Half Brothers

CHAPTER XV.

LIFE AND DEATH.

It was early in November when Apley Hall was ready for their return, after seven years' absence. George Martin, with his wife and child, had already taken possession of the Rectory, which stood beside the church, just beyond the boundary of the park, and at a short distance from the Hall. Both houses were built of stone, and were fine specimens of Elizabethan architecture. The walls were toned down to a soft, low gray, on which the golden and silvery lichen lay in harmonious coloring. Here and there some finely trained ivy climbed to the roof, or twined about the mullioned windows. The park was richly wooded, chiefly with beech trees, which at the moment of their return were almost as thick in foliage as during the summer, but with every shade of brown and yellow on their leaves. On one side of the Hall there stretched a long pool, nearly large enough to be called a lake, where water lilies grew in profusion; and in whose tranquil surface the bronzed beech trees were clearly reflected. Margaret breathed a sigh of perfect contentment as she found herself once more at home; and her father lifted up his feeble head and smiled sadly as he gave her a welcome back to it.

The tenantry had wished to give them a noisy "welcome home," but this Sidney had decisively negatived, both on Colonel Cleveland's account and Margaret's. For in a few weeks after their return a son and heir was born. The sight of the child seemed to give new life to Colonel Cleveland, and the following day he insisted on being carried on his invalid couch into Margaret's room, to see how well she was for himself.

"My darling!" he said, in a loud, excited voice, "I saw you in the first hour of your existence, and you have been my treasure ever since; and this little lad will be your treasure."

"Yes," she answered, "I never thought there was such happiness as this. I wish every woman in the world were as happy as I am."

"Take me away," he said suddenly, in a low voice, to those who had carried him to his daughter's side, "I am dying."

We come here upon the most singular part of Margaret's inward life; the most difficult to narrate; the least likely to be understood.

For the last twenty-four hours she had been passing through a series of the most agitating emotions, which penetrated the deepest recesses of her nature. The birth of her child had touched the very spring and fountain of love and joy. There was an overwhelming sense of rapture to her in the consciousness of being a mother, of feeling the helpless, breathing, moving baby lying in her arms. There was a blending of pitifullness and tenderness, and an exquisite sense of ownership, in her feelings toward the little creature, such as had never entered into her heart to dream of. To die for this child would be nothing; she felt she could endure long ages of deepest sorrow if it could bring him any good in the end. Her own personality was gone; it had entered into her child. Henceforth it seemed as if she would live and breathe in him; and his life would be far nearer and dearer to her than her own.

Upon this extraordinary exaltation and happiness there came the sudden shock of her father's death. She recollected too keenly the sense of loss and separation that had fallen upon her when her mother died; when all the old, beloved, familiar duties were ended forever; the voice silent, the eyes closed. It was so with her father; he was gone from all the conditions of life known to her. They told her he was dead.

A curtain fell, thick and impenetrable, between her and the outer world. Her senses no longer brought information of what was going on about her to her brain; but her brain did not feel bewildered, or her memory failing. Rather both were preternaturally clear and active. Her own life, and the lives of others as far as they had been in contact with hers, lay before her in strange distinctness; and her judgment, held till now in abeyance, was acting keenly and quickly, discriminating and condemning or approving, as scene after scene passed rapidly in review. The child's little life of twenty-four hours was clear to her; and all her exquisite joy in having given birth to a son.

Then it seemed to her—but with what words to describe it Margaret could never tell—that she entered into a light, a glory, a radiance far beyond the brightest sun; and felt an embrace in which her soul lay, as her little child had lain upon her bosom; and there was a throb through all her being, as if she felt the beating of God's heart toward her, and it was of an infinite pitifulness and tenderness and sense of ownership in her, as she had felt toward her newborn babe. And she knew that she was born into another world; and that this was the first moment of life in the knowledge of the infinite love of God. She was immeasurably dearer to him than her earth-born son was to her; and her joy over him was but the faintest symbol of God's eternal joy over her.

"Can this be death?" she cried aloud, joyously and wonderingly; and Sidney, kneeling beside her, felt that the sting of death was in his own soul.

But Margaret did not know that she had spoken. The trance, if it was a trance, continued. And now the rapture that possessed her soul changed a little; neither failing nor chilling, but giving her strength to remember things that were full of sorrow. She felt herself present at the crucifixion of our Lord. She made her way through the crowd to the very foot of the Cross, and stood leaning against it, her uplifted hands just touching the chilled and bleeding feet. She shivered and wept as she touched them. Him she could not see; but all about her were the faces of those who were crucifying Him; malignant, curious, stupid, careless, and afar off a few mournful ones. All whom she had ever known were there; and Sidney stood among the most bitter enemies of our Lord. Her heart felt breaking with its burden of grief and anguish, and she was saying to herself, "Was there ever sorrow like this sorrow?" when, suddenly, like a flash of lightning, yet as softly as the dawn of the morning, there came upon her the conviction that He loved every one of this innumerable crowd with the same love that she had just felt was the love of God for her. He was their brother, their Saviour. Deeper and stronger than pain and anguish, infinitely deeper and stronger was His love; and this love was the foundation of that joy which no man, however great a sinner, could take from him.

But Margaret could never tell all she then knew and felt; for it seemed to grow dim as she returned to earth. There were no words by which she could utter it, only tears and sobs of surpassing gladness, which no one could understand. And it was but once or twice in her lifetime that she tried to tell it; and then it was to those who were afraid of dying. She came back at last to this life, as weak and helpless as the child she had just borne. Her eyes could hardly bear the light, and the faintest sounds seemed loud and jarring to her. But she regained her former strength day by day, and she was content to take up her old life. Only when they spoke cautiously and mournfully to her again of her father's death a smile came across her thin, white face.

"You do not know what it is," she said, and they thought she was delirious again.

CHAPTER XVI.

ANDREW GOLDSMITH, SADDLER.

The little town of Apley consisted mainly of one long, narrow, straggling street of old-fashioned houses, called the High Street, which was silent and deserted on every day except market-days and Sundays. It was out of the direct line of any railway, and there was not business enough to make a branch line pay. In the small old-fashioned shops the tradespeople conducted their own business, requiring little aid from paid assistants. There were none rich enough to live away from their shops, and their intercourse with one another was primitive and unconventional. The population of the immediate neighborhood consisted of the gentry and the townsfolk, with no connecting links.

About the middle of the High Street stood Andrew Goldsmith's little shop, which Sidney passed every time he drove to and from the railway station two miles off. Three stone steps, hollowed by the tread of feet through many years, led up to the shop; and a small bow window hung over the pavement, behind which there sat a paid workman pursuing his work fitfully at his own pleasure. Before Sophy's mysterious disappearance Andrew had always occupied the post himself, seldom glancing away from the work in hand to notice what was going on in the street; but he never sat there now. He had, almost unintentionally, hidden himself from his neighbors' gossiping curiosity, until his love of seclusion had grown morbid.

