A Widow's Tale, and Other Stories

CHAPTER I.

The Murrays of Overbeck, in the parish of Waterdale, among the hills, were nothing but a family of peasants. Nevertheless they were the cause of so much trouble and confusion that no ducal house could have done more to excite and interest the neighbourhood, which is the reason why we now attempt to give a sketch of their earlier story. The later part of it has, alas, by other means and in other ways, been blazoned before all the world.

Elizabeth Murray, the mother, was always considered a woman out of the common. She was tall and strong and handsome even in her old age, and in her youth it was said she had been as powerful as a man, doing many feats of strength altogether beyond the power of either men or women of ordinary calibre. She it was from whom the children took their beauty. It was not beauty of the full-blown rustic kind, but that of finer quality, the only true beauty, perhaps, in the formal meaning of the word: that which involves regularity and nobleness of features rather than the evanescent charms of complexion and colour. Elizabeth was not even exalted enough in position to be called Mrs Murray. She was addressed by everybody by her Christian name. She was a woman who drove her beasts to the field, milked her cows and churned her butter with her own hands, and would hoe and dig her potatoes without flinching, had there been need. But she had the carriage and bearing of a queen, and a majestic style of form and feature such as few queens possess. When she stood in the little market-place in Waterside, with her eggs and chickens for sale, she might have been a Roman matron—Portia, stately in old age, or the mother of Coriolanus. It was said that there was Gipsy blood in her veins, and no one knew where she came from, or how it was that a peaceable countryman like Abel Murray should have wanted to marry her. There were many who did not hesitate to say that she had driven the poor man to death. But it is easy to say such things, and very difficult to prove them. If her strength, high spirit, and imperious temper were too much for him, Abel Murray was not the man to say it; but he died, nevertheless, leaving her open to such accusations, as he might have done had he married a white maiden with no character at all. But he left all he had in her hands, with the three little children, who were as yet too young to be anything but encumbrances; and Elizabeth had worked for her children like a slave, like a heroine. All that they had in the world was a little house among the hills, far from all other habitations of men, and a few bare, unproductive fields, less profitable than they were sacred, as having been "in the family" for generations. Here the widow toiled and struggled alone, telling nobody of her privations and indebted to nobody, making out of her few cows and her poultry-yard enough to support her children and bring them safely through the simple dangers of childhood. From dangers more serious, however, where is the mother, however exalted, who can defend her sons and daughters? She was absolutely and passionately devoted to them, and during all the best years of her life toiled for them night and day; and if afterwards, when those perils befell them which she could not guard them from, Elizabeth, used to sacrifice everything in her own person, became selfish for her children and exacted sacrifices from others, such as she herself felt it natural to make, may not a little pity mingle with the blame her fault deserved? The passion of motherhood does not bear so high a place among human passions as it once was supposed to do, being set down now as a sort of animal instinct merely, we are told. But high or low, it is a very great and strong and overwhelming sentiment, and now and then works harm enough as well as good.

She had three children, all dark and handsome like herself. The eldest boy, Abel, was a young Hercules, stronger and taller for his age than any boy in the neighbourhood; and his little sister Lily, almost as soon as she reached her teens, had been talked of far and near as the beauty of Waterdale. Abel had other qualities besides. When he was about twelve years old his mother deprived herself of his services, then just becoming valuable, in order to send him to school. He went through storms and sunshine, never missing a day, whatever might be the weather, and in a year had driven the parish schoolmaster to despair, who had no more to teach him. He was as clever as he was handsome, and he was more ambitious than either, and full of that intellectual curiosity which is the making of a scholar. It was a fatal day for Elizabeth when she sent the boy to school, as all who knew them said. He could read and write very well before he went there at all, and what does a country boy want more? But after he had begun there was no getting him to care for anything else but learning. He borrowed all the schoolmaster's store of books, which was not great, and devoured them; then interested the clergyman and got admission to his library; then, best and worst of all, so caught the attention of a visitor that his whole lot in life was changed. This stranger took the boy and sent him to a school where he could learn more than was possible in Waterdale; then finding him worth the trouble, sent him to the university and made "a gentleman" of him. Thus, instead of labouring upon the tiny miserable farm, cultivating the late little patch of corn and working among the "beasts," and taking his share in the labours which his mother had carried on since he was a child, the boy carried his handsome face and keen intellect into the world, and throve, as was supposed, though the little house at Overbeck heard little of him. In one point of view, it was hard that he should thus deprive his mother of his legitimate assistance and leave her to toil alone; but then she, of all others, was the one most anxious that he should improve his position and rise into a higher place than that in which he was born. If she felt a pang at his complete desertion of her, she never put it into words, but rejoiced that he had made his way to better things, and exulted with the whole force of her being in the consciousness that her boy was "a gentleman." She bore the additional labour without grudging, and toiled on with a high heart, never fearing work. The work was sweet so long as Abel went on prospering and progressing; and the proud mother, rejoicing in his advancement, never betrayed to any one how soon this boy for whom she had toiled forgot all about his home.

By-and-by, however, it became necessary to think how Lily, her only daughter, was to set out in life. Lily had grown to be seventeen amid the silence of the hills. She had the education of her class, could read well enough, and write decently, though without any clear principles as to spelling, and she was no doubt in her turn a help to her mother, who was still strong and vigorous bodily, and in the prime of her days. Lily had plenty to do at home, and might have gone on there, never venturing upon the world, if she had chosen. But in that humble class it is recognised that a lass as well as a lad may naturally desire to see something of the world and to try her wing and her fortune even out of the cosiest nest. It never occurred to Elizabeth Murray to question this law of nature; indeed, had Lily chosen to remain under the shelter of her mother's shadow for ever, it is probable that the mother would have held it her duty to send her forth to try her own powers and strength. The only question was, what was Lily to do? To go to service was the first thing they thought of, and indeed tried; and the beautiful girl, looking like a half-savage princess, full of natural dignity, but untrained to conventional "manners," sometimes rude in youthful ignorance, if always sweet in natural temper, marched down from her native hills where all was wild and solitary and free, into the restraint of a little genteel home in a little gossiping village, and there made, as was very natural, a disastrous failure in her first place. Lily did not understand the many restraints nor the unceasing scoldings; and the minute and constant supervision to which she was subjected drove her wild with indignation and resentment. What was she, the daughter of a woman who sold butter and eggs in the market, to "speak back" to a lady—and to be as fond of her own way as if she had been a lady too? Elizabeth was sent for, and there were storms and passions; but the upshot was that Lily, after having been smoothed down and calmed on Saturday by her mother's representations and remonstrances, overcome by home-sickness and love of freedom, and general disgust with the world which was so contrary, ran away secretly on Sunday evening, and got home at midnight, to the great scandal of the gossips in the village she had left, who were very eager to find out who had been with her. But no one had been with her. Lily had not learned enough by that time either of herself or others to be vain. She was as yet more annoyed and angered by the stare of wondering admirers than pleased by their admiration. All life was still before her, a vague sweet chaos, undiscerned and undivined.

