven 
 over to spend it in Worcester — she found what had taken 
 place. Her beloved son, of whom she had made a very idol, and 
 would have willingly offered up all the rest of the world in 
 sacrifice at his shrine, had been ignominiously conveyed away 
 a prisoner ; and was even then on his road by night coach to 
 be lodged in one of the gaols of the metropolis ! My lady 
 rose the house with her frantic cries. 
 
 Somebody else got home the same evening — and that was 
 Squire Arde. For the long-detained mail had contrived to 
 free itself that day, and reached Worcester at last ; causing a 
 hubbub and congratulation that some of the old citizens may 
 yet remember. The first thing the Squire heard when inside 
 his own doors, was — the news of Captain Clanwaring's arrest, 
 and of his heavy embarrassments. Many-tongued rumour 
 had been exceedingly busy with the unfortunate Captain's fame 
 all the afternoon ; and facts, hitherto unsuspected, had come 
 out in a remarkable manner. 
 
 Captain Clanwaring arrested ! — and taken off a prisoner to 
 the Fleet ! — and over head and shoulders in debt and em- 
 barrassment ! Captain Clanwaring, who but for those heavy 
 snow drifts would now be Mary's husband ! Squire Arde 
 turned hot and cold as he listened. 
 
 What an escape it was for Mary ! How Jarvis Clanwaring 
 had managed to stave off the evil day so long and to conceal 
 the true state of things, was a mystery. The selling of the 
 commission had been forced. It was a stop-gap for the time ; 
 since then, Lady Lydia and others had helped him, including 
 those harpies, the London money-lenders. The indignant 
 Squire found that his daughter's money was indeed required ; 
 that there was urgent need of the marriage being hastened 
 
41 o Dene Hollow. 
 
 "What an escape ! " aspirated the Squire in solemn thank- 
 fulness. " And I — Heaven forgive me ! — murmured rebel- 
 liously at the delay caused by the snow-storm, little thinking 
 that it was the saving of my child ! Perhaps God sent that 
 detention expressly in His love for her ! " 
 
 Within the privacy of their own chamber that night, sitting 
 over the fire, Mrs. Arde whispered another item of news in 
 her husband's ear — that which was connected with Miss 
 Emma Geach. For some little time the Squire would not take 
 it in ; but when convinced of its truth, he began stamping" about 
 the room in wrath so great and loud, that poor Mrs. Arde 
 was fain to beg him to be still, lest the household should think 
 he was beating her. 
 
 " Let 'em think it ! " roared the Squire. " The desperate 
 villain ? — And he would have made a wife of my innocent 
 child ! " 
 
 Hardly giving time for morning dawn well to set in, the 
 Squire stamped up to the Trailing Indian, to " have it out " 
 with Black. He told that worthy inn-keeper that he was a 
 base villain, and not a shade better than the other villain ; 
 that they had sacrificed the good name of Tom Clanwaring, 
 and nearly sacrificed the life's happiness of Miss Arde. 
 
 And she, Mary Arde : how did she take the disappoint- 
 ment relative to her marriage ? — To most young ladies the 
 breaking off of a marriage is, to say the least of it, mortify- 
 ing. Not so to Mary Arde. She was as one released from a 
 weight of despair. She warbled about the house like a freed 
 bird. Susan Cole, who could not have kept her tongue silent 
 had she been paid to do it, disclosed to her lots of things. 
 The lightness came back to Mary's steps, the colour to her 
 cheeks : it was as if some special happiness had fallen on her 
 heart from heaven. 
 
 " She could not have liked him ! " cried the wondering 
 Squire to his wife. 
 
 " She did not," said Mrs. Arde. "I fear she liked Tom 
 Clanwaring too well for that." 
 
 The Squire frowned a hideous frown at the unwelcome name. 
 Though Tom had been shamefully aspersed, and been proved 
 innocent where he had been thought guilty, he was not the less 
 ineligible to be " liked " by May. " And never will be," spoke 
 the Squire hotly. 
 
 And that poor neglected scapegoat was never so much as 
 thought of by the world, or by Beechhurst Dene. Tom Clan- 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 411 
 
 waring was in the place deemed most appropriate for him : 
 some remote district of Irish bog, working out his sins. 
 And so the weeks wore on. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LAST OF RANDY BLACK. 
 
 Turning out of the gate of Harebell Farm, went Mary Bar- 
 ber. Rare, indeed, was the fact of her going abroad without 
 any particular object ; and yet she was doing so this late 
 afternoon. It had been the monthly wash that week at the 
 farm ; but the weather had been favourable for drying, and 
 the close of this day, Wednesday, saw all the things doue up, 
 and in their appropriate presses and drawers. Mary Barber, 
 assisted by one of the women servants, had been ironing hard 
 for many hours, and when the early tea was over, betook her- 
 self out for a walk, partly because she had no other pressing 
 employment to get to, chiefly that she had an unusual feeling- 
 upon her of being stifled in-doors. So, putting on her every- 
 day shawl and bonnet, away she went. 
 
 " Curious I should feel as if I wanted fresh air, me !" she 
 said, half aloud. " I must be getting old ; that's it : and I 
 he getting old, for that matter. Well, I've had my health and 
 strength better nor most people ; and there's some good 
 work in my arms yet. Suppose I'd had a weak heart, as my 
 poor sister had ! — and died of it as she did ! Them boys of 
 hers be getting on like a house a fire : quite gentlefolk they 
 be now, though me, their aunt, Molly Barber, can't be called 
 much else but a upper servant." 
 
 Walking up Harebell Lane, she glanced at the budding 
 hedges on either side, at the springing grass. It was only 
 February yet, but the most lovely weather conceivable, 
 warm enough for May. The prolonged and heavy snow 
 storm of the previous winter seemed to have benefited the 
 earth. They would have it cold again, no doubt; but just 
 now the davs were bright and beautiful. Mary Barber went 
 along sniffing the air as if she could not enjoy it enough : shut 
 up all day with the hot ironing stove, bending over the linen 
 she ironed, the freshness was only too welcome. The setting 
 sun threw his golden rays slantwise ; birds were chirpinc their 
 last song before settling down in their nests, all nature seemed 
 glad. Primroses and violets nestled in the banks of the 
 
412 Dene Hollow. 
 
 shady lane : hard Mary Barber actually stooped and gathered 
 some. 
 
 She was feeling less hard than usual that evening. Life 
 had been all prose for her, no poetry at all in it. Perhaps it 
 was the unusual weariness that softened her : not exactly weari- 
 ness of limb, but weariness of spirit. Her thoughts were 
 running into a groove not at all customary. 
 
 " Says Richard Pickering to me t'other morning in Wor- 
 cester, when I ran again him coming out o' the hop-market, 
 ' You should not stay on at Harebell Farm, Aunt Mary ' — a 
 calling of me aunt for once, he did — 'but have a nice little 
 home of your own, and live comfortable in it.' 'Twas the old 
 pride in part made him say it ; neither him nor Willie have 
 ever liked my being in service, specially him. ' We'd help 
 you to the home,' he went on, ' I and William ; we want you 
 to have rest, Mary. And he's right, I say : for I am beginning 
 to feel the need o' rest, and service is getting hard for me. But 
 I don't care to be helped by them, and what I've saved isn'tquite 
 enough to keep me yet. Bother take it ! What has set me on 
 o' these thoughts this evening, I wonder ? I think I'll get 
 Priar to give me a dose o' physic to put me to rights. 'Twon't 
 do for me to fail i' my work." 
 
 Approaching Harebell pond — which she did not do once in 
 two years, as a rule ; no, nor in four — the sad fate of her 
 former master, Robert Owen : a fate which every one had 
 long ago given up all hope of clearing : recurred to her. Every 
 circumstance connected with it flashed into her mind as vividly 
 as though it had passed but yesterday. The singular dream, 
 when she and others, quite a crowd of them, seemed to be 
 searching for him up this very lane and across the fields, all 
 bearing for one point, the direction of the Trailing Indian ; 
 and the absolute later disappearance : and her visit to the inn 
 in the morning, when Emma Geach was a wailing infant of a 
 few hours old, and the mother lay in danger up stairs : and 
 the commotion and uncertainty altogether, until the water 
 gave up its secret : like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope 
 fixing themselves into their places one after another, so the 
 past events rolled through her mind. 
 
 She passed the pond with a glance and a shudder, slightly 
 quickening her steps. A few yards onward there arose a hazy 
 kind of indecision in her purpose : whether she should go 
 straight on through the gate, leading into some fields on Sir 
 Dene's home farm that lay beyond ; or continue her way up 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 413 
 
 the lane — which, here took the sharp turn to the right. Her 
 feet, unprompted, as it seemed — for certainly she was not 
 conscious of making any decision herself — chose the latter. 
 In after life, Mary Barber was wont to say that an instinct 
 from Heaven guided her. 
 
 " I'll go to the end, just as far as the turnpike road ; and 
 then turn back," she said to herself, finding which way her 
 apparently purposeless feet had taken her. 
 
 This brought her, as the reader must know, to the Trailing 
 Indian. Mary Barber turned her eyes upon that hostelrie in 
 some curiosity : its past association rendering it always a 
 place of interest. Since Miss Emma Geach's return to take 
 up her abode in it, the inn had shown some slight signs of re- 
 newed life. That bustling damsel, ready of service, free of 
 tongue, made a pleasanter hostess than Black and Sam Pound 
 had made hosts ; and stragglers were beginning to drop in 
 again for half pints.of ale or cider. As to Sam, his worst fears 
 had been realized : he was dismissed. 
 
 The golden beams of the sun, partly below the horizon now, 
 had turned to crimson, and the front casements caught the 
 red glow. The side-door of the inn stood open, but there was 
 no other sign of life or habitation about the dwelling. It 
 looked very solitary, and everything around was still, includ- 
 ing the evening air. 
 
 " She's out," thought Mary Barber, " else there'd be some 
 clatter o' dishes going on; and her tongue with it. As to 
 
 Black " 
 
 The words were stopped by a startling sound. If ever 
 Mary Barber heard a groan of agony, she heard one then. 
 Whence did it come ? She turned to look about her, and 
 there arose another. ~No mistake now : they came from the 
 house. 
 
 " Anything the matter ?" she called out, making her way 
 to the side door. 
 
 A succession of moans answered her : painful moans, telling 
 of some awful calamity. Mary Barber was not timorous : she 
 had seen too many ugly sights in her life for that, ghosts in- 
 cluded ; but it was certain that a tremor of fear seized on her 
 then, and she would willingly have turned back, rather than 
 entered. 
 
 " What be it ?" she asked, halting outside the kitchen door. 
 
 Ah, what was it ? Mary Barber groaned herself when she 
 
 went in, and saw. Randy Black was stretched on the kitchen 
 
414 Dene Hollow. 
 
 floor, bleeding from a wound in the side, his gun lying beside 
 him. 
 
 He had got the gun about intending to clean it, unconscious 
 that it was loaded. The charge went off and shot him. It 
 appeared that he had lent the gun to one of his friends, James 
 Thaxted. When the man returned it Black asked if it was 
 charged, and Thaxted replied No. He had understood Black 
 to say, Have you drawn the charge ? — as was explained when 
 too late. 
 
 Whatever ill had encompassed Black's life, Mary Barber 
 could but feel the deepest compassion for him now. Some- 
 thing in his face would have told her that the injury was 
 mortal without his confirming words, " It's my death ! it's my 
 death." 
 
 What could she do alone ? Emma Geach had gone off to 
 Worcester for the Wednesday's market, and to buy herself 
 some gowns. While she was on her knees, doing what she 
 could to staunch the blood, and nearly at her wits' end, young 
 Cole entered ; and Mary Barber said Providence had sent him. 
 
 " You be fleet o' foot, Ham. Put out the best speed ye've 
 got, lad, and get Priar up here. And list ye," she added in a 
 whisper, drawing the young man's ear down, " when Priar's 
 come off, run round to the parson, and ask him to please to 
 come. If ever mortal man wanted shriving when his soul 
 was on the wing, it must be this 'un lying here." 
 
 Apparently Mr. Black was thinking somewhat of the same. 
 Whence he gathered his deductions perhaps he could not have 
 defined ; but that death was close upon him he felt sure and 
 certain. And strange though it may be to say it of this 
 hardened and bad man, whose whole life had been marked by 
 recklessness ; who had laughed at death, and set it, and what 
 must come after it, at defiance as a thing that could not con- 
 cern him — he was now shrinking from it in a fright, the veriest 
 coward. Such instances have been known : where this awful 
 terror has assailed a soul at the close of an ill-spent life. It 
 was not the life so suddenly cut short that the man was re- 
 gretting ; that appeared not to give him a thought ; it was the 
 dread judgment to which he was hastening. 
 
 Mary Barber turned him round, for he had been lying on 
 the wound, and found a pillow to put under his head on the 
 kitchen bricks, and gave him a sup of brandy which he asked 
 for. The bleeding seemed to stop, and he was in less pain. 
 " When did it happen ? " she asked. 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 415 
 
 " On'y just afore you come," groaned Black. " I'd got the 
 gun muzzle upwards, and was a turning round to light a 
 candle." 
 
 And then he gave vent to words and plaints and cries that 
 surely would never have been wrung from him in health ; 
 ay, and. prayers. Prayers that he would at all times have 
 scoffed at. Prayers for mercy : prayers to be let perish for 
 ever as a dog and be no more heard of after death. Mary 
 Barber was horrified : she compassionated him with her whole 
 heart ; she knelt down, raising her hands together, and asked 
 aloud for pardon for him, even at the eleventh hour. The man 
 was beside himself with fear. He called for more brandy, and 
 when she hesitated to give it him, he swore at her in some of 
 the worst language he had ever used in his wild career. The 
 next minute he was beseeching her and Heaven alike to forgive 
 him. She administered a little brandy ; not much, for she was 
 afraid to do it without the sanction of Mr. Priar. 
 
 " Priar '11 be up soon, Black," she said. "You shall have 
 more then if he'll let you." 
 
 The man's faculties appeared to be almost supernaturally 
 clear ; his intellect and memory bright as they had ever been 
 in life ; his reason, as free : but a degree of physical exhaus- 
 tion came on, and then he lay comparatively still. Mary 
 Barber seized upon the interval to tell him about the Thief on 
 the Cross, and Black hushed his voice while he listened. 
 
 " He had been bad, too, like you, Black, that man had ; but 
 the Saviour pardoned him. With the Lord it is only to repent, 
 and ask, and have." 
 
