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"IT CAME UPON BOTH OF US AGAINST OUR WILLS."
"Hush, Clare; hush, darling. You must give up sobbing, and let me dry those tears," replied Margery, calmly. "Think, dear. You may determine to run away from Frank; you might even refuse the love he offers; but it would be his to dispose of still, not yours. I am sure he cannot take it back, and if he could, do you suppose I should desire it? My sister, look at me. If ever a thought crossed my mind that Frank Anstruther could be more to me than another, it is gone; and if he—"
"I told him I thought he fell in love with you first, Margery, and he declared he had never said a word about love to you. He never really knew what it meant till he saw me," said Clare.
The words gave Margery a pang, but she did not show it.
"It matters little, dear," she said, "since now you love each other. You offered to give Frank to me. You gave your dear child-self. You came to me long years ago, like an angel gift, as if from Dorothy, and with you returned health and life. We have been very happy, Clare, and now, I trust, you will be happier than ever. You are mine to dispose of, and I give you to Frank, and myself to be his sister, as I have been yours in the past. Have no fears for me, darling. If there were no Clare in the case, Frank Anstruther could never be more than friend or brother to me."
"Miss Clare has got her own way, as usual," said Barbara Molesworth. "She always would have it, by hook or by crook. The tale does not end as one would like; but I suppose it cannot be helped, especially as my own dear lady says she would not have it different for the world. There is one good thing—the cuckoo goes, and the proper nestling stays in the nest. But Miss Margery would not be content till her mother gave a fine portion with Miss Clare. And the captain says, and well he may, that he does not know whether he is most fortunate in his wife or his sister."
Clare and her husband are considered a model couple as regards devotion to each other; but the gallant captain tolerates no hangers-on, and his wife's love of admiration has to be satisfied with what he gives in no stinted measure.
They have a baby-girl—Margery's namesake and god-daughter, and her great pet.
There is one worthier, nobler in himself, as well as in position, than was Frank Anstruther, who is biding his time—one who knows Margery's value; and it is more than likely that before Christmas comes round again, the real young lady of Monks Lea will have followed the example of Clare, and changed her name.
HER MAJESTY'S MAIL-BAGS.
Two children, a boy of eleven, a girl just twelve months younger, motherless and neglected. Such were my brother and I, Norman and Bertha Savell.
Our home, King's Court, ought to have been equally beautiful, well-ordered, and abounding with everything that could promote the happiness of those who dwelt under its roof. For many a generation past, it had been one of the show places of the county, and brought many a tourist out of his way to inspect the art treasures and heirlooms that had been gathering for centuries within its walls.
As children, Norman and I knew little of the glories of King's Court. They had been waning ever since our mother's death, which even my brother could not remember. We knew in after days that she had been alike good and beautiful—a woman of culture, refinement, and strong religious principle, whose faith was manifested by her daily life. Our father had been used to lean on her, rather than she on him, for, though noble looking and most devoted to his wife, he was weak-willed, and easily led either for good or evil. After having lost the love of his life, he cared little what became of home, self, or even the children she had bequeathed to him.
A season of violent, unreasoning grief was followed by years of reckless living. The stately man became a wreck of his old self, and all his surroundings changed for the worse.
King's Court was robbed of all the treasures its owner had the power to dispose of, and old friends held aloof from its master, whilst they shook their heads and looked pityingly after the children who ran almost wild, and scarcely heeded by the one parent left to them.
It was said that Mr. Savell would have married again for money rather than love some six years after his wife's death, but that Norman and I were the obstacles.
The lady would have accepted the owner of King's Court, and dedicated her wealth to the paying off of mortgages and re-purchase of its scattered treasures, if there had been no son to whom the broad acres must eventually pass. But she did not care to redeem the estates for another woman's child to inherit, so this plan fell through.
Norman and I could remember how, once, in a fit of passion, our father used hard words to us, called us "clogs" and "incumbrances," and uttered some wish, the purport of which, happily, did not reach our ears.
Such hard words were exceptional. As a rule, we were only neglected. But for our vicar, Mr. Pemberton, we might have grown-up with less education than many of the village children received, but he pleaded for permission to teach Norman with his own boys, and induced my father to place me under the governess who instructed his own little Lucy.
When I was ten and Norman eleven years old, a new era began in our young lives. Our father had gone out with the hounds in the early morning, and, after a hard run, had indulged too freely at table. Refusing the offered hospitality of the neighbour at whose house he dined, he insisted that he must sleep at King's Court, and started homeward in the darkness and alone.
At midnight, the waiting servants heard the clattering of a horse's feet as it galloped down the avenue. It was their master's hunter, but riderless, and a brief search resulted in the discovery of our father's dead body on the road. He had been thrown from his horse, and his temple having struck on a sharp stone, he had died instantly.
In this emergency our uncle, Bernard Savell, was summoned. Many a long year had passed since he last crossed the threshold of King's Court, for he had grievously affronted his father and brother by investing his own slender patrimony in trade, at the instance of his godfather. Eventually, he became first the partner, then the heir, of this gentleman, and was at forty, wealthy and a bachelor. My father was very little Uncle Bernard's senior—only a couple of years—and the two had been much attached to each other as boys; but family pride severed and kept them apart. Now the younger came to grieve over the long-estranged brother, and to take charge of his orphan children. He brought his fine business talents to bear on the tangled web presented by the state of affairs at King's Court, and soon reduced it to something like order.
"The squire has imperilled the broad acres," said Uncle Bernard; "the tradesman shall redeem them. Your father has scattered many of the treasures which were the glory of King's Court; but I have had my eyes and ears open, and I know where they are to be found."
We knew afterwards that Uncle Bernard had long been aware of what was going on in his old home, and had employed agents to purchase what his brother was only too willing to sell; so that before many months were over the house was renovated, its treasures restored, lands were redeemed, debts paid, and King's Court was once again the pride of the county.
Norman and I, the neglected boy and girl, were placed under careful supervision, yet treated with such infinite tenderness by our good uncle that we were happier than we had ever been before. As to the kind and generous relative who had brought about these rapid changes, he found his own happiness in the knowledge of ours, and the almost worshipping affection we gave him in return.
I think there never was such a large-hearted and loving guardian as Uncle Bernard, and yet he was equally generous and prudent. He made no secret of his intentions towards Norman, who was already heir of King's Court—but not of unencumbered acres; for everything had been done according to law, and our uncle was sole mortgagee, in place of several different ones to whom our father was indebted when he died.
"It will all be yours, my boy, if you deserve it. But you must prove yourself fit to own and rule the old estate before I quite loose my hold on it," said my uncle to Norman; and as the years passed on he became satisfied of my brother's fitness to manage the estates and do honour to the old name.
