After all, it was not much to excite them so: for they were all excited, except placid Charley; a country lass, bashful, yet with a pretty vanity, smiling and walking past a group of young men who admired her, but whom, except the one whom she did not perceive, she did not know. There was not much in this for such expenditure of feeling. And they said nothing when she had passed: even Charley, with a "By Jove!" of admiration on his lips, saw that it was more expedient to say nothing. He did not understand the paleness and quick breathing of Ridley by his side, nor the silence of the two before them. They had all made a kind of pause when Lily passed. They went on with quickened paces after, and soon they came to the point where their paths separated, and Roger turned back. All the glare of sunset was upon the lake as they parted near the waterside.
"I don't pretend to be a talker," said Ridley, grasping Abel's hand, "but I shall never forget that I owed my life to you to-day."
"It was nothing," said Abel, off his guard. "I should have stopped sooner than I did. I knew your way was insecure."
"However it was, I oweyoumy life, and I shan't forget it," said Roger. "If ever you want a good turn that I can do——"
"Good night; you must not think it was anything," Murray said returning the pressure of his hand. He, too, was agitated by all that had happened, and by the last incident as much as any. He watched Ridley making his way backward, still slightly lame, with all the benevolence a man feels for one whom he has served. "Mrs Landale said well he was friendly. It is the best name for him," he said.
"He has occasion to be friendly to you, and so has all his family," said Featherstonhaugh. "But—you knew the old tower before?"
"I!" The blood rushed to Abel's face. "What makes you think so? I—have had no opportunity of knowing it before."
"I thought you were quite familiar with the place. You said something—I beg your pardon—perhaps I misunderstood."
"I said I knew his way was unsafe; any one could have seen that at a glance."
The eyes of the two met. Murray thought there was suspicion in the looks of Featherstonhaugh, and this not only filled him with alarm, but with irritation too. Sir Richard, however, repeated his excuse. "I misunderstood you. I thought you spoke of it with previous knowledge. You will bring Mr Murray to Featherstonhaugh, Charley, to see me. I fear there is nothing to show him much worth the trouble. A few pictures—that is all."
"Only the best collection in the north country," said Landale; and with a slight complacent smile and nod, half acquiescent, half deprecating, Featherstonhaugh went on upon his separate way. "He is a prig," said Charley, when he was out of hearing; "but all the same, he has some fine pictures, and understands them too."
"Being a prig does not prevent a man from having fine pictures, nor, unfortunately, even from understanding them," said Murray, with a sigh. "There are no such compensations as one used to believe in. The poor man is not always the cleverest, nor the lord of many acres always a fool."
"I should hope not," said Charley, roused; for though his acres were limited in extent, it was his class which was thus by implication attacked. "And what did you think of the little dressmaker?" said the unsuspecting youth. "I say, both those fellows are in for it. Ridley, you know, we saw with her; and as for Featherstonhaugh, did you see how he stared at her? I admire a pretty girl, but I would not look as if I could eat her up. It's to be hoped there will be no mischief between those two."
"I thought Sir Richard was engaged to Miss Ridley?"
"And so he is; but that does not make it better, but worse," said Charley, with much discrimination. "And they are two determined fellows. If it came to a scrimmage I should like to be there."
"I don't think, in such a case," said Abel, trying to subdue his own excitement, "that Sir Richard would have much chance."
"Oh, I should not like to say that. Featherstonhaugh's very quiet, but he's deep. I've observed," said Charley, producing his innocent aphorism with much gravity, "that the more quiet men are, the deeper they are. I don't know if you've noticed that."
Murray's mind was not sufficiently at ease to remark this simple wisdom. He said with a kind of bitterness, "What she feels on the subject has not much to do with it, I suppose."
"What, the girl? Oh, yes, if she happens to be of the sort that have a will of their own. A girl like that can make herself very disagreeable, I've heard. I suppose on the whole, anyhow, it can't mean much good to her," said Charley, taking a sudden thought. "It would be better for her on the whole if she wasn't so pretty. Don't you think so? Though Roger Ridley is as obstinate as a pony, and if he once took a thing into his head—but, after all, I don't suppose he could be quite such a fool," Charley said, with a pause of consideration. Abel looked at him keenly with a suppressed glare in his eyes.
"Such a fool as to think of making the dressmaker his wife?"
"Oh, come!" cried Charley; "when you put it in words—and in cold blood—no one surely would be quite such a fool as that."
There was a singing in Abel's ears, a convulsive tremor ran through him. It was his sister of whom this innocent babbler was speaking; but who could suspect anything of the kind?
Roger strolled back by the waterside; but then he recollected that he had something to do, which made it necessary for him to pass again through the village—indeed, that he was compelled to go, though he did not wish it, by business, that infallible force which every one must obey. And when he had taken that turn he went on with more alacrity. Quite necessary! It was the blacksmith he thought he wanted to see, for servants never give your orders correctly. He went on—but not directly towards the blacksmith's. A green lane is more pleasant than a hard high-road. He would go that way for the sake of his foot, which certainly hurt him a good deal. He could not help wondering what that little flirt would say if she knew that this very afternoon he had been in danger of his life. Would she mind? Would it have made any difference to her one way or another if he had come down headlong from off that archway and broken his neck, and never spoken again? She would perhaps have met Featherstonhaugh in the lane, and heard all about it from him. Heaven and earth! Though Roger had not died, and had no intention of doing so, the idea of Featherstonhaugh reporting to Lily all the details of his dying, and making use of the incident as a means of approaching her, made him frantic.
He went very slowly through the lane. The light was beginning to wane, for it had been already late when they left the Castle. He looked up to the back window of Miss Prentice's house, and thought he saw some one there. Here was a chance at least of knowing whether she had got his letter. He made a gesture of appeal, beckoning to her, though he could not even be sure that it was Lily—a dangerous experiment. Of course, he said to himself, he had never thought of this when he came through the lane for the sake of his bad foot. Neither had Lily ever thought of it when she went by chance to the staircase window. But the result was that she did stroll out, and that he did meet her, at Miss Prentice's back-door.
"What is it?" she said. "Oh, I mustn't stay; you mustn't keep me. I only came because I was so frightened;shemight see you making signs. I wish you wouldn't make signs like that. If any one saw you, oh, what would become of me?"
"It would not do you any harm," said Roger, "for I know what you would do, Lily. You would simply cast me off and pretend to know nothing about me. You know that is what you would do."
"Oh, but it would be quite true. What do I know about you? I know you are young Mr Ridley, a gentleman, far, oh, far above me. All the world knows that; and I don't know what I know more."
"You know I love you, Lily, which is what no one knows but you."
"Oh," she said, with a toss of her head, "I am not so sure about that. I know what you say; but what young men say and what they feel is very different."
"Who taught you that, Lily? Can you look at me, and then tell me that you think I don't feel what I say?"
"Oh, as for that—but every book you ever open says so, and all the old people say so; they ought to know. Never believe a lad, Miss Prentice says—and far more when it's a gentleman."
"Did you get my letter, Lily?"
"Oh, yes, I got your letter; I couldn't quite read it all. Did you ever learn to write, Mr Ridley? or is it taught in the grand schools? For a long time I couldn't tell who sent it," said Lily, telling her little fib with a steady look at him, and all the innocence in the world.
"Then I suppose heaps of other people write you letters like that?"
Lily laughed with malice and enjoyment of the fun. "Did you think that you were the only one that ever said he cared for me?" she said, with merry scorn. As for Roger, he was quite desperate, and did not know how to meet this levity, which broke his heart.
"You should not take it so easily," he said, "for Lily, but for—Providence—it would have been the last letter I ever wrote to you or any one. I was as nearly as possible killed to-day."