But after this it became more impossible still that Lily should tamely stay at home and help her mother. Though "the town" had been disagreeable to her while she was in it, it had a certain charm when recollected in the fields at Overbeck, where she never saw any one. The excitement of a carriage passing now and then, a party of tourists—strangers, perhaps foreigners—or of great people of the county, lords and ladies like those in the story-books: the wild exhilaration of a show or pedlar's van, the errand to a shop where countless desirable things were to be seen at least, if not to be had—all these sweetnesses, once tasted, leave a want, a void, when they have passed away, that nothing else can fill up. Lily felt this, though she did not wish to feel it. The remembrance of the constantly exacted obedience, the unrelaxing rule, and all the crosses of her first "service," were very distasteful to her. Home at a distance had seemed heaven. But, if the flaming sword had been swept aside, and Adam and Eve had found the entrance to Paradise reopen to them after the excitement of the struggle with barren earth, would they have gone back, one wonders? Home was (theoretical) Paradise to Lily; but how gay and how exciting, if not pleasant, looked now the little Purgatory below, which had seemed no better that an Inferno to the girl cribbed and cabined and confined! The very gleam of the light in the shop window, the lamp over the inn door—what a sense of dissipation and gaiety was in them! There was nothing like this on the hills, where the stars were the only lamps, and the tinkling of the beck all the music; whereas on the other hand sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the town, and once there had been a German band! The silence and the loneliness overcame Lily after that taste of the excitements of life. She was sick of her old familiar mountains; and the horizon on the landward side, a horizon which was contracted within the limits of a tree or two and a village steeple—that was the best of all.

Then there came sinkings of heart, and fitful ill-temper upon the part of the girl, who did not know what she would be at. But Elizabeth was learning wisdom, and knew. She said, "Lily, my lass, you must not bide here. It's fine to have you, but when I'm dead and gone, what would you do up on the fells? You would have to dig potatoes like me. Service is no heritage, but to have a good trade at your fingers' ends, what a thing that would be! I think I will speak to Miss Prentice on Saturday; that's lively. You could see whatever's going on out of her windows, and folks passing by to the castle; the young squire is at home, and there's balls, and I don't know what. I'm 'most sure you will like that, Lily, my dear."

Lily was too wild to respond with immediate approval, but her heart jumped. She had seen the young ladies and the young gentlemen out riding, and what a sight it was! They filled the streets, the horses' hoofs ringing like soldiers, and the ladies' long habits sweeping down, and the horses arching their shining necks. And when there was a ball, if you knew one of the servants you might be let in to see the ladies in their beautiful dresses, and to hear the music; and sometimes Miss Prentice would be sent for with one of her girls to hold the pins. Lily's heart danced at the thought of these delights. Miss Prentice was the dressmaker in Waterside, and lived in the street which was nearest to the gate of the castle, and where everything could be seen that was going on.

Here Lily went accordingly, after there had been various consultations between her mother and the dressmaker. "My Lily is a good lass; there's no harm in her," Elizabeth said. "You may think I'm partial; but who should know her like me; and who so anxious to see if there's ill in her? She's a good lass, but she's fanciful: she takes things into her head."

"Most folks does," said Miss Prentice; "especially them that is good for something. So long as she is not taken up with lads and nonsense——"

"Never such a thought has been in her head," said Elizabeth, with some heat.

"Ah! that's more than I would say of a saint. I'm not fond of the pretty ones, for my part; they're fine to try things on, for all looks well on them; but they seldom settle to the business as I could like. Lads are the destruction of the business; but you're an honest woman, Elizabeth Murray, and you've had a fight to bring up your bairns. I'll take her and I'll try her, to show my respect for her mother; and that's as fair as I can say."

Elizabeth made her acknowledgments like a duchess, with conscious dignity. "I cannot think a bairn of mine will ever shame me," she said; "if you take her canny, you'll never get a saucy word from my Lily. It's the unmannerly that make bad manners. If I saw her with a good business at her finger-ends I think I could die happy."

"Die! not you! You're not of the dying kind," said Miss Prentice, briskly; "and as for the business, if she will stick to the business, it will never forsake her: if she be not too bonnie for the business," the dressmaker added with a sigh. She was an enthusiast for her profession, as all artists should be, and sighed at the thought of those temptations of intrusive life which tempt the neophyte astray.

Thus it was that Lily came to Waterside to learn the dressmaking. She was a great deal too pretty for the business. Miss Prentice, who was a wise woman in her way, and who felt the advantage of having a girl (in such lonely places not yet called a young lady) upon whom every garment looked well, took great precautions in her treatment of the mountain Lily, and grew fond of her, and made much of her. And by-and-by Lily became enlightened as to the sweetness of admiration. She learned after a time why it was that the young squire rode past so slowly, staring at the dressmaker's window, and why other young men of less high degree passed the same way so often. She pretended even to herself that she was very angry with them all, for staring at her thus. But in her heart she soon ceased to be angry, and began to find the universal homage not unsweet. When she heard the horse's hoofs she was not averse to being visible or half-visible behind the fashion-book in the window. How handsome he looked on his horse, handsomer than the lads on foot—the town-lads who went and came, and saw nothing but the book of fashions! Lily's heart began to beat a little quicker at certain hours of the day when (she began to divine) he was likely to pass. He! of course; who could any one mean by that but the chief gentleman of the place, young Squire Ridley, who up the water and down the water was better known than any other man?

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had to help her with the beasts and the potatoes, and all her work, only the other boy, the youngest, of whom nothing has been said. No one thought it necessary to say anything about him. He was only Dick—he was the man of all work, though he was but sixteen. He was Elizabeth's prop, her right hand, whom she could always depend upon; but she did not make much account of Dick, any more than other people did. He never gave any trouble,—whatever anxiety came, it would not be by his means.

CHAPTER II.

When Lily began her dressmaking in the Waterside village, her brother Abel had just attained the highest object of his ambition. He had become a fellow of his college, and thus was provided at once with the means of living, and with a position which was doubly dear to him, in that it supplied his greatest want, a recognised standing-ground and social rank, such as it is. Nothing could be more honourable to a man than thus to have gained, by his own exertions, a position so entirely satisfactory; but there were elements involved which made his success very different from that of most of his contemporaries. He did not announce it to his family, or indeed give them the least hint of this new step in life, with all the advantages it brought. This was not because he wanted to be unkind, or from any mean desire to keep his prosperity to himself. Could he have sent to them anonymously, without risk of inquiry, a share of his income, he would have been glad to do so; but he did not know how to resume his intercourse with them in his changed circumstances. What pleasure could there be in any meeting now, he asked himself? It seemed to him that any contact with the rude homely habits of his own class would be intolerable: all the more intolerable that he could not deceive himself on the subject, or deny that the honest, thrifty peasant folk were a credit to him, as he, were he as good as they, would be a credit to them. It must be allowed in his defence that a young University man of distinguished talents and prospects, to whom the best society in the country might be open, and who was already on intimate terms with many young great people and dawning notabilities, had need be of heroic strain to be capable of confessing that his mother was a woman who sold eggs and butter in the market. And Abel was not heroic. He was excitable, susceptible, nervous, and visionary, doing little credit, so far, to his mountain breeding. Perhaps it was because the fact of his dependence, and the extreme goodness of the patron who had done so much for him, had been unduly impressed upon his young mind, that he was so anxious now to conceal his origin entirely, and shrank from his family and kind with so much dread and horror. But it is more difficult to explain how, doing this, he should yet have accepted the invitation which young Charley Landale, a much humbler member of his college, pressed upon him eagerly yet timidly. The Landales were well known to Abel, though they knew him only as a great scholar and "rising man," of whose friendship their son was proud. They were gentry of Waterdale, and it was thus to his own district, the very parish in which he had been brought up, that he was invited to go. It was madness to do so; yet he did it with rash excitement in consciousness of the danger, and foolish hankering after his birthplace: a kind of loyalty in disloyalty, very strange and unusual. Though the idea that his parentage might be found out alarmed him beyond measure, yet the thought of going "home" was sweet, in the most inconsistent way. Discovery would be death; but to dare discovery, to push danger to the very verge of ruin, was excitement, and made his heart beat. He liked the thrill of feeling, though it was pain, and might be destruction. His entire being seemed to be quickened with that mixture of pleasure, and wretchedness, and fear. And so it came to pass that just as Lily began to enter into the secret delight of having a lover who was "a gentleman," Abel reappeared in Waterdale, as the honoured guest of one of the best families in the district—he who had been a shepherd boy, a rough-shod, unkempt urchin, when he left the place. He was even told of the beauty of the village as he was driven through it, and directed to Miss Prentice's window. "There is such a pretty girl there!" Charley said, pointing with his whip as he drove past. How little he knew! Thus the brother and sister, unknown to each other, were brought together by the mysterious entanglements of fate.