He was very good and generous to me also—almost too lavish; for he petted his "Berty," as he preferred to call me, and was ever ready to bestow new dresses, new jewels, new everything that could please a girl's taste. But after each instance of prodigality, he would say, "Remember, Berty, I expect Aunt Bella to give you your dowry. She has plenty of money, which came by our grandmother; and as I have made things smooth for Norman, I consider it only reasonable that she should provide for you."
"Depend upon it, Aunt Bella will do nothing of the kind. She was angry at my father because he wanted to borrow from her, though she declined to lend. She never could endure me, because I was not called after her, though I could not be responsible for the action of my sponsors at such an early age as four weeks. She will leave her money to somebody who has already more than enough, after the fashion of spinster aunts."
"And what of bachelor uncles, Berty? Are they not often cross-grained and contrary?"
"I only know one, and he is the best and kindest darling in the world," I replied, kissing the dear face, which seemed to me goodness personified.
"Though he vows he will leave you no money," continued Uncle Bernard, after returning the kiss, as he held me encircled with his arm.
"Yes, though he will leave me no legacy. I do not want him to leave money to anybody, but just to live on and take care of me."
"Ah, lassie, I know a certain young maiden's mind better than that. She will soon prefer the care of a younger bachelor than Uncle Bernard. Do you think I was blind when Stephen Hastings spent last Long Vacation at King's Court? I could see that somebody's bright eyes grew brighter, and the colour on her cheek deepened, when that young man's firm step came within hearing."
Again I stopped Uncle Bernard's mouth with a kiss, and then placed my hand on his lips to prevent further tale-telling.
"I will allow no such insinuations," I said. "To come back to the previous question, let me ask if you have not acted unpardonably by encouraging extravagant tastes, giving me dresses fit for a princess, and then threatening me with Aunt Bella's tender mercies? I have a great mind to sell off all my finery, invest the proceeds against a rainy day, and dress for the future in blue and white prints of the milkmaid pattern. Far better do this than foster habits of luxury which cannot be continued in the future."
"Do all these things, darling," replied my uncle, composedly, "and prove the truth of what I have often told you."
"What do you allude to?"
"That you owe nothing to dress, Berty, but are equally attractive in shimmering satin or humble print. Still, I hope Aunt Bella will ensure you the choice of materials."
"I do not care a straw for Aunt Bella's money; Norman will always take care of me," I replied.
"That is what I call comfortable confidence, Berty; but you have good reason for it. Norman would not be dear as a son to me if he were not a good, unselfish brother. I do believe that whilst he owns a shilling you will be certain of sixpence."
I had like faith in my brother, and there was also a hidden consciousness that if I stood otherwise alone in the world, I could claim the devotion of a true heart and the protection of a strong arm to bless and shield me in my journey through life, if I so willed it.
True, Stephen Hastings had not spoken to me of love, except by those eloquent eyes of his, and all the thoughtful, tender attentions which it was possible for him to pay me during his visit to King's Court. I think I knew why he hesitated to speak. Stephen was a younger brother, with small means, and his way to make; but he had first-rate abilities, and great energy and perseverance, with friends also who desired to help him into a position where he could find scope for all these.
It was only to wait and trust, and I felt that Stephen deserved all confidence and was worth waiting for.
WE lost our kind uncle six months after Norman came of age. He had come to stay with us suddenly one day, and had been delighted by the manner in which my brother realized the responsibilities of his position, and predicted a bright future for us both.
"You will not disgrace the old name, my boy," he said, "and I trust you will soon bring a fair young wife to occupy your mother's chair. I picture you both—Berty and you, I mean—fittingly mated, and the sooner my dream becomes a reality the better."
Afterwards, he whispered something about Stephen Hastings, and said, "Even if he should take my pet without a penny, he would never regret it."
"He has not asked for me yet, Uncle Bernard," I replied.
"But I can see as far into the future without spectacles as my neighbours can, and I have bought you a wedding present on the strength of my prophetic vision. I mean to give it you now, but you must not wear it till your wedding-day."
"I believe you rack your brains for excuses to buy me things; but you must keep back your wedding gift till the proper time comes, Uncle Bernard," I replied.
"No, dear. You must indulge me by taking it from my own hand. If I should live to give you away to—spare your blushes, Berty, I will mention no name—a husband, well. If not, you will remember that I actually gave you these little souvenirs. Come with me."
Uncle Bernard led us to a quaint-looking piece of furniture, ornamental outside, but really a strong iron safe, and took from it a case containing a beautiful suite of diamonds, then some other jewels, and a purse with gold and notes. Besides these, he showed us a sealed packet, addressed, as I thought, to myself.
"Now, Berty, you see these ornaments; put them on that I may know how you will look on your bridal morning. Why, child, you seem quite awe-stricken. I thought you had experienced your old uncle's whims long enough to be able to laugh when he breaks out in a new direction."
Somehow, I could not laugh, and my eyes filled with tears as my uncle persisted in hanging the shining necklace round my neck, and clasped the bracelets round my arms.
"Put on the rest yourself, dear. I am a clumsy substitute for a tire-maiden," he added.
I obeyed, and Uncle Bernard looked admiringly as he said, "My darling is like a little queen, and now she must give me a kiss in payment."
I clasped my arms round his neck, and kissed the kind face of my more than father again and again; then whispered, "I wish I could tell you how much I value your love and tenderness, which are better than all the jewels in the world."
He passed his hand caressingly down my hair, as he said that Norman and I had been son and daughter to him, and filled a void in a solitary life.
"Uncle Bernard," said I, "you were never meant for a bachelor."
"I had other dreams once, darling, but the bright visions faded without becoming realities. It was, however, neither cruel parents nor faithlessness that came between me and marriage. Death parted my love from me, and soon he will cancel his work by reuniting us."
Then, quickly changing his tone, Uncle Bernard said, "We will lock up these pretty things with the purse. It contains some pocket-money for you to start housekeeping with; but so long as you are Bertha Savell you must not have a single gold piece out of it."
"But what other mystery is hidden in that sealed packet, uncle?" I asked, affecting great curiosity.
"That, my dear, contains certain instructions for the benefit of your future husband, whoever he may be. I have had some experience in managing you, and I wish him to profit by it. The packet, observe, is addressed to 'Bertha's husband,' and is to be opened only when some one has a right to the title. Were he to learn what sort of a person you are beforehand, he might decline to accompany you to church."
We all laughed at this speech; and then the articles were replaced in the safe, and we returned to talk together round the fire till bedtime.
Then Uncle Bernard was ill for some time, and kept his room; and it used to be my pleasure to go and chat with him as he sat in his invalid chair. But one morning the poor darling was found dead.
We knew afterwards that he had long expected such an end, for he suffered from an ailment against which medical skill could avail nothing. Tender in everything, he concealed the worst from our knowledge, only hinting at the possibility of an early call from our midst, in order to make it seem less sudden when it should come.