 Black turned his head about on the pillow and moaned and 
 sighed and muttered ; but was still quiet. A thought came 
 into the woman's mind, and she promptly acted on it. 
 
 " I'd like to ask ye one thing, Black, while there's time : 
 'twon't hurt you to answer it now, one way or t'other. The 
 bag o' money stole from Sir Dene's parlour that New Year's 
 Day — was it you took it ? " 
 
 " Was it me took it ? " retorted Black with a touch of his 
 old fierceness. " What d'ye mean ? " 
 
 " Some of 'em be a suspecting Tom Clanwaring on't still : 
 as it strikes me," was her reply. " Only this very morning 
 Squire Arde, who came up to the farm a wanting to see the 
 master, stood by my ironing-board, a talking on't. I said 
 'twas curious Mr. Tom didn't come back now things again 
 him had been cleared up : at that the Squire went quite in a 
 
41 6 Dene Hollow. 
 
 passion, and said things again him were not cleared rip, and 
 the fellow was not wanted back. It could have been nothing 
 but the money he was thinking of, Black : there's nought 
 else lying again Mr. Tom now." 
 
 Black's eyes were cast up towards her ; dark, and almost 
 fierce as ever, were they. But he made no answer. 
 
 " Tom Clanwaring never harmed you, Randy. He showed 
 himself friendly always, and did you many a good turn. If 
 'twas you took the money, you might confess to it now, for 
 his sake." 
 
 " The man as took the bag o' money was Captain Clan- 
 waring." 
 
 "What?" cried Mary Barber, interrupting the hoarse deep 
 tones. 
 
 " The man as took the bag o' money was Jarvis Clan- 
 waring," repeated Black. " I swear it with my dying breath." 
 Mary Barber peered into Black's face, believing his senses 
 were deserting him. He saw the doubt. 
 
 " That there same Saturday night, soon after I got home 
 here myself, up come Captain Clanwaring. He owed me 
 money, and he had got frightened for fear I should let out 
 things he didn't want let out — for in the morning I told him 
 I'd do it if he didn't pay me. He gave me just half what he 
 owed : and I wondered where he had got it from, for he was 
 
 as hard up hisself as any poor devil " 
 
 " Was it for bacca, he owed it ? " she interrupted. 
 " No, 'twarn't for bacca," retorted Black, resenting either 
 the question or the interruption. " 'Twas put upon bacca, and 
 that's enough. Just a few days after, Squire Arde was here, 
 and began a fishing to know whether 'twas me took Sir 
 Dene's bag o' money. 'Twas the first time I'd heered of any 
 money being stole ; and I knew at once who 'twas that had 
 took it, and where Captain Clanwaring had got his money 
 from. I see the bag in his hands and the notes and gold 
 in it." 
 
 "That there Captain Clanwaring must have as many sins 
 to answer for as you, Black," spoke Mary Barber, drawing a 
 deep breath. " Perhaps more i' the sight of Heaven. Why 
 didn't you tell o' this, and clear Tom Clanwaring ?" 
 
 Black shook his head. "I couldn't tell o' the Captain then, 
 though I'd used to threaten it. His interests was mine till 
 I'd got my money from him in full. And he might ha' turned 
 on me, he might, for he knowed a thing or two." 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 417 
 
 It appeared to have been a case of rogue cutting rogue. 
 That Captain Clanwaring and Black were mutually afraid of 
 each other, and had acted in accordance with it, there could 
 be no question. 
 
 A perfect yell from Black startled Mary Barber out of her 
 momentary reflection. His side had burst out bleeding again, 
 bringing back all his terror. Perhaps in the past few mi- 
 nutes, feeling easier in himself, and believing the bleeding had 
 stopped, he had been indulging some faint idea of recovery. 
 
 " I'd lead a different life, I would ! " he aspirated, as if 
 making a promise to the empty air. 
 
 The most welcome sound that ever greeted Mary Barber's 
 ear, was that of gig- wheels. Mr. Priar and his apprentice 
 had come speeding up. They were followed by Harry Cole 
 and others. After apprising the surgeon of what had hap- 
 pened, Ham had gone on his way to impart the news generally. 
 Mr. Priar speedily cleared the kitchen of the interlopers 
 pressing into it. Mary Barber and Harry Cole alone being 
 suffered to remain ; and the clergyman when he came. 
 
 Alas ! nothing could be done to save the life that was so 
 swiftly passing. All the skill of the medical man was not 
 able to prolong it by one hour beyond its allotted time. Black 
 was not moved from his position. On the kitchen floor he 
 had fallen, and on the kitchen floor he remained to die. Some 
 blankets were gently slided under him to make it less hard ; 
 but ho might not be disturbed further. 
 
 In the presence of the clergyman and doctor, of Mary 
 Barber and of Harry Cole, he made a confession : some dim 
 hope that it might serve him when he should stand before the 
 Great Judge in that dread hereafter, urging him to do it. 
 Petty sins were avowed, such as smuggling, and poaching, 
 and receiving stolen goods ; a whole catalogue of such doings, 
 that appeared to have been always running on. These lighter 
 offences Black did not himself seem to think much of; but 
 there were others. Grave crimes ; beside which the lighter 
 sunk to little. As the eye estimates things as being large or 
 small according to comparison, so does the conscience. Randy 
 Black had the lives of three men on his soul : the pedlar, 
 once or twice spoken of here ; a gamekeeper ; and Robert 
 Owen. 
 
 The only one of them wilfully and deliberately murdered, 
 was the pedlar. Stupefied by drink, perhaps purposely 
 given him, he had been killed in the dead of night by Black's 
 
 E E 
 
41 8 Dene Hollow. 
 
 own hand,' and afterwards buried by him and the ostler, Joe ; 
 his box of wares, some of them real gold and silver, being- the 
 inducing motive. The gamekeeper was shot by Black in a 
 night fray, but not of deliberate intention ; guns were going 
 off on both sides. The third, Robert Owen had been wilfully 
 assaulted, but not wilfully murdered. 
 
 That Black was telling the truth without disguise, in this, 
 his dying hour, was all too evident ; nay, be sought rather to 
 make himself out worse than better. Once this awful hour 
 comes upon hitherto careless sinners, there can be no playing 
 at bo-peep with the conscience. 
 
 On that long-past Easter Sunday night, as may be re- 
 membered, Mr. Owen, after quitting his daughter Maria and 
 Geoffry Clanwaring, had been traced to the two-acre meadow ; 
 the young man, Parkes, having watched bim cross it on his 
 Avay to the cow-shed. Subsequent to that no trace of him — 
 in life — could be discovered ; and this loss Black now 
 supplied. 
 
 After leaving the shed, Mr. Owen went back across the 
 meadow towards his homo. In the narrow path, so often 
 mentioned, between the grove of trees and the pond, he halted 
 and leaned over the fence, whether without any particular 
 motive, or from hearing some fancied sound that he would in- 
 vestigate, could never be known. Black, concealed in the 
 grove of trees with a heavy stick, pushed out and dealt him a 
 sudden and violent blow on the back of his head. It must 
 have stunned Mr. Owen, for he fell more forward and did not 
 lift himself : Black took him by the heels and tumbled him 
 over into the pond. So he lay there and was drowned with- 
 out a struggle, his senseless condition preventing his making 
 any effort to save himself. 
 
 " As the Lord's above, and hearing me, I didna mean to 
 kill him," gasped Black, when he had told this. " Owen o' 
 the farm was spying on me and my doings, and I wanted to 
 serve him out for't ; break a arm or a leg, or crack his skull 
 a bit, and so teach him not to come interfering in matters as 
 was none of his. But I never meant to kill him. I thought 
 he'd scramble out o' the pond sure enough ; I run off home 
 here a thinking it." 
 
 " But you must have gone out into the grove with the 
 heavy stick to watch for and assault him," said the surgeon, 
 in answer to this. 
 
 " So I did," was the ready avowal. " Things had crossed 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 419 
 
 me that Sunday, and I had a lot o' drink in mc. I'd slep 
 some on't off, but not all. While Joe was a shutting up, just 
 after I woke, that dratted Owen of the farm came slap into 
 my head. I thought I'd go and see whether he was a sneak- 
 ing and peeping then ; and I caught up my stick and went 
 and hid i' the grove, and waited — I knew his cow was sick, 
 and fancied he might be coming to't the last thing. But I 
 swear I didn't think to kill him ; and when I come home 
 here and telled Joe, we both chuckled over the sousing he'd 
 got, and I went up to bed a picturing of him trailing home 
 through the lane like a drownded rat. Next morning, when 
 Joe came creeping to my bedside, a saying that Owen hadn't 
 turned up nowhere and was a being enquired for at our house 
 here, I was hard o' belief, and telled him to his face he was a 
 lying fool. No ; I never killed him wilful." 
 
 Mary Barber threw her hands on her face, and sobbed a 
 sob of emotion. Rarely had she been so moved. Memory 
 was over busy with her. The vivid dream — not less vivid 
 than when she had dreamt it — that had surely foreshadowed 
 her master's death, passed through her mind for a second 
 time that evening in all its details. He passed through it. 
 She saw him walking in from church that Easter Sunday, 
 after partaking of the Lord's Supper ; she saw him seated at 
 his table's head entertaining Sir Dene's son and his son-in- 
 law, Geoffry Clanwaring ; she saw him stand in the yard at 
 sunset speaking to Joan : it was all before her now. The 
 sun's ray's fell across his face, lighting up its remarkable 
 beauty. Mary Barber had seen many a handsome man in 
 her life, gentle and simple, but never a one whose form and 
 face equalled his, Robert Owen's. She had suspected Black 
 at the time, had suspected him since, for her dream had cer- 
 tainly, in some vague way, pointed to him and his home, the 
 Trailing Indian, as being concerned in the disappearance : 
 and now she found that her suspicions were true. If Mary 
 Barber had wanted her belief in dreams strengthened, this 
 would have done it. 
 
 But, if her faith in dreams of the night was confirmed, 
 that in regard to the appearance of supernatural visions was 
 destined at the same time to receive a shock. Robert Owen's 
 ghost had not been a ghost. Knowing what Mary Barber 
 knew, remembering the experiences of her earlier life, and 
 what she had once seen in the Hollow Field — her sister on 
 the stile there — no power, human or divine, could have shaken 
 
420 Dene Hollow. 
 
 her belief in the possibility of the dead appearing to mortal 
 eyes. In this one instance, regarding her late master, she 
 found that she and others had been craftily imposed upon. 
 
 The strange figure, appearing to the world as a supernatural 
 visitant, and popularly believed to be the unfortunate Robert 
 Owen's spirit, was, after all, only flesh and blood. Black and 
 some of his associates, including Michael Geach, set their 
 heads to work, and turned Mr. Owen's death to good account. 
 The happy thought was Black's. They improvised a ghost 
 to represent him ; the object of course being to keep undesir- 
 able people away from Harebell Lane, and that part of the 
 Harebell fields that overlooked the lane. The men, who were 
 in the habit of stealing up the lane to Black's with booty about 
 them, had been seen so many times of late that they had grown 
 afraid, and flatly told Black that they must give up the game 
 unless something could be done to insure greater safety. 
 Robert Owen's ghost effected this. It was far more easy to 
 get up a ghost of him than it would have been of most people : 
 for there were those most strongly marked features — the 
 flowing, silvery beard, and the magpie cap. A silvery beard 
 was procured, and another magpie cap : also clothes and a 
 walking-stick similar to those used by Mr. Owen the night of 
 his death. Michael Geach was the ghost. He was as tall as 
 Mr. Owen, and had the same well-formed, handsome cast of 
 features — though the shape of features cannot be seen very 
 much of at a distance by moonlight. Arrayed in the clothes 
 and the beard and the white-bordered cap, Michael Geach 
 might have been sworn to in any moonlight court of law as 
 Robert Owen. The best proof was that he deceived Randy 
 Black himself. 
 
 When Black had burst into his house that unlucky night in 
 a state of terror not easily imagined or described, and con- 
 fessed that he had seen Robert Owen's ghost, his terror and 
 his belief were alike genuine. That the man, hardened 
 though he was in crime, had Mr. Owen's death somewhat 
 on his conscience, various signs betrayed to those about him. 
 Coming home from Hurst Leet that bright night, what with 
 the natural loneliness of the lane, its weird shadows and its 
 awful pond — awful to Black at night since what he had done 
 there — it was only to be expected he should begin thinking of 
 Robert Owen ; a very unpleasant thought, which made him 
 quicken his pace past the pond. Had it been to save Black's 
 life, he could not have helped turning his eyes in a kind of 
 
The Last of Randy Black. 421 
 
 dread fascination to the fence above, whence Robert Owen had 
 fallen. And there — there stood Robert Owen himself; that is, 
 his spirit, as Black took it to be ; the white beard, and the 
 magpie cup, and the coat he was drowned in, all conspicuous. 
 
 And now here was a strange thing — that that man, har- 
 dened in sin and in the world's worst ways, should have been 
 stricken with this most awful terror. But that he was so, 
 and this is no fiction, it would be scarcely believable. The 
 idea that it was Geach never so much as crossed him ; for he 
 had reason to believe that Geach was a vast number of miles 
 away, on the Cornish coast in fact, gone there on some secret 
 mission connected with a privateer : that he could be in 
 Worcestershire, even had the thought suggested itself, Black 
 would have deemed an impossibility. Geach, however, had 
 arrived at the Trailing Indian that night during Black's 
 absence, While waiting for the landlord to come in, it oc- 
 curred to him that he might make use of the hour to profit, 
 and he arrayed himself in the ghost's coat, which was kept at 
 the inn — and stole out to frighten the world, putting on the 
 cap and beard when he was safe in the grove of trees. But 
 that Geach saw the state of terror he sent Black into, and 
 enjoyed it too much to speak, there could be little doubt of, 
 thoiigh he vowed to Black afterwards that he did not recog- 
 nise him. How all that might have been does not signify : 
 there's the explanation. 
 