She gave a little cry, her face paled and reddened, and she clasped her hands together. This encouraged him to go on, which he did in that tearful solemn tone with which a man represents himself as an object of sympathy when he is very anxious to make a tender impression and very doubtful of his success.
"I was climbing the old tower to show a stranger the way, and put my foot by accident upon a bit of the wall that would not bear me; and there would have been an end of me, Lily, and of all my love and all our meetings. I don't think you would have minded a bit: you would have gone on with some one else, and thought nothing more of Roger Ridley. You would have——"
"Oh, never mind what I would have done!" she said, stamping her foot; "that's best known to me. What happened then? what happened then? that's what I want to know."
"You see, I was saved! What with the other man, and what with throwing myself into the corner as I fell——"
(He had thrown himself upon Murray, whose arms were out to catch him: but he did not think it needful to inform her of that.)
"Who was the other man?" she asked, drawing her breath hurriedly.
"It was—a man who is on a visit to Landale—a man that you met this afternoon walking with—never mind the man. I was behind him, but you never saw me. You were willing to let them stare at you, though you never saw I was there."
"Could I stop them from staring at me? But I mind the man. He was a handsome gentleman. I will always look at him again when I see him. He must have a good courage, and a good heart of his own, too."
"Shall you look at him for my sake or for his? You might say at least that you are glad that I was saved."
She gave another toss of her pretty head, and laughed. She was not so simple as not to know the advantage of a question in suspense like this. "Everybody is glad when somebody else is not killed," she said; "but, good-night, I must run in. Oh, yes, I must run in. Miss Prentice will be looking out as she goes down, and if she should find me here——That is her step, I do believe!" And with extreme consistency Lily came out, quite outside the door of which she had been making a fortress, and closed it softly that she might not be seen from the house. Roger took this opportunity to seize her hand, but Lily wasfarouche, and shook herself free from the touch. She looked at him seriously as they stood there under the shadow of the wall. "Yes, I am glad that—nobody is killed," she said.
"Nobody—anybody! that it was I, don't matter much?"
"Perhaps," she said, with a laugh. This was not much comfort; but Roger, drawing as near as was permitted, looked at her tenderly, gratefully, thinking of what he should say next that would most thoroughly reveal his feelings. What could he say? She knew very well all that he meant, though she pretended to take everything so calmly. She stood with the most innocent air in the world, waiting till he should speak. Then, with some of the flippancy of her class, Lily cried, "And did you hurt your tongue, Mr Ridley, when you fell?"
"You are very cruel. You ought to pretend to be sorry at least; and you might give me an answer to my letter. Did you like what I sent you? I thought you—you might have something to say to a poor man who was nearly killed to-day——"
This pathetic speech, given with all the tender reproach possible, would have been too much for the gravity of any looker-on. And Lily burst out laughing, with seeming disregard for his feelings.
"You are not much the worse," she said.
"I shall be a great deal the worse if you laugh at me. Lily, why are you so unkind? You know there is nothing in the world I would not do——"
"Were you really with the other gentlemen?" she said. "I didn't see you. There was Sir Richard. Oh, I saw Sir Richard, and young Mr Landale, and a strange gentleman—but I have seen him before—I know I have seen him before; and you were there? I am glad I did not see you. I should have laughed or something. Perhaps I did not see you because I was looking at Sir Richard."
"Then you have seenhimbefore?" said Roger, setting his teeth.
"Seenhim before? Oh, hundreds and hundreds of times! I see him most days, going or coming, almost as often as I see you——"
"He is a villain, then!" cried Roger, hotly. "He is engaged to—a lady."
"I know; he is engaged to Miss Mary. What does that matter?I'mnot keeping company with him," said Lily. "If you think I would take another girl's leavings—if she was a princess!—I would scorn it. And I don't think of the like of him. They come and they go, it don't matter to me. What have I got to do with the gentlemen? A nod or a smile out of civility, but no more."
"That is quite right, Lily," cried Roger, radiant. He came a step nearer and took her hand softly. "But you don't mean that for me?"
"Why shouldn't I mean it for you?" she cried, throwing off his hand. "But there's some one coming," she added, with a little shriek, and fled within the shelter of the door.
Roger, after lingering for a minute in hope of her return, was about to turn disconsolately away, when she suddenly appeared again, between the half-opened door and the wall, and pulling out with one finger a piece of velvet round her neck, showed him his little locket suspended to it. "There!" she cried, and suddenly shut in his face and bolted the garden door.
From which he limped home, tantalised yet happy, thinking of his possible rivals no more.
Elizabeth Murray was very busy about her poultry all the height of the summer. She had so many broods of chickens to look after that she scarcely knew how to turn. With all her ordinary work to do, these extra cares filled up her time so that the day was not long enough for its occupations. Dick was very helpful and handy, and they laboured together without grudging, with that unfailing and unvarying industry which those exercise who know that all the fruit of their labours will be their own. No other man or woman drudges with such patience as the little landholders, who have no master over them, and nobody to share their gains; and in many cases no other class live so sordid and miserable a life. Elizabeth and her boy laboured day and night, and never found it too much. She went to the market Saturday after Saturday, and worked all the week through among the chickens and the cows. It never occurred to her even to think that she was getting near the end of that platform of middle age on which most of the more serious work of life is done, or that by-and-by rest might be a necessity; nor did she think her life so hard, as many a poor worker, not doing half so much, has done. She was busy in the poultry-yard in the evening of one of those long summer days, which her eldest son, though she did not know it, was spending so near. At that season there are always chickens in a delicate state of health to be looked after. Two were lying already in a warm basket close to the fire, which was warm enough to singe their down off—and the hospital was likely to be larger before night. The sky was all ablaze with the sunset, if she had ever thought of the sunset. Sometimes, indeed, she would raise her head, and look round her for a moment, seeing all the glories that filled the silent sky and air, but taking no special notice, except to say to herself that this splendid weather was going to last. "Good for the chickens and a' living things," Elizabeth said to herself. But she heard her boy's step coming sturdily up the hill (for Dick had been absent since the morning) long before he was in sight. This was of more interest to her than all the sunsets; and yet, when she paused and looked down for him, what a sight was spread before her! all coolness and greenness and shadow above, the light fading out, the colour departing from the green turf and tiny fields, from everything except the beck with its chain of little pools, which reflected heaven in all its glory. Overhead the rosy clouds were hanging still, brilliant with every tint that reflection can give; while spread out before her lay a wonderful panorama—the broken ground of the braes, close at hand, for a foreground, and beyond them, between the openings of the hills, whose great shoulders shut in the view on either side—far beyond them, yet claiming the attention by its blaze of radiance—the water, far away shining like a sheet of gold in the sun. To look down from this shadowy, cloudy place, already almost dark in the early failing shadows, and see that burnished shield throwing back the light, and all the canopy overhead brilliant with crimson and purple, was a wonderful sight.
Dick came up with a sturdy resounding step, but not quickly. Sometimes he would become inaudible, as he crossed "a boggy bit," or took a devious way, crushing the fragrant bog-myrtles beneath his feet. When he arrived at last, he found Elizabeth, with a clean apron on, waiting his arrival for supper. Everything was ready for him. The chickens in their flannel infirmary chirped feebly now and then by the fire. The cat, curious, with a growing interest in the chirpings, purred about, knowing she dared not approach. The old collie, not interested at all, but tolerant, lay, though it was hot, and he felt it so, in front of the fire, which threw a reflected tinge of redness upon his shabby black coat.