A YEAR had gone since Uncle Bernard's death, and Norman and I were looking forward to the coming Christmas season with happy anticipations.
My brother had wooed sweet Lucy Pemberton, my dear friend and old schoolfellow, and expected to bring his bride to King's Court early in the new year.
My engagement to Stephen Hastings had fulfilled Uncle Bernard's prophetic hopes, and I was waiting eagerly for news from my betrothed, who was a candidate for an Indian legal appointment. There were many competitors, but if Stephen were successful, our wedding was to take place on the same day as Norman's.
My brother and I had spent some time in watching and waiting for the all-important letter which was to decide whether this matrimonial programme could be carried out or no. In these days, when people "wire" to each other about comparatively trivial things, our patience would not have been called into exercise. But I am telling of what happened about twenty years ago, when King's Court was eight miles from the nearest telegraph office, and a special messenger had to be sent on horseback when a telegram came to Overford, our village, or the Court itself.
Our letters came to the railway station, which was also the post office, and were fetched thence by one of the servants. We were looking for his return, and Norman was pacing up and down and gazing from the window in turns, chafing at the delay.
"That mail train is always late!" he exclaimed.
"Like every other that calls at Overford," said I. "Did you ever know one arrive punctually?"
"Yes," replied Norman. "It was when I was going to town last spring, and, relying on its being at least regular in its irregularities, I reached the station two minutes after the time, and was left behind."
"When you ought to have met Aunt Bella at London Bridge Station, and she waited, bewildered and indignant, but firm in her determination to guard her luggage at the risk of her life."
Norman burst into a hearty laugh. "Shall I ever forget that scene?" he said. "Aunt Bella amid mountains of luggage, of which her parrot's cage formed the apex. She had guarded her belongings for two hours against all corners. She has never forgiven me, and never will. Here comes the train, thirty-five minutes late. I will rush across the park, get your letter myself, and save you at least ten minutes of suspense, Berty."
The train was only just in sight, a little puff of white vapour indicating its whereabouts, and my fleet-footed brother would reach Overford Station as soon as it would; but I implored him not to go.
"Parks will bring the letters," I said. "He took a trap down to convey the new housemaid and her luggage to the house. He will lose no time."
"But that stupid Frith will keep him waiting, if only to annoy me," said Norman, hastily; for a quick temper was my darling brother's besetting sin. He had fought and struggled against it, and often mourned with bitter penitence over its results; but the enemy was strong still, and the day of complete conquest seemed as yet in the distant future.
I cried to my brother as he was leaving the room, "Norman, do not touch the mail-bag, or you will get into trouble; and think how dreadful it would be for me to feel that I was the cause of it to you. Frith is not like old Joynson."
"He is a conceited fellow, who needs to be taught his place," returned Norman, his face flushing as he spoke. "But no fear of my being tempted to give him a lesson to-day. I shall be too late."
Norman darted across the hall, and, scorning the regular paths, quickly reached a short cut used only by our own family to facilitate our passage to the station when we walked thither. I knew that his impatience was all on my account; but I was not a little troubled about possible results. I hoped he might be late; for I dreaded a collision between him and our new station-master, Edward Frith.
Everybody knows what kind of position is occupied by the great man in an agricultural village—the squire who owns every foot of land for miles, and is literally monarch of all he surveys. He is generally beneficent and patriarchal, and there is a kindly familiarity between him and his people; but his sway was a pretty absolute one in my young days.
Such a position had Norman been early called on to fill, and through Uncle Bernard's generosity he had more talents to account for than those who preceded him, and less of the experience which comes with well-spent years than might have been desired.
Old Joynson, the first station-master at Overford, was a man who believed in the infallibility of the squires of King's Court. Had not his ancestors been tenants on the estate for ages? Did he not owe his post to their influence? And was not the word of him who ruled at the Court as law to the old retainer, in whom something of the ancient feudal spirit survived, despite the reforms and changes of the nineteenth century?
During the last years of Joynson's life, he allowed Norman to take liberties which no one in his position could permit without a gross breach of trust. If my brother were expecting letters of importance, he would seize the mail-bag, break the seal, open it, and select from its contents his own particular share.
It not infrequently happened that all the letters were for residents at King's Court, and though Norman insisted that old Joynson should look at the addresses, the man deemed it almost superfluous, remarking, often enough, "Of course, squire, you'd only take what is your own, or for the Court."
Joynson's successor was a man of another stamp; a smart, active, city-bred clerk, married to one of our Overford girls, but with none of his predecessor's feudal prejudices, and rather proud than otherwise of not exactly hitting it with young Mr. Savell. He would have scorned to call Norman "the squire."
Very unwisely, my brother attempted to continue his old practice; but the first time he lifted the mail-bag, Frith courteously but firmly requested him to put it down.
Norman did not heed this intimation, and would have proceeded to break the seals, but Frith seized the bag, wrenched it from him, and angrily desired him not to repeat what he must know was a breach of the law.
"Nonsense, Frith," said Norman, "I have opened the bag scores of times, and you may be sure I should only take what belongs to me."
"Probably not, but your act is unlawful, and whatever others may have done, I shall do my duty."
For the moment, Norman forgot himself. He was so little used to contradiction that his next words were wanting both in good sense and good temper. "Do you not know that I own all Overford, and am master here?" he asked.
"You are not my master, I am glad to say," was Frith's cool reply. "Neither do you own this railway station. I am answerable to my employers of the Post Office and the railway; and if you hinder me in the performance of my duty, you have to answer to them—not to me."
Frith waited for no reply, but passed into the little office, and subsequently handed Norman his letters through the usual aperture, with an unmoved face.
My brother came home angry both at Frith and himself. He related what had passed, and continued, "How I do hate myself for uttering that foolish boast about owning the whole place! It was a piece of idle self-assertion, and Frith put me down in the coolest way, by proving that I had no authority over him. I hardly know whether I am most vexed at myself or him."
"At yourself, I hope," said I. "You forget your place, dear, and Frith had right on his side. Were I you, I would never repeat the offence, and I would make Frith respect me, by frankly owning that I was in the wrong."
"What! Apologize, and promise not to do so any more?"
"Not exactly. But, Norman, dear, there is true dignity in owning a fault, especially one committed against an inferior in position. It shows that we do not wish to take advantage of our own, but would act simply as man to man."
Norman could not at once agree to this, or shake off the long-received notion that the owner of Overford ought to receive unquestioning homage from all around him. He was not free from class prejudices, and he showed his displeasure by entirely ignoring the young station-master.
Frith was not above feeling some exultation at having "taken down" Mr. Savell. He remarked to his wife that he had taught that youngster a lesson.
"If he thinks he can ride rough-shod over me, or play the tyrant because he owns King's Court, and all the Overford clodhoppers are cap in hand to him, he is mistaken. Let him beware of touching Her Majesty's mail-bags again, or he will pay for his obstinacy."