The two greatest houses in the district were those of the Ridleys, who lived in the Castle, and were the oldest and furthest descended of all the gentry of the county; and the Featherstonhaughs, who, though probably of as old descent (for do not we all derive from Adam?), had come into importance only within the last four or five generations. Sir Richard, the present representative of the latter family, was still young, a man of five-and-thirty, and divided the suffrages of the district with Roger Ridley, the eldest son of the Squire, who was, though much younger, his natural rival in almost every way. Roger was the most popular of the two with the countryside generally, being what it is usual to call thoroughly English: a young man who threw himself into the popular life, was a bold rider, a fair shot, and ready to take his part in all the sports of his contemporaries, small or great. Sir Richard had his partisans more chiefly in his own class. He was not so frank and friendly, not so open to all comers as the young squire, but he was master of his own house and goods, whereas Roger Ridley was only second, and dependent on his father; and he was rich and entertained largely, which the family at Waterside Castle were not wealthy enough to do. This rivalry, however, had been apparently brought to an end by the betrothal of Sir Richard to Roger's sister, Mary Ridley, a young lady of whom Waterdale was proud. Mary was too good for Featherstonhaugh, the partisans of the Ridleys said; but it was a marriage so entirely suitable in every point of view, that no reasonable person could find a word to say against it, and all social difficulties and family contentions were settled by it. These details of local history Charley Landale told to his visitor when they strolled out, soon after Abel's arrival, "to see the neighbourhood," with which the stranger was so anxious to show no acquaintance. The Landales were within the charmed circle of county people, and highly esteemed in Waterdale, but they had no claim to approach the greatness of the Ridleys and Featherstonhaughs.

Landale took his friend to the water, and showed him with pride the beautiful lake, fringed by low hills, with lines of greater peaks in the distance. "There's the Castle on the right hand. I'll ask Ridley to show you all over it some day. It's a wonderful old place; and that is the chase, spreading along to the west. They have some of the finest oaks in the county there. The village lies lower down, but we passed through it, don't you remember? That's the beck, as they call it, meandering down from the hills. Do you see the road, like a white line, above the bridge? There's a most glorious view from that point. Oh yes, I suppose you who have been in Switzerland may despise it perhaps—but we are of a different opinion. I don't think anything in the world can be much finer—the lake in the foreground, and all the hills behind."

"You may be sure I shan't despise it," said Abel. How well he knew every point his good-humoured companion showed him!—Not a curve of the shore, not a little bay or inlet that was not far more familiar to him than to Charley. He had gone bird's-nesting in the chase before he was breeched. He had fished in the lake almost before he could speak. He had roamed out and in of all the wonders of the Castle, and could have guided the Ridleys themselves, not to say Charley Landale, about all its holes and corners. But nothing of this dared he to say. He stood and gazed like a man in a dream, feeling that it was unsafe to open his lips, and that even his eyes alone must betray him. But no one suspected him. The good Landales would as soon have believed he came from Jupiter as that he came under false pretences; and Charley believed in him as he believed in the British constitution or any of the other standards which are unquestionable by men of his simplicity of faith.

"Now look out," said Charley as they turned homeward, the dinner hour being near. They had made a long round to see the country, and had dropped in at the house of another college acquaintance five miles off for lunch. "Now look out—for if we have luck we may see the Lily, and she is worth looking at. It's an uncommon kind of face—not pink and white, like the usual village beauty; she's dark, as dark as you are, with eyes like two stars; you never saw such eyes. Come this way, it is not so dusty as the high road. This is the lover's lane—there's always a lover's lane close by a village; and by Jove, Murray, look out—here's a pair of lovers in it; bad luck for them, but rather fun for us. Why should two people always look so caught? They might put the best face upon it; they might have met by accident—they might be talking business. But they always betray themselves and look guilty. Hallo! upon my word; it is Lily herself—and," he added, with a low whistle of wonder and dismay, "Ridley, I do believe!—what an ass, in broad day!"

Murray looked at the two figures in the distance with strange intensity of interest. He remembered the young squire well, and all about him,—his lordly good-nature and liberality—the sixpences he would toss at a poor boy who held his horse, though himself very little older than that boy. He was interested to see him again, to note whether time had changed him much, even to run the risk of recognition; but how could Roger Ridley see in young Landale's companion the boy who had held his horse, and to whom he had chucked sixpences? Abel pressed on, somewhat eagerly, not listening to Charley, who had begun to think of retreat. "If we turn back they'll think no one has seen them," Charley was saying; "it's not a pleasant thing to be caught like this; suppose we turn back?"

"Is that your Lily?" said Abel. A great sudden flush had come to his face. They were not near enough to see her features distinctly, but there was something in her general air and aspect that struck him. Instead of paying any attention to Charley's suggestion, he went on with great strides. And by this time the pair had seen them, and Landale's precautions were of no further avail. Good-natured Charley did not perceive at the first moment that it was his friend's fault. He was compunctious as to his own share in it; but it was too late now to turn or go back.

"It is I that am an ass," he said; "a lover's lane ought to be sacred: but never mind, Murray, come along, there is no good in looking conscious now. Come along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Oh, yes, it's Lily, sure enough. There, she's off, poor little dear! I dare say she hates you and me. See how ceremoniously he is taking off his hat to her; met by accident, of course. Hallo, Ridley! you have come this way, like ourselves, to avoid the dust, I suppose?"

"That is so," said Roger, coming up to them with the portentous gravity of a man who has something to conceal. "It is the short cut from Grimston, where I've just been for my father. He is in full cry after some excavations they have been making. You know his antiquarian turn; and look here—I dare say it's some new manufactured antiquity from Brummagem direct—no, not that," he said, with confusion, "I don't mean that," dropping a little gold locket of very modern form and resplendent newness. Murray stooped to pick it up, but was forestalled by the owner, who snatched at it, raising a flushed and excited countenance as he hid the toy in his hand. "It is this I mean," he cried, taking an old coin out of his waistcoat pocket. Then he stood facing the two young men uneasily. "I think it is the hottest day we have had this season," he said.

It was not Abel's part to speak. He was himself too much agitated to do so. He would have known the young squire anywhere, if he had met him at the end of the world, he felt; and the sudden shock of recognition drove out of his mind the more important question who the girl was. He bent his head over the coin which Ridley held out in his hand. Why should not he be recognised as easily as the other? He dared not face the defiant yet abashed eyes with which the young squire stared at him, responding with a hurried bow to Landale's introduction. But the coin was safe ground; he peered at it, bending towards it as if he had been short-sighted, and glad of the little learning that gave him something to say. "Have you Roman remains here?" he said. "I think the coin is genuine." Roger Ridley started slightly at the sound of his voice.

