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'ST 4 CONTENTS. pa(;r 70 no 118 125 AXIERICAXS IN YoKKSirrttK y Martha Cravkn's Trolbi.k 22 Richard and Elizaukth 31 WkSLKV and MKTIIODISNf 54 Antony'**; Plans God clkars 13kn Cravkx Christmas Renewal ok the Covenant Separation At Home ArjAix John Millard j^^^ The Passionate Shot 143 Texas and I-iherty im Richard at IIai L.^M 1"^;^ May. a. D, 18;j(; j-^ Antony and his Bridk 190 The Squire's Death 1 Pfi Antony's Sin 2H9 Elizabeth's Resolve 2'M Evelyn «);}« Elizabeth's Tkial 214 LovK Comforted 201 Antony's Fate 266 Santa Fft Expkih! ion 271 Elizabeth in Texas <>f;^.2 The Sunset ov Like o't? !?gi5aia^. TO MY DEAF FRIEND, 8AM. EARNSHAW WILSON, ESQ THIS TALE IS, WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM, INSCRIBED. 4 THE HALLAM SUCCESSION. chaptp:r I. " The changing guests, each in a different njooil, Sit at the road-side table and arise : And every life among them ii likewise Is a soul's board set daily with new food. *' May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in dwell In separate living souls for joy or pain ? Nay, all its corners may be painted plain Where Heaven shows pictures of some life well-spent." YORKSHIRE is the epitome of England. What- ever is excellent in the whole land is fonnd there. The men are sturdy, shrewd, and stalwart; hard-headed and hard-fisted, and have notably done their work in every era of English history. They are also a handsome race, the finest specimens extant of the pure Anglo-Saxon, and they still preserve the imposing stature and the bright blonde characteristics of the race. Yorkshire abounds in what is the typical English home— fine old halls and granges, set in wooded parks, and surrounded by sweet, shady gardens. One of the fairest of these homes is Hallam-Croft. There The IIai-lam Sut'ci:ssu)N. I iiiiiy be lar<^er lialKs in tlie West Riding, but none that combines so finely all the charms of anti({uity, with every modern grace and comfort. Its walls are of gray stone, covered with ivy, or crusted with golden lichens; its front, long and low, is pictur- esquely diversified with oriel windows, gable ends, and shadowy angles. JJehind is a steep, craggy range of woody hills; in front, a terraced garden of great extent ; full of old-fashioned bowers, and labyrinth- like walks, and sloping down to a noble park, whose oaks and beeches are of wonderful beauty, and whose turf is soft as velvet and greener than any artist ever dreamed of. Fifty years ago tlie owner of this lovely spot was Squire Henry Hallam. He was about sixty years of age, stout and fair, and dressed in fine drab broad- cloth, with a white vest, and a white cambric kerchief tied loosely round his neck. His hat, drab also, was low-crowned and broad-brimmed, and, as a general rule, he kept it on. In the holy precincts of a church, or if the national anthem was played, he indeed always bared his head ; but, in the first case, it was his expression of a religious sentiment, in the second he saluted his country, and, in a measure, himself. One evening in the early spring he was sitting upon a low sofa in the room that was specially his own, mending some fishing tackle. A couple of set- ter puppies were worrying eacn other on the sola beside him, and a splendid fox-hound leaned her TiiK IIallam Si:c(;es8Ion. 5 muzzle on one of lilfl broad knees, and looked up into her master's face with sad rej>roaehfid eves. Slie was evidently jealous, and watching anxiously for some look or word of favor. She had not loni; to wait. The puppies became troublesome ; he chided them, and put tlie bit of leather they were (piarrelinfj^ about in his pocket. Then he patted the hound, and said : " There's a deal o' ditl'erence between them and tliee, Fanny, and it's a' in thy favor, lass;" and Fanny understood the compliment, for she whimpered hap- pily, and thrust her handsome head up against her master's breast. At that moment his daugliter, Elizabeth, entered the room. She had an open letter in her hand, and a look half-perplexed and half-pleased upon her face. " Father," she said, "there is a letter from America ; Richard and Phyllis are coming ; ana I am afraid I shall not know how to make tliem hap})y." " Don't thee meet troubles half way ; they arn't worth th' compliment. What is ta feared for, dearie ? " "Their life is so different fr. m ours — and, father, I do believe they are Methodists." The squire fastened the bit of gaudy feather to the trout "fly" he was making, before he answered. " Surely to goodness, they'll niver be that! Sibbald Ilallam, my uncle, was a varry thick Churchman when he went to th' Carolinas — but he married a foreigner ; she had plenty o' brass, and acres o' land, i 6 The Uallam tSuccEssiox. but 1 iiiver heard tell owt o' her religion. They had fuur lads aud lasses, but only one o' them lived to wed, and that was my