"I have brought you a letter," Dick said; he did not add who was the writer, but handed it over quickly. It had been lying in the window of the toll-house for two long days, and Elizabeth gave a little cry when she saw the writing. She forgot the supper and Dick's fatigue, and everything but her eldest son, who wrote so seldom. A letter from Abel! there had not been one for—Elizabeth well knew how long. Had not she counted the months and the days? But even to herself she pretended not to know; and the sight of it thrilled her through and through; a flush of sudden colour came to her face, and the water to her eyes. When such an unusual thing as a letter came to Overbeck, it was common that he or she who received it should run it over first, thus getting the cream of novelty and sweetness—then read it aloud. Elizabeth did the first—she read it, devouring the lines: but her countenance changed as she went on, and when she had ended she put it down with some irritation upon the table, and proceeded at once to give Dick his supper. "If it's needful that he should write seldom, he might be pleasant when he writes," she said, with a spasm of disappointment and offence choking her voice.
"Is it Abel, mother; and what does he say?"
Dick began his supper calmly. He was not so much excited about Abel as to neglect his meal. But Elizabeth was roused out of the common routine altogether. The first morsel she tried to swallow choked her. "I cannot eat," she said, pushing her plate away. "Oh, Dick, one thing I've asked from the Lord; it is, that my bairns should thrive and do well. Me—what do I care for me? I'm willing to work, and if I have daily bread I want no more; but my lads and my lass—my lass, my Lily, the only one I have!"
"What is wrong with Lily?" Dick said, looking up with interest. "And what has Abel to do with that?"
"Ay, you may just ask; never to have taken any notice, never asked where she was, or any single thing about her, and then, all in a moment—oh, you're not to think I'm blaming your brother," said Elizabeth, with a sudden compunction; "if he never showed an interest before, reason good he should show it now."
"Is there anything wrong with Lily? Give me the letter, and I'll see for myself."
"Ay, lad, there it is; it's gone to my heart, and I cannot read the words out loud. It would be like believing, it would be like taking all for gospel that was said again' my bairn."
Dick prepared himself for this pause in his meal by two or three large mouthfuls to begin with, and by cutting and preparing a few more, to be eaten as he went on. He was concerned, having a sturdy and honest affection for his sister; but he was hungry as well. He had to spell over the letter, not being great in "written hand," but this was what he made out at last:—
"Dear Mother,—You will think it long since I have written, and so it is—but I will not take up your time and mine by excusing myself. I have a great deal to do, and that I know you will understand; and then my life has got to be very different from yours. I get into a kind of despair when I think of it. How could I make you understand my life? Yours is all fresh air and nature; mine is all artificial—close rooms and talk and books. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never left you, then we should have understood each other. God knows if we ever can now."I am writing to you, however, not merely to give you news of me, or to ask how you are, but to put you on your guard about a danger which, perhaps, you know nothing of. A friend of mine has been in your neighbourhood, living at one of the gentlemen's houses" (Abel had smiled to himself when he used this expression, so familiar in the days of old), "and I have heard from him of a girl in the village, a very pretty girl, who is with the dressmaker, and whom a great many young men admire. I cannot doubt by the description that it is my sister Lily. She has the young squire, Roger Ridley, going after her, and I don't know how many more. You know that this is not a safe thing for a young girl. It might come to no harm with her, and I hope would come to no harm; but it is a thing her mother ought to know, and her friends should keep an eye on her. Of course my friend did not know it was my sister, so I heard everything, and there is nothing wrong; but you know well that a girl's name should not be bandied about, and should not be talked of in connection with a gentleman's name who could not marry her, who is far above her. Do not be affronted that I speak so plainly. I am sure when you know, by all I remember of you, that you will take care of Lily and set everything right.—Your affectionate son,"Abel Murray."
"Dear Mother,—You will think it long since I have written, and so it is—but I will not take up your time and mine by excusing myself. I have a great deal to do, and that I know you will understand; and then my life has got to be very different from yours. I get into a kind of despair when I think of it. How could I make you understand my life? Yours is all fresh air and nature; mine is all artificial—close rooms and talk and books. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never left you, then we should have understood each other. God knows if we ever can now.
"I am writing to you, however, not merely to give you news of me, or to ask how you are, but to put you on your guard about a danger which, perhaps, you know nothing of. A friend of mine has been in your neighbourhood, living at one of the gentlemen's houses" (Abel had smiled to himself when he used this expression, so familiar in the days of old), "and I have heard from him of a girl in the village, a very pretty girl, who is with the dressmaker, and whom a great many young men admire. I cannot doubt by the description that it is my sister Lily. She has the young squire, Roger Ridley, going after her, and I don't know how many more. You know that this is not a safe thing for a young girl. It might come to no harm with her, and I hope would come to no harm; but it is a thing her mother ought to know, and her friends should keep an eye on her. Of course my friend did not know it was my sister, so I heard everything, and there is nothing wrong; but you know well that a girl's name should not be bandied about, and should not be talked of in connection with a gentleman's name who could not marry her, who is far above her. Do not be affronted that I speak so plainly. I am sure when you know, by all I remember of you, that you will take care of Lily and set everything right.—Your affectionate son,
"Abel Murray."
"Well," said Dick, with his mouth full, "I see nothing to vex you in this, mother; he speaks very sensible. I meant to tell you the same thing. It is what you ought to know. I was meaning to say to you, 'Bring Lily home,' this very night."
"Oh!" said Elizabeth, wringing her hands. "I knew you would be both in one story; it only wanted that. And what could I expect from two lads, that can no more see into the mind of a simple lass! That's what you do, all you men folk—put your own ill thoughts upon her that is as innocent of harm—oh, that's what you do! In the course of Providence, or maybe it's nature—the Lord deliver me from knowing which—you learn what an innocent lass need never know; and then all you've learned from ill folks, and all you've read from ill books, you think my bairn knows it as well as you!"
To this most unprovoked and undeserved attack Dick made no reply. He held his tongue, being partially compelled by circumstances to that wise reticence, and occupied himself with his supper. It was the wisest way. After a while Elizabeth, who was influenced in a way she could have hardly believed, by her clumsy Dick's support and approval of what his brother said, calmed down out of her own offence and indignation, and began to consider the question too.
"If you've heard that, and he's heard that, there may be something at the bottom of it: is that what you mean to tell me?"
"Nothing against Lily," said Dick, "andhesays nothing against Lily; but she's young" (he was two years younger himself), "and if a gentleman says to her she's bonnier than all the rest put together, how is she to know it's not true?"
"And so she is," said Elizabeth, with a gleam of pride; "there's no one o' them, no one o' them you could name the same day!"
"Well, mother, well; that makes Abel all the more right in what he says, and me the less wrong. You wouldn't expect Mr Roger, the Squire of Waterdale, that will be member of Parliament and the Queen's counsellor, to marry Lily Murray, the cotter's daughter at Overbeck?"
"He might search far and wide o'er the world to get one like her," said the mother. "And wherefore no'? her brother is as good a gentleman, and has as much chance to be the Queen's counsellor, as himself."
"And that is all you know," said Dick, with a groan; "when her brother hears all that's said about Lily, and never has the heart to say, 'Hold your peace, lad, it's my sister.' Much good it will do her to have a brother that is like that."
"What would you have him say?" said Elizabeth, with a shrill note of pain in her voice. "When he's living among gentlemen, would you have him publish to all the lords and ladies that make much of him that he's a cotter's son?"
"That would I, mother; it would be better for himself," said Dick, with composure. "It may be grand to be a gentleman, when you have a right to it, but pretending—what good can that do? and when there's something to be found out, it's aye found out soon or late. I would rather be known for what I am, and nothing to find out all my days."