Margaret could not recollect the time when this shop had not been a favorite haunt of hers. Andrew had made the first saddle for the first pony her father gave to her; and her mother's affection for and trust in Andrew's sister Rachel had brought all the household into close connection with her. The romance and mystery of Sophy's fate had been the deepest interest of Margaret's girlhood, and was still occasionally the subject of perplexed conjecture. Rachel's almost hopeless searches and inquiries, made whenever they were in London, kept this interest alive, though it naturally lost its intensity. Still there was no household in Apley to which she felt so many ties of mutual cares and memories.

As soon then as she was allowed to take so long a drive, she felt that Andrew's house was the first to which she must carry her little boy, for the sad and sorrow-stricken father to see. She had not seen him herself yet, since her return to Apley a few weeks ago; she had never seen him since Sophy was lost. There would be pain for him in their meeting; but Rachel said it would be well to get the pain over.

A large kitchen lay behind the shop with a floor of rich, deep-red tiles, spotlessly clean. The big grate, with brass knobs about it shining like gold, was filled with gleeds of burning coal from the lowest bar to the highest; and the old oak chairs with leathern seats, standing in the full glow and warmth of the hearth, were polished to an extraordinary degree of brightness. Beyond the kitchen was a small, dark parlor, with all the chairs and the one sofa carefully swathed in white covers; but there was no fire in it, and Rachel would not let her sister Mary take Margaret into it.

Margaret leaned back in one of the comfortable old chairs, with a happy light in her dark eyes, as she listened to the two older women admiring her child. It was in this exquisitely clean and pretty kitchen that she had caught her first glimpse of the happiness of a life far below the level of her own. As a child she had sometimes watched Mary Goldsmith busy herself in getting ready a meal for her brother, giving thought and affection to her work, while he sat at his saddler's bench in the shop, humming some tune to himself in great peace of heart. It seemed to Margaret as she sat now on the cozy hearth, and glanced round at the willow-pattern plates shining on the dresser-shelves, and the polished surface of the copper warming-pan hanging against the wall, and the tall old Chippendale clock in the corner, and the little collection of well-read books lying on the broad window-sill, that she could make life very dear and pleasant to Sidney with no other materials than those about her.

But under all the chatter of Rachel and Mary Goldsmith her ear caught the sound of a voice half-hushed, yet lamenting with sobs and muffled cries of pain, as of one who was passing through some sharp access of suffering. It was quite close at hand; not in the little parlor, the door of which was close to her seat, and for some time she said nothing. But as the cries and moans grew more distinct to her ear she could bear to listen no longer in silence.

"It's my poor brother," answered Rachel sadly, "he's away in his room, mourning and crying for Sophy. His heart's broken, if one may say so, and him alive and strong. He has never smiled since Sophy went away."

"I'd forgotten," said Margaret, with a rash of compassion in her heart toward the unhappy father. "O, Rachel, tell him I am here, and want to see him so much. You know I have not seen him since we left Apley eight years ago."

"Just before Sophy was lost," remarked Mary.

In a few minutes Andrew Goldsmith came slowly down the stairs. He was a tall, spare man with a vigorous frame and almost a military bearing; for he had belonged to the cavalry of the county from his earliest manhood. He was not over fifty years of age, but his hair was white, and his shoulders bowed like those of a man of seventy. So changed he was, and wore such expression of intense and bitter suffering, that Margaret would not have recognized him if he had not been in his own house.

"Andrew," she said, rising hastily and taking her baby into her arms with a young mother's instinctive feeling that the child will interest and comfort everyone, "see, I have brought my boy to make friends with you, as I did when I was a little girl."

A gleam of light came into the man's dull, sad eyes, as he laid his fingers gently on the baby's sleeping face.

"He favors you, Miss Margaret," he said, "ay! and your father, the colonel."

"We call him Philip, after my father," replied Margaret, with a sorrowful inflection of her sweet voice.

"May God Almighty bless him and keep him from bringing you to sorrow!" said Andrew.

"I am willing to bear sorrow for him," answered Margaret.

"But not from him," he said.

"Yes; from him if that must be so," she replied, "he will grieve me sometimes, just as we also grieve God. But if God bears with us, we must bear with one another's faults, however hard it may be."

The stern, grave face of Andrew Goldsmith unbent a little and quivered, and his strong frame trembled as if shaken by some invisible force. He sank down on a chair, looking up into the pitying faces of the three women, whose eyes were so gently bent upon him.

"I haven't seen you since I lost my daughter," he said with a groan, "and oh! my God, she might have been standing as you are, come home to show me her baby."

It was true. If any stranger could have looked in on the little circle, he would have taken Margaret, in her plain black dress, with her child in her arms, for a young mother come back to the old fireside to

... tell them all they would have told,
    And bring her babe, and make her boast,
    Till even those that miss'd her most
Shall count new things as dear as old.

Margaret felt the sadness of it herself, with a profound and keen sympathy. She hastened to give the child back to Rachel, and laid her hand, with a gentle and friendly pressure, on Andrew's shoulder.

"You know I was fond of Sophy," she said, "and how could I help but grieve over her, when I saw Rachel so often troubled? But why do you give up hope? She may yet come home any day; and perhaps bring a dear child with her. God may have given to her a child to be a comfort to her. Only God knows."

"Ay! He knows," answered Andrew, "if He didn't know it otherwise, I tell Him every day; every hour of every day, for the cry after her is always in my heart. But it could never be the same again. If it was all right with her, would she have kept silence over eight years? I had only one daughter, like your father; and she has brought me to grief and shame."

"But in one sense it must be right with her," said Margaret, "for God is with her. He has not lost sight of her; and though it may possibly be that she has sinned, and is still sinning, yet that way also leads to God, when sin is repented of."

"But to think that God sees her in all her degradation!" he cried passionately. "Oh, if I could only find her, and hide her away from all the world! hide her away from God Himself. No, no, Miss Margaret; it's no comfort to think that God Almighty sees my daughter in her sin and shame. And that man who robbed me of my only child—O Lord, set Thou a wicked man over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand. When he shall be judged, let him be condemned; and let his prayer be turned into sin. Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. Let his children be continually vagabonds. Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered by the Lord, and let not the sin of his mother be blotted out. As he loved cursing, let it come——"

"Oh, hush, hush!" cried Margaret, breaking in upon his rapid and vehement utterance with difficulty, while the tears streamed down her face, "oh, be silent! It is a terrible thing to utter these words as a prayer to God. For God loves us all; even him whom you are cursing. Some day you will say, 'Father, forgive him; he did not know what he was doing.'"

"Never!" he exclaimed, lifting up his haggard face, and fastening his bloodshot eyes upon her; "but I oughtn't to trouble you. It was only because the sight of you made me think so keen of her that's lost. All the town is glad to have you back again, Miss Margaret, for your own sake and the colonel's sake. But it will be different from the old days."

"You'll be as fond of my boy as you were of me?" she asked.