cousin, Matilda Ilallam — t' mother o' these two youngsters that are speaking o' coming here." " Who did she marry, father? " "Nay, I knowt o' th' man she married. lie was a Colonel Fontaine. I was thinking a deal more o* my own wedding than o' hers at that time. It's like enough he were a Methodist. T' Carolinas lied re- belled against English government, and it's nobbut reasonable to suppose t' English Church would be as little to their liking. But they're Ilallams, whativer else they be, Elizabeth, and t' best I hev is for them." He had risen as he spoke ; the puppies were bark- ing and gamboling at his feet, and Fanny watching his face with dignilied eagerness. They knew he was going to walk, and were asking to go with him. " Be still wi' you, Ilattle and Tory ! — Yes, yes, Fanny 1 — and Elizabeth, open up t' varry best rooms, and give them a right hearty welcome. "Where's Antony ? " "Somewhere in the house." " Iledn't ta better ask him what to do ? Ho knows ivery thing."' There was a touch of sarcasm in the voice, but Elizabeth was too much occupied to notice it ; and as the squire and his dogs took the road to the park, she turned, with the letter still open in her hand, and went thoughtfully from room to room, seeking her TiiK Uallam Succkssion. 7 bi'other. There was no deeper motive in her thoii<'ht rlian what was apparent ; her cares were simply those of liospitality. But wlien a life has been bounded by household hopes and anxieties, they assume an undue importance, and since her mother's death, two years previously, there had been no company at llallani. This was to be EHzabeth's first effort of active liospi- tality. She found Antony in the library reading "The Gen- tleman's Magazine," :>r, perhaps, nsing it for a seda- tive ; for he was either half asleep, or lost in thought. He moved a little petulantly when his sister spoke. One saw at a glance that he had inherited his father's fine physique and presence, but not his father's calm, clear nature His eyes were restless, his expression preoccupied, his manner haughty. Neither was his voice quite pleasant. There are human instruments, which always seem to have a false note, and Antony's had this peculiarity. " Antony, I have a letter from Eichard and Phyllis Fontaine. They are going to visit us this summer." " I am delighted. Life is oreadf -ally dull here, with nothing to do." " Come to the parlor, and I will give you a cup of tea, and read you cousin Phyllis's letter." The squire had never thought of asking ElizabetK wliy she supposed her cousins to be Methodists. Antony seized at once upon the point in the letter which regarded it. I ;S ! 8 Tup: Hallam Succession. " They are sailing with Bishop Elliott, and will remain until September, in order to allow the Bishop to attend Conference;' whet does that mean, Eliza- beth ? " " I suppose it means they are Methodists." The young man was silent d moment, and then he replied, emphatically, " I am very glad of it." " How can you suy so, Antony ? And there is the rector, and the Elthams — " " I was thinking of the Ilallams. After a thou- sand years of stagnation one ought to welcome a ripple of life. A Methodist isn't asleep. I have often felt inclined to drop into their chapel as I passed it. I wonder how it would feel to be awake soul and body at once ! " "Antony, you ought not to talk so recklessly. Some people might imagine you meant what you f^aid. You know very well that the thousand years of 'stagnation,' as you call it, of the Hallams, is a most respectable thing." " Yery respectable indeed ! That is all women think about — born conservatives every one of them — ' dyed in the wool,' as a Bradford man would say." "Why do you quote what Bradford men say? I cannot imagine what makes you go among a crowd of weavers, when you naight be at Eltham Castle with gentlemen." " I will tell you why. At Eltham we yawn and st gnate together. The weavers prick and pinch me The Hallam Succession. 9 iu a thuiifcaud places. They make me dream of living." " Drink your tea, Antony and don't be foolish." He shrugged his shoulders and laughed. Upon the whole, he rather liked the look of astonishnient in his sister's gray eyes, and the air of puzzled disap- proval in her manner. IJe regarded ignorance on a great many niatters as the natural and admirable condition of womanhood. "It is very good tea, Elizabeth, and I like this American news. I shall not go to the Tyrol now. Two new specimens of humanity to study are better than glaciers." " Antony, do remember that you are speaking of your own cousins — 'two new specimens of human- ity ' — they are Hallams at the root." " I meant no disrespect ; but I am naturally a little excited at the idea of American Hallams— Americana in Hal lam-Croft ! i only hope the shades of Hengist and Horsa wont haunt tlie old rooms out of simple curiosity. "When are tliey to be here ? " "They