"You?" said Elizabeth, with a certain contempt; "it's no' you that anybody's thinking of"—and with this expression of impatience, which sensible Dick took for what it meant and no more, she fell into silence; and then was it not time to supper the cow?
After this there was nothing said all the rest of the evening. Both had their work to do, and they went early to bed when that work was done, for why should time be wasted and candles lighted for nothing? But when the two separated for the night Elizabeth said, "It's a good thing to-morrow is Saturday," and Dick replied, "That's true, mother." It was all that was said.
Very early on Saturday morning, as was her wont, Elizabeth Murray took her way down the long winding road with her heavy basket. Dick came with her as far as the toll, where the cart passed that carried the heavier part of her produce, and he said, "I wish ye speed," as he left her. "Speed" might mean anything—success in her sale, as much as success with more important matters. It was unnecessary for him to particularise. She nodded her head solemnly in reply. By this time Lily's danger had become the first thing in her mother's thoughts, and the kindness and goodness of her brother in sending that warning. He that had so many things to think of—he that was not like just a country lad—even he, that had lost sight of his home, and was a gentleman, and could not be expected to mind upon everything, as if he had never stirred from Overbeck. So much had his mother's mind changed that this was how it struck her now. Her heart swelled with pride and gratitude to her boy. He was out of reach of their ordinary commonplace interests, but yet he could bestir himself to save Lily, to serve herself. She was nothing but grateful to Abel now—but Lily lay heavy on her mother's heart. Elizabeth knew the ways of girls. There would be no harm in Lily's thoughts, no meaning, no understanding of harm: but at the same time nothing but harm could come from the gentleman lover. The young squire, who was so much her superior, had perhaps caught Lily's heart. Was her child to bear that burden of love impossible—love that could never know an earthly close? Elizabeth sighed; she knew what it was. Had not she been a rustic beauty, too, in days of which her children knew nothing? and it might be, was followed and wooed like her child, before good Abel came and stuck to her through thick and thin, and was married for gratitude. Even at forty-five women have not forgotten such incidents; and was it to happen over again to her child? "Oh, to have a bonnie face, it's more a curse than a blessing!" Elizabeth said to herself, as she went down the hill,—"at least for a poor lass." This thought carried her far afield, far back into the past. She had been happy enough as Abel Murray's wife, and very happy with his children. Now was it all to begin again? and Lily, her one Lily, was she to bear the burden too? But though her mind was heavy with this thought, Elizabeth had to take her place in the market all the same, and get through as usual the selling of her butter and her eggs. When that was over she went to Miss Prentice's. She took with her a little offering—a pound of her sweet fresh butter, and a pair of young chickens—and before she could see Lily, which was her chief object, she had to interview Miss Prentice, who was busy, as it was Saturday. "Good morning to you, 'Lizabeth," she said; "I hope I see you in health. I am sure I am much obliged to you for the chickens. I wish, though, it was not Saturday, when we are all so busy, for I would have liked a word with you about Lily."
"I hope she's giving satisfaction, and doing as you bid her," Elizabeth said, forcing a smile, but with a very wistful, watchful look that almost betrayed her anxiety. ("She has heard something," said Miss Prentice to herself.)
"It's not exactly to find fault. Oh, yes, she gives me satisfaction. There's not a word to say against her work. She's improving fast. I can trust her to cut out a body and put it together; and she has what you might call a real fine feeling for the trimmings," said Miss Prentice. "But just you look here, 'Lizabeth Murray. What is a young woman to do in the face o' that?"
"O' what?" said Elizabeth, growing pale. They were in Miss Prentice's own room up-stairs, and the dressmaker had taken Lily's mother by the shoulders, and pushing her towards the window, was pointing with her finger at the other side of the village street. "Look for yourself," she cried, excited. But all that Elizabeth saw when she looked out was a few ordinary passengers going by from the market: to be sure, there was also visible a gentleman riding slowly along the middle of the road. She gazed at the foot-passengers first, and saw no harm in them,—they were all very decent folk; but by-and-by Elizabeth saw that the gentleman turned his horse, and came back riding very slowly, and looking down from the elevation of his saddle to the window of Miss Prentice's workroom, which was below.
"That what's happening 'most every day," said the dressmaker with excitement; "it's no fault of hers. Whiles it's one and whiles it's another. It's enough to turn anybody's head—me myself, that am an elderly woman. They're all givin' each other the word, you would think, to see them. I was thinking of sending for you, 'Lizabeth Murray, to say, for no fault of hers, but just to keep her out of mischief, you would do well to take your Lily away."
"But—you're sure it's a' for her?" said the mother, with flaming cheeks. She was red, but not with shame—a little with pride, a little with recollection. She could not be so angry as she ought. Poor lads! was it not natural they should try their best to get a look at so bonny a face? She had just seen her daughter on her way to Miss Prentice, and Lily, all blushing and bright with the pleasure of seeing her, seemed to the mother to be so well worth looking at; and then Elizabeth, too, had been worth looking at, and knew what trouble it brought.
"There's not much doubt about that," said Miss Prentice. "You see they think they're free to stare atherwhen they would not stare at a lady. It's not a very nice way to show that you're a gentleman,that; but it's very common. I would not mind if it was just the strangers that passed; but there's some that come often, too often. Some would say they would never come without being encouraged; but I'm fond of Lily, and she's a good girl, and I would not say that."
"She must not encourage them. Oh, that must never be—that can never be!"
"Here she is, coming to speak for herself. Lily, you can take your mother to your room and speak to her there; but, mind, young Mrs Weston must have the children's frocks to-night; and I've given my word. Nay, dinna scold her," said Miss Prentice, whispering in Elizabeth's ear; "but give her a word of good advice. I'm aye at her, but she'll pay more attention to you."
"Oh, Lily! what is all this I hear?" said the mother, when they were up-stairs, another story farther up. Miss Prentice's was the highest house in the village. This was an attic room with a sloping roof and a skylight window, on each side of which was a bed. Here Lily had lain in the early morning, when the occupant of the other bed was fast asleep, and had looked at her locket in the dawning. She sat down upon her bed now, having placed for her mother the only chair in the room; and when she heard this question she first looked Elizabeth in the face with audacious innocence, and then she slightly tossed her saucy head.
"I've done nothing wrong," she said, and then added after a moment, "If there's anything wrong it's no' my fault."
"But there is something wrong. Oh, Lily! trust your mother. Who would you tell if you did not tell me? My lass," said Elizabeth, passionately, "you're like myself over again; and I know what it is. Oh, Lily! trust to your mother. Nobody's angry at you; nobody says a word against you, but—what's wrong?"
To this Lily for some time would answer nothing. She hung her beautiful head; she folded hems in her apron; but she would not speak. By-and-by, however, by judicious abandonment of the solemnity of her first address, Elizabeth obtained a response. "It's nothing wrong at all," Lily said, pouting; "it's—it's the lads—and the gentlemen——"
"The lads—I'm not afraid for the lads, Lily."
"I daresay no'," said Lily, with another toss of her head.
"But the gentlemen—that's another story. What have they to do with the like of you? They have ladies of their own kind to spend their time with. What business have they to come and vex and trouble a simple lass like you?"
"Oh, they do no harm," said Lily, with a conscious smile upon her face.
"They canna but do harm," said her mother. "Oh, Lily! if I could but tell you! Their ways are not like common folks' ways. You'll never bide an honest lad coming courting to you—a good lad that will work for you and give you a house of your own."
"That's what our forewoman says; as if I wanted a man and a house, and all that! I'm young yet, and why should I not have my freedom like the rest?"
In Lily's sphere it was thought quite innocent and natural that a girl should have her freedom, and see the world, as well as a young man, before she settled down. The wander-year was a sacred right to all.