"He may be a little hasty, but he is kind and generous. Everyone gives him a good name, Edward," replied Mrs. Frith, anxious to act as peacemaker, while conscious that her husband's temperament was only too much like Norman's.
Weeks passed on, and my brother waited for the delivery of the letters at the Court. But when the day came on which we expected the all-important news from Stephen, his patience was sorely tried by the tardiness of the train.
At the station a further delay had to be faced. The train must be shunted for the express to pass it.
Frith and the one porter were engaged in effecting this, and the letter-bag lay on the platform. Norman felt waiting very hard work, and a half-threatening glance from Frith made it harder still.
The shunting had only just been completed when the express dashed through, and then the tardy train had to be brought back to the platform and started on its way.
Everything was against Norman. Frith's look worst of all. He determined to brave the consequences, and, snatching up the letter-bag, he broke the seal just as the starting of the train set Frith at liberty to attend to post office duties.
"Put that bag down!" he shouted.
Norman did not obey, but seizing the looked-for letter, he turned away with a light laugh, then said, "I have only helped myself to one. You may look at it, and my servant will bring any others."
Frith's reply was addressed to the bystanders. Pointing to the broken seals, he said, "I call you all to witness that Mr. Savell has unlawfully opened and abstracted a letter from the mail-bag. He will hear further about this act, and you will be called to prove my charge."
The persons spoken to included Frith's wife, who stood in the doorway, the porter, Parks, our servant, and the new housemaid he had come to meet, with two or three of the village people.
Then Frith sorted the remaining letters, counted their number, which would have been correct with the addition of the one taken out by Norman, and, having copied out all the addresses, sent them to their several destinations, and completed his task by writing an account of the affair to the Postmaster-General. Later in the day he said to his wife, "Mr. Norman will get a lesson he little expects."
"About taking that letter? Well, it was his own. He would never touch what belonged to any one else."
"That makes no difference, as he will find out to his cost."
"Don't send a report to head-quarters. Mr. Norman will be sorry, I know, and will tell you so. Just think of Miss Bertha, and pretty Miss Pemberton. She is to marry Mr. Savell after New Year. Why, if this foolish affair caused trouble, it would break the dear young ladies' hearts, and I do think it would break mine."
"The letter is gone, Mary. I could only do my duty, and I am afraid there will be no choice between a very heavy penalty and acquitting Mr. Savell. They could not acquit him in the face of such evidence, so he will have to pay."
"It was very hard of you to write, Ned," sobbed Mrs. Frith, who was very pretty, and a bride of only three months' standing. These were the first tears her husband had made her shed, and in spite of an approving conscience, Frith felt anything but comfortable. He paced the platform to get out of sight of Mary's sorrowful face, and could not help thinking that he might have done his duty without painting Mr. Savell's conduct in quite such dark colours. There are different ways of putting things, and if only he had not written when he was angry, Frith realised that the truth might have been told in a milder way.
As to Mrs. Frith, she consoled herself with the thought that the young squire had plenty of money, and would not feel the fine as a poorer man might. She never dreamed that a far heavier penalty had been incurred which money could not pay.
STEPHEN HASTINGS had passed triumphantly, and would follow his letter immediately. There was just a chance that he would reach Overford by the last train. This was the news contained in the letter.
There was great sympathy between Norman and me, and we rejoiced in each other's joy, but the thought of approaching separation was the one drawback. When I became Stephen's wife, I must bid farewell to my only brother, perhaps for many years to come. He, dear fellow, forgot this, I think, as he said, "We shall have the double wedding, and you will look like a princess in Uncle Bernard's bequest. You will outshine Lucy, who will wear no jewels on her marriage day."
I turned from the subject of wedding bravery to speak of Stephen. I was naturally very proud of the position he had won, and I said so, while from my heart went up thanksgiving to God for the success vouchsafed him.
Again came words of joyous congratulation from Norman, and a proposition that we should go together to the station, on the chance of meeting Stephen.
"We will start early, for I want to make things right with Frith," added Norman. "He is a good fellow, though a little overbearing, and I am too happy to remain at enmity with any one."
I took alarm at these words, and exclaimed, "Surely you did not touch the mail-bag again, after being warned!"
"Yes, dear, I did. The shunting of the train took so much time that I lost patience and helped myself to your letter. Frith was in a rage, but I shall make things straight with him by a handshake and a promise not to offend again."
"I am so grieved, Norman. You have incurred a risk for my sake, and I fear we shall have trouble," I said. Tears came to my eyes, for I felt it would be too dreadful to have our happiness clouded over by this freak of my dear but rash brother.
"No crying, Berty. You attach too much importance to such a trifling matter. I tell you I will speak to Frith."
There was no help for it. I could only hope for the best, and the sight of Stephen's beaming face, as he leaped from the train, made me for the moment forget all but present happiness.
"You two will like to walk to the Court," said Norman, after the first hand-shakings and congratulations were over. "Parks will see to the luggage, and I want a word with the station-master."
Stephen and I gladly obeyed, and left the station together. Norman turned to Frith, and in his frank way, said—
"I owe you an apology for having meddled with the mail-bag. I was wrong, and you were right; shake hands and receive my pledge never to repeat the offence. Here is the letter I took. Examine the date—the contents, if you like-and satisfy yourself that I took only my own property."
Norman's apology, his friendly manner, and bright, happy face, drove away all bitter feeling from Frith's mind. He would have liked to grasp the hand so frankly offered, but held back, knowing what he had written to head-quarters about the raid on the letter-bag.
"Surely you bear no malice, Frith," said Norman. "I own I was wrong, and I think all the more of you for fearlessly doing your duty and rebuking me."
"It is not that, sir. I had a duty to perform—"
"Yes, yes; and you did it. No need for another word."
"But you are not, perhaps, aware that I felt compelled to report what had passed. My letter must have reached head-quarters by this time, and there will be an inquiry."
"Do you think the knowledge that you have reported me makes me less anxious to shake hands with you, Frith? Not a bit of it."
Again Norman extended his hand, and Frith grasped it, feeling the while woefully concerned at the trouble which was hanging over the kindhearted but impetuous young squire.
"There, now; that is done with, and I do not mind telling you why I was so eager to get hold of the letter, to which I so improperly helped myself this morning. You are a young man, and have just won a good and pretty wife, so you will be pleased to know that we shall soon have a double wedding at the Court. At Overford we are very clannish—something like one great family, and we talk over probable social changes very freely, without troubling ourselves about little differences in means and position. You are not Overford born, but you can claim affinity through your wife, and I am sure will sympathize with us in our happy prospects."
Poor Frith looked rueful enough as he stammered out his congratulations, then added, "I have something to confess and to regret. I was very angry when I wrote that report."