 Perhaps the strangest fact of all, connected with that 
 strange business was, that Black retained his terror. Even 
 when he knew, after the elucidation, that the apparent ghost 
 was no ghost, but his friend Michael Geach displaying himself 
 according to custom, the terror wholly refused to quit him. 
 In spite of reason, in spite of knowledge, in spite of the great 
 fact that Robert Owen's spirit had never really come abroad 
 at all, Black lived thenceforward in a chronic state of terror : 
 of terror lest he should see it. It was just as though some 
 mental disease had been caught by him that night, and could 
 never afterwards be eradicated. Time, instead of wearing 
 the impression off, only seemed to increase it. He hardly 
 dared go abroad at night ; as the years went on, he cared not 
 to remain alone in the inn after dark. The day of the ghost 
 had, so to say, gone by : its remembrance had nearly faded 
 out of the public mind ; and yet Black retained his fear. 
 The fear was never realized, and yet he retained it in all its 
 force. Black thought it was realized once. When he saw 
 
422 Dene Hollow. 
 
 Major Fife at twilight in the dark walk of Beechhurst Dene, 
 deceived by the resemblance, he mistook him for Robert 
 Owen, and he was never nndeceived. 
 
 And so, the mystery attaching to the dead master of Hare- 
 bell Farm, mystery in more ways than one, was cleared up at 
 last. Robert Owen had slept peacefully in his grave, and had 
 never come out of it at all to disturb the community. The 
 people connected with the Trailing Indian — meaning those 
 who were not in the secret, and shared the popular belief in 
 the ghost — might have noticed, had they been only sufficiently 
 observant, that the apparition was never seen save during the 
 occasional sojourns of Michael Geach at the inn, and not at 
 all after his death. Geach once got up a seeming fit of terror 
 on his own part. Late one night he rushed into the Trailing 
 Indian in a fine state of agitation, and told a story to the 
 gaping company of having seen the ghost in the lane. 
 
 But the prolonged fear that lay on Black, lasting for years 
 and years, was so entirely devoid of reason, so utterly absurd, 
 especially in a man like him, as to be almost incredible. It 
 wore him to a shadow ; it embittered his life ; it left him no 
 rest, sleeping or waking. Could it have been the finger of 
 God that rested on him, working out the man's punishment ? 
 Mary Barber assumed so. 
 
 " It seems the Lord has been punishing you, Black," she 
 observed compassionately, after listening to his confession of 
 how dreadful his sufferings from this terror had been. " Let 
 us hope that He'll be all the more lenient to you now, and 
 mercifully hear the quicker your groans for pardon." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 WITH SIR DEXE. 
 
 Advancing at a jog-trot up Harebell Lane, came a horse 
 carrying double : a country yeoman, Charles Parker, (who, 
 by the way, was first cousin to the Parker connected with 
 the stolen bag of money) on his hack, and Miss Emma Geach 
 on a pillion behind him. 
 
 In those days it was nearly as common to see a horse carry 
 two people as one ; sometimes it was made to carry three. 
 Mr. Parker was returning home from the Wednesday's 
 market at Worcester, whither he had conveyed his daughter 
 in the morning, and left her there on a visit. Happening to 
 
With Sir Dene. 423 
 
 overtake Miss Geacli on the road when returning, he good- 
 naturedly asked her to get up and ride. The party had nearly 
 reached the Trailing Indian when Mary Barber turned out of 
 the inn, and met it. Emma Geach's loud laugh was echoing 
 on the air ; a musical laugh enough, truth to tell, and well 
 known; otherwise Mary Barber might not have recognised 
 her, for the night was rather dark. The woman made a 
 motion for the horse, to be stopped, and spoke. 
 
 "Holloa, why it's you, Mrs. Barber! " cried the yeoman. 
 " Good evening t'ye." 
 
 " Looking for your sweetheart, Mary Barber ? " asked free- 
 tongued Miss Emma. 
 
 " If ye'll get down, girl, I'll tell ye what has happened ; ye'll 
 see then whether this be a time to be looking for sweethearts, 
 even for them that's got 'em," was Mary Barber's answer. 
 
 There was a solemn tone in it that struck on the ears of 
 both her listeners, and Miss Emma slid off the pillion to the 
 ground. Mary Barber told of the accident. To give Emma 
 Geach her due, she was sobered on the instant, and much 
 concerned for Black. 
 
 " I heard Thaxted tell Black with my own ears that the 
 gun warn't charged," she said, explosively. "What did the 
 man mean by't ? " 
 
 " That's what Black said," replied Mary Barber. 
 
 "Is his hurt bad?" resumed Emma. "Mr. Parker, I 
 thank ye for giving me the lift to-night, and saving me the 
 trapes home afoot. The devil take that there Thaxted," she 
 added, preparing to hasten into the inn. 
 
 But Mary Barber put out her hand to detain the girl, 
 willing to soften the shock even to her, and whispered how 
 worse than " bad " the hurt was. 
 
 '"Tain't for death, sure!" exclaimed Emma, her voice 
 taking a sound of fear. 
 
 "Ay, but it is," was Mary Barber's answer. " No good a 
 beating about the bush any more, Emma Geach. Black's 
 dead." 
 
 " Dead ! Dead a'ready ! " 
 
 " About ten minutes ago. Mr. Priar and a lot of 'em be 
 there, men and women. I couldn't do no farther good, and I 
 come away." 
 
 Very much to Mary Barber's surprise, who had deemed her 
 to be without feeling, the girl burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears. All her days, Black had been to her but a cross- 
 
424 Dene Hollow. 
 
 grained master, or whatever he might be called, and they had 
 lived in perpetual warfare ; but it seems she bore him some 
 natural affection. 
 
 Leaving them to go into the house — fjr Charles Pai'ker got 
 off his horse to follow — Mary Barber went on down the lane. 
 A project was in her head, that she should proceed at once to 
 Beechhurst Dene, and request an interview with its master. 
 Sundry things disclosed that night had surprised her not 
 a little, and she felt it to be her " bounden duty " (as she put 
 it to herself) to disclose them to Sir Dene. 
 
 " It's not too late for't," ran her thoughts ; " it can't be much 
 more than half after eight. Poor Black haven't been long 
 agoing. The Lord keep us all from a sudden death like his !" 
 
 No ; he had not been long. The wound had speedily done 
 its work. Only about four hours — hardly so much, in fact 
 — from the commencement to the close. It was a strange 
 coincidence, that Mary Barber should have been present when 
 both Black and his wife were dying, and it haunted her mind. 
 
 "'Twas no chance took me out, and there, this evening," 
 she murmured. " I wonder how long 'tis since I went out 
 for nothing but a walk — without having some object to take 
 me ? Why, years, it must be. Any way, I can't remember it. 
 That feeling o' wanting to go abroad and get fresh air had 
 never come to me afore. 'Twas just a good angel's hand guid- 
 ing me." 
 
 Arrived at the gate of Beechhurst Dene, she stopped ; 
 hesitating whether to enter then, or wait until rnornino\ An 
 impulse was strongly prompting her to go in, spite of the late- 
 ness of the hour, spite of her working attire. The gown she 
 wore was of lilac cotton ; clean, but somewhat tumbled with 
 her aidings of Black; her bonnet was the usual black poke of 
 a country woman, the cap-border under it clean and full ; her 
 shawl was of fawn-coloured cloth, much worn. 
 
 " Sir Dene '11 excuse it all," decided she, opening the small 
 gate. " Gander '11 know whether I can ask to see him to- 
 night or not." 
 
 At that moment footsteps were heard in the lane, and she 
 waited to see who might be following her. It was Harry Cole. 
 Mary Barber leaned her arms upon the gate while they talked 
 together of what had occurred. 
 
 " I never thought his hand was in Mr. Owen's death," re- 
 marked Cole. " Some of you fancied it at the time, I remem- 
 ber, but I didn't: he carried it oft' brazenly." 
 
With Sir Dene. 425 
 
 " He told me something else before you and Priar came," 
 observed Mary Barber. " That money lost out o' Sir 
 Dene's parlour — 'twas Jarvis Clanwaring took it. Black 
 says he was sure of it." 
 
 " So was T," laconically replied Cole. 
 
 " You were ! Nonsense, man ! " 
 
 " Well, I did think 'twas him ; I thought it was, for 
 certain. That same night, just at the very time the money 
 must have been taken, I saw Captain Clanwaring at Sir 
 Dene's secretary. Oh, 'twas the captain : no doubt of 
 it." 
 
 " And why couldn't you have opened your mouth and said 
 this, Harry Cole)?" demanded Mary Barber, hotly. 
 
 " Because I was bid not to," was the sentence on Harry 
 Cole's tongue. Bat he substituted another for it : " Because 
 it was no business of mine." 
 
 "No business of yours ! 'Twould have cleared Tom Clan- 
 waring." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," said Cole. "Nobody really suspected 
 Mr. Tom. Well, good night, Mrs. Barber. This has been a 
 sad evening's work." 
 
 Sir Dene Clanwaring had almost entirely recovered the 
 seizure in December, and was himself again. It Avas thought 
 that when the genial weather of summer set in, he might 
 become as well as ever he had been of late years. Meanwhile, 
 by Mr. Priar's orders, all topics likely to excite him were 
 avoided, by visitors as well as servants ; so that Sir Dene was 
 living in a good deal of ignorance as to the doings of his neigh- 
 bours. Jarvis Clanwaring he knew all about. That gentle- 
 man w r as languishing away his days in prison (in a rather 
 jolly manner, probably, after the fashion of the time) ; for by 
 no manner of persuasion could Sir Dene be brought to release 
 him. Lady Lydia sighed and prayed her heart out over it, 
 but Sir Dene was w T holly deaf ; flatly refusing to help at all, 
 and calling him to Lady Lydia' s face by any name but that of 
 gentleman. Sir Dene resented the deceit practised on the Ardes. 
 That a grandson of his, over head and ears in debt, should have 
 palmed himself off as an honourable man, and attempted to marry 
 Mary Arde, brought a blush of shame to his old cheeks. He 
 knew all about the diamonds, too, and had got them home 
 again; having furnished the money to Otto for their redemp- 
 tion. Altogether, Jarvis had done for himself pretty effectually, 
 and Sir Dene assured Lady Lydia that the only fit place for 
 
426 Dene Hollow. 
 
 him was the prison he was in. "Which gave her the most in- 
 tense aggravation. 
 
 " Can I say a word to Mr. Gander, please ? " asked Mary 
 Barber, of the servant who came to the door. 
 
 Gander happened to hear the question himself, and came 
 forward. He and Mary Barber were great friends. 
 
 "See Sir Dene? Yes, and welcome," said he, in reply to 
 her application. " 'Twill be a bit o' change for him. Dull 
 enough it is for the poor master, a sitting up there by himself 
 hour after hour." 
 
 " Why don't my lady sit with him? " was Mary Barber's 
 rejoinder. And Gander gave his head a toss. 
 
 " Sir Dene don't care to have too much of her company. 
 She only gets worrying of him to loose the captain out o' 
 prison." 
 
 " I say, I've had a rare shock to-night," said Mary Barber, 
 as she and Gander ascended the staircase together. " Randy 
 Black's dead." 
 
 "No! " exclaimed the butler. " W 7 hy, what has he died 
 of? 'Twas only yesterday I saw him." 
 
 " Ay, so did I," she answered. " His gun went off and 
 killed him. I'm a wanting to tell Sir Dene something that 
 he said in dying." 
 
 But that they had reached the baronet's door, Gander might 
 have asked further details, and what the something was : for 
 he had his share of curiosity. 
 
 Sir Dene was pacing the carpet in his sitting-room, a 
 favourite exercise of his always, and the only one he could 
 take now. Mary Barber had not seen him for some months : 
 and the change age and illness had made in him, perhaps 
 trouble also, startled her. His once stately form was bent ; 
 he tottered as he walked, leaning heavily on his stick ; his fine 
 blue eyes were faded ; his face was haggard and strangely 
 grey. For a moment Mary Barber could not speak : she be- 
 lieved that if ever she saw death in a face, she saw it in his. 
 Gander shut them in together. 
 
 " I made bold to come at this late hour and ask if I might 
 see you, Sir Dene, having a matter to speak of to you," she 
 respectfully said, curtseying. " Gander, he thought you'd 
 please to see me, sir." 
 
 Even though it was but Mary Barber, Sir Dene, in his never- 
 failing courtesy of mind, laid his hand on a chair near the fire, 
 as he might have laid it for a lady, and motioned to her to take 
 
With Sir Dene. 427 
 
 it. His own large arm-chair stood opposite ; lie sat down in 
 it, and bent his head towards her, leaning both hands on his 
 stick. 
 
 " I have heard to-night what has surprised me, Sir Dene : 
 and I think yon ought to hear it too," she began. " So I 
 stepped here without loss o' time to see if I might get speech 
 of you. And I hope, sir, that you'll be so good as to pardon 
 my coming before you in my old things : there was no time to 
 go in home and change 'em." 
 
 The probability was that Sir Dene had not noticed whether 
 she wore old things or new. His sight and senses were alike 
 getting dim for these trifles of existence. Two wax candles 
 burned on the mantel-piece, and the fire threw out its blaze on 
 every portion of the small, comfortable sitting-room. 
 
 " It don't matter," said Sir Dene. " The things look good 
 to me." 
 
 In a low and cautious tone — for Gander had warned her not 
 to startle his master — she imparted to Sir Dene the event of 
 the night. Randy Black's accident and death; and then went 
 on to the items of his confession. 
 
 "Poor Owen! murdered after all!" interposed Sir Dene. 
 " But I always said that tale of his ghost appearing was the 
 most ridiculous in the world. Fit only for children and sim- 
 pletons." 
 
 " Well, sir, 'twas what drove my young master, Mr. Wil- 
 liam Owen, away," she returned. " That, and nought else." 
 
 " So I heard," said Sir Dene. " Squire Arde confided it to 
 me after his departure. Had I known 'twas that before the 
 young man went, I'd have tried to reason him out of his 
 foolishness. Ghosts are all nonsense, you know, Mrs. Barber." 
 
 Remembering what she remembered — the ghost that she 
 most undoubtedly had seen ; ay, and more than that one, as 
 she fully believed, during the experiences of her past life, 
 Mary Barber's opinion was wholly different. And she was 
 not one to shrink from expressing her opinion, even to Sir Dene 
 Clanwaring. 
 
 " That the spirits of the dead visit this world sometimes, 
 there's little doubt on, Sir Dene ; but it ain't given to every- 
 body to see 'em. I have seen 'em, and so can speak to't. I 
 believe in dreams, too ; that they come as warnings, and what 
 not, of things about to happen." 
 
 " Ay, that's another thing — dreams," readily acquiesced the 
 old man. " I've had a queer dream or two myself." 
 
428 Dene Hollow. 
 
 The little interruption over, Mary Barber -\vent on to the 
 matter she had come to relate : that it was not Tom Clanwar- 
 ing who had taken the bag of money, but the captain. Sir 
 Dene, who had been scoring the pattern of the carpet with his 
 stick (also a habit of his), and following it with his eyes while 
 he listened, lifted his head suddenly. 
 