"Ay, may be," he answered.

"And my husband?" she added.

"Andrew's never seen Mr. Martin," put in Mary Goldsmith; "he's never crossed the church door since Sophy ran away; and he never sits in the shop now, where folks can see him at his work. He spends his time mostly seeking after her, anywhere that he can find a clew; and he sits up half his nights with the sick and dying."

"Because my nights are sleepless, or full of terror," he interrupted, "and my heart is sorer by night than by day. And poor folks that cannot pay for nurses are glad to have me near at hand; and the dying know I'm not afraid of death, but seek it as one seeks after hidden treasure, so they hold my hand in theirs till they step into the outer darkness, knowing I would gladly take that step for them. I tell them it is better to die than to live; and they half believe me. They take messages for me into the next world!"

"Messages!" repeated Margaret.

"Ay," he continued, "to tell Sophy, if she's there, to send me some sign; but no sign comes. So she must be living still; and I shall know what has become of her, and where she is, some day."

Margaret did not feel it possible to combat this notion of Andrew's, though she looked anxiously from him to his sisters. George Martin had recently settled in at the Rectory, and begun his pastoral care of his country parish; and she wondered if he could not in any way turn the deep current of this man's grief, which was threatening him, she feared, with insanity.

"Has our cousin, the new rector, been to see you yet?" she inquired of Mary.

"Yes," she answered; "and Andrew's promised to go to church again next Sunday."

"I shall be there," said Margaret gladly, "and I shall look to see you in your pew, Andrew. I shall miss you if you are not there."

"I will be there, Miss Margaret," he answered.

The parish church of Apley was a small Norman edifice built near the park gates. A square pew in the chancel belonged to the Hall, and a long narrow aisle with small pews on each side led down to the western door. When Sidney took his place, with Margaret, in the Hall pew on the following Monday, he saw, just beyond the reading desk, a white-headed man, who was evidently still in the prime of manhood, with a strong and muscular frame, but with a face expressive of heart-broken sadness. It was an ominous face, dark and despondent, with a fire burning in the deep-set eyes that seemed almost like the glow of madness. So striking was this man's appearance that, before the service began, Sidney whispered to Margaret:

"Who is that man in the pew by the reading-desk?"

"Rachel's brother," she answered, "the father of the girl that is lost."

It was the 22d day of the month; and Sidney, whose thoughts were wandering, suddenly found himself reading, with mechanical exactness, the terrible curses of the Psalms for the day, which Andrew Goldsmith was uttering with intense earnestness, as if the sacredness of the place added force to their vindictiveness. Margaret's head was bent, and the tears were dropping slowly on her open book; but Sidney scarcely noticed her emotion. There was an indescribable horror to him in this sight of the despairing face of Sophy's father; and in the penetrating distinctness of his deep voice, as he called upon God to pour down curses upon his enemy.

CHAPTER XVII.

ANDREW'S FRIEND.

The little town soon felt the difference between having the Hall occupied by its owners and tenanted by persons who had no interest in the place. Margaret knew most of the families living in Apley, for there had not been many changes during her absence; and as a child she had been allowed free intercourse with the respectable householders of the town. Now she had returned among them, she and the rector had many schemes for their social as well as religious improvement. Sidney was liberal, and eager to further any wish of Margaret's. He was even willing to take a share in her plans, as far as his business gave him time to do so; and nobody could make himself more genial and popular than he did.

The rector's wife, Laura Martin, who had seemed willing to marry George as a poor curate, had been very well aware that he was one of the two nephews of the wealthy City man, Sir John Martin, to whom all his accumulated riches must be left. Her chagrin at his being left in poverty by his uncle had been extreme; and she was on the point of breaking off her engagement with George Martin, when Sidney, who felt the injustice of his uncle's will, settled £10,000 on his cousin. It was a mere pittance, Laura felt; but it was sufficient to decide her to marry George. With the living at Apley their yearly income was now nearly £1200; and as she was a clever woman in household management, she contrived to make a good appearance, and was generally more expensively dressed than Margaret. She made, on the whole, a good country parson's wife, looking well after the affairs of the parish; especially in Margaret's absence, when she reigned lady paramount. It was a sore and bitter vexation to her to suffer eclipse when Margaret was at Apley; but the intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory was too intimate, and too beneficial for herself and her children, for her to show any sense of mortification. She always spoke of Margaret as her dearest friend.

There were already two children at the Rectory, Sidney and Richard; and soon after Philip's birth a girl was born, who was called Phyllis by Laura. Already there was a little scheme in Laura's brain, an organ scarcely ever used for any other function than scheming. Why should not this little girl of hers become the wife of Sidney's son and heir? It was a pleasant pastime to build castles in the air, on the foundation of this unspoken wish.

Something of the gloom which was threatening Andrew Goldsmith's reason was removed by Margaret's return to Apley, and the interest taken in him and his sorrow by her and the rector. They frequently called upon him to render some service; and little by little he regained the position of importance he had once held among the townspeople, though his influence was now exercised more on religious than political subjects. He was superior to his neighbors in intellect; and he had the gift of speech, being able to address them with a somewhat uncultured eloquence, but in a manner that went home to their hearts and understandings. His life ran in more healthy currents, and there were times when Rachel hoped he would overcome the deep depression which had followed upon Sophy's mysterious disappearance.

The person to whom of all others Andrew Goldsmith attached himself, in this partial revival of his old life, was Sidney Martin. Sidney, unconsciously perhaps, addressed the sorrow-stricken man, who was bearing the burden of the sin he had been guilty of, in a tone and manner of the deepest sympathy; as if he knew all his burden, and would help him to bear it, though he would never speak of it. The sad secret lay between them, and both were thinking of it in their deepest hearts. There was a strange, inexplicable subtlety in this silent sympathy. The moment their eyes met each man saw, as if standing between them, Sophy's girlish figure and pretty face; and Andrew Goldsmith felt, with vague and confused instinct, that Sidney looked at his grief and loss with different eyes from other onlookers. Sidney fathomed his woe with a deeper and truer plummet than that with which other men could sound it; and there was a dim sense of satisfaction in the feeling that he, who had all that earth could give, shared the pain that was gnawing his own heart.

It grew into a habit with Andrew Goldsmith to listen for the sound of Sidney's horse or carriage, and hasten to his shop door in time to lift his hat to him as he went by, and to catch the subtle gleam of melancholy comprehension in Sidney's passing salutation. There was such a link between them as did not exist between any other two souls, among all the souls they were in contact with; and it was a dark day with Andrew in which he did not see the recognition of it in Sidney's face.