"I'm saying nothing against that. Have I ever tried to stop your freedom? I know my Lily, and I dinna fear. But hear what I was going to tell you. The gentlefolk have winning ways. They take their hats off to you, and they speak soft to you, and they make you think you're a queen; but, Lily, that a' comes to an end, and how are you to bide a common man, and a rough courting, and all our country ways after that?"
"I want no man nor courting either—if you would only let me be."
"But I cannot let you be. Who have I but you, Lily. There's Dick, a good lad, more able to look after me than I'm able to look after him; and Abel," said Elizabeth, lingering on the name, "Abel—he's a grand gentleman, and wants nothing of his mother. But, Lily, a woman's glory is her daughter.Mylass, I've none but you. It's you that's my crown and my credit. And will you no' be a honour to me, Lily? Will you let men and lads, even if they be gentlemen, make free with your bonnie name?"
"Who's done that? There's none I know that would do that," cried Lily, sharply, with a movement of anger and pain; and then she fell a-crying and betrayed the existence of something more than the mere gazing and admiration Miss Prentice was aware of. Elizabeth discovered with dismay that the young squire had gone further than vague adoration of her child's lovely looks, and that there had even been talk of marriage between them. "He said it," Lily avowed—"not me. I did not promise, and I would not promise. I thought you would say—what you've been saying, mother; and me—do I want that? I was only joking; I was never thinking. He said it; but I said nothing—neither one thing nor another. I just laughed."
"But you'll have to give an answer; you'll have to say one thing or another, Lily." Elizabeth was much alarmed, not believing in the young squire; but she was somewhat impressed and solemnised too, for it was an honour. Nobody could say but it was that.
"Not me!" said Lily, with a toss of her head.
And there was a pause, for so serious a position of affairs had not been contemplated, and Elizabeth felt the necessity of thinking it over before she could settle what to do.
"It was him then that passed the window, riding so slow, on a big black horse?"
"That passed the window? There's always some one passing the window," said Lily, in a careless tone.
"And turning back to pass again, and staring in?"
"Oh, that's their ill-bred way; they're very ill-bred. But I know who you mean, mother: that's somebody else. That's Sir Richard Featherstonhaugh, from the other side of the water."
"Lily, Lily! Is this what it's come to? And you let them both speak, and never trouble your head? Oh, Lily lass! do you see the way you're going? You must come back with me; you must come home. There's no gentlemen there to turn your head. Oh, he did well—he did well to give me warning. He is the one of us all that knows the best!"
"Who has been telling upon me?" cried Lily, growing pale. As usual, she was full of resentment against the betrayer, but thought little of those evils of her own which were thus found out.
"One that thinks of what's best for you," said her mother, slowly; "one that's far above both you and me. A gentleman, and more than a gentleman."
Lily had grown slightly pale, and her lips parted with wonder. Who could this be? She became doubly alarmed at the thought of some one watching her who was worthy of so many praises. "I don't know who you can mean," she said.
"Who should I mean but your own brother? though I fear—I fear you're no' worthy a thought of him——"
"Abel!" said Lily, under her breath. It gave her a shock, as if Abel had been a spirit and could see her, while himself unseen. "How does Abel know? Was Abel here?"
"He sent me a letter. He has a friend that has seen you, Lily. Think how it must be when young lads, strangers,gentlemen, can make so free with your name."
"I know, then, who it is!" cried Lily. "I never thought much of him—and to spy upon a girl! He's the gentleman that is staying with Mr Landale, and that looks so grave and never says a word."
"Oh, I would like to know that gentleman, Lily! I would like to ask him about my boy." Elizabeth for the moment forgot one interest in another. Lily was so far safe that her mother was by her side, and had warned her at least of the danger. But Abel, where was he? And she had not seen him for so many years!
That afternoon she passed him without knowing, without one thought. She had left Miss Prentice's house full of difficulty and doubt. To take Lily away instantly seemed out of the question. The dressmaker was very busy, and frowned at the idea of losing a "hand," and Lily's fair face clouded at the very thought. What could Elizabeth do? She asked Miss Prentice to be careful, and entreated Lily, with her heart in her mouth, as she said, "Oh, to mind what she was doing, and to let nobody make free with her bonny name!" And then she went away sadly, her mind full of thought, her heart full of care, and brushed against her son Abel in the village street and never knew him. He recognised her in a moment, and very strangely the young man looked to his friends, who thought he had been taken ill. His countenance fell, and took upon it a ghastly hue; large drops of perspiration hung on his forehead. He stumbled as he crossed the street, and was like to fall. "It is a faintness," he said, with a dismal smile. But Elizabeth went on her way straight, and with her heart sore and full of thought. She was too full of care to see him, though he was in her way.
Lily was very penitent while her mother talked to her, but after Elizabeth went away her seriousness relaxed. What harm had she done, after all? She had not encouraged any one, or beguiled any one. When she was spoken to, she replied civilly again. When a gentleman took off his hat to her what could she do but give him a smile and say "Good-day to you, sir"? Was that a sin? When they talked nonsense what did she ever do but laugh? They got nothing from her. If they fell in love with her it was at their own peril,—it was no fault of hers. Thus her compunction melted away, for what harm had she done? All that day she worked patiently and closely at the children's frocks for young Mrs Weston at the Vicarage. She never so much as put her head out of the window or thought of breathing the fresh air. Nothing could be more industrious; and prettier little frocks or neater were never manufactured. Miss Prentice had felt that it was a great compliment paid to her by Mrs Walter Weston, who lived in London, though she was now on a visit to her husband's father, to entrust her and not a London workwoman with the children's frocks; and that the work should be so satisfactory pleased her mightily. "You must mind what your mother told you," Miss Prentice said, next morning, "but I'll not keep you from your Sunday walk. Take your walk, but take some one with you, and mind who you speak to, Lily." Lily promised "faithfully," solemnly. She tripped out, looking up the street and down the street, and saw no one. Who was likely to be in the High Street in the middle of a summer Sunday? To be sure, there were the village people at their doors, and lads and lasses setting out, like Lily, for their walk. She thought she would go down to the waterside and pay a visit of benevolence and kindness to old Bess, the wife of the old boatman who looked after the boats at the Castle. That would be a nice walk, and yet it would be out of everybody's way. Quite out of the way, for it was not one of her haunts, nor was "any person" likely to look for her there. And yet such an unlikely thing might be as that "somebody" might have something to say to old Simon about the boats, even though it was Sunday. Thus both conscience and fancy were satisfied—conscience, for most likely "they" would be looking for her in an entirely different quarter; and fancy, because there was still a possibility, a far-off unlikely chance, that Providence might somehow bring "them" there, without intention. And when all was done, it was a bonnie walk,—the water softly lapping on the shore, the sunshine twinkling in all the wavelets, the green banks warm in the afternoon light, the trees softly shading over her, covering her path with scattered shadows. All this made the beginning of the walk very pleasant to Lily. She had been so good that she had a secret, half-drowsy consciousness that events would turn out to her advantage and bring her pleasant harm—that the temptation from which she had fled would be brought to her, without any fault of hers—perhaps no very unusual state of mind.