 " Jarvis Clanwaring did that ? " he cried, looking at her. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Black vowed 'twas him with his dying breath. 
 
 Harry Cole, too, he confirmed it to me i' the lane : for he saw 
 
 the cap tarn at your secretary." And she repeated what both 
 
 had said, word for word. It did not appear to surprise Sir 
 
 Dene much. 
 
 " Look you, Mrs. Barber, that ill-doing grandson o' mine — 
 that I'm ashamed to own, and think it a mercy his father was 
 not spared to be pained by his goings-on — was hard up for 
 money about that time ; and that's how 'twas, I expect. For 
 the matter o' that, I don't know when he was not hard up — 
 as the world has since learnt. So he took the bag o' money, 
 did he ! He's a disgrace to the name of Clanwaring." 
 
 " But it's not me that would have intruded to speak of it to 
 you, Sir Dene ; I hope I know what respect means better 
 than that " 
 
 " You are welcome," interrupted Sir Dene. " He has_been 
 the town's talk." 
 
 " Only that I thought it my duty, sir, to clear poor Mr. 
 Tom," she continued. " That bag o' money, sir, you know, 
 was laid by some people to Mr. Tom's door." 
 
 " The people were fools," was Sir Dene's retort. 
 
 It took Mary Barber aback. She had recently felt so fully 
 persuaded that it must be the one only matter lying against 
 Tom Clanwaring and prevented his recall ; for she knew of 
 nothing else that could lie. This she said to Sir Dene. 
 
 "No, no," he answered. "My grandson, Tom, is a true 
 Clanwaring: no fear of his thieving bags of money. Why, 
 you ought to know him better than that, Mrs. Barber." 
 
 " And I do, sir. When the accusation was brought again' 
 him, my bile went up above a bit. I a'most got a fit o' the 
 yalla jaunders, Sir Dene." 
 
 " It's that other affair, up at the Trailing Indian, that has 
 been on my mind," said Sir Dene, acknowledging more to 
 this woman than he had to others : but reticence sometimes 
 forsakes us at the last. " The girl has left Ireland, and is back, 
 1 hear." 
 
With Sir Dene. 429 
 
 Mary Barber's hard grey ejes opened -with a stare. What 
 was Sir Dene talking of? 
 
 " Do you mean about Emma Geach, sir ?" she asked. 
 " Brazen baggage ! " ejaculated Sir Dene. " Of course I 
 mean it." 
 
 " But, sir," retui'ned the woman, all the emphasis she pos- 
 sessed put into her tone, " that — that was not Tom Clan- 
 waring." 
 
 " Was it me, d'ye think ? " retorted Sir Dene, angrily, 
 believing she wanted to impose on him in her partizanship for 
 Tom. " It's not your place to tell white lies to me, Mrs. 
 Barber." 
 
 " I've not told lies, neither white nor black, in all my life, 
 Sir Dene, and I'm sure I'd not begin now," said independent 
 Mary Barber. " The girl's sweetheart was not Mr. Tom : it 
 was Captain Clan waring." 
 
 " Why, what d'ye mean ? " cried Sir Dene. 
 " Sir, it's gospel truth. That was Captain Clanwaring. 
 Mr. Tom knew nought about it, any way : I don't suppose he 
 have heard on't to this day. Sir Dene, I thought Squire Arde 
 might ha' told you." 
 
 The two sat looking at each other. She unable to believe 
 that he did not know it, fancying his memory must be in 
 fault ; he wondering whether he was listening to a fable. 
 
 Since the disclosure made by Miss Geach, the truth of the 
 affair had become public property, what with the whispers of 
 one and another, Susan Cole included, and had reached the 
 servants' ears at Beechhurst Dene. But Mr. Priar's orders — 
 Don't say anything of this or any other exciting matter to 
 Sir Dene until he shall be strong — were xery strict, and 
 even Gander had not ventured to disobey. 
 
 " Is it possible you have not heard that Mr. Tom was 
 cleared o' that, Sir Dene ? " asked Mary Barber, breakino- 
 the silence. 
 
 " I have heard nothing," replied Sir Dene. ',' What is there 
 to hear ? " 
 
 Letting her ungloved hands, hard and worn with work, lie 
 folded in her lap, as she sat bolt upright in her chair, Mary 
 Barber recounted the facts to Sir Dene. She spoke in her 
 usual deliberate manner : and before she was well half way 
 through, he got up in trembling excitement, and stood facing 
 her. 
 
 "And that sinning reptile could suffer the brunt cf the 
 
43° Dene Hollow. 
 
 scandal to lie on ray grandson Tom all the while, knowing 
 'twas himself? " 
 
 " He did, Sir Dene. Black confessed to't as well this very 
 night. Don't ye see, sir, if the truth had come out 'twould 
 have ruined Captain Clanwaring Avith Miss Arde." 
 
 Sir Dene gave a very hard word to Captain Clanwaring, 
 and paced the room in tribulation. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Tom have just been a scapegoat among 'em — 
 what he was always called — and nothing else, sir. He have had 
 to take their sins on himself in manhood as well as childhood, 
 and work 'em off. And as to his being ungrateful to you, Sir 
 Dene," she continued, determined to speak out well now she 
 had the chance, " I don't give credit to a shred on't. I'll lay 
 my life that he has writ to you times and again, if it could 
 be proved, and the letters has never been let get to you. 
 Mr. Tom 'ud desire nothing better than to come back, I know ; 
 and as to that letter you wrote to him, calling him home, and 
 Gander posted, relyupon't, sir, that it never went anigh him." 
 
 Whether the woman's decisive assertions, or the strong, 
 good sense that shone out in every word she spoke, made im- 
 pression on Sir Dene, certain it was, that a conviction of the 
 truth took instant possession of his mind. The bitter wrong 
 dealt out to Tom throughout his life by Lady Lydia and her 
 family, seemed to rise up before him in a vivid picture. He saw 
 how it had been, quite as surely as if he had read it in a mir- 
 ror : it was as though scales had hitherto been before his eyes, 
 and had suddenly left them clear. 
 
 All the old love for Tom, which had but been suppressed, 
 filled his whole being again. He opened his heart to Mary 
 Barber as it had never been opened to living mortal. 
 
 " The only child of my dear son, Geoffry ! " he cried from 
 his chair, the tears coursing doAvn his cheeks. " And I have 
 let him live away from me, an exile ! Geoffry left him to 
 me : you know he did, Mary Barber ! and this is how I have 
 kept the trust ! " 
 
 The tears gathered in her own eyes, hard and cold and 
 grey, as she watched the old man's sorrow. In her homely 
 fashion she tried to soothe it. 
 
 "The meeting with him will be all the sweeter now, Sir 
 Dene. Don't fret : 'twas not your fault, sir, but theirs that 
 have kept him from the place. Tou needn't lose no time in 
 getting him home, sir." 
 
 " Fourteen months! " bewailed Sir Dene, apparently catch- 
 
With Sir Dene. 431 
 
 ing no comfort from, her -words. " I've counted 'em one by 
 one : him over there, and me here alone. Seems to me, Mrs. 
 Barber, that my life has been nothing but mistakes that it's 
 too late to remedy." 
 
 " There's not a single life, Sir Dene, but what has mistakes 
 in it ; plenty on 'em. Looking back, we see 'em ; though we 
 couldn't see 'em at the time, or should have acted different. It's 
 too late, as you say, sir — we all find it so — too late, except for 
 one thing, and that's just taking 'em to the Lord for par- 
 don." 
 
 Sir Dene nodded twice, and passed his silk handkerchief 
 over his face. Mary Barber was about to rise and make her 
 farewell curtsey, when he resumed. 
 
 "The worst mistake o' my life was the cutting of that 
 road, Mrs. Barber — Dene Hollow." 
 
 " Well, sir, if I differed from you that it was not, 'twould 
 be just a empty compliment, and have no truth in't," was her 
 straightforward reply. " Nobody can say the road have 
 answered." 
 
 "Answered!" echoed Sir Dene, as if the word offended 
 him. " Look at what it has done for people : and for me 
 worst of all. But for that accursed road, my granddaughter, 
 Margaret, would not be in Hurst Leet churchyard." 
 
 " My poor mother said, with her dying breath, that she saw 
 the Shadow on it, you know, Sir Dene. She thought it was 
 accursed." 
 
 " Ay ; Old Mrs. Barber. I turned her out, and broke her 
 heart. Did she curse the road ? " 
 
 " No, no, Sir Dene. Had she cursed it, the curse might 
 never ha' come. When we leave our wrongs and oppressions 
 to Him — the wrongs that bring tears and blood, as 'twere — 
 trying ourselves to bear 'em patiently, as mother tried, it's 
 Him that sends the cuAe, sir." 
 
 "Ay, ay," returned Sir Dene. "Ay." 
 
 In the silence that ensued, Mary Barber rose. But again 
 Sir Dene spoke, his eyes lifted up straight into hers. 
 
 " I've had her on my mind more than folks think for, Mary 
 Barber. I've seemed to see her often. Sometimes she's in 
 my dreams. If time was to come over again, I'd cut off this 
 right hand rather than take her home from her." 
 
 " When things be much in our mind, we're apt to dream of 
 'em Sir Dene." 
 
432 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " True. If the dead are permitted to know one another up 
 there," slightly lifting his stick to indicate heaven — " I'll ask 
 her pardon for what I did." 
 
 " Oh, Sir Dene ! Don't fear but what 'twas all forgave by 
 her afore she died." 
 
 " Night and morning I ask God to pardon me for it, Mrs. 
 Barber. It won't be long before I'm there, now." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir Dene, I hope you'll be spared to us for awhile 
 yet." 
 
 "Not for long," he reiterated. "I've been with Squire 
 Arde, lately — the old Squire, you understand. We have 
 talked with one another as happy as crickets ; and I know we 
 are going to be together again. Three times 'tis in all; the 
 third time was last night." 
 
 " Do you mean in a dream, sir ?" she doubtfully questioned, 
 after a short pause. 
 
 " Grander says so. I don't think it. Any way, it will not 
 be long before I am with him." 
 
 " And now I must wish ye good night, sir," she resumed, 
 dropping her stiff curtsey. " And I thank you for having 
 been pleased to hear me, Sir Dene." 
 
 Sir Dene rose. Bending his weight on his stick with the 
 left hand, he held out the other. 
 
 " You will shake hands with me, Mrs. Barber ? And you'll 
 not forget to carry in your mind what I've said about your 
 poor mother : how I have repented all I did with my whole 
 heart, and how it has come home to me." 
 
 He shook her right hand, and held it for a minute in his ; 
 not speaking, but gazing at her steadily and wistfully. Mary 
 Barber felt like a fish out of water. 
 
 " The Lord give you comfort, Sir Dene ! " she whispered 
 " I thank you for condescending to me. And I trust, sir — if 
 you'll not take offence at my saying it — that we shall all meet 
 together in heaven." 
 
 He loosed her hand, and turned to the bell with a kind of sob. 
 Gander, answering the peal, met Mary Barber on the stairs. 
 
 " I say, Gander, why in the world is it nobody has been 
 honest enough to clear up Mr. Tom to Sir Dene ?" she sharply 
 asked. 
 
 " Clear up Mr. Tom of what ? " returned Gander. 
 
 " Why, about that Emma Geach." 
 
 " Oh— that. Well, Mr. Priar stopped it. He said Sir Dene 
 must get better first, and then he'd tell him himself." 
 
The Ordering of Heaven. 433 
 
 "Mr. Tom has not had much fair- play among ye, as it 
 se'ems to me. One good thing, Sir Dene knows it row." 
 
 "Will ye step in and take a sup of anything?" asked 
 Gander, hospitably throw r ing wide his pantry door, thereby 
 displaying its good fire. 
 
 " Me step in ! — I've not time. They'll have sent all over 
 the parish after me at home as 'tis, I expect, thinking I be 
 lost. Good night, Gander. " 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE ORDERING OF HEAVEN. 
 
 "Who let the -woman in?" demanded Lady Lydia Clanwar- 
 ing of Gander. 
 
 " I did, my lady," was the butler's answer, given equably. 
 
 " And how dared you do it ? How dared you allow her to 
 go up to Sir Dene ? " 
 
 " There was no reason, that I knew of, why she shouldn't 
 go up. Mrs. Barber's respectable, my lady. Sir Dene's down- 
 right glad to ha' seen her." 
 
 My lady never got much good from Gander. The more 
 imperious she was with him, the more indifferent to it was he. 
 Next to getting her beloved son out of the London prison, the 
 great wish of her present days was to get Gander out of 
 Beechhurst Dene. And yet, she could not really hope to do 
 it. Even were Sir Dene to have another seizure, a calamity 
 which was expected to arrive sooner or later, and become 
 utterly incapable of exerting authority, even were insensibility 
 to set in, my lady could not hope it. For in that case, the 
 probability was, that the heir, Dene, w T ould take up his abode 
 at the house as master, and he would be the last to suffer the 
 deposal of the old serving-man. 
 
 "Ton take too much upon yourself," retorted my lady. 
 
 " I know pretty well when I may take things on myself and 
 when I mayn't, my lady. If I had went up to my master 
 last night, and said, 'Mrs. Barber, from Harebell Farm, is a 
 asking to see you, sir, he'd ha' said, ' Show her up, Gander, 
 show her up.' Said it eagerly, too." 
 
 The word struck on Lady Lydia's ears. " Eagerly ! 
 Why should he have said it eagerly?" 
 
 " Well, my lady, 'twasn't long ago that Sir Dene told me he 
 should want me to fetch Mrs. Barber to him one o' these days ; 
 that he'd like to talk to her a bit afore he died. When I 
 
 P F 
 
434 Dene Hollow. 
 
 heard her voice at the door last night, ashing to see him, the 
 thought crossed my mind that her coming had happened just 
 on purpose." 
 
 Where was the use of contending — of saying more ? None : 
 as Lady Lydia felt. The visit had been paid, and the harm 
 done ; and all the scolding in the world would not undo it now. 
 
 After the departure of Mary Barber, Sir Dene said nothing 
 that night of what he had learnt. Gander, who helped him 
 to undress, heard no particulars of the interview — and Sir 
 Dene had grown more confidential with Gander than he 
 was with any one. On the following morning, Thursday, 
 this day that we are writing of, Sir Dene's bell rang early. 
 While eating his breakfast, he quietly asked Gander why cer- 
 tain matters, known to all the parish, had been kept from him, 
 whom they most concerned. 
 