Sidney would unhesitatingly have called himself the happiest man on earth but for this singular and ominous devotion toward him of the man he had so deeply injured. His life was all that he had ever hoped for; Margaret a dearer wife and better companion than he had even dreamed she might be; his child a sweetness and delight to him beyond all words. There was no flaw in his prosperity. His sky was clear of all but one almost invisible speck. At his gates dwelt this man whose mere existence was a perpetual reminder of his early blunder; for Sidney would not own it to be a sin. The friendship of this man, he said to himself, was the bitterest penance that could be inflicted on him. But for this he could have forgotten Sophy altogether. And why should he not forget her? He had done her very little wrong; not the wrong ninety-nine men out of a hundred in his position would have been guilty of. If he could but escape the sight of this unfortunate father of hers, his wrong-doing would soon cease to trouble him.

But Sidney could find no easy way of escape. He might have insisted on living in or near London; but Margaret was strongly attached to her old home, and it happened that all his attempts to buy an estate nearer to London fell through. The estate bought by his uncle was in Yorkshire; and consequently was too far away for him to dwell upon it; and Margaret's place answered all their requirements perfectly. It was not much more than an hour's journey by train from his place of business in the City; and Margaret's position, as the last descendant of an old county family, gave them a standing in the county which they could not have elsewhere. It had always been a part of his ambition for the future to become a member of the House of Commons, and he was already recognized as the most eligible candidate of his party for a place as member for the county at the next general election. A number of minute threads, gathering in number and vigor as each month passed by, wove themselves into a rope which it needed the strength of a Samson to break through.

It was not possible, on the other hand, to dislodge Andrew Goldsmith; nor did Sidney seriously think of it. He would not add to the harm he had already done him the cruel injury of turning him out of his old home, and sending him adrift among strangers. He was not in any way of a hard and pitiless nature, and his heart was full of compunction and kindliness toward Andrew Goldsmith. More than once he debated with himself whether it would not be wise to confide the whole story to the rector, and take his counsel as to the question of telling Andrew, or of still keeping the fate of Sophy a secret. But he could not risk the chance of Margaret knowing it; and he resolved upon keeping silence and bearing his penalty as best he could.

His eldest boy, Philip, was three years of age; and the second son, Hugh, his mother's heir and the future owner of Apley, was about twelve months old, when a vacancy in the representation of the county occurred, which gave to Sidney a fair chance of being elected, though not without a close contest. The influence on both sides was stretched to the utmost, and party spirit ran high. It was like the sound of a trumpet to an old war-horse for Andrew Goldsmith. For the time being his heavy burden seemed to slip off his shoulders, and he became again, as in former times, the active and energetic leader of the voters in the neighborhood. His shop and the pleasant kitchen behind it were filled from morning to night with groups of his neighbors, eagerly discussing the question of the coming election. Occasionally Sidney himself dropped in, with Margaret beside him; and was thus brought into closer contact than before with her tenants. For Sidney, busy as he was with a multiplicity of affairs, left the management of the Apley estate almost wholly in his wife's hands.

Life was very full to Margaret. She had her husband, her children, and her tenants to live for, and her desire to serve them was very ardent, to minister to their lowest as well as to their highest needs. She had the true Christian instinct of help-giving. There was one incident of her Lord's life over which her soul brooded, more frequently, perhaps, than any other. She saw him sitting at the feast with his disciples, Judas the traitor being one of them, and all of them being on the point of forsaking him. He, who was King of kings and Lord of lords, who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, yet took upon himself the form of a servant, and came, not to be ministered unto, but to minister. She saw this Jesus rise from the table, and lay aside the white robe he was wearing for the feast, and pour water into a basin, and stoop to wash his disciples' feet, soiled with the dust of the street. It was a symbol, but it was also a real action of her Lord's. What service ought she to shrink from, then, if Christ washed his disciples' feet?

Margaret was very much in earnest about her husband's election, and threw herself with all her heart into the efforts made to secure it. She believed him to be so good and true a man that it must be for the welfare of the country for him to sit in Parliament. If he was returned it would compel them to live more in London; but that was a sacrifice she could make, and she did not flinch from the sacrifice. She was in the habit of visiting freely and familiarly among all her neighbors, the poor as well as the rich; and she had not failed in winning their esteem and regard. Her canvassing for her husband was everywhere successful.

But the chief factor in the election was Andrew Goldsmith, who labored night and day for Sidney Martin's return. When the poll was declared Sidney was elected by a small majority only, and everyone said this majority was due to Andrew Goldsmith's influence in his own district, where the voters had given their votes as one man. Sidney had reached the goal of his ambition, or rather he had passed one winning-post to enter upon a new path; and his heart beat high with exaltation. He was a young man yet, and he would win such a name as should reflect glory upon his two boys and lay the foundation of an illustrious family. He had no long line of ancestry to boast of; his uncle had been a self-raised man, and he was still almost unknown. But Margaret's lineage was old enough to compensate for the newness of his own, and his boys should have such a position in the world as few others had. Hugh, the youngest, would succeed Margaret, and take the name of Cleveland; but Philip would be his heir and nothing should be lacking in his career. He would make his name illustrious for his boy's sake as well as his own.

These thoughts were flitting through his brain as he drove homeward with Margaret and his friends, after the declaration of the poll at the county town. It was a very bright hour for him. But within a few miles of Apley they were met by a procession of his wife's tenants coming out to congratulate him, with Andrew Goldsmith on horseback at their head. There was something very striking in the appearance of the vigorous, soldierly, white-headed man, as he came up to the side of the carriage to act as spokesman for the crowd behind. He sat his horse well, as a member of the cavalry troop must do; and his deep-set eyes glowed with pride and affection. His pale, sad face was transfigured for the time; for this was the happiest moment he had known for years. Sidney practically owed his election to him; and it was some return, he thought, for all the kindness he had received from him and Margaret.

It was a singular and bitter trial to Sidney to stretch out his hand and clasp the hand of his father-in-law. If this crowd only knew the relationship that existed between him and the man they had chosen for their spokesman, their cheers would turn into execrations. He had never shaken hands with him before; for though he had visited Andrew's house frequently during the last few weeks, the latter knew his place too well to push himself forward so as to compel Sidney to such a friendly greeting. But now, at this juncture, nothing was more natural than that these two men, forgetting the differences of rank, should clasp each other's hands in token of a victory won by both.

It was a strong grip that the saddler gave to his friend Sidney Martin, and spoke of all the subtle, indefinable sympathy that existed between them. Margaret's eyes filled with happy tears. So long had she felt the gloom of this man's deep sorrow that her heart was filled with gladness to see him escaping from its chain.

"It's you I have to thank for my election, Goldsmith," said Sidney, glad to get his hand released from his painful grasp.

"We've all done our best, sir," he answered, "and we are come to meet you, and say not one of us has known a prouder day than this; a proud day and a joyful day it is. And we pray Almighty God, every man among us, that he will bless you with all the blessings of this life, and preserve your precious life for many, many years. And that you may live to be Prime Minister," he added with a tone of humor in his grave voice. There was a tremendous chorus of "Hurrahs!" and a great deal of laughter. Prime Minister! Yes; that was what they would all like. On Andrew Goldsmith's face there came a quiver, as if his features so long set in sad despair were attempting to smile, and might succeed if many more such joyous occasions came.