"That will please my father," he said, and looked at Murray again. There was some thrill of likeness in the voice—a tone which recalled to him the other voice which as yet had scarcely died out of his ear—a fantastic likeness, no doubt suggested by his own imagination, which was full of Lily. "I will tell him you vouch for it," he added, with a smile, "and if he agrees with you (which he is sure to do, for one always believes in Roman remains on one's own land), he will think you an oracle. Bring Mr Murray to see the Castle, Charley. And good-bye, for I must hurry home."

"Ay, ay, he'll hurry home now we have parted him from Lily," said Charley, nodding his head. "You see for yourself. That is what I told you. He will commit himself and do something foolish if he doesn't mind."

"Who is she?" said Abel: his heart was thumping against his side with many emotions. To have looked the young squire calmly in the face, whom he knew so well, and to have borne his gaze, was surely enough for one day.

"Oh, a country lass, I believe; the daughter of a woman up on the fells. By the way, her name's Murray, like yours. It's partly a Gipsy name, you know."

"Is it?" said Abel. This time he could not hear his own voice, so loud was his heart beating. But he added, "All Scotch names have a democratic wideness; the clan includes both high and low." This was what he meant to have said. And as Charley looked quite unmoved it is to be supposed he got it safely uttered; but his blood was running at such a force through his veins, and his heart going like the piston of a steam-engine, with such tumult and riot of sound, that whether he said these words or not, or said some others in place of them, he never knew.

CHAPTER III.

Lily had met the young squire many times already in the Lover's Lane. The back-door of Miss Prentice's little house was near of access, and the girl had been too much dazzled by her conquest to think of right and wrong. Besides, had she been put to defend herself, she had, you may be sure, enough to say. There is no harm in meeting your sweetheart when you have no reason to be ashamed of him; and she was a free-born lass of the fells, and what if she did meet Mr Ridley and talk to him? Did that harm any one? She herself was proudly indifferent to being badly spoken of. "Those that know me," said Lily, "know me—and that's enough." She was proud, she meant no harm, and why should there be any danger in talking to a civil-spoken gentleman? Only ridiculous people with prejudices could see harm in it. It was a scolding from Miss Prentice which made Lily accord the first interview to the young squire. "It means no good to a lass like you when a gentleman comes after her," the dressmaker had said, and Lily had blazed into fury. "Them that speaks civil to me, I'll speak civil to them," the hot-headed girl said in all the pride of conscious purity. That was not the way to take a lass, the forewoman remarked, shaking her head; and she took the rustic beauty aside and whispered to her that however pleasant a gentleman's ways might be, the like of them kept honest lads away. "And to lose a good honest man that would give you a good house of your own, all for a laugh with the young squire, that would be little to your advantage." "Am I thinking of a man, or of what would be for my advantage?" said Lily, bursting away from this second counsellor, stung with vexation and shame. And it was in this mood that she rushed out, all tears and wrath, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing, almost into young Ridley's arms. There were ladies of his own rank in the countryside for whom he had a general admiration, and any one of whom, if thrown in his way, might have absorbed the thoughts of the light-hearted young man; but Lily blazed upon him in her agitation, more beautiful, and far more engaging, than any of them. She wept to him, and stormed and laughed and bid him go, yet let him stay, with all the caprice which is more captivating than good sense and virtue. He had never been so much amused, so charmed out of himself; no one had ever before so thrown open to him the doors of her inner being: and all these changes and fluctuations reflected in the most lovely eyes he had ever seen, and touched and modified and softened by reference to himself, how could he be otherwise than overcome? As for Lily, his manners, so different from all the rural lads, his respect and delicacy which touched the finer fibres in the girl's heart, even his clothes and external graces, and the princely way in which he would take off his hat to her—the swains of the fells did not think it necessary to take off their hats—subdued her wholly. Perhaps she was in love with the gentleman even before she was in love with Roger; but that warmer sentiment had already sprung up when she was startled and fled off like a frightened dove at the sudden apparition of these two strange figures strolling down the Lover's Lane. Two men! what business had they there? Another pair would have comprehended, would have been full of fellow-feeling; but the harsh unsympathetic appearance of the two dark figures shutting out the light felt like discovery, like a judicial sentence. Lily fled, though the moment was so interesting. He had just shown her a locket, which he was going to give her—the little glistening golden toy had been held up for her admiration, and her hand was timidly put forth to take it, "only to look at it," with rising tears and compunctions, when these two heaved in sight, and Lily turned and fled. As she rushed away with her heart beating, it seemed to her that Providence itself had interfered. To "speak to" any one so civil and so kind, to speak when you were spoken to, was of the very alphabet of rustic politeness. Who could find fault with that? no one—not even her mother. But even Lily, already half-beguiled, felt that when she took a present from the young squire another link would be riveted. Ornaments were not so common then as now, and the trinket was a temptation to her, as well as the still more delightful thought of having thus a link between them, and something of his which it would make her heart jump to receive and to look at. But a present—it was not right to take a present,—it seemed to bind her to something, it seemed like a promise given.

The path of the girl who has wandered into those dazzling forbidden ways, and has "a gentleman coming after her," is full of thorns and difficulties, if also of pride and dazzling hopes. When Miss Prentice and her girls were about to sit down to their homely supper, the little maid-of-all-work mysteriously whispered to Lily that there was "one wanting to speak to her," an intimation which set the girl's heart once more beating. Who could it be? She was half disappointed, half relieved, to find that it was only an old woman, who gave her a little parcel and had nothing to say; but when the enclosure, being opened, was found to contain the locket and a letter, Lily's whole being was suddenly penetrated with excitement and surprise, and that delicious self-consciousness which is made up of vanity and delight and gratitude. She read only a few words in the letter, words which seemed to fill her veins with a subtle warmth, expanding her whole being, and thrust it into her pocket, that she might obey the call of Miss Prentice, hungry for her supper, who was calling at the foot of the stairs for Lily. Lily had run to her own room to see what the communication was. She came down-stairs so rapidly as to account for the colour in her cheeks; but how account for the dazzle in her eyes, which were so shining, yet misty with the excess of light in them? Miss Prentice could not tell what to make of her: "You're thinking of something?" she said, with quickly awakened suspicion. "Most folks think of something—except them that's stupid," was Lily's reply; and what answer could be made to it? Yet, though it was a truism, Miss Prentice's query had a just meaning; something that had nothing to do with the bread and cheese, something very different from Miss Musgrave's petticoat and Mrs Armstrong's new mantle, something that was beyond the dressmaking, was in Lily's eyes. "I wish that girl was with her mother. I wish she had never darkened my door. I wish she were safe away, and no harm done," Miss Prentice said to her forewoman. "Hoot! there's no harm in her," said that functionary, who did not think her employer knew what way to take a lass. But the dressmaker shook her head. "Them that have little harm in themselves are sometimes the cause of plenty of harm to others," she said, sententiously. But how could she let the mother know, when all she had to tell of was that dazzlement in Lily's eyes?