This, we must pause to say, was at a period considerably later than that treated of in the beginning of this history. Abel Murray had been for several weeks at Landale, had been on the eve of departure, and had stayed, doubling the originally proposed length of his visit before he made up his mind to write to his mother, which he had done with great precaution, sending his letter to Oxford first, that the postmark might not betray him. In the meantime he had made himself popular in the three great houses of the neighbourhood. Old Squire Ridley, in particular, had adopted him among the number of his closest friends, and because of the accident from which he had saved Roger he had been made free of the house, and had grown into the most intimate relations with the family generally, so that Mrs Landale playfully complained that thoughherguest, it was the Ridleys who had the most of him—playfully: yet the Landales, perhaps, were not quite so pleased as they still professed to be. They had remonstrated when he talked of going away, and insisted on the prolonging of his visit, but still there was a little soreness in their minds as to his constant coming and going to the Castle. If it was Roger that was the attraction, they all thought that certainly their Charley was worth as much as Roger; and if it was Mary—oh, if it was Mary, then it was most foolish, and more to be deplored than any other folly could be. For what could come of that but disappointment and trouble? Mary was engaged, and even if she had not been engaged, she never would have had anything to say to a man who, whatever he might be in the way of family, &c. (and nobody really knew what his family was, whether he belonged to the Atholes or not), was certainly not a rich man. It was madness, they all thought; but no one had a chance of saying so or warning him against it, and day by day he spent at the Castle, often, indeed, in company with some member of the Landale family (asked there much oftener on his account, which was something in his favour), but also often without. Mary was very kind to him. He had saved her brother's life, and he pleased and amused her father, and he was very much devoted, simply and reverentially, to herself. Mary was beginning to perceive that she was not likely to have very much devotion from her husband. Sir Richard was not an impassioned lover. He had taken his wooing very easily from the first; it was more like the settlement of an alliance between two princely families than honest loving. She was the only person for him to marry, his fit mate; the one lady in the district who could add something—a bluer blood, a more distinguished lineage—to him who had so much. Therefore Sir Richard Featherstonhaugh had proposed to Miss Ridley, and, with faint reluctance, had been accepted. There was no passion in the business, and when Mary saw this new-comer, silent, reverential, and devoted, with a veiled light of passion in his eyes, she—liked it. It is a sad confession to be obliged to make. She was like Lily, though she was so much above Lily. She was flattered—and it softened and warmed her heart, a little chilled with the indifference of others and with the absence of emotion in herself, to see the light in this young man's eyes. She would not for the world have done him any harm. If she had been able to accuse herself of having done anything to cause this, she would never have forgiven herself for doing it; but the mischief was done before she found out, and she felt he was happy when he was by her side, when she spoke to him, when he had little services to do for her. Poor fellow! and she had so much cause to be grateful to him. Why should she not give him, it being so little, as much pleasure as she could?
Sir Richard, too, as in duty bound, had invited Abel to Featherstonhaugh, and there he had found among the visitors people whom he knew. Nowhere in all the neighbourhood was there so much society, and so good. The great house was full of guests, and Sir Richard was not indifferent to any one whose presence in his house was pleasant to his visitors. But though he received him and was civil to him, he did not like Murray. A certain suspicion in respect to him was always in his mind. He had seen his admiration for Miss Ridley, which was a distinct offence to the man who was going to marry her, but did not much admire her; and he had perceived that Murray, with a similarly jealous and displeased feeling, had seen his own eyes straying after Lily. These were very good reasons why he should dislike him, and be on the watch for something against him. He had made all sorts of covert inquiries into his origin—asking if he were connected with various Murrays whom he professed himself to know; and these inquiries had become very unpleasant, very disagreeable to Abel, so that he felt the existence of asourdsuspicion, which, had it shown itself at first, would have made him end his visit abruptly. But other reasons, now far more strong, had come in, inducing him to stay. He could not tear himself away. While he was there was he not a kind of protection to his sister? though it seemed to him that he would rather die than acknowledge the village Lily for his sister; and how could he banish himself for ever from the place which held Mary Ridley? Once gone, it must be for ever—that he knew—and thus lived on the edge of the precipice, daring the danger which seemed to him so terrible, but with which, when his feelings were excited, he could yet play. He had, indeed, it seemed to himself, surmounted for the moment all the most evident dangers. No one had recognised him, and yet he had seen many people whom he recognised; and he had never betrayed himself, though it had been sometimes difficult enough to keep on his guard. Was he not safe on the whole? and for another week or two—a few precious days or moments stolen from fate—surely there would be no risk if he should stay.
This, however, has but little to do with Lily, straying along the side of the water, with a smile on her face, and confused happiness in her heart. It was not happiness, it was expectation, a sense of all joyful things that might be coming, a confusion of hope and pleasure. She walked on with a half smile, with the shadows and sunshine flickering over her, and the wind busy about her, blowing her ribbons here and there, ruffling out the short locks that lurked under the braided hair on her forehead. Lily thought this was dreadfully untidy, and gave herself a good deal of trouble to smooth them down again, altogether unwitting of the time when "a fringe" should be counted a beauty. The cottage of Bess and Simon, to which she was going, lay in a little circle, half hidden by the woods before you reached the Castle. It was a very solitary little place, open to the lake, but shut in on three sides by the trees, which there were low down, almost to the water's edge.
Now it was not the custom in the district to go on the water on Sundays; but Roger was restless, and beyond rule: he had gone to church in the morning, as in duty bound, but he had not known what to do with himself afterwards. His mind was in a ferment and agitation about Lily, to whom he had said everything a man can say, without eliciting any response,—she had laughed, and she had eluded all his entreaties. No lady would have treated him, he said to himself indignantly, as the little village coquette had done. He was out of patience, and out of heart—exasperated, yet ever more and more bound to her, and feeling it impossible to break his chain. What was he to do? He had strolled down to the beach, and thrown himself into a skiff in the restlessness of his mind, and there he lay, swaying with the swaying of the water, floating where it liked to take him, his oars shipped, himself lying moodily in the boat, thinking—wondering what was to become of him, what she would do, whether he could tear himself away and try to forget her. That perhaps would be the best thing; but could he do it? The future was dark enough to him, even happiness being full of pain. Happiness would be to marry Lily—but if he married Lily, what should he do with her? how present her to his father? how get his marriage acknowledged and approved of? To lose her was despair; but to gain her—would that be so very much better? Poor Roger! he knew very well that Lily had not, could not have, any such love for him as filled his bosom for her. If she loved him at all, it must be in so much lighter, slighter a way, no more than liking, perhaps no more than vanity. This he knew very well by moments—and at this moment felt it to the bottom of his heart.
When all at once he saw a white dress fluttering, lingering along under the flecked shadows and sunshine. And it seemed to Roger that he knew the turn of the pretty figure, the swift yet lingering pace. He raised himself up in a moment and seized his oars; but even while he was in the act of moving, stopped suddenly, and, with those oars touching the water, stayed and gazed at what was going on before his eyes. He was not near enough to see the blue spots on the white cotton which he would have known for Lily's Sunday gown, but he had no doubt that it was Lily; but then, springing suddenly through the trees, came another figure, a man, throwing a dark shadow, by Lily's side. He could hear, or thought he could hear, her little start and scream, and saw in a moment, lighted by jealousy and a kind of hatred which he had begun to entertain for this inappropriate rival, that it was Featherstonhaugh. Roger set his teeth. If it had been any other man, any man who had a right to address her, who was free as he himself was—but Featherstonhaugh! Mary's accepted and betrothed lover! Roger's brain and his heart seemed to take fire. Lily gave a little scream, but she was not afraid, and Roger looking grimly on from his boat saw her stand listening and answering with the same half invitation, half repulsion, with which she had so often treated himself. They stood and talked, and Roger looked on. He could not hear what they were saying, but what he saw drove him frantic. It made him wild even that she should stop to parley at all. Not a look, not a gesture escaped him. He saw Featherstonhaugh put his hand on her arm, and though Lily tossed it off with a quick movement of her elbow, she was not angry. Then he seized her hand—but Roger could bear no more. He swept towards them with a few hasty strokes, and dashed his boat up upon the beach with a jar and scatter of the pebbles, springing on to the path beside the two, almost before Featherstonhaugh had dropped in amazement the hand which upon a second attempt he seemed to have been allowed to take.