 Gander, feeling perhaps a little taken aback, did not answer 
 on the instant. 
 
 " I'd have thought you would tell me, Gander, if nobody 
 else was honest enough for it," the old man continued in 
 a pained tone. 
 
 " And my tongue have been a burning to do't all along, 
 sir," burst forth Gander. "But Priar, he gave so many 
 orders about your being kept quiet that I didn't dare to." 
 
 " But for Mrs. Barber I might have gone into my grave, 
 and never had my best grandson cleared to me ! What pos- 
 sessed Arde, that he could not tell me ?" 
 
 " Squire Arde has got some grudge again' Mr. Tom, I 
 know," observed shrewd Gander. " I told the Squire a week 
 ago 'twas time you heard the truth, Sir Dene, but he charged 
 me to be still silent." 
 
 " A pretty nest of conspirators you've all been against my 
 poor boy ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Gander !" 
 
 " Sir Dene, next to you there's nobody old Gander cares 
 for like he do for Mr. Tom. But when it comes to a choice 
 between ye — when it's his interests put again yours, meaning 
 your health — why of course his has to go to the wall. And 
 always will, sir, with me," added the man, stoutly. 
 
 " Here — move the tray away. I'll get up now." 
 
 " You have not took as much as usual, sir." 
 
 " I've had as much as I can eat. I want to write a 
 letter." 
 
 Sir Dene's hands were flurried ; Sir Dene's eyes seemed a 
 little dim ; he was longer dressing than ordinary, and also 
 
The Ordering of Heaven. 435 
 
 longer reading his Prayer-book after Gander had left him. 
 About eleven o'clock he sat down to his desk at the sitting- 
 room, fire ; Gander putting every article ready to his hand ; 
 pen, ink, paper; and he began the letter. It was the first he 
 had attempted to write since his illness, and the progress was 
 not satisfactory. His feeble fingers could scarcely hold the 
 pen ; the strokes were shaky. 
 
 " My dear Tom ; my dearest grandson." 
 
 The date and this commencement had been accomplished 
 after a fashion when the door was tapped at, and Lady Lydia 
 entered. With the customary bland smile on her face, and 
 the blandest tone she could subdue her harsh voice to, she 
 was beginning to enquire after dear Sir Dene's health and 
 how he had rested ; but he stopped her in the middle. 
 
 All that he had heard the previous night, he repeated to 
 her. It was Jarvis who had taken the bag of money ; it was 
 Jarvis who had given rise to the scandal talked of Miss 
 Emma Geach. Sir Dene did not enlarge on the iniquity in 
 itself ; but he did on the dishonour of Jarvis in allowing the 
 odium to fall, and rest, upon another, He said that lie was 
 ashamed of him — her son and his grandson — to his fingers' 
 ends : that so despicable a scoundrel had surely never been 
 suffered to trouble the earth as Jarvis Clanwaring. 
 
 Whether Lady Lydia had known of these facts before, 
 whether not, Sir Dene could not judge ; the revelation cer- 
 tainly fell upon her with a shock. Her face turned of a 
 ghastly green ; her spirit for the minute seemed to quail. 
 Gathering some courage she attempted to dispute it ; but Sir 
 Dene stopped her in the midst. He knew it to be true. 
 
 " Where did you hear it ? " she enquired. 
 
 He told her of his interview with Mrs. Barber. And then 
 he bade her leave him that he might get on with his letter. 
 
 "Are you writing to Jarvis to reproach him ? " she asked, 
 rising from her seat. 
 
 " I'd not trouble my hands to write to him, madam ; 
 writing's a task for me, now, I can tell you that," was Sir 
 Dene's answer. " Reproach him ! A man, capable of acting 
 as he has donp, would but laugh if reproached." 
 
 "I thought you might be," she said, more humbly than Lady 
 Lydia had ever in her life spoken at Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 " I am writing to my dear grandson Tom, my lady. 
 Trying to tell him how keenly his old grandfather feels the 
 pain of having doubted him. He'll not lose an hour after he 
 
436 Dene Hollow. 
 
 reads the letter, I hope ; but travel night and day nntil he 
 gets here." 
 
 " That is, yon are sending for him home ? " 
 
 " I am, my lady. Never again to leave it while I last." 
 
 She quitted the room, carrying her mortification with her; 
 and Sir Dene resumed his letter. It made not much progress 
 yet. The mind and the slow fingers alike grew weary ; and 
 he was fain to put it aside when it was half written. In the 
 fulness of his repentance, Sir Dene was writing more than 
 he need, considering that he expected Tom would ere long 
 be with him. 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Lydia was having it out with Gander 
 down stairs, as we have seen. Gander was Clearly to blame 
 for all, she reasoned : had he not given admittance to the 
 woman, Mary Barber, Sir Dene would have continued to live 
 on in happy ignorance. And within the last Aveek or two 
 my lady had quite believed she was making some impression 
 on Sir Dene on behalf of the incarcerated ex-captain ! She 
 knew that she should never do it now. 
 
 " I hate Tom Clanwaring, and I wish he was dead ! " she 
 breathed to herself. " He has stood in my children's light 
 from the first hour I brought them here, and found him, a 
 miserable unit, lolling on Sir Dene's knee in his frills and 
 velvets. Jarvis has been a fool, and played his cards badly ; 
 but that other's an upstart interloper, and he shall never 
 come here home to stay if I can drive him out." 
 
 Mr. Priar came in to see Sir Dene. He fully confirmed 
 (but it was not necessary) what Mary Barber had said: and 
 then talked a short while with Sir Dene about Black. An 
 inquest was called, and would be held on the morrow. Sir 
 Dene relieved his mind by a little self-reproach in regard to 
 Tom : and Mr. Priar's answer was, that he had always won- 
 dered how anybody could suspect ill of Tom Clanwaring. 
 
 " I wish I had known it all when Arde was here yesterday 
 afternoon ! " exclaimed Sir Dene. " I'd have given him a bit 
 of my mind. If other folks keep things from me, he ought 
 not. Tom's his nephew, in a sort." 
 
 " The Ardes are all off this morning on their visit," 
 observed the surgeon. " I saw the carriage go by." 
 
 " Ay. Off to Shropshire for a week or so." 
 
 Mr. Arde, with his wife and daughter, generally paid a 
 visit once a year to some relations of Mrs. Arde's in the ad- 
 joining county. That they should happen to have gone now, 
 
The Ordering of Heaven. 437 
 
 Sir Dene was to-day making a grievance of, as it obliged liim 
 to keep that "bit of his mind," intended for the Squire, un- 
 spoken for a season. He little thought that he would never 
 speak it. 
 
 " "What about the Trailing Indian ? " suddenly questioned 
 Sir Dene. " Is it shut up ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no ; it's not shut up," said Mr. Priar. 
 " Who's keeping it open ? " 
 
 " Emma Geach. She has got Sam Pound and his mother 
 up there for company. I'll look in to-morrow, Sir Dene, 
 when the inquest's over, and tell you about it," added the 
 surgeon, rising to depart. "The chief witnesses will be 
 myself and Mary Barber." 
 
 Sir Dene got to his letter on the following day. While he 
 was at it Mr. Priar came in to tell him the result of the in- 
 quest, just held at the Trailing Indian. " Accidental Death, 
 with a deodand of two pounds on the gun." Had it been 
 anybody's gun but Black's own, the jury would have put on 
 five pounds. Talking with the doctor he grew fatigued, and 
 resumed his letter late in the afternoon. As Sir Dene was 
 folding it, the same difficulty occurred to him that had 
 occurred once before : he did not know Tom's address. 
 
 " D'ye recollect it, Gander ?" he asked, lifting his spectacles 
 to the old serving- man, who was hovering by the table, nearly 
 as much interested in the letter and in Tom's recall as his 
 master. " If not, you must go to my lady again." 
 
 " It's down stairs in my pantry, Sir Dene. When Mr. Otto 
 was here at Christmas, I got him to write it down in my cel- 
 lar-book." 
 
 Sir Dene wrote Tom's name on the letter, and then took off 
 his spectacles to ease his face while he waited. Gander came 
 back his cellar-book. 
 
 " The letter can't go to-day, Sir Dene. It's too late." 
 " Too late, is it ? I'll leave the direction and the sealing till 
 to-morrow, then. I'm tired, Gander. Here ; put it in, and 
 lock up the desk." 
 
 Gander locked the letter inside the desk, and gave the key 
 to his master. After that, Sir Dene had his dinner, and was 
 more silent in the evening than usual. 
 
 " As sure as fate, she's dead at last ! " 
 
 The exclamation was Gander's. Saturday moraing was 
 well advanced, and the postman had just left a letter for Sir 
 
43 8 Dene Holloiu. 
 
 Dene, bearing a Scottish postmark. My lady no longer held 
 the bag. It was in a strange handwriting, and had an enor- 
 mous black seal. Gander was drawing his own conclusions as 
 he carried it up — that " Mrs. Clanwaring," the heir's mother, 
 was dead. He generally called her by the old name. She 
 had continued weak since her illness at Christmas, but no 
 danger had been recently apprehended. Gander had liked 
 her always, and was full of sorrow accordingly. His master, 
 feeling very ill that day, was remaining in bed. 
 
 " I'm afraid here's bad news come, Sir Dene," said Gander, 
 going in to the chamber. " And I'd have ye be prepared for't, 
 sir, afore the letter's opened. It ■" 
 
 "Not from Tom! — Anything amiss with Tom?" trem- 
 blingly interrupted Sir Dene, catching sight of the great black 
 seal. 
 
 " Tain't from Ireland at all, sir, but from Scotland. I'm 
 fearing it's the poor dear lady gone at last, sir. Mrs. Clan- 
 waring." 
 
 "It's not Dene's writing?" cried Sir Dene, rather insur- 
 prise, as he put on his spectacles. 
 
 " No, sir, nor Mr. Charley's, either. They'd be too much 
 cut up to write ; not a doubt on't. Both of 'em was rare and 
 fond o' their mother." 
 
 Sir Dene, breaking the seal, fixed his eyes on the few lines 
 the letter contained. It seemed that he could not read them. 
 A look of horror stole slowly over his face, and he fell back on 
 the pillow, motioning to Gander to take the letter. 
 
 "It can't be! It can't be!" he faintly said. "Look! 
 Look!" 
 
 In surprise and some dread, Gander clapped on his own 
 spectacles to read the lines. And, when the reading was 
 accomplished, he was not much less overcome than his master. 
 
 Oh, it was gi'ievous news. Not Mrs. Clanwaring ; it was not 
 she who had died ; but her two brave sons, Dene and Charles. 
 They had been drowned in one of the Scottish lakes. A 
 pleasure party of ten, young men, had set sail in the bright- 
 ness of the early spring morning ; an accident happened, and 
 but two of them lived to land again. Dene and Charles were 
 amongst the drowned. 
 
 Before Gander could at all recover his senses, or believe he 
 read rightly, all his attention had to be given to his master. 
 Sir Dene was exhibiting symptoms of another fit of paralysis. 
 
 "Good mercy avert it!" ejaculated Gander, ringing the 
 
The Ordering of Heaven. 439 
 
 "bell for help. " And who on earth's come now ? That's a 
 travelling chaise a rattling up the gravel ! " 
 
 Clattering to the door of Beechhurst Dene was a rickety 
 post-chaise and pair. It contained Otto Clanwaring, who had 
 travelled down to Worcester by the mail from London. Otto 
 had received the acconnt of his cousins' melancholy fate ear- 
 lier than Sir Dene. Poor Mrs. Clanwaring — we may as well 
 call her by that name to the end— had been mindful of the old 
 man even in the midst of her sorrow, and wrote to ask Otto to 
 go down and break it to him in advance of the direct news. 
 The barrister was not quite in time. 
 
 Leaping out of the chaise, Otto encountered the scared face 
 of Grander. 
 
 " What has brought you here, Mr. Otto ? " 
 " Sad news, Gander : grievous news," was the answer. " I 
 have come to break it to my grandfather." 
 
 " Ye're too late, then, sir. We've had it in a letter, and I'm 
 afeard Sir Dene's a-going to get another stroke. This chaise 
 had better go a-galloping off for Priar." 
 
 "Priar!" returned Otto. "Priar is coming up now. I 
 passed him as he was turning in at the lodge gates." 
 
 " Thank goodness for that ! it's a great mercy ! " was the 
 old butler's answer, as he turned to run up stairs again. 
 
 Too true ! Too true ! Dene Clanwaring, the heir-apparent 
 to the title and the estate of Beechhurst Dene, and his brother 
 Charles, his presumptive heir, were no more. They had met 
 their death by drowning. Full of health, and spirits, and 
 hopes, and life, their career in this world had been suddenly 
 cut short in its early promise, and they were called to meet 
 their Maker. But one week later, had they been spared, they 
 would have come on a long visit to Beechhurst Dene. 
 
 Lady Lydia was as one stunned. She had been wearing 
 out her heart with futile prayers and wishes for the release of 
 her son ; but never were the wishes so feverishly earnest as 
 now. Oh, if her best-beloved one, Jarvis, could but be there ! 
 — if he were but at hand to take up the lost heir's place with 
 his grandfather ! 
 
 "Send for him; send for him!" moaned Sir Dene, faintly, 
 — and they were the first words he spoke. Lady Lydia, Otto, 
 the surgeon, and Gander, stood around his bed. The threat- 
 ening stroke kept itself off still ; but not, as Mr. Priar thought, 
 for long ; and Sir Dene seemed weak almost unto death. 
 " I cannot send for him," bewailed Lady Lydia, in her 
 
440 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 bewildered state of mind taking the words to be an answer to 
 her thoughts, and dropping hot tears. " That is, it's of no 
 use my sending, for he could not come ! Oh, Sir Dene, don't 
 you remember ? He is in a debtor's prison — as I have been 
 telling you every day for weeks." 
 
 Sir Dene looked at her with questioning eyes amid the 
 surrounding silence. " Not he : not Jarvey," he said, when 
 understanding dawned on him. " I don't want him. You 
 know it, my lady. I want my own boy, Tom. My heir." 
 " Tom ! " shrieked Lady Lydia. " Tom the heir ! Tom ! " 
 " Of course he is the heir, mother," put in Otto. " What 
 are you thinking of ? " 
 
 It was a positive fact that the obvious and to her most 
 unwelcome truth had never crossed her brain. She refused 
 to see it now that it was pointed out, and stared around with 
 frightened eyes. 
 