"And did not try to soften matters. I am hasty myself, and can quite understand how you felt when I defied you. What shall I get, Frith—a stern reprimand, or have to pay heavily in coin of the realm?"
"Neither, sir, I am afraid. I hope the actual penalty incurred may not be enforced."
"Well, good night; I must await my punishment with what patience I may. I hope it may be a sentence to matrimony in a fortnight instead of a month."
And Norman started homeward feeling as light-hearted and happy as possible.
Stephen and I were eagerly waiting to tell him our news, for my beloved had distanced all competitors, and every one foretold a brilliant professional future for him. After these more interesting details had been gone through, I asked if Norman had made all smooth with Frith.
"To be sure I have; and now your affair is over, Stephen, I shall not be tempted to break my word by again meddling with Her Majesty's mail-bags."
"I do not understand the allusion," said Stephen. "Berty has been worrying herself about something: I can hardly tell what. Let me have your version."
Norman coloured and looked a little ashamed, but told the story without sparing himself.
I spoke indignantly as he ended—"It was too bad of Frith to write straight off about such a ridiculous affair. He might have waited for Norman to explain."
Stephen looked, as I thought, needlessly grave.
"Frith was undoubtedly right," he said. "There could be no explanation, dear. I should have done as he did."
I took alarm, for Stephen's face was always eloquent, and I was sure he anticipated coming trouble; but Norman interposed before I could ask any further questions.
"No gloomy retrospections—no evil forebodings. Frith and I are good friends, and future misunderstandings impossible. Now for a pleasanter subject. We have fixed the week for the weddings—what about the day?"
Stephen promptly suggested Monday, but was snubbed and silenced by me, though I knew he and I must sail for the East very soon after our marriage. Finally, Thursday was agreed upon, subject to Lucy's sanction.
We three lingered until a rather late hour, but after I had retired, Norman asked Stephen why he looked so grave on hearing his story about the affair with the mail-bag.
"You are learned in the law. Tell me what my freak will cost, Stephen?"
"I am afraid it is not a matter of money," replied Stephen; "but, you know, I have had no actual experience of exactly such a case."
His unwillingness to answer directly made Norman uneasy, and, laying his hand on that of his friend, he asked—
"Is it a matter of imprisonment? Surely I shall not have to pay so dearly for what was only a piece of foolish bravado! But let me know the worst that can happen."
Stephen told him in two words—"Seven years."
Poor Norman! He was utterly unprepared for such a response, and felt certain that Steve was wrong. At the worst, he had only anticipated a heavy fine or a sharp reprimand, and he was stunned by the words. The colour forsook his face, and he dropped back on the seat from which he had risen, utterly overcome, gasping out, "You must be mistaken."
"I wish I were," said Stephen; "but I do happen to know the exact law in such a case, for I was concerned in one a few months back. There was, however, this difference between it and yours. The man who opened the mail-bag did it to obtain a letter not intended for him, and the contents of which enabled him to carry out successfully a plan for a gigantic robbery. But had the plot failed, the abstraction of the letter alone rendered him liable to seven years' imprisonment."
"There must be mitigations," said Norman.
"Unfortunately, there are none. The law has long been in existence, and has remained unaltered to the present day. The penalty for such an offence is seven years or nothing."
Norman did not speak in reply, but made a rush to the library, and began to rummage amongst a collection of law books, for the Savells had been on the Commission for generations past. After some time, he found what he wanted, and it confirmed the opinion expressed by Stephen. He laid down the book in dumb despair, and seemed to age visibly before Steve's pitying eyes, and scarcely to heed the more hopeful words he strove to utter.
Stephen, indeed, did not feel hopeful, so, naturally, his words had not a very genuine ring with them. He knew, as Norman might have done, how important it is to prevent the mails from being tampered with. Every subject of the Queen has an interest in their safe keeping, and every loyal subject should be their protector. So, with these thoughts in his mind, no wonder his words carried little consolation to Norman's.
He, poor fellow, spent an almost sleepless night, and came down in the morning looking haggard and unrefreshed. He implored Stephen not to tell either me or Lucy what was hanging over him, and awaited as best he might the result of his rashness.
It was hard to preserve a calm face and go into all the details in connection with wedding festivities without betraying his dread that his plans might never be carried out. But he went through his task with the courage of a martyr, and, after a long wearying day, lay down to dream that he was a prisoner in a felon's dress, and hopelessly severed from Lucy and the home of which she was to have been the mistress.
THE Savell Arms, as the one inn at Overford was named, stood near the station and within sight of the Court, and furnished fitting accommodation for those who could be contented with exquisite cleanliness and simple country dainties, served by a village maiden instead of a town-bred waiter.
Two days after the unfortunate affair with the mail-bag, a stranger arrived at Overford, and sought accommodation at The Arms, guided thither by the station-master, who doubted whether the little inn would furnish a fitting shelter for so great a personage as one of Her Majesty's Post Office inspectors. But the new-comer was charmed with its appearance, so different from the huge wilderness in which he was often obliged to sojourn, and said the quiet would be delicious.
He had come down, first and foremost, about this mail-bag business, but he had other places to inspect, and would make Overford the centre, as trains were fairly convenient for visiting them.
After due rest and refreshment, the inspector held conference with Frith.
"This is an unpleasant affair," he said, "but you have acted most creditably, especially considering the position of the offender. Your King's Court squire seems to regard himself as above all law, but he will have to learn a new lesson."
Frith looked as miserable as though the compliment just paid him had been a threat of dismissal, and replied, "The matter looks worse on paper than it was. Mr. Savell would not have taken such liberties but for Mr. Joynson, who was here before me."
And Frith, with the permission of his superior, told the whole story, softening matters as far as possible, and making excuses for Norman.
Mr. Fisher, the inspector, listened attentively, but, instead of making an immediate reply, he read over Frith's written statement. For a moment, the thought came into his mind that Frith had been bribed during the interval, to make the case seem better than it was, in order to save the offender. He looked keenly into Frith's face, in which he noted an expression of truthfulness and honesty, which contradicted the suspicion; but he remarked, "I find a great difference between the tone of your report and your verbal account."
The young man's face flushed, but he met the keen glance with honest eyes and words—
"I was angry when I wrote, and I am afraid I was thinking more about Mr. Savell having set me at defiance than of his offence against the law. I am not angry now, and though I can only tell the truth, I can do so without passion, and would gladly undo the effect of my first harsh words."
"What has caused this change of feeling?"
"After I had sent off the letter, I began to think of Mr. Savell's many excellences. He is a capital landlord, a true friend to the poor, a kind brother, and he ought to be married in a month to one of the sweetest girls in the world. He has been naturally accustomed to think a great deal of himself, as the largest landowner of the neighbourhood, and old Joynson had let him do as he liked with the mail-bags, and never said him nay. There are many things to be said in excuse for Mr. Savell."