"I beg your pardon," said Roger, quivering with passion. "I fear I am interrupting atête-à-tête." And he glanced at the intruder who was to be his sister's husband with suppressed fury.
A man caught in such a position cannot well look anything but foolish. Featherstonhaugh was taken entirely by surprise. It is bad enough, in any case, to be found in intimate discourse with a village girl; but to be found by his rival, and his future brother-in-law, could anything be more uncomfortable? He flushed with angry impatience and discomfiture.
"I suppose, Ridley, a man may speak, without offence to you, to any one he meets?"
"Certainly," said Roger, taking off his hat. "I did not know that you enjoyed this lady's acquaintance to such an extent; but, certainly, I at least have no right to interfere."
"Oh," cried Lily, frightened, "you are angry! Why are you angry? It is not my fault."
"It is no fault at all, I presume," said Roger, "but an agreeable meeting, which I can only apologise for interrupting."
"You need not speak so fine for me," said Lily, rousing herself. "I was but going to see old Bess in the cottage. I was not thinking upon gentlemen, neither him nor another—least of all upon him," she added in a low tone, with an accent of contempt in her voice. This tone made Featherstonhaugh unreasonably angry, and in an equally unreasonable way mollified Roger. She stood between them, two dark and clouded faces, her own somewhat anxious and frightened. But Lily was no coward. "I cannot hold you from quarrelling, if you will quarrel," she said, "but it shall not be about me. I'm wanting none of you; but I'll speak when I'm spoken to, whoever it is, and answer to no person for it, but my mother," said Lily, after a pause,—"the only one in the world that has a right to find fault with me. Good-day to you. I'm going on, as was my meaning, to see old Bess."
And with this she swept away, simple Lily in her cotton gown, bearing the part and aspect of a princess to the two astonished young men. They stood as she left them staring at each other, mutually discomfited. Roger, who had confronted his rival in all the rigour of righteous wrath a minute before, feeling himself so ridiculously in the wrong that he did not know what to say. Featherstonhaugh took advantage of his sudden downfall.
"I hope you see the mistake of a too hasty judgment?" he said.
"Mistake!" cried Roger, roused. "Mistake about her, if you like, who shames us with her innocence; but none about you. Have a care, Featherstonhaugh! If you think I will stand by and see one woman duped, and another played with——"
"You do me immense credit," said the other, with a pale smile. "I never knew I was such a Lothario."
"By heaven I will teach you then," cried Roger, setting his teeth, "if you put yourself in my way."
"And what is that royal road?" Featherstonhaugh asked, controlling himself and driving the other to fury. Roger had advanced a step, his eyes glaring, his throat dry with excitement—when an unthought-of interruption came. A trim figure of an old man, bowed but precise, moving slowly along the upper path beneath the trees, came suddenly in sight. It was the old vicar, Mr Weston, who had christened both of them and all the parish beside. The sound of his steady, measured old footstep rang against their excited ears like the very steps of Time himself. They fell apart by instinct, they composed their looks and banished from their voices all sign of the enmity with which they had turned on each other. Mr Weston was not deceived. He had heard high words as he came up, and had even seen the threatening looks of the two young men, and divined that they were on the edge of a quarrel, though he did not know what kind it was. The very sight of him stopped everything. Ridley was already conscious that to quarrel with his future brother-in-law about Lily was not a thing that was possible. Passion is a fine thing, and all-prevailing, people think; but when it can bring nothing but ridicule and social ignominy, men very rarely indulge their passion. His hand, which had been raised to emphasise his words, if nothing more, fell by his side, his angry countenance cleared. "What, Roger!" said the old man, "and you, Sir Richard! then I shall have company for the rest of the way. But you must come to me, for I cannot go to you."
The vicar had not been out for weeks before. He had been ill, and had been shut up in his own room during all the course of summer. This was the first day he had been able to go out. He was walking slowly, with evident weakness, enjoying the air and the landscape, but making slow progress. "I shall be glad of an arm from one of you," he said, as the young men obeyed him and scrambled up the bank from the beach. How could they disobey such a call? He had all the authority of tradition, of natural respect, and conventional propriety in his favour. They would each have made a considerable sacrifice rather than allow him to perceive any struggle. His calm assumption of friendship between them subdued them more than any remonstrance. "You have been on the water, I see?" he said. "Think you it is a good example for you to set, the two chief men in the county?"
"You must blame me only; Featherstonhaugh is perfectly innocent," said Roger, quickly.
"Only because it did not occur to me," said Featherstonhaugh. "I cannot pretend to have been better employed."
"Ah, lads, lads," said the old man. "I will take your arm, Roger, if you please. You will be foolish, whatever we elder folks may say. We learn to give ourselves no needless trouble as we grow old. And to wear yourselves out rowing on a warm day like this, instead of creeping quietly along a sunny bank as I do—but I don't suppose you are likely to mind me."
And he went on talking quietly, leaning heavily on Roger's arm, talking meaningly, though he veiled his meaning, taking it for granted that they were two friends, two brothers, as they ought to have been. Thus he led them with him to the Castle, neither of them venturing upon a word which was in opposition to therôlehe assigned them. Once, indeed, it occurred to Featherstonhaugh to take advantage of the interruption and to go home; for it was not particularly agreeable to him to visit his betrothed wife, under the risk of being exposed by her brother. But unfortunately this blessed fancy, which might have been the saving of all of them, though thus suggested by some good angel, was never carried out. He went on, unconscious that he was going to his fate.
The meeting with the squire and Mary was cordial and friendly. They were both anxious to show their pleasure at the sight of the vicar, and Mary gave her brother to understand that she would be personally offended should he steal away, as he had been too much in the habit of doing. Mistaken precaution; he would have taken the first opportunity to get away, and go back to the beach and waylay Lily on her return, had it not been for this warning and for that attraction of hostility which kept him fascinated to the place in which his adversary was. But Mary's senses were too fine not to perceive that there was storm in the air, that her brother and her lover were on anything but friendly terms—that they never addressed each other, never even looked at each other, and showed every symptom of a recent quarrel. The relations between them had been sufficiently strained and difficult before, and she was anxious and watchful. To keep them together, to beguile them into talk, to interest one in the other, was her womanish way of mending matters. Even in ordinary cases of incompatibility of temper it is better to leave things alone; but an anxious woman is slow to think so. She was glad and relieved when more visitors arrived, being Charley Landale and Murray, who now haunted the house at all times and seasons. Abel had never met old Mr Weston before. The vicar had been ill, as we have said, and the meeting now was quite unexpected. Murray had become foolhardy,—he had ceased to take his usual precautions. A man who has passed his own mother unrecognised on Saturday, how is he likely to fear a stranger on Sunday? He came in quite fearlessly, giving himself up to the pleasure of Mary Ridley's presence. She welcomed him as a most happy diversion in the smouldering discord of the moment, and eagerly introduced him to the vicar. "This is Mr Murray, whom I am sure you have heard of," she said.
"Yes, I have heard of him: Mr Murray, the great Oxford scholar you have all been talking of. I'm a little blind, and a little deaf, and you must forgive an old man. There is a youth at one of your colleges I would like to ask you about. By the way, he's of your own name; I forget what his college is. Abel Murray, a young man from this parish. God bless us!" cried the vicar, with a sudden start.
"What is the matter, sir?" cried Mary; "you are over-tired; you are unwell."