Sidney answered shortly and pleasantly, and the procession fell behind the carriages. It was only as they passed along the High Street that Andrew Goldsmith, looking at his little shop, and seeing its doorway and windows empty, while every other house was filled with women and children, remembered too vividly the mystery surrounding the fate of his own daughter. He dropped behind in the procession as it passed on to Apley Hall; and when Sidney looked for him in vain, he felt a keen sense of relief in Andrew's absence.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LAURA'S SCHEME.

The rector and Margaret continued to be fast friends, and the intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory was of the most intimate kind. The children of either house scarcely knew which was their home. The rector was a high-minded, unworldly man, altogether untouched by ambition or the love of money; there was perhaps a shade of indolence in his temperament, which made him less likely to feel the spur of ambition. Margaret and he understood one another better than any others understood them. Moreover, his genuine admiration, and his strong affection for her husband, added much to her happiness. For now and then, with the persistent recurrence of doubt, a misgiving crossed Margaret's mind that Sidney was not exactly a Christian in the sense she was. Not that he was in any degree negligent in observing the outward duties of religion. He was a constant attendant at church services; and a more regular communicant than she was herself. Day by day his life appeared to be one of conscientious continuance in well-doing. He was foremost in all philanthropic and religious schemes, and worked energetically at them. But now and then, at rare intervals, a false note jarred upon the harmonious and sensitive chords of Margaret's inmost soul; and then there was no man's praise of her husband so precious to her as that of his cousin George, who had been brought up with him as a brother, and who never doubted that he was one of the best men living.

As for Sidney, he was well content with himself and his career; and, as the years passed by, he was no longer troubled by qualms of conscience. He was spreading himself like a green bay tree; and his "inward thought was to found a house that should continue forever, a dwelling-place to all generations." He was increasing the glory of his house; and men praised him because he was doing well for himself. He blessed his own soul, and fell into the mistake that God was blessing him.

For Sidney almost fully persuaded himself that he was a Christian. He accepted what he imagined were the doctrines of Christianity. He would have signed the thirty-nine Articles of the Christian faith as readily as any candidate for orders. He had no doubts, or rather he had not time to trouble himself with inconvenient questions, so he believed that he was a believer. Often when he was listening with deep attention to some eloquent or touching sermon, he felt a thrill of emotion, which he mistook for devotion to Christ as his Master. The sins of his youth had been repented of and cast behind him; and if one repents is he not forgiven? He gave largely to the cause of religion, both in time and money. He was in no open way self-indulgent. If he was not a Christian man, as well as a rich man, who then could be saved? The camel had gone through the needle's eye.

The training of his sons he left almost entirely to Margaret; and she had them brought up as simply and hardily as their first cousins at the Rectory, boys not born to inherit wealth. No differences were made between them; no extra indulgences were allowed to her own children because some day they would be rich men. They had the same tutor and the same lessons. When Philip was old enough to go to Eton, his cousins, Sidney and Dick, were sent with him; when Hugh went, the two younger accompanied him. As they grew up to young manhood they were sent in the same manner to Oxford. It was no wonder that the rector believed, what he was always ready to assert, that Sidney was better than a brother to him. But if the rector was more than content with his lot, and grateful beyond words for Sidney's generous friendship and munificent liberality in the education of his four sons, Laura was very far from feeling the same satisfaction. She had been willing to marry George for love when he was a poor curate, especially after Sidney had settled £10,000 upon him; but she could never forget the inequality existing between her income and position and Margaret's. Both of them belonged to better families than the Martins; but Margaret was an only child, and Laura was one of a family of eleven children, with so small a dowry that the interest of it only found her in dress. She could not help feeling that she and Margaret were in each other's places; Margaret would have been perfectly happy as a poor rector's wife, and she would have been perfectly happy as the owner of Apley Hall and the wife of a wealthy merchant. She was fond of pre-eminence, but she always found herself occupying the second place. Margaret's splendid generosity, and almost lavish expenditure on objects which she considered worthy of her time and her money, aroused in Laura merely a spirit of envious criticism. The economical management of household expenses at the Hall, where Margaret would brook no wasteful customs, however time-honored, Laura pronounced mean. The bountiful hand, which gave largely if a gift could be helpful, she called ostentatious. George Martin's sisters, who paid annual visits to the Rectory, never failed to fan the smoldering fire of her discontent into a flame. They always lamented over the small share they and their brother had received of their uncle's wealth.

"Every penny was left to Sidney," the rector would say in grieved remonstrance.

"Then he ought to have halved it," persisted Laura, "at the very least; half for himself, and half for you and your sisters. And he only gave you a paltry £10,000! It makes one quite mad to think of dividing such a mean sum among our five children. Two thousand apiece! The portion of a farmer's daughter, or a tradesman's son! Andrew Goldsmith possesses as much as that. And think of what Philip and Hugh will inherit."

"Oh, hush! hush!" answered the rector, "we are rich; as rich as anyone need be. God knows I am ashamed of having all we have, while so many of his people have scarcely the necessaries of life. And, my dear Laura, it seems to me that you have all that Margaret allows herself. Tell me what indulgence she has that you lack. If she and Sidney have money, they are not spending it on themselves; they are making it a blessing to all about them."

"So should we," replied Laura sulkily.

But Laura took care to keep on excellent terms with Margaret. Indeed it would have been difficult for her to quarrel with her. Margaret's affection for the rector gathered into its wide embrace all belonging to him; and his children were only a degree less dear to her than her own. Phyllis was scarcely a degree less dear, as she had no daughter; and this little girl almost filled the place of one. All of them were as much at home at the Hall as at the Rectory; and the rector took hardly less interest in Philip and Hugh than in his own sons.

Laura's scheme with respect to Phyllis grew deeper and stronger as the years went on. If she could never be more than Mrs. Martin of the Rectory, her daughter should be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn; or if not that, Mrs. Cleveland of Apley Hall. One of the two brothers she must marry. But Hugh was nearly two years younger than Phyllis; if possible she must become the wife of Philip.

She began very early to mold the children to her wishes. She made much of Philip, lavishing upon him praises and indulgences which he seldom received from his mother. She left Phyllis almost constantly at the Hall, before Philip went to Eton, to share his nursery games and childish pursuits. Philip was grave and serious; what the townfolk of Apley called "an old-fashioned child"; but Phyllis was like a little bird flattering joyously about the quiet nursery, and filling it with childish chatter. She could rouse Philip to play and laughter out of his gravest moods; and Margaret was thankful to Laura for sparing the child to her.

"Mother!" said Philip, coming one day into Margaret's sitting room, holding Phyllis by the hand, while both children looked up to her with large and solemn eyes, "mother, may I marry Phyllis when I grow up to be a man? Cousin Laura says yes. Will you say yes too?"

"My boy," answered Margaret gravely, yet almost unable to conceal a smile, "you cannot understand what marriage means. You are only a child of seven yet: and marriage is more solemn and more important even than death is. You know that death is very solemn?"