And what a business it was for Lily to get her letter read and her beautiful locket looked at! She was not so happy as to have a room to herself, and there was "something to finish," which the girls had to return to, and which kept them stitching till it was late. When she tried to get away for a moment her comrades looked black at her, as one who was evading her share of the work, and Miss Prentice called her back, with something which sounded like a taunt. "You'll not go out, young woman, again, to-night," she said. "I was not going out, nor thinking of going out," said Lily, instantly on the defensive. "I was wanting—to look out, and see what kind of a night it was." So that it was not till the morning dawned, and showed her room companion fast asleep, that Lily ventured to finish reading that beautiful letter which was like nothing she had ever heard of before. She had not been able to sleep for thinking of it, and she had held her locket in her hand, and put it on a ribbon to try how it felt on her neck in the dark, not venturing to light her candle. In the blue dawn, as it gradually made everything visible, she did not venture on so much as this; but folded it away in its paper, after once making acquaintance with it, under cover of her little bit of curtain. Her companion slumbered soundly, unmoved by her restlessness. It was a grievance to Lily generally that this companion snored, but how glad she was that Sarah should snore this morning, showing herself fast asleep! She read her letter thus over and over, her young bosom swelling with pride and happiness, her heart afloat on a vague sea of imaginative delight. How his praises and his protestations seem to fill her very veins with sweetness, smoothing away all fear or trouble! The sensation was so exquisite that Lily did not know how to contain it. She, a country lass and no more, was it she that was that queen among women, that lily among all the meaner flowers, that angel on earth? She did not understand it, nor did she believe it. But the incredulous confusion of wonder and almost amusement in her mind only enhanced the happiness. Lily had never thought it of any serious importance what was said to her by any "lad"; lads talked to lasses like that always from the beginning of time; meaning—yes, something, no doubt—to make themselves agreeable, to gain a little amusement for themselves. But no one thought anything more of it: a stroll through the Lover's Lane, a laughing and a talking, a grip of her hand, or attempt, never successful, for Lily was farouche in shy pride, at a kiss—that was nothing, and meant nothing,—but this——?

For the truth was that the young squire had been much more seriously affected than Lily by the events of the evening. He had been caught in his love-making, and convicted of it even, for had not the stranger seen the little locket which he had bought for his Lily? Through the eyes of that stranger he seemed to see—what? His beautiful Lily, a mere village belle, to be flirted with by any one—by the stranger's self, perhaps, when his, Ridley's, back was turned. This thought irritated him in the wildest way. Perhaps he divined that Lily was not yet "in love with" himself, and therefore had no defence against the overtures of another; and real love is always modest, thinking every other adventurer more likely of success than itself. This idea had been more than he could bear. He had been a careless fellow enough, harming no one, indeed, but no way specially on his guard as to the looks he might send hither or thither, the words he might say; was this the retribution for many a light flirtation? The idea that Lily was but one of the others, and would lend as willing an ear to Charley Landale, for instance, or Charley Landale's friend, stung him to the quick. In an instant all the difference came home to him. Lily!—there was but one Lily in the world, and she was his, or else, as all poetry and romance said, he was no more his own. Nothing like this had happened to him in his life before. The idea of another man talking of love to Lily, perhaps gaining her attention, that was not to be endured. It was this that made him write the letter which she read in the blue morning before even the birds were awake. "My Lily, my darling! you hold my life in your hands," he said. Was it true? There was no reason for saying it if it were not true. Nothing could he gain but Lily, except the loss of all that it was possible to lose. His father, who was no dainty gentleman indeed, but proud as Lucifer, proud of his moss-trooping ancestors and old descent, was capable of excommunicating his son for such a crime, though he could not disinherit him; and Roger knew very well from what a height of scorn his sister, she who was to marry young Featherstonhaugh, would look down upon such a plebeian bride. All these things were food for thought before he committed himself, but his heart leapt beyond all thought when he wrote that letter pouring forth his impassioned heart to the soft, unawakened creature, who as yet knew no more how she was expected to respond than she understood any other mystery.

And there had been another stimulant to his rising passion administered that same afternoon. When Lily fled, Roger had stood still, thrilling in every nerve, and talked to the new-comers, longing all the time to pick a quarrel with them, little suspecting who one of them was; and when, having got rid of them, he turned, excited and irritated, homeward, whom should he meet but Featherstonhaugh, his brother-in-law that was to be. Sir Richard's engagement to his sister Mary had not been much to Roger's taste. The fellow had but half a heart, he always thought, and he was not worthy of Mary Ridley. Mary had thought otherwise, however, and it was she who had to decide. But when the young squire met his rival potentate in the moment of his own discomfiture, when all his nerves were jarring and thrilling, it is impossible to describe the causeless irritation that seized him. He felt more like a quarrel than he had ever felt before in his life.

"Going home?" the one said to the other, with all the dulness of a man who has nothing else to say.

"Yes; are you dining with us?" said Ridley, equally commonplace.

"Not to-day; I have still my house full. Did you meet any one as you came along? I have just seen a—vision—a—I don't know who she was—a wonderful creature to behold upon the road to Waterside."

"Here is enthusiasm!" said Roger, laughing harshly. "If it were not Mary—Mary, I think, has reason to complain."

"Mary!—oh, it was not a lady at all!" cried Sir Richard, with some eagerness. "It was—a girl—a—somebody of the lower classes. Mary! She would have admired as much as I did, had she been here."

"I would not advise you to trust to that," said Roger, growing less and less pleasant in tone. Featherstonhaugh looked at him surprised. He did not feel guilty in respect to Mary; in fact, he had not thought of Mary at all, and the suggestion annoyed him a little. Surely he was not compelled to shut his eyes in future to every beautiful face because of Mary! He looked at Roger curiously. The incipient rivalry and enmity between the two had not gone so far with him as with the other, but yet he felt it also. Roger was not of his species, a rough fellow, given to sports and rural dissipation, who did not know a Claude from a Poussin, or a Hobbema from a Ruysdael (in Sir Richard's day the worship of the early Italians was for the moment in abeyance, so he did not swear by Botticelli). The thought came upon him then strongly, as he stood confronting his neighbour and future relation, that to go through the world with this fellow always near would take a great deal of the pleasure out of life.

"And what was the goddess like?" Roger added in his own despite. He was so wroth and so sore that the smile he forced grew into a sneer without any will of his. Had the lout been drinking? was the question which, with some disgust, Sir Richard asked himself.

"I daresay it is some beauty of the village," he said, keeping his temper; "but since you did not see her, it is not worth while talking about it. I asked for mere—curiosity—because it is rare to see so perfect a face." Then he added, after a pause, "You met those other men, I suppose? I hear Charley Landale had a great scholar with him. Who is it, do you know? A known man? or only one of the lesser lights who may represent great scholarship here?"

"I never knew we were so ignorant in Waterdale," said Roger, finding it very difficult to master himself, "but I daresay you're right enough," he added, forcing a smile. "I saw Charley Landale with some owl or other, but I did not pay much attention. Scholars don't lie much in my way. I leave all that sort of thing to you, Featherstonhaugh; there may as well be some division of labour, you know."

"What will be your share?" said the other, not intending any insult; for indeed, it seemed to him, a man who knew nothing about art and did not care for knowledge, what could be his share of anything worth thinking of? Roger coloured to his hair, and said something that was not pious under his breath.

"I'm off," he said. "It is pleasant to know that you entertain so good an opinion of me." And with a wave of his hand he turned away. On the whole Sir Richard had the best of it. Roger went home with an additional sting in his heart: for it was true enough that Featherstonhaugh knew much more than he did, and could take advantage of all he knew, and probably a little more. And he was Mary's betrothed lover, confound him, and yet had noticed her! But of that, indeed, who could say anything? Could there be on the face of the earth a clod so heavy, a lout so insensible, as to see her and pass her by without wondering worship? A perfect face! Yes, indeed, it was a perfect face, but not one that would ever smile for Dick Featherstonhaugh.