 " Of course it is so," said Otto, answering what the eyes 
 seemed to question. " Tom must come here without delay. 
 I wrote to him before I left London." 
 
 " He never shall come ! He never shall be the heir," hissed 
 my lady, in a storm of passion. " A low-lived, mischief- making, 
 working scapegoat ! He the heir ? Never. I'll not recognise 
 him as such. I will not allow him to be received at Beechhurst 
 Dene." Perhaps the barrister was not the only one in the room 
 who wondered whether excitement was temporarily turning 
 Lady Lydia's brain. He caught her hand, aud drew her beyond 
 the hearing of the invalid. 
 
 " Pray exercise your common sense, mother," he quietly 
 said. " Tom Clanwaring is the heir in the sight of man and 
 the country ; as much the heir as was the poor fellow who is 
 gone. A few days — I see it in his face," he whispered, 
 indicating Sir Dene — " nay, more probably a few hours, and 
 Tom will not be the heir but the master of Beechhurst Dene." 
 Gander deemed it well to put a spoke in the wheel. " There 
 bain't no power that could keep Mr. Tom out on't, my lady. 
 He comes in by the rightful law o' succession. The king and 
 all his nobles couldn't do it." 
 
 Lady Lydia sank down on a chair with a low cry ; it had 
 despair in its depths. Tom Clanwaring the master ! Was 
 this to^ be the ending ? Had she schemed, and planned, and 
 toiled in her underhand way all these long years only for this ? 
 Even so. For once right had been stronger than might, and 
 had come out triumphant. 
 
The New Master. 441 
 
 But Sir Dene was speaking from the bed. 
 
 " It's a'most as it should be," he said — and they had to 
 bend down to catch his accents. " In the old days I'd use to 
 wish my dear son Geoffry was my heir, 'stead o' John : just as 
 later I'd catch myself wishing 'twas Geoffry's son, 'stead o' 
 Dene. For I never loved any of 'em as I've loved Tom. 
 Dene was good and dutiful to me, and I loved him next best ; 
 but Tom I had here as a baby, you see, and he grew up in my 
 heart. It has pleased the Lord to take Dene and Charley on 
 before me to the better land — and I hope in His mercy we 
 shall soon meet there, and dwell together for ever ! Tom, he 
 has got to fulfil Dene's duties here, and he'll do it well. It's 
 not the ordering of man, but of Heaven." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE NEW MASTER. 
 
 It was a very few days afterwards. Another visitor was 
 arriving at Beechhurst Dene. Not thundering up grandly in 
 a chaise, as Otto had done, but walking in all humility, and 
 carrying his own portmanteau. Not any one so short and 
 slight as Otto, this, but a tall, fine commanding man, his 
 unconscious step the step of a chieftain ,and a sweet smile on 
 his fair Saxon face. For very blitheness of heart smiled he, in 
 the joy of seeing the dear old familiar places again. 
 
 It was Tom Clanwaring. As speedily as wind and road 
 could bring him after the receipt of Otto's letter, he had come. 
 And the wind had been strong and favourable, filling the sails 
 of the good ship, and sending her to a swift haven. Thence 
 on across the country by coach ; which brought him to within 
 a mile of Beechhurst Dene. Otto's summoning letter had 
 been brief and somewhat vague. " Poor Dene and Charles 
 are dead, Tom. Come off at once to Beechhurst Dene." 
 
 It had been little more than that. In the surprise and 
 shock, Tom really knew not what to think. He could not 
 picture to himself any possibility so bad as that : there must 
 be a mistake on Otto's part, he concluded : his worst fears did 
 not point to the death of both. But on landing in England, 
 a newspaper that had the account of it, chanced to fall in his 
 way. He learnt that it was, indeed, too true, and that he was 
 the next heir to Beechhurst Dene. 
 
44 2 Dene Hollow. 
 
 He could not realize it. Never once during the whole of 
 his chequered life, had so wild an idea entered his imagination. 
 The bare fact, that any remote contingency existed by which 
 he might succeed, had been totally overlooked. He, the 
 despised, humiliated waif who had been taught always to 
 regard himself as not fit company for the other grandchildren, 
 who had been put upon, neglected, made to work and earn his 
 bread — Tie, the heir ! In truth, it was next to incredible. Tom 
 hinself could not fully believe it until it should be confirmed 
 by his grandfather ; and it must be said that any gratification 
 he might otherwise have felt at the prospect, was wholly lost 
 sight of in his grief for the fate of Dene and Charles. The 
 two boys had always liked him : since Dene grew up he had 
 stood out well for Tom. 
 
 There was no hesitation in his steps as he approached the 
 house, but there was doubt in his heart. Responding instantly 
 to Otto's peremptory recall, from the habit of implicit obedi- 
 ence he had been reared in, Tom had not received with it 
 any intimation that he would be welcome to his grandfather. 
 During all the fourteen months of his exile, he had. never once 
 heard from Sir Dene ; had never been told that Sir Dene's 
 anger had turned, or that he wanted him home. Otto Clan- 
 waring had once written to advise him to come and chance it : 
 but Tom would not do that without a summons from Sir Dene. 
 Sir Dene had sent him a summons, as we know : but my Lady 
 Lydia had taken care it did not reach Tom. In short, had 
 Ireland been a spot isolated from communication with the rest 
 of the world, Tom could not have remained in much more 
 ignornace of Beechhurst Dene and its doings since he left. 
 
 The windows of the lodge were closely veiled by their white 
 blinds : he noted it as he passed. Generally speaking, they 
 were gay with children's heads. It was the first corrobora- 
 tion his sight had received that his cousins' deaths were real, 
 and it brought the fact home to him. " Oh, Dene, Dene ! " he 
 groaned in his heart. " If I could but see you running clown 
 the avenue to meet me, as you used to do ! " 
 
 At that moment, the death-bell rang out at Hurst Leet 
 Church. Very distinctly it came to his ears in the still spring 
 air. Tom stopped and listened. 
 
 "It is tolling for Dene and Charles !" he softly said, with 
 wet eyelashes. " Better that I, the friendless Avaif, had gone, 
 than they, rich in all things that make life dear !" 
 
 At that time it was the custom for the bell to toll an hour 
 
The New Master. 443 
 
 night and morning, every day between the death and the burial. 
 Sometimes when the deceased was of high position at mid- 
 day as well. 
 
 But this was not the regular tolling Tom had supposed it to 
 be. It was the passing bell. After the three times three (for 
 Dene and Charles, two, it would have been six times three), 
 there rang out a succession of sharp quick strokes ; the indica- 
 tion that a soul had just passed to its account. As Sir Dene, 
 in the years long gone by, had stood that night in Dene 
 Hollow, to listen to the passing bell for poor Maria, Tom's 
 pretty mother, so Tom stood listening now ; but he knew not 
 for whom it was sounding. 
 
 Every window was closed in the house ; he saw that as he 
 neared it : every one. It looked like what it was — a house of 
 the dead. Save that smoke was coming out of some of the 
 chimneys, there was no sign that it had inhabitants. As he 
 rang gently at the bell, a favourite dog came leaping round 
 from the back, recognised Tom, and began to lick his hand. 
 
 " You are glad to see me at any rate, Carlo, old fellow !" 
 was his comment, as he stooped to caress the dog. " I won- 
 der whether anybody else will be ? I wonder," ran on his 
 thoughts, " whether they will give me house-room — let me 
 occupy my poor old bed in the garret ?" 
 
 It was Gander who gently drew the door open. In his 
 tribulation at what had fallen on the house, Gander would not 
 have allowed a footman to open that front door, lest he might 
 make a noise in doing it. When he saw Tom standing there, 
 he stared in utter astonishment. 
 
 " Don't you know me, Gander ?" 
 
 " Know ye, sir ! But we didn't think you could ha' got 
 here so soon — and a-carrying of your own portmanta ! I'm 
 sure I expected to see ye come in a chaise-and-four." 
 
 Tom's hand was in the old man's, shaking it heartily. " I 
 hardly dared to come on my feet, Gander," he said, in reference 
 to the last remark. "As to chaises- and-four, they have been 
 for my betters, not for me, Gander," he added, his uncon- 
 scious pressure of the man's fingers, the feverish eagerness of 
 his low tone betraying how much the question was to him. 
 " Has my grandfather forgiven me ? Will he receive me 
 kindly?" 
 
 Gander looked at him. The great fact, making havoc of 
 his heart, was so intensely real that he was slow to believe 
 Tom could be in ignorance of it. 
 
444 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Mercy light upon us, sir ! Haven't ye heard ? My 
 master's gone." 
 
 " Gone ! Gone where ? 
 
 " He's dead," burst forth Gander, with a sob. " Dead, Mr. 
 Tom. And here's asking pardon for calling ye so, for you be 
 Sir Tom now." 
 
 The fresh colour was deserting Tom Clanwaring-'s face. 
 
 "I spoke of my grandfather, Gander," he said, in an accent 
 
 that had in it ever so much of dread. " He cannot be dead ? " 
 
 " He died at mid-day, Sir Tom. It's barely an hour ago. 
 
 Yes, sir, it's true : my dear old master is dead and gone." 
 
 And Tom knew then that the passing-bell had been for Sir 
 Dene. He sat down on one of the hall chairs, and burst into 
 tears. The shock was sudden, and very bitter. In his whole 
 life he had never been so unmanned ; or his feelings so wrung 
 as now. Otto Clanwaring, coming down the stairs, ap- 
 proached, and held out his hand. 
 
 " Oh, Otto ! it seems very cruel. Not to have seen him ! 
 Could you not have sent for me in time ?" 
 
 "It has been so sudden at the last," spoke the barrister. 
 "When I wrote to you from London to come, there was 
 nothing the matter with him. He died blessing you, Tom. 
 He has charged us — me and Gander — with the most loving 
 messages for you, the truest and tenderest words." 
 
 " But he never recalled me," returned Tom, his heart feel- 
 ing as if it would break with the thought. " I have always 
 lived in hope of it." 
 
 "He did recall you, Mr. Tom," spoke up Gander, forgetting 
 again the new title. " He wrote months ago, asking you to 
 come back to him, and 'twas me posted the letter. When the 
 days went on, and you didn't come in answer, Sir Dene 
 thought you bore malice, and wouldn't." 
 
 " I did not receive the letter," said Tom, looking alternately 
 at Otto and at Gander, as if questioning where the fault could 
 have been. " I have written to him from time to time, but 
 never have had a line from him since I left." 
 
 " Why, in his last illness he said that he had never had a 
 line from- you, Tom," exclaimed Otto. 
 
 " And no more he never did," assented Gander. 
 " Then who has had the letters ?" questioned Tom. " The 
 last I sent was at Christmas. I wrote to wish my grand- 
 father a happy new year. I wrote to you as well, Gander." 
 " We never got no letters from you, Mr. Tom ; neither him 
 
The New Jl I aster. 445 
 
 nor me. As to -who had 'em, perhaps my lady 11 be able to tell," 
 added bold Gander. " 'Twas her that used to unlock the bag." 
 
 And not one present but knew from that moment that the 
 correspondence had been suppressed. Tom rose and took up 
 his portmanteau. The action shocked Gander; he quite 
 snatched it out of his hand. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, Sir Tom — a chattering here when I 
 ought to be a waiting on ye ! Here, Jones," calling to a ser- 
 vant at the back of the hall, " carry up Sir Tom Clanwaring's 
 portmanta." 
 
 "Is it my old room, Gander ? " 
 
 " Old room!" returned Gander, partly astonished, partly 
 scandalized at the question. " It's the state rooms that have 
 been prepared for ye, Sir Tom, level with Sir Dene's. Be you 
 a forgetting who you be, sir ? " 
 
 It seemed that Gander at least was not going to let him 
 forget. In this most unexpected accession to place and power, 
 a reminiscence of his familiarity with Tom in the old days was 
 troubling Gander : he had observed to him no ceremony what- 
 ever — as he would have done always to the baronet's heir. 
 The fact caused him to make more of Sir Tom now. 
 
 Stepping on before, up the stairs, his body turned sideways 
 in respect, he marshalled Tom along the corridor to the state 
 rooms, and flung the door open to bow him in, Jones and the 
 portmanteau bringing up the rear. But for his sad heart Tom 
 would have laughed at it. As the two men were returning, a 
 door in the middle of the passage was unlatched, and Lady 
 Lydia's face showed itself. 
 
 " What mean all these unseemly footsteps, Gander?" she 
 tartly asked. " One would think the whole of you were 
 running up and down stairs for a wager." 
 
 " The young master has just arrived, my lady. Jones and 
 me have been a conducting him to his rooms." 
 
 " The young master ? " she repeated, not catching Gander's 
 meaning. 
 
 " The new master, my lady, I suppose I ought rather to say. 
 Sir Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 It was the first time she had heard the title ; the first time 
 she had ever in her whole life imagined it. Sir Tom Clan- 
 waring ! Staring hard at the servants for a minute, like one 
 on whom some great awe is falling, she shut the door in their 
 faces, and gave vent to a low cry of pain in the privacy of her 
 chamber. 
 
446 Dene Hollow. 
 
 "Well, yes. Tom Clanwaring was the master of Beechhurst 
 Dene to all intents and purposes — the new baronet of the realm. 
 One had died ; another had succeeded. But that it should be 
 this one to succeed read like a page out of a romance. 
 
 During the few days that had intervened before his death, 
 Sir Dene remained perfectly sensible. Very weak and feeble, 
 at times not able to speak, but with all his faculties undimmed. 
 He seemed to foresee, to know, that Tom would not arrive 
 while he lived ; and he charged Otto with all kinds of loving 
 messages for him. One of the last things he spoke of was 
 the road, Dene Hollow ; regretting in much distress that he 
 had ever made it. This was that same morning, not an hour 
 before his death. 
 
 '" : When I wrote out my testamentary paper I thought it 
 would be Dene to come in after me, you see, Otto," he feebly 
 said, " and I charged him with the concern o' that road, and 
 other things. You'll tell Tom to carry them out : it is he who 
 must do it now." 
 
 "I will be sure to tell him, grandfather," replied Otto. 
 " Who are your executors ? " 
 
 " Eh ? Executors ? Oh, Tom." 
 
 " But surely not Tom alone ! " returned the barrister in 
 surprise. 
 