"Were not all these things equally true when you wrote your report of the affair?"
"Yes, sir, but I was in a passion. A man does not like to be defied when doing his duty. I should have reported my own brother, or the Prince of Wales, I hope, if he had done what Mr. Savell did. All I wish is that I had written in a better and kinder spirit, instead of making the worst of things. That same evening, Mr. Savell came and apologized in the frankest way, and brought the letter to show me. He has no idea, I believe, of what he has laid himself open to, but he was sorry for having insulted me when I was doing my duty. Besides, he owned he had set a bad example, when his very position should have made him anxious to set a good one. Must you take any proceedings, sir?" asked Frith, after a brief pause, during which Mr. Fisher was evidently thinking things over.
"I must indeed, Frith. The mail-bags are trusted to the honour of the people, as it were, tied only with a string and secured by a seal which a child's hand could loose and break. They are flung down on the platforms as if they were of little importance, yet think what sacred deposits they enclose. Everybody is interested in their safety, and the law, while trusting so much, imposes a heavy penalty on any violation of the trust. An instance of the kind is rare indeed. Now, if we were to gloss over this offence of Mr. Savell, what would the world say?"
"I suppose they would say that a rich man was allowed to do what a poor man was not; that a labourer who meddled with the mails would be marched straight to gaol, whilst the squire went scot free," replied Frith, ruefully. "But, oh dear! What will become of Miss Pemberton and Miss Savell? It will break their hearts!" And the young man groaned audibly.
A brief question or two, and Frith became loquacious enough, and Mr. Fisher heard all about the intended marriages, the charms of the brides-elect, and the learning of Stephen Hastings, who was to fill some high position abroad, he had been told.
The young man used all his eloquence, but his story came to an end at length; and in spite of it, Mr. Fisher found himself compelled to apply for a summons against Norman Savell, to appear and answer before the magistrates for the offence he had committed.
The application caused no small commotion in the mind of the gentleman who received it. There was no magistrate within a wide radius who was not personally acquainted with my brother, and the lawyer to whom Mr. Fisher wished to entrust the conduct of the case flatly refused it. He was Norman's own agent and legal adviser.
The magistrate could not refuse to grant a summons, but owned that he did it with extreme reluctance.
"Let me see," he said, "this is Saturday. We meet on Monday, and I dare pledge myself for Mr. Savell's presence to answer any charge against him. And, Mr. Fisher, you are alone in this neighbourhood. Will you, by way of passing the time, dine with me to-morrow? My carriage shall fetch you from the inn, in time for church, and take you back in the evening, unless you would prefer taking a bed here to be ready for Monday morning."
Mr. Fisher thanked the speaker, but declined the invitation.
"No doubt you are right, but," here the worthy magistrate lowered his voice, "you must let me say a word for my friend Savell. A worthy young man. Impetuous, if you like, but incapable of anything dishonourable. I am as sure as though I had seen it, that the letter he took was his own."
"I have no doubt of it," was the reply. "I can feel no prejudice against Mr. Savell, of whom I hear so much that is excellent; but I have an official duty to perform, though I do it with regret."
"Of course. You can have no wish to be hard, and no doubt you will do what you can, consistently with duty, to soften matters. We magistrates can only administer the laws, we cannot alter them but there are such things as recommendations on behalf of an unwitting offender. Sometimes, a case need not be pressed. The justice of the law can be tempered with mercy, and you, Mr. Fisher, can recommend leniency in dealing with this case. Good day, and I shall hope to meet you under more agreeable circumstances."
Mr. Fisher felt his hand grasped by the speaker, who subsequently congratulated himself that he had put in an effectual plea for Norman. Indeed: he told me afterwards of his efforts on my brother's behalf, and assured me that he had been enabled to render him a signal service without in the least compromising his own dignity or that of the bench.
MR. FISHER attended Overlord Church on the following morning, and had no difficulty in recognising Norman and myself. The likeness between us betrayed the relationship, and he guessed that the third occupant of the pew must be Stephen. In his face, too, Mr. Fisher saw a reflection of an old friend's. He knew afterwards that Sir Vernon Hastings, Stephen's eldest brother, and he were old friends and had been schoolfellows.
Norman's face had an anxious expression that morning which neither Lucy nor I could account for.
Stephen was in the secret, for he had informed my brother as the two men were strolling in the park together that a warrant for his arrest was certain to be issued. They had agreed to say nothing to Lucy or myself until the secret could be kept no longer.
"No use to give them needless anxiety. If the worst comes they will know soon enough, without meeting trouble on the way," said Norman and Stephen assented.
But who can keep a secret in a village where events are few and eyes and ears always open? Norman and Stephen might keep their counsel; but, in spite of their reticence, a rumour got abroad that the young squire was going to be tried for his life for breaking open the mail-bag.
As I was preparing for dinner on Sunday afternoon, I was struck by the combined dolefulness and mystery observable in my attendant's manner. An inquiry on my part brought a burst of tears from Ellen.
"Are you ill, or have you been quarrelling With Tom?" I asked; for the girl, a pretty, modest creature, was engaged to a farmer's son in the neighbourhood.
"Oh dear no, Miss Berty. We never quarrel, and I am quite well."
"Then tell me what is amiss. You have only to, speak, if I can do anything to remove the trouble."
"It is nothing about myself, miss. It is the young squire."
"My brother!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean? He was well an hour ago. What has happened since then?"
Glancing towards the mirror, I caught a glimpse, of my face, from which every trace of colour had fled, and Ellen, frightened at the effect of her words, said—
"You must not be alarmed, miss. Mr. Savell is all right in himself, only it is the trouble about the mail-bag that is on all our minds. They do say in the kitchen that it is a hanging matter for anybody, if he was a duke, to break the seal of one. Anyway, we all know that the squire is to be brought before the magistrates, and tried for it to-morrow morning."
"Nonsense, Ellen! People are not hanged for trifles nowadays. As to trying my brother, you may be sure he knows nothing about it, or I should have heard also. There was a little dispute with Frith at the station, but Mr. Savell made all right, and there the matter ended. You are a good, tender-hearted girl; but there is nothing to grieve about, or I should be crying too," said I, smiling at my little maid.
"But, ma'am—Miss Berty, I know for a fact that Frith wrote to the Queen, or somebody very great, and a gentleman was sent from London to have the young master tried. And Parks saw a policeman from town show a paper to the squire, and then the two walked away together."
"You are wrong, Ellen. My brother would have told me, were there any ground for such a report."
"Indeed I am not mistaken," said Ellen. "I wish I were. The London gentleman was at church this morning; you must have seen him yourself, Miss Berty."