"Yes," said the boy, "it is too high for me to understand yet."

"And marriage is still higher," continued Margaret; "you will understand something of death first. Some day, when you are years older, I will talk to you about marriage, but not now. And, Philip, do not talk foolishly about a thing that is too high for you to understand."

"No, mother," he said gravely.

"Phyllis is not your little sister," she said, "but she will be like a sister to you for many years to come; and she will always be your friend, if you are good children."

It was in keeping with Philip's thoughtful and steadfast nature never again to speak of Phyllis as his little wife, or to allow anyone about him to do so. But constantly, by a word dropped now and again, Laura kept alive in his mind the idea that Phyllis would some day be his wife. To Phyllis she spoke as if her whole life was to be fitted to meet Philip's wishes. It was skillfully and subtly done; never being so definite as to excite opposition in the nature of either of them. Year after year Phyllis was taught that the one person in the world whom she was bound to please was her cousin Philip.

But when Phyllis was fourteen, and Philip, a few months older, was an Eton schoolboy, Laura thought it wisest to put some little check upon their intimacy, which was too much like that of brother and sister. Phyllis was at an age when a country girl is apt to be something of a hoyden. She rode after the hounds with as much spirit as her brothers; could play at cricket as well as any of them; and was an adept at climbing trees. She could shoot and fish fairly well, and tramped about the country with the boys, never owning to fatigue. But her mother shrewdly suspected that none of these accomplishments would retain their charm for Philip, when he entered upon that romantic and sentimental era of a young man's life during which she hoped to successfully attach him to Phyllis. If she was to be the accomplished and cultivated girl likely to attract him then, she must be sent away for some years.

So Phyllis was sent away, coming home for her holidays generally when Philip was absent; only meeting for a few days at Christmas just to keep them in mind of one another. So well and wisely did Laura manage that Margaret did not notice that virtually Phyllis was separated both from her brothers and her cousins. She only felt that the girl, whom she loved very tenderly, was undergoing a change which was distasteful to her.

The night before Phyllis left home for the first time, her mother went into the little room opening out of her own bedroom, where the girl had slept ever since she was a child. Laura held the shaded lamp up to see if she was sleeping, and thought with exultation how pretty the face was on which the light fell. She put the lamp away into the other room, and sat down in the dusk by her young daughter.

"Phyllis," she said, with her hand resting fondly on the girl's head, "there's one thing I must say to you before you go away to school; but it must be between you and me, a secret. You must not speak of it to anybody else; not even to Dick, or your father. You love Philip, my darling?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, "I have always loved him."

"More than anyone else?" suggested her mother.

"I think so," she said, "unless, perhaps, it is Dick."

"Oh! you must love Philip more than Dick," replied her mother; "never think of loving anybody as much as Philip. By and by, when he is old enough, he will ask you to be his wife; and then your father and I would be happier than words can tell."

"That was settled a long while ago," said Phyllis, "as soon as I was born, and you called me by a name something like his."

"But it was to be kept a profound secret," urged her mother, "and nobody has ever spoken of it since, except me, to you. Of course if you and Philip did not like it, no one could force you to marry one another."

"Nobody could do that in England," said Phyllis, with a wise little laugh, "but don't you be worried, mother; I do love Philip; and I will marry him."

"Then you must do all you can to fit yourself for him," pursued Laura anxiously; "he will go to Oxford, and when he has been there he will not want a romp and a tom-boy about him. You must make a lady of yourself. When you are his wife, you will be very rich, not a simple country parson's daughter; and by and by you will be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. You must learn how to fill such a position."

"I must learn to do my duty in that state of life into which it may please God to call me," said Phyllis, laughing again. "Oh, mother, you shall see what a fine lady I can make of myself. I will say to myself every morning, 'Remember you are to be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn!' and I will act up to it. I have quite made up my mind to marry Philip."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE SON AND HEIR.

It was four years before Phyllis came to live at home again; and the transformation was complete. The tom-boy of fourteen, with her excess of animal spirits, had developed into a bright and dainty girl of eighteen, with a grace and bloom about her like that of a flower just opening to the light. Her face was prettier, and her figure more graceful than even her mother had expected them to be. She could sing well, with a sweet, clear voice, that suggested the spontaneous joyousness of a song-bird. She seemed fond of reading; but she was still fonder of active pursuits. Sidney, who had taken little notice of her as a child, felt the charm of this bright, companionable young girl, who made Apley so much more lively when he came down from his busy London life. Hugh was now at Eton, and Philip was at Oxford with his cousin Dick. There was nothing to suggest caution or anxiety; and Phyllis spent more time at the Hall than she did at the Rectory. She owned frankly that she felt more at home there than in her father's house; and she fell into the position of a daughter quite naturally. She was introduced to London society under Margaret's wing; and received there the finishing touches to her education.

When Philip came home, he fancied he saw in his cousin Phyllis precisely the woman he would choose to make his wife.

She had grown up for him. The idea that this bright, lovely young girl had been destined for him from her birth, gave to him a feeling of perfect, undisturbed possession, precluding the necessity of claiming her, any more than the necessity of claiming his mother. Their lives were so blended and interwoven that it seemed impossible for them to be separated. There was no need of speech between them. They knew they loved one another; and that when the right hour came they would marry amid the general satisfaction and gladness of all their friends. Until then they lived for one another in the simplest and purest happiness. So Philip felt; and Laura was quite content that he should say nothing about his love, while he was still under age.

There was no actual concealment, however. Phyllis was seldom alone with him, for Hugh and her own brothers were constantly with them. When they wished for quiet converse, they sought it usually in Margaret's presence. She saw them reading together, singing together, walking arm in arm about the gardens and park; but then Phyllis read, and sang, and walked with all of the other young men, when any of them claimed her companionship. Margaret saw no difference in her manner or ways; if there was any difference, she was a shade more serious with Philip than the rest; but then Philip himself was the most thoughtful of all the youthful band.

In the training of her sons, Margaret had done her utmost to make them understand her views of life. Wealth and position, she pointed out to them, were among the poorest and smallest of the gifts of God; sometimes, seeing that wicked men can gain them by evil means, not the gift of God at all. Birth was not a much higher thing, though that, indeed, must be the gift of God, since they had no choice as to the circumstances, or the family, into which they were born. Better than these were the gifts of intellect; and Dick, who had a genius for mathematics, and Stephen, with an equally strong bent for science, possessed nobler powers than they did. Any great talent was better than silver and gold, or rank. Good temper alone was worth more than all the riches they could possess; and Phyllis's brightness and sweetness placed her higher than a duke's daughter who did not possess the same qualities.

"You will find the richest men among the poorest," she told them. "If a man is brave, true, unselfish, serviceable to his fellow-men, he is higher in the sight of God, though he may not own a penny, than the wealthiest man in the world. God cannot regard gold and land as riches."