CHAPTER IV.

A few days afterwards, Charley Landale and his friend went to the Castle by special invitation to see the old squire's books and antiquities, and himself. "Don't stay talking to the girls; I would as soon keep the Queen waiting for luncheon," said Charley, on the way down-stairs, "as the old squire. He is an old Turk if ever there was one. They dare not say their souls are their own. Even Mary—but of course you don't know anything about Mary?"

"No. I suppose not; unless perhaps I may have met her in society," said Murray, with a faltering in his voice which he could not quite steady. It was not in him to say boldly that he knew nothing about Mary—Mary, whom he remembered, from her floating hair to her dancing feet, a vision of delight. Her name thrilled through him, though he had only a boy's recollection of her to move him. Once, when he was just on the edge of the ascent which had led to fortune, Mary had been at the Vicarage, when he in his new clothes, the protégé of the Vicar's friend, had been there also, and they had shared the nursery tea together and made friends. The children had all patronised Abel, but Mary had been kind. She had taken a fancy to the common boy whom the young people at the Vicarage considered beneath them, and that perhaps was why he remembered her so tenderly; though by this time a little sentimental haze of fancy and distance encircled that meeting, and Abel was of opinion that he had entertained a boyish passion for the young lady who was so much his superior. With the strangest tremor at his heart he went to meet her now. He knew he should recognise her wherever he met with her—would not she know him also? The sense of danger excited him. He had his nerves strung for self-defence, not remembering what other uglier words might apply perhaps to what he said—Lies! in strict fact it might be so; but it is very seldom at Abel's age that one has boldness to characterise the little fictions that may be necessary to give the world a true impression of one's dignity boldly as lies: they are, perhaps, inventions, little flights of the imagination; or he who tells them is "led into them," not by premeditation, unconsciously, by accident; lies are told by other people, seldom by ourselves. If they asked him point-blank whether he was Abel Murray, why then, to be sure—but they were not likely to ask that question in so many words, and for the rest it should be as his stars ordained.

Roger Ridley met them at the gate, and led Murray to the library where his father was. "Find your way to the drawing-room, Charley; no one expects you or me to know anything," he said. "This is the way to my father's sanctum," and he pushed back the curtains and opened the oak door. The passages were panelled oak, dark, with a glistening of reflection about, while heavy curtains were hung here and there to shut out draughts and noise from the squire's sanctuary. Murray, who was used to the serious luxury of old wainscot and pictures, followed him silently, with less sense of the incongruity of the position than if they had taken the other turn which led to Miss Ridley's presence-chamber, the heart of the house. The squire in his library was not necessarily more awe-inspiring than the head of a college. Yet when he found himself in the old lofty room, clothed with books, Abel felt that to himself no head of a college could be so alarming as this old gentleman, whose keen eyes seemed to search through and through him, with suspicion in them, or so at last it seemed to his guilty soul. He remembered being brought there once before for some supposed offence to endure the inspection of the squire's keen eyes. It seemed the very same look which pierced him to the midriff now, and Mr Ridley's words were not reassuring. "How do you do, Mr Murray?" he said; "I am very glad to see you. Such visitors as you are rare in a country place. But God bless me, your face is familiar! I think I must have seen you before?"

Abel's cheeks grew crimson again, but he answered bravely with a smile, "I do not think I have ever had that honour; but we are always knocking up against each other, the Americans say, in this little island."

At this gentle pleasantry the squire laughed, or pretended to laugh. "A curious people the Americans," he said—"very odd people. I have had one or two of them down here. This is the sort of thing they don't understand. It's a sad puzzle to them; existing for so many centuries and yet not much of a thing after all," said the squire, waving his hands towards his surroundings. He kept a corner of his eye upon Abel to watch how he responded to this challenge.

"No, not much of a thing," said Murray, looking round upon it with veneration,—"only the most perfect old house in England. It may not be a very great matter, as you say, but there is nothing else like it in the world."

"Ah!" said the squire, rubbing his hands, "I perceive you know what you are talking of. I have a few old books here to show you, which I think will please you. We are not rich, but we have never been tempted, like some people, to turn all our treasures into money. We have a few old pictures still and old books to enrich the old walls. I wish my son was more interested in them, but Roger cares for none of these things. He has not my tastes. 'A primrose by the river's brim, a yellow primrose was to him'—Well, well, Mr Murray, we are not all made alike. You are one of the Scotch Murrays, I suppose?"

This question came in so suddenly that Abel, though he ought to have been on his guard, was startled. "By origin, yes, no doubt," he said; then added, with more self-command, "But I have been brought up by a—friend. I know more about my adopted family than my own."

"Ah!" the squire said, with a momentary stare; then he opened a glass case and plunged into the congenial occupation of showing his treasures. Roger, who knew them all by heart, after a time went quietly away, leaving the stranger alone with his father. What a strange sensation it was! and how clear and distinct was the recollection of standing in this same room a dozen years before, his head drooping, his heart beating as loudly as now. If the squire should turn upon him, and charge him with his real origin—if he should demand to know on what pretext the son of Elizabeth Murray, of Overbeck, had found his way among the Ridleys, what could the intruder say? But Mr Ridley asked no such questions, made no uncomfortable suggestions. On the contrary, he took down all the treasures of which he was most proud, and the illuminated MS. which (he said) the British Museum had bid for, to show to the only person, with an air of knowing anything about it, who had visited him for years. Abel, for his part, did not much believe in that story about the British Museum. But he examined the treasures with understanding, and said all that could be said in praise of them, and to the glory of the family who possessed them, listening even patiently to the squire's account of his grandfather, who was a collector, though with so much buzzing in his ears, and curious bewilderment of suppressed feeling, that he scarcely could follow the story. Abel had been in greater houses than this, and had talked familiarly to men more notable than Squire Ridley; but he could not forget the abashed boy, whom he seemed to see standing there, in his rough country clothes, listening to the squire's objurgations with a beating heart. He could not forget him. He was two people, not one, in that haunted place. "You little rascal, if I hear anything of the kind again I'll have you soundly whipped to show you what your duty is"—was that what the squire was saying?—or was it this, "My grandfather came just in time to make a good bargain with the superior of the convent: the poor monk had ceased to care for what was once the glory of their house," &c. Instead of sobbing audibly, with his fists rammed into his eyes, was it an ingratiating smile and look of deferential attention which Abel was turning upon the rural potentate? "How lucky that some one was there who knew the value," he said. Was it a dream? There was something unusual in the very sound of his own voice.

"Bless me! there is the luncheon bell. I must not detain you longer," said the squire. "I fear I have bored you already; and my daughter will upbraid me for keeping you all the morning over my toys, as she calls them. Ah, well! I suppose we old people can't expect the young ones to take after us or adopt our tastes. You have given me a very pleasant morning, Mr Murray. I don't know when I have enjoyed a couple of hours so much. It is not every one who has the good taste to admire, but there are still fewer who understand as you do. It has been, I assure you, a real pleasure."