"There was a stranger, a fine, tall man, and he sat—"
"In Tom's father's pew," interposed Ellen, eagerly, and forgetting her good manners. "He is staying at The Arms, and Frith has been backwards and forwards to see him there. Frith is cut up enough that he will have to give evidence against the squire, though he was vexed with him at first. But, dear, dear! There goes the five minutes' bell, and you are not ready for dinner."
My attendant had almost suspended operations during the conversation, for though her tongue went fast enough her hands were idle, and I was a too deeply interested listener to notice the lapse of time.
I hastened to make up for lost minutes, and went downstairs with a troubled face, and little appetite for the coming meal.
A glance at Norman's face confirmed my fears as to the truth of what I had heard. He was evidently ill at ease, and though Stephen tried hard to keep up a cheerful conversation, he failed ignominiously. He could not feel indifferent as to the result of Norman's escapade, or ignore my brother's evident depression.
When the servants had left the room, Norman made an excuse for his dulness. "I have a stupid headache," he began; but I interrupted him.
"Heartache, you mean, Norman. Why did you try to hide it, dear, instead of letting Lucy and me share your troubles, whether small or great? It is useless to try and keep secrets in a place like this. The whole village is in a state of excitement about your coming 'trial.' And though it is not quite a 'hanging matter,' as reported, it is serious enough to cloud my dear brother's brow and make him anxious."
My allusion to the "extreme penalty of the law" did good service by giving a ludicrous aspect to the affair, and both Norman and Steve burst into a hearty laugh.
"No, Berty, they surely do not think your brother will pay for his fault with his life! That is quite too ridiculous," said Stephen, wiping mirthful moisture from his eyes. Another prolonged laugh followed, and I was glad that I had repeated Ellen's absurd tale, since it had chased the cloud from Norman's brow for the moment. When he could speak, he told me all.
"I only wished to save you and Lucy from over-anxiety," he said. "You know, dear, I have perfect confidence in you both."
"Not enough to understand that there is truer kindness in letting us share the trouble of those we love than in hiding it, Norman," I replied, as I stood with my arm round his neck, and his bonnie curly head resting on my shoulder.
Then we three resolutely strove to put aside our gloomy forebodings, and to talk as if doubts and fears were strangers to our minds. If we had peeped just then into the housekeeper's room, we should have seen the good dame and my waiting-damsel mingling their tears as they sipped their tea together.
The elder woman was bemoaning Mr. Norman's rashness, which had brought disaster and shame on King's Court.
"And only ten days off Christmas! What a contrast it will be this year to old happy Christmases which I have spent here, seeing I came a girl in the time of Mr. Norman's grandfather! Mourning instead of feasting and making everybody happy. To think I should live to see it!"
The sound of that burst of laughter from the dining-room reached the tea-drinkers, but did not prove infectious. The housekeeper shook her head and moaned audibly, whilst Ellen remarked that it quite made her shudder to hear it. It was like a person laughing with a rope round his neck!
The justices' room at Greystone was crowded on the Monday morning, and there was a full attendance of magistrates. Everybody wanted "to hear Squire Savell tried," but, owing to want of space, only a few were gratified.
The case was stated. The lawyer for the Crown expatiated on the gravity of the offence. Frith's evidence was taken, and confirmed by one or two other very reluctant witnesses. There could be no doubt that the squire had committed the offence with which he was charged.
But Frith had to submit to cross-examination, and managed to say that he believed Mr. Savell had no idea of the risk he was incurring, as he had been permitted to open the bags by his own predecessor in office, Mr. Joynson.
"Was there ever a complaint that letters were lost at Overford?"
"Never in my time, or, I believe, before," said Frith.
"Did you remonstrate with Mr. Savell? And if so, how did he act?"
Frith looked distressed, but replied, "I did speak to him, but he laughed, and before I could interpose, he again opened the bag and took out a letter. I was angry, and spoke sharply, and, being annoyed, I wrote strongly too. I should like to say that I have no doubt my predecessor's remissness encouraged Mr. Savell in the belief that there could be no harm in his opening the bag and taking out his own letters."
I doubt if there was one individual present who wished that Norman might suffer for his fault, beyond a fine or reprimand, and many approving looks were turned on Frith, for it was known that the young squire had set his authority at naught.
Norman refused to employ his lawyer, saying he could tell a plain tale without help. When called on for his defence, he frankly admitted his fault, and repeated his apology to Frith in public.
"I can say nothing in excuse for my offence," he added, "beyond what the principal witness has already suggested—namely, that I had been so long permitted to transgress that I no longer realized that I was transgressing the law. I was in the wrong, however, and must abide the consequences."
"Do you really wish to press this charge?" asked the presiding magistrate of the inspector. "If so, we have no alternative but to commit, and we have ascertained how severe is the penalty the law imposes."
"I have no present alternative," replied Mr. Fisher. "I am here in my official capacity, and must report to my chief. If you remand Mr. Savell until, say, Thursday, I will report progress, make a recommendation, and act according to further instructions."
The magistrate nodded intelligently. There was a brief consultation, at the close of which Norman was remanded. There was a perfect rush of candidates eager "to bail the squire," and soon the audience dispersed, with the conviction that whatever else might result from a second examination, the culprit would not suffer the extreme penalty of the law.
"I have seen that inspector with my eldest brother," said Steve, as he and Norman left the court. "I will hunt him up and find out who he is."
"Not till after Thursday. People would say you were bringing outside influence to bear, were you to claim acquaintance now. We will give no one a handle to lay hold on," said Norman; and Stephen assented.
"WHAT are you doing here, you gipsies?"
Lucy Pemberton and I were hurrying to Greystone Station, hoping to get back to King's Court without being seen by Norman and Stephen. They had ridden over early, not wishing to go by train. We girls had chosen the latter mode of conveyance, and had reached Greystone before them, though we started later. From a quiet corner, we had heard all that had passed during the examination, and thought of arriving at home before the young men, but were discovered on the road to the station.
"We had shopping to do, and thought we would come and complete it during your absence," said I, boldly, whilst Lucy did not answer, but blushed quite guiltily.
"Where are your purchases?" demanded Stephen.
"Do ladies usually carry home their parcels?" asked Lucy, recovering her self-possession. "Ours, no doubt, await us at the station."
"Confess, now. You spent five minutes in a shop, buying twopenny worth of Berlin wool, and the rest of the time in the court-house. You could not stay quietly at home, dear, loving hearts," said Norman, his face aglow with pleasure as he bent towards Lucy.
I answered, "If I am as anxious about my brother's well-being as he has always been to bring me good tidings, surely I have no need to be ashamed."
"Right, dearest," whispered Stephen; and Norman asked, "And you, Lucy?"
"Do you think I could bear suspense better than Berty where you were concerned, Norman?" was her answer; but she added, as if fearful of appearing less than quite candid, "We really did some shopping here."
"The results will be found at the station, doubtless."
"Indeed they will, Norman; though we did not finish our buying to-day. So many things are wanted for Christmas, you know."