"You pride yourselves on your birth?" she asked them; "you forget that you did not choose it—God gave it to you. It is a poor gift in itself, and perhaps you are the servants to whom the Lord could only intrust one or two pounds instead of ten. But do not lay it aside, and hide it in a napkin; use it worthily, and in the next life, or perhaps in this life, God will give you more and better gifts."

"The best gifts are those we get directly from God," she taught them, "and you must ask him for them yourselves—for no man can ask or seek these blessings for you—no other hand can knock at the gate till it is opened to you—and, what your spirit asks, the spirit of God gives. You are nearer to God than to me. You are dearer to his heart than to mine."

Sometimes Sidney, sitting by, while Margaret was teaching her boys, would smile to himself at her want of worldly wisdom. When she told them the loss of money was the smallest loss they could suffer, and asked them whether they would rather lose their sight, and never more see the faces of those they loved; or their hearing, and never again listen to dear voices and the glad and solemn sounds of music; or lose their friends by death, her and their father; and the boys would declare with eagerness that they would a thousand times rather face the world penniless than be bereft of any of these great gifts—then Sidney would say to himself how much greater would be the pity of rich men toward himself if he lost his large fortune, than if he lost sight, or hearing, or sons, or even this dear wife of his, with her unworldly spirit, who was in truth more precious to him than all gold and lands! It was sweet to hear Margaret talk in this way, but she spoke a language that had no meaning in the City.

Philip took a fairly good place at Oxford, but Dick far surpassed him. There had been no emulation between the young men, and Philip felt no grudge against Dick for his triumph and the distinction he earned. Dick's success had been very great, and both the Hall and the Rectory celebrated it with much rejoicing. Sidney, who had borne all the cost of the education of George's sons, was greatly pleased. But he was not less pleased that Philip had not distinguished himself in the same way. There was no need for his son and heir to win high honors at the university; he did not wish to see him a great mathematician or a fine classical scholar. That was all very well for Dick and Stephen, and the other boys, who had to earn their own living by sheer force of brain. For Philip it was more essential that he should be an all-round man.

In this Sidney was satisfied. Philip could do all things customary to young men of his station and prospects, but he did not specially excel in any of them. In his father's eyes there was in him a slight touch of listlessness, the listlessness of certainty. There was a lack of something to strive for, which had been no characteristic of his own. Sidney could still recall the strain of anxiety to retain his uncle's favor, and the sacrifices he had made, and was ready to make, to secure his vast fortune falling to himself. It could not be the same with his son. The large estate in Yorkshire, which was entailed upon him, secured his future, and deprived him at the same time of the stimulus of uncertainty. It was the same with his younger boy, Hugh. Their mother had taught them so to value wealth and position that they had no ambition to increase either, while their ancestors had taken care they should not be compelled to work for their living. It was a knot in the silken thread of their lives which Sidney could not untie, and was equally powerless to cut through.

CHAPTER XX.

BRACKENBURN.

The large estate in Yorkshire to which Philip was heir had been seldom visited by Sidney. It was much too far from London to be a place of residence for him while he remained in business, and Margaret's house at Apley exactly met all their requirements as a country place within a short distance from town. The Yorkshire estate had been left to an agent, and the house had been let for a term of twenty-one years soon after his settling upon Apley as their home. Hitherto, therefore, it had been little more to them than a source of income. The tenant of Brackenburn was reported to be an eccentric man, who greatly resented the occasional visits of the agent, and neither Sidney nor Philip had cared to intrude upon him. The house was small, and Sir John Martin had left the sum of £50,000 for building one more suitable for his heirs. Now that Philip was so nearly of age it became a question of some importance when and how the new hall should be built. Architects were consulted and plans drawn up, bringing more forcibly to Philip's mind that he, too, like Hugh, to whom Apley would come, was heir to a large property in land. The love of land awoke within him. He threw himself with ardor into the questions of building and planting. The tenant's lease would expire shortly after he came of age, and it was then proposed that Philip should take up his abode in the old Manor House, and superintend the erection of the new mansion. When thinking of it, he always thought of Phyllis as being there beside him.

But some months before Philip's coming of age Sidney received a letter from a firm of solicitors in York informing him that his tenant, Mr. Churchill, was dead, and that he was left sole executor of his will, and the guardian of his only child; "having no friend whom I can trust in the whole world," was added. Sidney had seen his tenant only a few times, and nothing had been said to him of the service thus thrust upon him by Mr. Churchill's will. It was a surprise and an annoyance to him; but the words, "no friend whom I can trust in the whole world," appealed to his and to Margaret's sympathy, and, telegraphing that he was starting immediately, he set out on his northward journey.

"It is odd," he said to Margaret before leaving her, "that we have no idea whether the only child is a son or daughter, or what the amount of property left may be. But in any case we can befriend Mr. Churchill's only child."

It was early morning when Sidney reached the little road-side station nearest to Brackenburn, and a walk of four miles lay between it and the old Manor House. His temperament was still alive to all the simple pleasures of a solitary walk like this, at an unwonted hour and in the very heart of the country. London lay very far away from him. His love of nature had no touch of age upon it, and as he sauntered along the lanes, with the joyous caroling of little songbirds all around him, and the bracing air of the dawn caressing his face, he felt almost like a boy again. If Margaret had but come with him, his enjoyment would have been perfect. The fever of city life always running in his veins cooled down into an unusual calm and tranquillity, and for once he asked himself if his satisfied ambition was worth the sacrifice he had made for it.

The old Manor House of Brackenburn stood at the head of a long dale, with wide stretches of heather-clad moor rising behind it and lying in long curves against the distant horizon. It was an old timber house, the heavy beams black with age, and the interstices, which had once been kept white with frequent lime-washing, were now weather-stained and discolored. But the front of the old house was hidden under a thick mantle of ivy, which had never been touched or trained, and which grew in long, luxuriant sprays that waved to and fro restlessly in the breeze. A stone wall, ten feet high, surrounded the house and concealed the lower story, and Sidney found it difficult to push open the heavy iron gates, which admitted him to the forecourt. The windows were still closed with outer wooden shutters, and the only sign of life was a thin line of smoke rising from one of the great stacks of chimneys, and floating softly across the blue of the morning sky. Sidney rang gently, in order not to disturb the household at so early an hour, and the door was presently opened by an old woman, who appeared with a candle in her hand, and led him into a darkened room. He told her briefly who he was.

"I'll call Dorothy to you," she said as she shut the door upon him.

There was something about being left in this way to wait for some unknown person which brought back very vividly to his memory his first meeting with Margaret. He could see her coming in, and drawing near to him, with her simple, unconscious grace, and hear her addressing him as frankly as if she had been a little child. He had loved her with all his heart from that moment. Was it possible that it was more than twenty-two years ago? It might have been but yesterday; only she was dearer to him now, and her love was more necessary and more precious to him. How foolish he was to waste so much time in business, which might be spent in companionship with her. Well, as soon as Philip, or Hugh, was ready to take his place, he would himself relax his pursuit of wealth and power.