"You are very good to say so—after having given me such true enjoyment," said Abel, confused, and feeling ready to stumble on the stairs, as at his previous interview, and to hear, "That way, you little wretch. John, look after this boy, and see him off the premises." He could have laughed as he felt himself ushered with ceremonious politeness by the squire himself towards the drawing-room, where the very John, who had then dismissed him with a kick, was standing now, grown somewhat elderly and imperative, to remind Miss Ridley that the bell had rung five minutes since. Abel could have laughed, but not because he was amused. The sight of John sent a chill and then a rush of hot blood over him. He thought John looked at him keenly. But, indeed, this was a mere illusion of conscience. John only glanced with disapproval at the strange gentleman who had kept his master too late for lunch.

And then Miss Ridley rose up, stately and fair, to receive him. Miss Ridley! was that the little Mary who had been so kind to him in the Vicarage at the nursery tea? He faltered, he felt, as he spoke to her, and made her the same kind of lumpish bow as little Abel made when they all laughed at him, all except Mary. But even in those days, when everything in the new life was strange to him, Abel had not been so dazzled by the little lady as he was now. Then she took his part; now she beamed down serenely upon him, like the moon out of the sky. Perhaps it was Miss Ridley's fault to be too stately; but when a girl is five feet ten in height, how can she help being stately?—it is so much the worse for her if she is not so. She had beautiful hair in great quantity, blue eyes, a Saxon beauty, in all the milk and roses peculiar to that complexion. Her features, perhaps, would not bear so close an inspection; but her smile was as bright as a sunny morning, and warmed and lighted up everything. "A daughter of the gods divinely tall, and most divinely fair." It was his arm she took to go down-stairs. He was the stranger, and a stranger of distinction, much more important than young Charley Landale, whom they had all known from his cradle. And John standing by said nothing. John did not interfere. He did not break in upon the talk of the gentlefolks, to say, in his gruff voice, "Please, squire, that's little Abel Murray down from the fells. I know him well. He's as stubborn as a brute beast, but his mother's a decent woman." None of these things happened or were said. Abel was permitted, on the contrary, to walk majestically down-stairs, as if he had been the best man in the county, with Mary Ridley's white hand upon his coat sleeve.

"I hope you have not been tired out with papa's treasures," she said. "You must forgive him, it is not often he has such a chance. We are one more ignorant that the other, my brother and I."

"That I cannot give my faith to as I should to anything else you might say," said Abel, with a little warmth which went beyond the calm of good-breeding. He had got his conversation chiefly from books, and was a little more formal in his talk than is common in this free and easy period. Miss Ridley was greatly surprised, but half amused too.

"And stupid as well as ignorant," she said. "Do you think it would be wrong to pretend to be interested? I was brought up in the way of deadly sincerity; but I sometimes think now that it is hard upon papa."

"You must have learned to pretend very skilfully, if you pretend to be—what you said," said Abel, venturing at the same time to look the compliment, which he thus dared to utter. Miss Ridley was more and more amused; but he added, "To me it is all enjoyment. This beautiful old house, and Mr Ridley's kindness, and——"

What had he been about to say? Mary decided that this young man, who was so grateful for her father's kindness, and so delighted with everything, including herself, was the Oxford recluse in person, who is to be heard of now and then—that grave young owl, whose perch among the cloisters has kept him unacquainted with ordinary mortals and affairs. And there was a certain truth in this supposition. Abel, even in places where he was at ease, never had the ease common to his generation. He was constantly conscious that there was no real affinity between him and those about him; and though he might perhaps hardly have recognised his family had he seen them, they were perpetually apparent to him when he was in "society," pursuing him with thoughts of the effect which would be produced by their sudden appearance anywhere. He had a kind of inkling all the time that, if he had the courage to acknowledge and speak of them, this painful consciousness would disappear; but he knew he had not the courage. He talked to Mary all the time of luncheon in the same exalted tone, she replying little, but by degrees finding that air of deference not disagreeable. Miss Ridley was not clever, and her betrothed husband was aware of the fact, and did not perhaps conceal it so carefully as he might have done. But there is nobody who is not pleased, in the long run, by having great qualities imputed to him. It is the finest form of flattery. Abel took it for granted that this country lady in her remote corner of the world knew everything that was moving the general mind of the country, and spoke to her of books, and pictures, and society, and politics. A member of a special society, even if he is less distinguished than Abel was, has means of glimpsing general society of a much higher order than his own. He had met all kinds of people, whose names are spread to all the winds. Miss Ridley felt as if she had made an excursion into the world, while she sat at the head of the table and ate her chicken. It pleased her to hear of statesmen and poets, and so many notable persons. She asked about their looks, and their ways of living; and she thought Mr Murray very interesting, though his manners were perhaps, a little, those of the old world.

After lunch the squire himself exhibited the chapel, which was falling somewhat out of repair and the younger people went out to see that part of the Castle that was in ruins. The ruined front included a tower, which Abel remembered well it had been one of the feats of his boyhood to climb. But the Ridleys shook their heads when he asked if they could go up.

"Not for the world," said Mary, turning pale; but though Roger agreed with her at first, he changed his mind the next moment.

"I don't see why we should not," he said. "All the little ragamuffins in the neighbourhood used to do it when I was a boy. Have you a steady head, Murray? Are you used to climbing?"

"Don't, Roger!" said his sister; "papa will not like it. Oh, don't!"

"Why shouldn't I? Charley can stay and take care of you."

"That I will," said young Landale; "while you break your necks we will run on to the village, and see that the doctor is handy. That will be the most friendly thing to do."

"Mr Murray, pray don't go," said Mary. "I am so much afraid it is dangerous; and Roger is so venturesome."

"Be sure you groan as loud as ever you can," said flippant Charley, "so that we may know where to find you when you fall."

"Come along," said Roger. As for Abel, he had no sort of nervous feeling; he knew exactly how to climb, and which were the dangerous places. When they came to one of these, Roger, who preceded him, called him to follow upon an arch of crumbling masonry, which looked sure enough from below. "When we get over this we are in safety," he said; "so take care, cross it gingerly, as I am responsible for you."

"Not that way," cried Abel. "Stop, stop, not there! That will not bear your weight. Ridley!" he shouted in growing excitement, "stop! I tell you this is the way."

"Come on!" cried Roger, gaily. Then there was a sound of sliding, and a cloud of dust and a cry. The cry was from Mary outside, looking on with fear and trembling, and seeing her brother disappear. She gave a wild shriek, such as half enervated and half inspired Abel, who had sprung with the instinct of the moment to the spot which he knew to be trustworthy, and standing there, supported by an angle of the wall, had already caught Roger before he could fall far. But the crushing impetus with which Roger fell against him, and the fright and the excitement together, were too much for Abel, already suffering from the long strain of suppressed feeling. He laughed loud and wildly,—a laugh that seemed to the terrified spectators below to have the scream of madness in it. "I told you this was the way," he cried, laughing, but panting for breath.

Mary Ridley ran screaming towards the house, then came back again as John and the other servants rushed out. She ran back to the half-ruined staircase by which the path began, wringing her hands in despair. Abel's laughter was still pealing out unrestrained, making the whole incident horrible.

"Oh, make him stop! make him stop!" she cried, putting her hands to her ears. "Roger is killed, and the other has gone mad! Oh, make him stop, make him stop!"

CHAPTER V.