"No, no, nothing of the kind. It was just a sudden fancy. Perhaps you may know the young man I am asking about, Mr Murray? It's your own name."
There was a distinct pause in Abel's mind. The others were not conscious of it; but to him it seemed as distinct a pause as that which falls upon a criminal when he has to say Guilty or Not guilty. A choice seemed to be thrust upon him—truth or falsehood, good or evil. And yet the blood had begun to hurry so wildly through his veins, the mad heart-piston to thump so loudly, that nothing but a confusion and giddy darkness was round him, through which his voice came not like his own voice, as if some one else spoke. "There are many of the name," he said; "it is not an unusual one. You don't remember his college? Had you done so all would have been easy enough."
"No, I don't remember the college," said the vicar, gravely. He sat staring at the young man with his dim eyes, studying him in every feature. "He was a handsome lad, dark and handsome like the rest of his family. I saw his mother selling her butter the last Saturday I was about before my illness, and I told her how satisfied we were. He is a credit to the parish. We have never had a prodigy before that I'm aware of. And son of a poor woman, that sells her butter (and very good butter it is) in the market at Waterside, it's a great credit to him to have done so well. Strange, now, when I think of it, in this light, there's a great resemblance——"
Mechanically Abel turned his head to the light, but there was nothing but giddy darkness in his own eyes. The room swam round him, a pale mist full of inquisitive faces. "By Jove! that will be the brother of the pretty girl in the village—the Lily of Waterside, as they call her. I had forgotten her brother. I wonder what was his college?" said Charley, carelessly. He spoke lightly, meaning little as he was in the habit of speaking—when all at once his eyes caught his friend's agitated colourless face. In a moment Charley stopped short; his countenance changed, his under lip dropped, he stared at Murray with a face of blank dismay.
They were all looking at him now, every eye fixed upon him—the vicar peering with contracted eyelids, for he was short-sighted. Abel's lips were so dry that he could scarcely speak. The harsh laugh, which he could not restrain when he was excited, broke from him in spite of himself—"The college! yes, that seems the essential point," he said.
How they all stared. God help him! unhappy wretch! He stood up unawares, feeling as if he hung suspended by some waving thread of chance over an abyss. Now he was falling in wild vertigo, misery, and shame. "My lad," said the vicar, very pitifully, yet authoritatively, in the way in which it was natural to address Elizabeth Murray's son, "I hope there's no intention to deceive in what you've done. Why should you try to conceal what all can see—that you are Abel Murray yourself?"
He gave one wild glance round him. They were all staring at him, the room turning round, the light changed to darkness, nothing but a mist of terrible, upbraiding, wondering faces. Then he became sensible of one which was an embodied insult, a sneer, a smile, a look which spoke enjoyment of his misery. That drove him out of himself: he struck a blind blow towards the insulting face, and with a cry, half moan, half yell, half laugh of despair and madness, turned and dashed through the circle. Who might be in his way he knew not, and how he got out of the room he knew not. He turned his back upon them all, and dashed wildly out of the house.
Abel fled from the presence of those who seemed to him his enemies and persecutors in a state of mind impossible to describe. The excitement in him had risen beyond the bounds of endurance. All power of resistance was over, along with all possibility of making a stand against evil fortune. He was not bad enough for hisrôle. He could lie by concealment, and by inference, but not directly and in so many words; and the utter self-abandonment and unspeakable humiliation of his flight meant more than mere discovery: it meant complete moral ruin and downfall. Nothing but the entire giving in and relinquishment of every hope, the sense that he had no further step to take, no expedient, no way of escape, could have overwhelmed all his powers so dismally and so completely. For one moment only he had stood at bay, seeing as through a mist the sudden lightening and darkening of the faces round him—lightening of understanding, darkening of disapproval: he felt both to his very heart with a horrible anguish beyond all experience. He had been ashamed of his low condition, of his peasant birth, of his homely family, and this shame had made him do ignoble things; but he was not all ignoble. A strong perception, when too late, of the simple truth which might have saved him, contended in his mind with the bitterness of his shame and the rage of his despair. No possibility of anything which could be done to sot him right suggested itself to his frantic soul. It was all over: there was no longer any way of repentance, any rehabilitation for him. The weakness of his nature had found him out. Farewell everything—love, friendship, honour, credit! He would live no longer among the people who had found him out; he would not look them in the face again. He darted into the woods, running at full speed, not knowing where he went; anywhere, only to escape from them, only to avoid the look of them. Oh, cruel judges! oh, terrible tribunal! could he ever flee far enough to escape from it, to forget the look in their cruel eyes?
These harsh judges from whom Abel fled had let him go in the first shock, obeying that impulse of indignation which is so natural at the moment of a discovery, but so often repented of afterwards. Mary had stood aghast in her surprise, incapable of a word, and it was only when he was gone that compunctions woke in her.
"Oh, Roger! go after him," she cried, "go after him. Do you remember that he saved your life?"
Featherstonhaugh laughed out. He, too, was excited and uncomfortable after the other event of the afternoon, and this was a way of relieving his feelings.
"His knowledge of the place stood the fellow in stead. I thought so at the time," he cried. "To think he should have taken us in for all this time!"
Mary turned upon him with a keen glance of indignation. His laugh jarred upon her nerves. "Go, Roger, go," she cried; "if you do not go I will. Don't let him fall into despair: he saved your life."
"Whoever goes it must certainly not be you," said Featherstonhaugh in a low tone, catching at her sleeve.
Mary had no thought of going. She put up her hands to her eyes, crying in spite of herself.
"I think I hear him laugh as he did then," she said. "Oh, poor wretch! will no one go after him? will no one have pity on him? Oh, Mr Weston, I hope we may not all repent this day's work."
The vicar himself was very much discomposed.
"I did it for the best," he said—"I did it for the best."
The only person who kept his composure was Featherstonhaugh, whose ill angel evidently had the upper hand for that unhappy day.
"Here is a great piece of work," he said, "for the unmasking of a wretched impostor. For my part, I suspected him from the first. As for saving Roger's life, it was not much after all—any child could have done it who knew which were the safe places. But he may have other claims upon your brother," he added—"claims you would scarcely understand."
"Do you mean to insult me before my father and sister?" cried Roger, making a stride forward, crimson with rage and indignation.
His opponent looked at him with exasperating calm.
"Is there any need for heroics?" he said. "I have no intention of insulting you; but it might be well to explain——"
"Oh, lads, lads," cried old Mr Weston; "what is this quarrelling about?—you that ought to be brothers. Hold your hands, and hold your tongues, you foolish——"
"I think there is some mistake," said the old squire. "Sir Richard forgets himself, and so do you, Roger. Go after that unhappy young man. Let him go to his family—that is the best place for him; but tell him that if he likes to come to me in the library at any time, I will be glad to see a man of his information. Learning is of no family," said Mr Ridley, with a wave of his hand. He was the greatest aristocrat of them all, but he had a sense of the fitness of things.
"If you have such an impostor back in the house, sir, I shall desire that Mary at least may not be exposed to the chance of meeting him," said Featherstonhaugh.
"Oh, come, after all," cried Charley Landale, "Murray's no impostor. He said nothing about his people—heaps of fellows say nothing about their people. His people don't matter to us; but he's no impostor, no more than I am, or you, Featherstonhaugh. We would both sing small enough in Oxford when Murray's there."
"And Sir Richard will excuse me," said the squire, with a stiff bow, "if I say that I can take care of my daughter. Mary, it will be best for you to retire; and, Roger, I have asked you to do something for me."
"I am going, sir," said his son, gloomily; but he went with reluctance, looking back when he reached the door. "You know where to find me, Featherstonhaugh?"