He was pacing to and fro in the dark room when the door was opened timidly, and a young, slight girl entered, and stood just within the doorway, gazing at him. The dim light of the single candle hardly reached her, and he could only see large dark eyes, looking black in the wan pallor of her face, which were fastened upon him, partly in terror, and partly in appeal to him, like the pathetic gaze of some dumb creature doubtful of the reception it will receive. She seemed almost to be shrinking away in dread of some unkindness, when he approached her as she stood trembling just inside the door.

"I'm Dorothy," she said, looking up at him with pale anxiety.

"Dorothy Churchill?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, nodding, the tears gathering slowly in her eyes.

"And you have no brothers or sisters?" he said.

"No," she whispered.

He took her hand tenderly in his, and led her to a chair, and sat down beside her, keeping hold of the little brown hand, which trembled in his clasp. She looked like a forlorn, neglected child. The big tears rolled one by one down her cheeks; but she did not dare to move or wipe them away. She seemed as if her spirit was crushed by long and constant unkindness. Sidney drew her near to him as he would have done a little child. His heart was troubled for her, and he wished Margaret could be with him to comfort this lonely and sorrow-stricken girl.

"You loved your father!" he said, after a pause.

"Not much," she answered; "he frightened me."

"Didn't he love you?" he asked.

"He loved his dogs most of all," said Dorothy, sobbing. "Oh, come upstairs, please. You are the master now; and oh, I want you to come to his room. They said I must not give any orders about anything."

She led the way up the broad old staircase, where the morning sun was shining in gleams of light through chinks in the shutters, and, pausing for a moment or two before a door till he was close beside her, she opened it very cautiously. The room was low and dark, wainscoted with almost black oak, which reflected no light from the candles that were burning in honor of the dead. A heavy four-post bedstead held the corpse of the dead man, laid out in the terrible rigidness of death; eyes closed, lips locked, head and hands motionless for ever. The head and face were uncovered, and the weird, indescribable seal of death was on them. No light would ever reach those closed eyes again, no sound would ever enter those deafened ears.

If that had been possible, the uproar that followed Sidney's entrance into the darkened room would have aroused the dead man. For to each of the four posts of the great bed was chained a huge mastiff, which, as he stepped across the threshold, sprang forward as far as the chain would allow him, as if to attack the intruder, with a wild chorus of furious howling and baying.

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, starting back in horror, "what is the meaning of this?"

"He would have it so," answered Dorothy, as she clung with both hands to his arm; "he would have them here all the time he was ill, because he said no one else loved him. And John and Betsy said they must stay here till you came, because you are the master now. But, oh! they were howling and wailing all night, and the night before, and it is dreadful. Oh! be quiet, Juno and Di; he cannot hear you now. Yes, you loved him, I know. But he is gone, and can never come back to you. Poor dogs! lie down, lie down. I will be kind to you, and take care of you; but you must not stay here, now the master is come. Poor dogs, poor dogs!"

Her voice fell into tones of pity, and she loosed Sidney's arm, and ventured up to the mastiff nearest to her, laying her hand gently on its great rough head and speaking caressing words, until all four crouched down moaning, as if they understood her. After the furious barking it seemed as if a sorrowful silence had fallen into the death-chamber, though the dogs still whined and whimpered, but quietly, as if they were growing exhausted with their grief.

"He loved them very much," said Dorothy, looking across to Sidney as he stood at some distance, afraid of provoking the mastiffs to a fresh outbreak if he attempted to draw nearer. "Oh, yes! he loved them ever so much more than he did me. He always said I should live to be a sorrow and a curse to him; and it was no use wasting his love upon a girl. I am almost grown up now; but I've never been a sorrow and a curse to him. And I never would have been, father," she added, turning and speaking to the corpse, as if it could hear her; "perhaps you know now that I would always have been a good girl to you."

"Come away, my poor child," said Sidney, with a feeling of deep pity and tenderness for the desolate girl, "you belong to me now. Come away, and these poor dogs shall be taken out of this room. I cannot come to you, lest they should begin their fierce uproar again."

She was shivering with excitement when she reached his side; and he put his arm round her, and almost carried her away from the gloomy room and terrible assemblage of mourners. The light was stronger outside the door, and he could see her small, pale face quivering, and her dark eyes gleaming with terror and grief. He stooped down and kissed the pale face.

"Now, Dorothy," he said, "listen to me. I have no daughter, and from this moment I take you as mine; and my wife will be as a mother to you. It is a new life you are about to begin; quite different from this old one. Which is your room, my child? Go, and rest now till afternoon. And remember that I am master here, and I will take every care of you."

Though owner of the old house he hardly knew it. It was twenty years since he had let it to Mr. Churchill, and he had not seen it since. He filled up his time, while waiting for the solicitor from York, in wandering through the rambling old rooms. Most of them were low and dimly lighted, with heavy mullioned windows and wainscoted walls; but there was a charm about them which no modern mansion can possess. All of them were poorly and barely furnished with the mere necessaries of household life. There were no curtains to the windows, and no carpets on the floors, which looked as if they had been seldom cleaned. His footsteps echoed loudly through the nearly empty rooms; and he found nowhere any trace of wealth or refinement, except in the library, which was well furnished with books. There were only two servants—an elderly man and his wife. The large garden surrounding the house had become a wilderness, where the old gravel walks were scarcely to be traced.

"The little girl will be poor," Sidney said to himself, "but Margaret will care the more for her if she has nothing."

As the morning passed on the solicitor arrived, eager to get through his business and catch a return train, which would take him back that evening. He ran rapidly through the will, which left everything in Sidney's hands.

"You see you have absolute power," he said; "it is the simplest will in the world. His only daughter sole heiress, and you sole executor. No relations, no legacies, no conditions."

"He must have been an odd man," remarked Sidney.

"Very odd indeed," he replied, "very odd! Has not spent £200 a year over and above his rent since he came to this place. No, I'm wrong! since his wife left him, when their child was about two years of age. Ran away, you understand, and providentially died a few months afterward. The girl has grown up quite untaught and uncared for. She will be eighteen soon, and looks and acts like a child of twelve. A serious thing that, with her fortune."

"Fortune!" repeated Sidney. "I judged them to be poor."

"About a quarter of a million, more or less," said the solicitor; "and she has never been trusted to spend a sixpence in her life. Poor Churchill professed to hate her, as being like her mother; but you see he could not disinherit her. Curious instinct that in human nature to leave one's possessions to one's own flesh and blood. We seldom find it contravened."

"But there is no trace of wealth about the house," suggested Sidney.

"Churchill sold off all his wife's knickknacks when she ran away," he replied, "and kept nothing but necessaries. He has lived here with two servants and a host of dogs. By the way, the dogs are to attend the funeral as far as the churchyard gates; the rector will not allow them inside. We fixed the funeral for to-morrow, and I will run over to it; and then we can arrange any further matters of business."