"What is the matter?" said calmly a smooth and even voice. Mary was almost beside herself. The servants had all gone into the ruins with Charley Landale at their head to help, and she stood outside in an anguish of despair and horror, calling out unconsciously to stop him, to stop him! It seemed almost a secondary thing to her that Roger was killed—if there could be but silence again, if they could but be free of that horrible laugh. The voice which now addressed her ought to have been the dearest voice in the world to Mary, but its calm and even tone seemed, on the contrary, an aggravation, only a little less horrible than the sound of that laughter, which she could neither bear nor tolerate. What was the matter? She clasped her hands wildly together and pointed to the ruins. She could not say anything. Could not he have seen, if he had felt for her as he ought—if he had cared about her and her surroundings—could not he have seen at once without asking what was the matter? She had no leisure to look at, or speak to, Featherstonhaugh. Presently the mangled body of her only brother would be carried out in her sight; but, oh! if that horrible laugh could but be made an end of—that was the worst to bear.

"Some one must have gone mad, surely," said Sir Richard. "Had you not better go in, Mary? This cannot be a scene for you. Go in, and I will come and tell you what has happened. Hallo! is this Roger? Then what is the matter?" he said in his surprise. Mary shut her eyes with a sinking of horror not to see the terrible sight she looked for, but at the same moment felt a sudden lull and ease steal over her—the scream of wild laughter had ceased.

"Roger, what have you been about? Are you hurt?" Sir Richard said.

Hurt! was that all? She ventured to open her eyes, and saw Roger limping towards them, covered with dust and lime, but smiling through the incrustation. She rushed forward and took hold of his arm with both her hands.

"Roger! Then nothing has happened?"

"I am not a ghost," he said, half laughing, "and I'll give you my word if you like never to try that confounded place again. You must speak to Murray—he is more shaken than I am. Didn't you think he was mad, with that horrible laugh?"

"What were you doing?" said Sir Richard. "Surely not the incredible folly of climbing that wall! What good could it do you? I don't wonder Mary is upset. Pray go in now; pray go in. You see he is not hurt."

"But Mr Murray! Oh, Roger, how did it all happen? How did you escape? What made him laugh so?" said Miss Ridley, shuddering. "I thought you were killed, and that he had lost his senses. Oh, Roger, what a laugh!"

"Pooh! Some fellows have that fiendish way of laughing, and he got nervous. Don't you see it's all right now? You'll have to thank him, though," Roger added, hastily; "but for him I should have been carried down feet foremost, as the people say. I don't know what we can say to him—he has saved my life!"

"Oh, God bless him! God bless him!" cried Mary. She made a step forward, then turned again, with a visible tremor.

"But are you sure he is—quite—quite——Mr Murray," she added, growing very pale, and putting out her hands to him as he approached from under the old doorway, "oh, how can I thank you? You have saved Roger's life!"

Abel was paler than she was, and his face looked like that of a man absolutely worn out and exhausted. "It was nothing," he said. "I knew one way was safe, but not the other. The upper arch always crumbled at a touch—but I frightened you, I know I must have frightened you. It is a foolish weakness I have. I laugh when I am agitated."

"Oh, never mind that. You limp, too; we are a nice pair of cripples. Come along," said Roger, "let us lean upon each other. I must have come down upon you with all my weight."

"I knew that arch would go. I was prepared for it. I am only limping out of sympathy," said Murray, with again a harsh, though momentary, laugh. Mary ran in before them, still with a little shiver, and met the squire coming out, dignified, to know what was the matter? "I don't know who was laughing like that, but it was very vulgar and very objectionable," he said. A few hurried words, however, allayed Mr Ridley's displeasure. "God bless me!" he said, devoutly, and hurried out to thank the stranger who had saved his son's life. "Though Roger ought to have known better than to have run such a risk," he said, seriously, as the agitated group came back to the house. All were in commotion, the servants fluttering to and fro, the very cook, her hands covered with flour, coming out to gaze. "I'll bet that gentleman's been here before," John said, privately. "Bless you, he knows all the ways of th' ould place as well as I do that was born and bred on the Waterside;" and Sir Richard, the only spectator who was quite unmoved, recollected, and had observed as none of the rest did, what Murray said. They made much of him when they got indoors, paying a great deal more attention to his nerves than to Roger's foot, which was bruised though not seriously hurt. Roger, however, declared himself quite able to walk as far as the village with them, when at last the young men took their leave. They all set out together—Sir Richard going the same way as the others as far as the head of the lake. Roger was jealously on the watch as they passed through the village, lest by any chance they should meet Lily; but they had got past all danger, as he thought, and were once more on the open road by the waterside, when, with a sudden leap of his jealous heart, he saw her approaching. They all perceived her at the same moment. It is not necessary, in those simple regions, that a young woman should put on a hat or bonnet every time she goes out. Lily's beautiful head was uncovered. The wind playing with the locks about her forehead brought out tiny curls from the neatly braided hair, and freshened the colour in her cheeks. She was not made of roses and lilies, like Miss Ridley, but her dark hair had gleams of colour in it, and her eyes were like the dark brown mountain streams, dancing, glancing, yet profound as the depths into which they plunged. Lily was not at all unaware of the admiration with which she was regarded, and she felt before she came near them the little thrill of interest that ran through the group of young men whom she approached. She did not at first perceive that Roger was among them, but his absence did not make her indifferent to the other spectators. She came with a little stumble of embarrassment, more apparent to herself than the lookers-on, feeling their scrutiny, and feeling, as is common enough, her ankles twisting, her dress blown about. Much abashed was Lily, but yet she had no particular wish to escape from the eager lookers-on, who were watching for her as if she had been the queen. This was how the foolish girl felt it—as if she had been the queen! just as she herself would advance, her eyes as wide open as ever they could be, to watch the queen passing, and devour every look of her and every line of her dress. This was just how the silly young men would stare at herself. "Gooses!" thought Lily. She had never learnt grammar, but she understood the minds of men.

"This is the girl who is said to be the prettiest girl in the whole dale, up the water and down the water," said Featherstonhaugh, with a little conscious impropriety, feeling that the interest he felt in her was excessive. As for Murray, his heart began to beat again wildly in his ears. This time he must confront his sister face to face. Would she, could she, recognise him? The idea was enough to set all the blood astir in his veins. And Roger awaited her coming with a tumult in his, that could scarcely be kept from making itself visible: his heart began to thump against his breast, his throat grew dry, his colour went and came. She was his Lily, whatever happened. No one had any right so much as to look at her but he; and yet they were all staring, and he could say nothing. A wild fury seemed to glide like fire through his blood, kindling him as it ran along—fury that would burst out uncontrollable, like fire, if any door should be opened for it, any occasion given. Charley Landale was the only innocent person of all the four, who had no further thought than to take "a good look" at her, and make up his mind whether she were really as pretty as every one said.

Thus she came on, feeling awkward under their gaze, yet not particularly desirous of avoiding their gaze, with, indeed, a kind of pleased consciousness of it, which added to the blush that wavered upon her face. Her lips were parted with a half smile. She took them all in with her eyes, which looked steadily in front of her without dwelling on any one. As she came nearer she distinguished Sir Richard, that great potentate, who was in the front; but, notwithstanding that he was much in her thoughts, she did not distinguish Roger. It was almost like acting the spy upon her to see her advance thus in her soft vanity, with the smile on her lips, not knowing he was there. "Good evening to you," she said, as rural politeness made proper, and passed on, as it was right for a girl to do. The sound of her voice startled two of them, as if a gun had been fired by their ears. Murray could not tell what revelation might follow—and Roger grew sick and faint to see her go by him without so much as a suspicion that he was there. He would have felt her vicinity, he thought, if she had passed him in the dark.