"You will buy the rest on Thursday, will you not, Lucy?"
"Norman, how did you know?"
My brother's merry laugh disconcerted Lucy a little; but he became grave in a moment, and said:
"My darling, do I know your tender nature so little as not to guess that if it were impossible for you to remain at home to-day, it will be no less so on Thursday? Suppose, now, the worst were to come, and I were actually sentenced to imprisonment, would you wait for me, Lucy?"
Would she wait? Aye, a lifetime if need were; and though she did not say these words, her look was enough for Norman.
At the station I pointed triumphantly to a couple of bales containing pieces of red flannel for rheumatic old folk at Overford, striped shirting for working men, and sundry clothing materials for bestowal on families where the children were out of proportion to the income.
Norman poked holes in the papers to verify my list, and I added triumphantly, "There are blankets besides; but we shall not require your aid in seeing to our purchases, as they do not go to King's Court under our personal charge. They will be delivered at the house."
We were complimented on our marketing, and a hope expressed that our shopping might always be as expeditiously performed and to equally good purpose.
We bent in acknowledgment of the compliment, and then I was going to make some allusion to what had passed during the examination before the justices; but Norman stopped me.
"Berty, dear," he said, "we will say no more about the matter until Thursday. I have told all, and no one credits me with anything worse than a rash act, of which I am now ashamed. Let us be as happy as we can. Whatever comes, I shall have strength to bear it."
He looked at Lucy, pressing more closely the little hand which rested confidingly in his, and receiving a responsive pressure.
Look and clasp said more than words. They meant from him, "You are mine, whether in prosperity or adversity." And hers replied, "Yours in life and till death."
MR. FISHER was an object of great interest during the interval between the magistrates' sittings. His landlady declared that no pleasanter gentleman had ever stopped at The Arms. His residence there brought almost too many customers, for people were constantly dropping in to catechize the servants, to the hindrance of work, but little to their own satisfaction.
On Wednesday, Frith was seen to carry a huge packet of letters across to The Arms, and on the contents of one, the biggest of all, it was supposed the squire's fate would depend.
Mr. Fisher's landlady was so eager to gather information, that she waited on her guest herself, but could only report that he had put the letters aside and gone on with his dinner, as though they were of no consequence.
The Overford butcher, who was especially eager for news, remarked, "The gentleman had such a steak for his dinner to-day as few people get in a country place. And the mistress here knows how a steak should be sent up. The gentleman showed his sense by not letting it get cold. Letters will keep. I thought that when I cut that steak, 'He shall have a good one. A man is always kinder-disposed when his meat has been tender and he has made a good dinner.'"
The butcher spoke like a village philosopher; but there may have been an underlying reason for his anxiety for a happy result to Norman. It might be that an opposite one would affect the free-handed distribution of joints of beef for Christmas dinners which he was accustomed to supply.
"I say that if the Post Office gentleman had been a king, he could not have been better cared for or waited upon by a handsomer landlady."
This compliment came from the schoolmaster, who was suspected of writing poetry and of admiring the comely widow who ruled The Arms.
"I suppose you never ventured to say a word for the squire?" inquired a farmer.
"Oh dear, no. How could anything I might say help Mr. Savell?" replied the landlady.
"Why not? One of my lads read out of a storybook how a mouse helped a lion out of a net; and surely the missis here is better than a mouse."
"You allude to a common fable, my friend," said the schoolmaster, loftily.
"Fable or not, it teaches a good lesson," retorted the farmer; "and it is the good things that get to be common, because folks read them."
"You all know," interposed the landlady, "how gladly I should speak, if I could help the squire. But if I dropped a word about Mr. Norman being such a kind gentleman and landlord, Mr. Fisher would give a little nod and turn to something else. So I judged that he did not choose to be talked to about that matter, and that I might do more harm than good if I went on. Sometimes one may do more by holding one's tongue than by speaking."
"You have learned a difficult lesson. It is a grand thing to be a fair woman with discretion," replied the schoolmaster; and the landlady, who was not wholly superior to compliments, felt secretly gratified at receiving such from the best scholar in Overford, setting aside the Court and the vicarage.
Thursday came at last, and brought a happy ending to all the suspense and anxiety of the preceding days.
The solicitor who represented the Post Office authorities stated that, being convinced that Mr. Savell had no felonious intentions when he broke open the mail-bag, and seeing that he had already publicly expressed his regret, they had given him instructions, with the permission of the magistrates, to withdraw the charge. Only Mr. Savell must pay all the expenses.
The room was thronged as before, and the moment it was understood that the squire would not be sent to prison, there was a rush from within to let outsiders know the result. Then came a burst of cheering for the magistrates, the squire, and the inspector, led on by the butcher, who anticipated a more liberal Christmas distribution than ever. He was not disappointed.
Who can paint either the effects of joy or sorrow? Only can we judge what others feel by looking into our own hearts, and by the experience of our own past lives.
Before we left the court, Mr. Fisher came up to Stephen and said, "Surely we have met before. Are you not a younger brother of my old schoolfellow, Sir Vernon Hastings?"
Stephen clasped the offered hand, and told Mr. Fisher that he recognised him at first sight, but would not claim acquaintance with him, lest by doing so he should furnish food for gossip.
"If what I hear is correct, the Overford folk will now have a pleasanter topic to occupy them."
"Yes," replied Stephen, "we may now look forward to a double wedding. We all owe you a debt of gratitude for the manner in which you have used your influence on behalf of Norman."
"I am glad I could recommend the course that has been adopted, because no one here could doubt Mr. Savell's innocence of any evil design in what he did."
Stephen would fain have persuaded Mr. Fisher to come to King's Court for Christmas, but this could not be. Duty called him in another direction. He did come, though, for the 14th of January, and met his friend Sir Vernon, and several other members of the Hastings family, for "they were many."
It was a very happy gathering, with only one subject of regret in connection with it. I, Bertha Savell, just transformed into Mrs. Stephen Hastings, would have to say a long farewell to my only brother and my old home. This thought would come, and it made the only cloud amid so much brightness.
Sir Vernon alluded to it regretfully.
"Though Stephen has done so well, and gained a really wonderful position to start with, I wish we could keep him and his wife in England. I am new to the estates, and have but little loose capital."
"Because you have spent what you had in helping on a troop of younger brothers," said Stephen.
"Hush! Dear boy. Am I not in the father's place? I would not have you without work to do, but if it could have been here instead of in India!"
"Do not suppose that Bertha will be quite a dowerless bride," said Norman. "Uncle Bernard might declare that he would give her no share in his wealth, but he knew in whose hands he left her. Berty has always refused to talk of money, and Aunt Bella has made no sign, but immediately after my uncle's death, I set aside ten thousand pounds, and caused the money to be invested in my sister's name. That is hers absolutely."