will be in Liverpool about the end of May. You have two weeks to prepare yourself, Antony." Antony did not reply, but just what kind of a young lady his cousin Phyllis Fontaine might be he had no idea. People could not in those days buy tlieir pictures by the dozen, and distribute them, so that Antony's imagination, in this direction, had the Held entirely to itself. His fancy painted her in * 10 The Hallam Succession. many charming forms, and yet he was never able to invest her with any other distinguishing traits than those with which lie was familiar — the brilliant blonde beauty and resplendent health of his country- women. Therefore, when the real Phyllis Fontaine met his vision she was a revelation to him. It was in the afternoon cf the last day of May, and Hallam seemed to have put on a more radiant beauty for the occa- sion. The sun was so bright, the park so green, the garden so sweet and balmy. Heart's-ease were every-where, honeysuckles tilled the air, and in the wood behind, the blackbirds whistled, and the chaf- linches and tomtits kept up a merry, musical chatter- ing. The squire, with his son and daughter, was wait- ing at the great open door of the main entrance for his visitors, and as the carriage stopped he cried out, cheerily, '• Welcome to Hallam ! " Then there was a few minutes of pleasant confusion, and in them Phyllis had made a distinct picture on every mind. '' She's a dainty little woman," said the squire to himself, as he sat calmly smoking his pipe after the bustle of the arrival was over; "not much like a Hallam, but t' eye as isn't charmed wi' her 'ell hev no white in it, that's a' about it." Antony was nmcli interested, and soon sought his sister. " If that is Cousin Phyllis, she is beautiful. Don't you think so, Elizabeth ? " The IIallam Succession. 11 " Yes; liow perfectly slic was dressed." "That is a woman's criticism. Did von see her soft, dark eyes, her small bow-shaped month — a beanty one rarely finds in English women — her ex- quisite complexion, her little feet ? " ''That is a man's criticism. How conld you see all that in a moHi^jnt or two of such confusion ? " " Easily ; how was she dressed ? " " In a plain dress of gray cloth. The fit was per- fect, the linen collar and cuffs spotless, the gray bon- net, with its drooping, gray feather bewitching. She wore gray gloves and a traveling cloak of the same color, which hung like a princess's mantle." " How could vou see all that in a moment or two of such confusion ? " " Do not be too clever, Antony. You forget 1 went with her to lier rooms." " Did you notice Richard ? " " A little ; he resembles his sister. Their foreign look as they stood beside you and father was very re- markable. Neither of them are like Hallams." " I am so glad of it ; a new element coming into life is like a fresh wind ' blowino; throu2:h breathless woods.' " But Elizabeth sighed. This dissatisfaction with the old, and ci-aving for the new, was one of the points upon which Antony and his father were unable to understand each other. Nothing permanent pleased Antony, and no one could ever predic;ite of him 12 The Hallam Succession. what course he would pursue, or what side he would take. As a general rule, however, he preferred the opposition in all things. Now, the squire's principles and opinions were as clear to his own mind as his own existence was. He beli(^ved tirnily in his Bible, in the English Constitution, and in hinjself. He ad- mitted no faults in the first two ; his own shortcom- ings toward Heaven he willinoly acknowledged ; but he regarded his attitude toward his fellow-man as without fault. All his motives and actions pro- ceeded from well-understood truths, and they moved in consistent and admirable grooves. Antony had fnllen upon different times, and been brought under more uncertain influences. Oxford, " the most loyal," had been in a religious ferment during his stay there. The spirit of Pusey and New- man was shaking the Church of England like a great wind ; and though Antony had been but little touched by the spiritual aspect of the movement, the temporal accusations of corruption and desertion of duty were good lances to tilt against the Church with. It gave him a curiously mixed pleasure to provoke the squire to do battle for her ; partly from contradiction, partly that he might show off his array of second-hand learning and logic ; and partly, also, for the delight of asserting his own opinions and his own individuality. Any other dispute the squire would have settled by a positive assertion, or a positive denial ; but TiiF, Hall AM Succession. 