 " The other was Dene. And he has gone before me. The 
 paper is written out in duplicate, Otto. One copy will be 
 found in the bay-parlour ; right hand secret drawer o' the 
 secretary : the other lies at my lawyer's in Worcester." 
 
 As the old man spoke, a thought crossed Otto. It was not 
 usual to make last testaments in duplicate : had Sir Dene 
 done it as a security against fraud ? — the possible fraud of his 
 (Otto's) mother and brother ? The barrister bit his lip hard, 
 and strove to persuade himself that he was wrong in thinking it. 
 
 " Tom'll make a better master of Beechhurst Dene than any 
 of you ; better even than Dene would have made," murmured 
 the dying man. " Just as Geoffry would have made a better 
 one than John. Tom's a gentleman and a Christian ; he'll do 
 his duty to heaven as well as to man. There'll be no oppres- 
 sion from him : wrongs '11 be righted, the poor cared for. God 
 bless him ! God reward him for all he has done in life for his 
 poor old grandfather ! God be with him always, his Guide 
 and Friend, until He shall land him safely on the eternal 
 shore ! " 
 
 These were the last words heard from Sir Dene. He said 
 
The Nczv Master. 447 
 
 more to himself, but their substance could not be caught. An 
 hour later, the stroke that had been waited for seized upon 
 him, and in a few minutes he had ceased to exist. 
 
 When Tom came forth from his room, the travelling dust 
 washed off, and his coat changed, Otto took him in to see Sir 
 Dene. How sore his pain of heart was as he gazed down on 
 the beloved old face, none save himself would ever know. He 
 had so changed in the past year that Tom could scarcely 
 recognize bim. He would have given a great deal to have 
 arrived a day earlier. 
 
 On a small table by the bed lay Sir Dene's watch, chain and 
 seals. The same chain and seals Tom had played with as a 
 child, seated on Sir Dene's knee — the same watch Sir Dene 
 had many a time held to his little ear that he might note the 
 ticking. 
 
 " They should not lie there, Otto," he said, involuntarily. 
 " They should be put up." 
 
 " Yes. There has been no time to do anything yet. Here 
 are the keys," added Otto, holding out the bunch that lay on 
 the same small table. "Toil had better take possession of 
 them." 
 
 " Why am I to take possession of them ? " 
 
 "Because it is your right. I expect it will be found that 
 all things are left in your power. In any case, you are sole 
 master here." 
 
 How strangely it sounded in Tom's ear ! The despised 
 brow-beaten young man sole master of Beechhurst Dene ! 
 
 " There's a letter for you in Sir Dene's desk, I believe," 
 resumed Otto. " It was the last he ever wrote — indeed, the 
 only thing he has written since his first illness. Before it 
 could be posted, Gander had news of Dene's death and your 
 recall." 
 
 Tom hastened to get the letter and open it. The kind 
 loving letter — which it half broke his heart to read. Sir 
 Dene told him in it that he had never in his whole life loved a 
 son or grandson as he had loved him : he told him that though 
 he had, through the machinations of others, banished him 
 for a time, he had never in his heart believed him in any 
 way unworthy. 
 
 "The luncheon's waiting, Sir Tom," whispered Gander, 
 meeting him on the stairs. " I'd not let it be served till I 
 thought ye were ready; and my lady's in a fine temper. 
 A'most famished, she says." 
 
44§ Dene Hollow. 
 
 A flush rose to his fair features as he advanced to Lady 
 Lydia in the dining-room. She and her aide-de-camp, Dovet, 
 had taken counsel together on the untoward state of affairs, 
 and had come to the conclusion that nothing remained but to 
 make the best of them. So my lady, tacitly eating humble 
 pie, met Tom with one whole hand stretched out, and a smile 
 on her vinegar face. Never before had she accorded him more 
 than a frown and a finger. 
 
 Force of habit is strong. After Lady Lydia had moved to 
 the table, Tom w r ent to his old side-place, and was about to 
 take it. He was pounced upon by Gander. 
 
 " What be you thinking on, Sir Tom ? This is your place 
 now." 
 
 " This " was the seat at the table's head, formerly Sir Dene's. 
 One moment's hesitation on Tom's part, and then he took it 
 — took it almost with deprecation, the flush deepening on his 
 face. And never once, either then cr later, was Lady Lydia 
 reminded by so much as a word or look, that his position was 
 changed from that of yore. Sir Dene had rightly summed up 
 Tom : " a true gentleman." 
 
 Only on the same afternoon had the Ardes returned home. 
 The first tidings that greeted them were — that Sir Dene was 
 dead. They could hardly believe it to be true : when they 
 had quitted home Sir Dene had been so well. The Squire 
 despatched Mark to Beechhurst Dene to inquire particulars 
 of the barrister, who he was told was down ; and waited im- 
 patiently, after his custom, for the man's return. May was 
 with him : and the dusk of evening was beginning to draw 
 on. 
 
 "Here's Mark, papa," said May, as she heard his voice in 
 the hall. " He seems to have brought some one with him. It 
 must be Otto Clanwaring." 
 
 Not Otto : not his slight figure at all : but a tall, graceful 
 man, he who appeared when the door was thrown open. The 
 Squire could see so much, as he peered through the dusk at 
 his visitor, and at Mark who was showing him in. 
 
 "Sir Tom Clanwaring." 
 
 "Who? What?" cried the Squire, sharply. 
 
 *■ Sir Tom Clanwaring, sir," repeated Mark. 
 
 Ay, it was he ; the master of Beechhurst Dene. The Squire 
 felt something like a lunatic in his bewilderment : and the 
 pulses of May's heart went on with a rush and a bound. 
 Conscience was striking the Squire. He had long known how 
 
The New Master. 449 
 
 entirely worthy Tom Clanwaring was, how shamefully he had 
 been traduced : but in alarm, lest he, the despised and penni- 
 less, should make way with his daughter, he had continued to 
 abuse him. And now, here he was, the young chieftain, lord 
 of all. Like Lady Lydia, Squire Arde was very content to 
 eat humble-pie. 
 
 " Only to think of it, Sir Tom ! — that you should have shot 
 up above 'em all ! " cried he, when the first greetings had 
 passed. " I daresay the rest won't get much." 
 
 " I'll make it right for everybody as far as I can," replied 
 Tom, with his warm-hearted smile. "And what about my- 
 self, personally, Squire?" he resumed, the smile becoming 
 rather a mischievous one. " Am I still regarded as a general 
 scapegoat with a peck of sins upon my shoulders ? " 
 
 Squire Arde's voice was subdued as he answered, his coun- 
 tenance somewhat crestfallen. " Tom, I don't think any- 
 body believed aught against you in their consciences : even 
 Lady Lydia. Sir Dene has wanted you home all the while ; 
 he was never quite the same after you left. As to that bag 
 
 of money " 
 
 " Never mind about the bag of money," interrupted Tom. 
 " I was going to say that not long ago Harry Cole imparted 
 to me a very nasty suspicion as to who it was really took it. 
 He saw — saw some one at the secretary himself that night. 
 When I blew him up for not avowing it, he said you had for- 
 bidden him. What do you know ? " 
 
 " Never mind," repeated Tom. " We will let bygones be by- 
 gones." 
 
 The Squire was not to be put down. " Tom, I mean to 
 have this out with you. Surely you may trust me ! The thief 
 was that villainous man, Jarvis Clanwaring. Did you know 
 it was him at the time ? " 
 
 " I could not help suspecting it. I was not sure. That night, 
 as Sir Dene, refusing to hear me, left me in the bay-parlour, 
 I flung out at the glass doors, I fear in a passion, and came 
 right upon Jarvis Clanwaring looking in at a corner of the 
 window. He murmured some excuse, which I did not stay to 
 hear, and he went on in. Subsequently, after I had seen you 
 at Bristol, I got a letter from Cole, who must have been 
 passing the window immediately afterwards. It seems Cole 
 took up a notion that I was suspected, and he wrote to tell 
 me he had seen some one else at the secretary. I wrote back 
 and silenced him." 
 
450 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Why on earth did you do that ? " 
 
 " What did it matter, sir ? I knew Sir Dene would never sus- 
 pect me : no, nor other people really ; at least, none that I cared 
 for. It would have been damaging Jarvis needlessly, you see." 
 
 " What do you mean by needlessly ? " 
 
 " Well, without doing much good to me. My best friends 
 would know I was not guilty. For the rest, my back was a 
 tolerably broad one in those days. The appropriating a little 
 money, when I was starting out to see the world, was but a 
 trifling addition to its lump." 
 
 " How considerate you are, Tom ! — how forgiving ! " 
 
 " It is in my nature to be so, I think sir ; I don't take credit 
 for it. People tell me it was in my father's Let bygones be 
 bygones in all ways," he emphatically added, rising and grasp- 
 ing the Squire's hand. " For my part, I mean henceforth to 
 believe that the bag never vanished at all. I hope to do all I 
 can for everybody. I hope to welcome Jarvis to Beechhurst 
 Dene for the funeral, if he'd like to come." 
 
 "He had better not show his face within my doors," said 
 the Squire explosively. " Jarvis Clan waring is an unmitigated 
 scoundrel. As to coming to the funeral, there's no fear of 
 that. He is in prison." 
 
 " So I find. Otto is about to take steps to release him." 
 
 "At your cost? " 
 
 " It's hardly to be called that, sir. With Sir Dene's 
 money." 
 
 There was an interval of silence. Mr. Arde's mind was full. 
 
 " Tom, we have never known you ; never properly valued 
 you." 
 
 " Then I hope you will value me all the more for the future, 
 sir," answered Tom, slightly laughing. " May I see May ?" 
 he added after a pause, his tone serious now, and very pointed. 
 " She ran aAvay as I came in." 
 
 " Go and look for her, my dear boy ; go and find her," was 
 the impulsive answer — and it spoke volumes to Tom Clan- 
 waring's ear. " Ah me, how blind we have been !" continued 
 Mr. Arde. " I worked against you with her, Tom, just as 
 much as the rest did. I hope you'll forgive us all." 
 
 " You know, sir, we have agreed that bygones shall be by- 
 gones," he gently said, suppressing his emotion. 
 
 In the adjoining room, cowering before the fire on the 
 hearth-rug, hiding her face from the light, was May. She 
 started up as Sir Tom went in : she put up her hands in de- 
 
The New Master. 451 
 
 precation of his anger ; she felt faint in her heart-sickness of 
 shame and repentance. He said not a syllable of reproach ; 
 only took her in his arms and held her face to his. 
 
 " Oh Tom, Tom ! I " 
 
 " Hnsh, my child ! I will not let you breathe a word of ex- 
 cuse tome," he fondly interrupted. " I know how it was. Otto 
 has told me all the truth, and has not spared his brother. The 
 battle agaiust you waged fiercely ; you were beset on all 
 sides ; you held out as long as your strength held out, and 
 then yielded in helpless weariness." 
 
 " No, it was not that — the want of strength," she inter- 
 posed, the hot tears streaming from her eyes. " I could have 
 held out always, but for their making me believe— believe 
 things against you." 
 
 " I know. It is all over now, my darling ; and I am here 
 not only to claim but to protect you. Look up, May ; I must 
 kiss these tears away. You shall never have cause to shed 
 more if I can help it." 
 
 '' But so ugly, so common a name — Sir Tom ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Arde, not knowing whether to laugh or cry for joy, and 
 trying to get up some grievance as a set off to her gratification. 
 Tom had gone away then, and she had her daughter to herself. 
 
 " So is May," replied that young lady, a remnant of the old 
 sauciness cropping up. 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! Your name is not May at all, you 
 know. It isMillicent Mary." 
 
 "But I'm never called anything but May — hardly. O 
 mamma, dear mamma" — and the glad tears again burst from 
 her eyes — " do not let us pretend to make troubles ; we have 
 had too many real ones to bear. Think how good God has 
 been to us ! But for that blessed snow-storm, I should have 
 been tied for life to Jarvis Clanwaring." 
 
 But, after all, Sir Tom Clanwaring was not to continue to 
 be Sir Tom. As if some instinct or prevision had lain on Sir 
 Dene, it was expressly stated in his testamentary paper that 
 should any one of his younger grandsons succeed him, through 
 mishap to his heir, he, the succeedor, should assume and bear 
 the name of Dene. So that Tom had to take entirely the 
 name of his grandfather, and become Sir Dene Clanwaring. 
 
 In this last testament of Sir Dene's — which, in truth, 
 though legal, was not an express will, and was never called 
 such, he expressed his regret for having made the road, Dene 
 
452 Dene Holloiv. 
 
 Hollow ; and gave directions in the strongest terms that it 
 should forthwith be ploughed up. " For," ran the paper, " it 
 had been made out of a neighbour's wrongs, and God's bless- 
 ing had never rested on it." A good and pretty cottage, bet- 
 ter than the one formerly pulled down, was left to Mary Bar- 
 ber for life — to her own unbounded astonishment. 
 
 An income was secured to Lady Lydia ; the small amount of 
 which, small especially in her own idea, nearly turned her 
 dumb. Jarvis's name was not as much as mentioned ; Otto 
 had a substantial sum of money : Gander had a legacy of 
 fifty pounds a year for life. And Tom — Tom was left resid- 
 uary legatee, just as much to his own astonishment as the 
 cottage was to Mary Barber ; for the testamentary paper had 
 been written while he was in Ireland and ostensibly lying 
 under Sir Dene's displeasure. This, of itself, would have 
 made Tom rich for lite. Only the entailed estates and the 
 contents of Beechhurst Dene would have come to the heir. 
 Tom himself was sole heir now. 
 
 And, being on the subject of bequests, it may as well be 
 mentioned that Mr. Randy Elack left a will, after the manner 
 of his betters. Towards the last years of his life it had been 
 supposed that he was poor, living almost from hand to mouth 
 upon the scanty profits of the Trailing Indian, or upon any 
 less legitimate returns he could pick up by poaching. It 
 turned out, however, that Mr. Randy Black had a few hun- 
 dred pounds in store : the furniture of the inn, old but toler- 
 ably substantial, was also his. The whole of it, without re- 
 serve, was bequeathed to his " adopted daughter," Emma 
 Geach. 
 
 So Miss Emma "urned out to be an heiress in a small way. 
 
 UFAPTER XLIV. 
 
 COXCLUSION. 
 
 Midsummer Day had passed, and June was drawing to its close. 
 The blue skies were without a cloud, save where the sun was 
 setting in its golden light ; the scent of the lying hay filled 
 the still evening air. Out of doors nothing could he more 
 calm and peaceful : within doors, at Arde Hall, all was bustle, 
 preparation, and excitement. For on the morrow its daugh- 
 ter wa to become Lady Clanwaring. 
 
 Things at Beechhurst Dene had settled down into their rou- 
 
Conclusion. 453 
 
 tine, and Tom was as calm and efficient a chieftain as though 
 he had been born and reared to it. Nay, far more so. 
 Brought up in the pride and exclusiveness, in the expectations 
 pertaining to their position, not one of them would have made 
 the kind, considerate, and thoroughly capable master that 
 Tom made. " Tom" to his friends still, " Sir Dene" to the 
 world. 
 
 Some people said he would be too lenient, too good-hearted, 
 in fact, for his own interests. Witness, for instance, his hav- 
 ing granted a renewal of the lease of the Trailing Indian to 
 Miss Emma Geach ! Miss Emma, brassy as of old, had pre- 
 sented herself one day in the bay-parlour, where the young 
 Sir Dene sat over his papers, and boldly asked for it. Would, 
 she be able to get a living at the inn, was Sir Dene's answer- 
 ing question; and she said, "Yes, for certain," and imparted 
 a little news about herself. She was about to be mar- 
 ried to Jim Pound. She should keep the inn going, and 
 attend to the customers, while Jim would go out to his regu- 
 lar employment abroad as usual. And she intended to con- 
 duct the inn respectably, she added — and Tom saw she meant 
 it — and not have the disreputable characters there that Black 
 had favoured. She also purposed, if Sir Dene had no objec- 
 tion, to alter the name of the inn to the " Wheatsheaf," and to 
 have a new signboard painted, showing a big sheaf of corn, 
 well gilded. Sir Dene replied th^ft he had no objection in the 
 world ; on the contrary, he thought the " Wheatsheaf" car- 
 ried a more reputable sound with it than the " Trailing 
 Indian." So he gave her the promise of the lease ; and he 
 shook hands with her for their early friendship's sake, when 
 both were little Arabs running about Harebell Lane, and 
 wished her prosperity with all his heart. As Mr. James 
 Pound was a hard-working, steady, simple young man, who 
 had never had but one idea in his head, and that was admira- 
 tion of Miss Emma Geach, and would be sure to let her be 
 mistress and master, Tom considered her prospects of domestic 
 felicity were very fair. 
 
 Witness, too, what he had done for Mary Bai-ber — furnished 
 the pretty cottage for her in the nicest manner. At all this 
 the parish shook its prudent head : clearly the young Sir Dene 
 was not sufficiently awake to his own interests. 
 
 But, if he was not going in for his own particular interests, 
 he undoubtedly was for his people's love. Tenants and ser- 
 vants had already found out how good he would be to them, 
 
454 Dene Hollow. 
 
 how implicitly they might trust in his honour and generosity. 
 The trials he had undergone throughout his life had been the 
 best possible training for him : heaven, foreseeing things that 
 we cannot, had no doubt been all the while fitting Tom Clan- 
 waring for the lot in life he was to fulfil. Geoffry's dying 
 prayer for his child's best welfare had been heard. 
 
 Jarvis Clanwaring, released from his debts by Otto (acting 
 for Sir Tom), had declined to attend his grandfather's funeral ; 
 for he had sufficient sense of shame not to show his face again 
 in the neighbourhood of Hurst Leet. A post was obtained 
 for him in India, in which he might do well if he chose to be 
 steady, even make a fortune in time : and he had already 
 sailed for it. Lady Lydia had fixed her abode in London ; 
 Dovet, of course, being with her : and Tom generously doubled 
 the amount of income bequeathed to her by Sir Dene. 
 
 The road, Dene Hollow, was a road no longer. A ploughed 
 field existed where it had been. Just as that fine new highway 
 in the years gone by had obliterated all trace of the Widow 
 Barber's house, so the long ploughed field now obliterated all 
 trace of the highway. But the convenience of Hurst Leet 
 and its surrounding people was not lost sight of. Tom had 
 talked to Mr. Arde, and persuaded that gentleman to allow 
 another road to be cut through his property, Tom undertaking 
 the expense. It was a better site for it than the other, and 
 just where it ought to have been made at first. And so, the 
 time had gone on to midsummer, and the wedding of Sir Dene 
 and Miss Arde was fixed for one of these last days of June. 
 
 They stood together, he and his betrothed bride, on this 
 their marriage eve, in the small side room of Arde Hall that 
 had once been the young lady's school and play room. The ser- 
 vants were busy laying out the breakfast in the dining-parlour ; 
 Mrs. Arde was in the drawing-room, putting the finishing 
 touches to the vases of flowers, Charlotte Scrope, again come 
 to be bridesmaid helping her. Miss May had been wilful. Not 
 an earthly thing, even to a blessed bit of ribbon, as Susan 
 Cole angrily put it, that had been prepared for the other 
 wedding, would she let serve for this. The attire, both for 
 bride and bridesmaid, had to be bought anew. To the last 
 hour of Susan's life she would not cease to grumble at the 
 folly and waste. Even now, she had been giving Miss May a 
 taste of her opinion, although the young lady was by the side of 
 her'bridegroom so soon to be. 
 
 It was but a shabby little room, but the only one free in the 
 
Conclusion, 455 
 
 house that evening. The last rays of the sun shone on their 
 faces, as they stood side by side at the open window, through 
 which the hay sent in its sweetness. Still faces, this evening, 
 both, and somewhat serious ; but oh ! with what quiet happi- 
 ness underlying their depths ! Squire Arde had been watching 
 through his spectacles the, men at work on the new road, but 
 had now betaken himself from the room. Susan Cole, a 
 basket of ribbon on her arm, a needle and thread in her hand, 
 was ostensibly making up white favours, and passing in and 
 out at will. Susan, for some cause not yet explained, was in 
 a very explosive temper that evening- ; nearly everybody she 
 came near being treated to a touch of tartness. 
 
 " They are putting up for the night," observed May, alluding 
 to the road labourers beyond the side field. 
 
 "And for to-morrow also," added Sir Dene. For old and 
 young, rich and poor, were on the morrow to rest from 
 labour. 
 
 " How glad they must be when their day's work's over," 
 said May, shyly, in the reminder. " They are taking away 
 their tools." 
 
 " Glad to get the work to do, I should say," put in Susan. 
 " Glad that folks is found to be at the costs o' new roads and 
 give 'em work." 
 
 She whisked out of the room again, basket on arm, as 
 abruptly as she had just whisked into it. Tom's blue eyes 
 shone with a merry light. 
 
 " The new road has never altogether met with Susan's 
 favour," he said. " She thinks I need not have gone to the 
 expense." 
 
 " She is getting stingy in everything," returned May, 
 remembering the reproof just tilted at herself about the 
 wedding things. " Tom, do you know I fancy sometimes it's 
 because she's — rather old." 
 
 " It's because she likes to stand out for her own opinion, 
 May, my love. She is not old yet." 
 
 " It was quite right to make the road ; and to do everything 
 else that you are doing. Tom, we shall be dreadfully rich. I 
 don't know how all the money will get spent." 
 
 He shook his head with a smile, playing with her brown 
 hair. " I could spend twice as much, May." 
 
 "But not on ourselves?" she said in surprise, lifting her 
 eyes to his. 
 
456 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " No. On others." 
 
 " There will be enough, Tom. This will be ours sometime, 
 you know. Who could have thought the two properties 
 would ever be united ! " 
 
 " Who would have thought at one time, May, that you and 
 I should ever be ? " 
 
 " Who ! — why, all along nearly — " 
 
 She stopped suddenly — with the brightest blush. His whole 
 face was laughing. 
 
 "All along — what? " But Miss May grew very hot indeed, 
 and bit her lips. 
 
 " All along what, May ? Come. I am waiting to hear." 
 
 " Never you mind, Sir Dene. If you intend to take me up 
 in this sharp way, you had better tell me so beforehand." 
 
 " And if I do tell you so ? " 
 
 " Why then — I am not sure that I'll be married at all." 
 
 " No ! That breakfast in the other room must be eaten, you 
 know, May." 
 
 " I don't know anything about it, sir. And I think " 
 
 What May thought was never spoken. An interruption 
 stopped it in the shape of Susan Cole again. Flinging open 
 the door, she put her basket and ribbon on the table, and 
 came up to them, evidently armed for conflict. 
 
 "Look here," she began. " I'm a going to have it out. I 
 can't help myself: I shall burst if I don't. And I never 
 thought you'd be, either of you, ungrateful to me — yes, Sir 
 Dene, I am speaking to you as well as to Miss May. Since 
 my missis said what she did an hour ago, I don't know 
 whether I've stood on my head or my heels. And I've went 
 and cut up all the ribbon for the favours into wrong- lengths ! 
 
 T 9 P 
 
 it s not my fault. 
 
 " Just say what your grievance is, Susan," spoke Sir Dene. 
 
 "I don't pretend to be one o' your fine stuck-up maids," 
 went on Susan, never seeming to hear him, " and I know it's 
 only reasonable to expect that Miss May, about to be My 
 Lady, and a going to London to be showed off at the King's 
 Court, and that, may want one that's fashionabler. All that 
 was understood — that another was to be took on in my place : 
 and I was agreeable. But when my missis says to me just 
 now, when we was a measuring the white satin together (and 
 I lost the measure on't later), ' You can always come back 
 here, you know, Susan, if they should not continue to want 
 
Conclusion. 457 
 
 you at Beechhurst Dene,' you might ha' knocked rue down 
 with a end o' the ribbon. Miss May — Mr. Tom- -when I 1 ear 
 these things, I think it's time to ask you what footing I be 
 upon," excitedly went on Susan. " I looked to fill another 
 sort o' place, you see, at Beechhurst Dene, and never to be 
 turned out on't. 
 
 " I'm sure, Susan, I don't wish to turn you out," said May, 
 quite taken aback. " I never thought of doing it. What is 
 the other place you would like to fill ? " 
 
 "Why the nurse's of course, Miss May," retorted Susan. 
 
 " The nurse's ? " repeated May, not taking the meaning. • 
 
 " Yes, Miss May : nurse. Nurse to the babies when they 
 come." 
 
 May stared blankly for a moment or two ; and then her 
 face turned to a crimson flame. 
 
 " How very absurd you are, Susan ! " 
 
 " Me absurd ! " echoed Susan Cole, her own face aflame 
 with anger. " What's absurd ? I nursed you, Miss May ; 
 I nursed Master Tom here; 'twould be a hard thing if I 
 didn't nurse your children." 
 
 " So it would," put in Tom, biting his lips hard, to keep 
 countenance. 
 
 " In course it would," repeated Susan, somewhat mollified 
 by the admission. " And me a stopping single for your 
 sakes ! I had my sweethearts in those days, and my offers 
 too — as you might ha' seen 'em a dangling after me when 
 I'd got you out, if you'd been old enough to have sense in 
 your eyes. But I didn't take 'em : I kept to you. First one 
 of you in my arms, and a teaching of to walk and a keeping 
 of out o' mischief; and then the t'other. A fine time on't I 
 had with you, Miss May ; for of all the ondacious children 
 you were the worst : Master Tom, he was ti'actabler. Ever 
 since he came home — Sir Dene — I've looked to nurse your 
 babies. Who else has got a right to nurse 'em ? It'll be an 
 unjust thing if you don't let me ! " 
 
 " So you shall nurse them, Susan," said Tom, laughing. 
 " I promise it." 
 
 Susan gave a satisfied nod, caught up her basket of favours, 
 and went away again. May was leaning from the window 
 then as far as she safely could without pitching cut. Tom 
 went to her ; but she would not turn round. He thought he 
 heard a sob. 
 
458 Dene Hollow. 
 
 " Why. May ! My darling ! What is it ? " 
 Gently raising her to him, she turned her face and hid it 
 on his breast. He put down his own face and wanted to 
 know what the sorrow was. 
 
 "Not present sorrow at all," she whispered. "It's not the 
 first time since you came back that I've cried for happiness. 
 While Susan was grumbling — and what a stupid thing she 
 is ! off her head, I think — some of the past sorrow flashed 
 into my mind, and I began to contrast it with what is. God 
 has been very good to us." 
 
 " More than' good, May. We will — Who is this ? " 
 May was away like a shot, demurely stretching herself 
 beyond the window again. The intruder was Otto Clan- 
 waring. He had come down to be Sir Dene's best man at the 
 wedding. 
 
 They walked home together arm in arm, the two young 
 men, talking soberly one with the other. Of the crowd ex- 
 pected in the church on the morrow ; of Mary Barber's best 
 grey gown, and the shawl with the border of lillies and roses 
 that were to be worn at it. Of Harry Cole's old mother, 
 who was to be driven down by him to the church. Of Mrs. 
 James Pound's (no longer Miss Emma Geach) late smart 
 wedding attire to be displayed at it. Of Gander's prominent 
 place in the tail of the procession. In short, of the general 
 satisfactory state of all things. 
 
 And the stars came out one by one in the clear sky, 
 and the whole atmosphere, within and without, seemed re- 
 dolent of peace. As they went on, up the avenue, and came 
 in sight of Beechhurst Dene, its master lifted his hat, his 
 lips moving silently. Otto thought Sir Dene might be mur- 
 muring to himself some words about the warm weather. In 
 truth, the words were very different. 
 
 " God be thanked for the way He has led me since the day 
 I was carried in here, an infant waif, my father's tears falling 
 on my face ! May He be ever with me to the end ! " 
 
 My friends — in conclusion. Dark days have embittered 
 the lives of some of us, just as they embittered Tom Clan- 
 waring's. They will dawn for us again. Days when we look 
 yearningly into the far corners of the wide earth for a gleam 
 of comfort, and look in vain : there's not a ray in the sunless 
 fky, not a star in the black over-shadowing firmament. But 
 
Conclusion. 459 
 
 above this dreary earth, higher than that leaden sky, is 
 Heaven. There sits One who sees all our cares, notes our 
 oppressions, hears our sighs, pities our tears : and who will 
 surelj- in His own good time cause the darkness to merge 
 away in bright and" loving light if we do but patiently trust 
 to Him. 
 
 And so a new reign was begun at the Dene in all happiness. 
 And Susah Cole got the post she fought for. 
 
 , But Hurst Leet generally was never persuaded out of the 
 belief that Robert Owen's ghost had " walked." Only people 
 did not talk much about it abroad, as he was the grandfather 
 of Sir Dene. 
 
 OGDEU AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHX STRRET, E.C 
 
IL