13 even the most dogmatic of men are a little conscien- tious about religious scruples. He liad> therefore, allowed his son to discuss "the Church" with him, but in some subtle way the older man divined that his ideas were conviction ; while Antony's were only drifting thoughts. Therefore, the moral strength of the argument was with him, and he had a kind of contempt for a Hallam who could be moved by every Will-o'-the-wisp of religious or political opinions. But Elizabeth was greatly impret;sed by her broth- er's accomplishments, and she loved him, and believed in him with all her heart. The Hallams hitherto had no reputation for mental ability. In times of need England had found them good soldiers and ready givers ; but poets and scholars they had never been. Antony affected tlie latter character. He spoke several languages, he read science and German phi- losophy, and he talked such radical politics to the old gardener, that the man privately declared himself "fair cap't wi' t' young squire." Yet after all, his dominant passion was a love of power, and of money as the means by which to grasp power. Below all his speculations and affectations this \vas the underlying thought. True, he was heir of Hallam, and as the heir had an allowance quite equal to his position. But he constantly reflected that his father might live many years, and that in the pmbable order of things he must wait until he wn^ a fT u The Hallam Succession. middle-aged man for his inheritance ; and for a young man who felt himself quite competent to turn the axle of the universe, it seemed a contemptible lot to grind in his own little mill at Ilallam. He had not as yet voiced these thoughts, but they lay in his heart, and communicated unknown to himself an at- mosphere of unrest and unreliability to all his words and actions. It was soon evident that there would be little sym- pathy between liichard and Antony. Richard Fon- taine was calm, dignified, reticent ; never tempted to give his confidence to any one; and averse to receive the confidences of others ; therefore, though he list- ened with polite attention to Antony's aspirations and aims, they made very little impression upon him. Both he and Phyllis glided without effort into the life which must have been so new to them ; and in less than a week, Hallam had settled happily down to its fresh conditions. But nothing had been just as An. tony expected. Phyllis was very lovely, but not lovely specially for him, which was disappointing; and he could not help soon seeing that, though Kichard was attentive, he was also unresponsive. There is one charming thing about English hos- pitality, it leaves its guests perfect freedom. In a very few days Phyllis found this out ; and she wan- dered, imnotieed and undisturbed, through the long* galleries, and examined, with particular interest, the upper rooms, into which from generation to genera- The Hall am SrcrEssiox. 15 tion unwelcoiiicd pictures and unfashionahle fnriii- tiire liud been })hiced. Tlicre was one room in tlie eastern turret that attracted her specially. It con- tained an old spinet, and above it the picture of a young girl ; a face of melancholy, t'-nder beauty, with that far-oft' look, which the French call pvedestinee^ in the solemn eyes. It is folly to say tliat furniture has no expression ; the small couch, tne faded work-table, the straight chairs, with their twisted attenuated legs, had an un- speakable air of sadness. One day she cautiously touched the notes of the instrument. IIow weak and thin and hollow they were ! And yet they l)!ended perfectly with something in her own heart. iShc played till the tears were on her cheeks, it seemed as if the sorrowful echoes had found in her soul the con- ditions for their reproduction. AVhen she went back to her own room the influence of the one she had left followed her like a shadow. "How can I bring one room into another?" she asked herself, and she flung wide the large windows and let the sunshine flood the pink chintzes and the blooming roses of her own apartment. There was a tap at the door, and Elizabeth entered. " I have brought you a cup of tea, PJiyllis. Shall I drink mine beside you ?" " I shall enjoy both your company and the tea. I think I have been in an unhappy room and caught some of its spirit — the room with the old spinet in it." 2 r 16 The IIallam Sicckspion. " Aunt Lucy's room. Yes, slie was very unhappy. She loved, and tlie man was utterly unwortliy of her love. (She died slowly in that room — a wasted life." "Ah, no, Elizabeth I Ko life is waste in the great ^\'orker's hands. If liuman love wounds and wrongs us, are we not circled by angels as the stars by heaven?" Our soul relatives PorrowMn our sorrow ; and out of the apparent loss bring golden gain. I think she would know this before she died." " She died as the good die, blessing and hoping." Elizabeth looked steadily at Phyllis. She thought she had never seen any face so lovely. From her eyes, still dewy with tears, the holy soul looked up- ward ; and her lips kept the expression of the prayer that was in her 1 ^nrt. She did not wonder at the words that had falion from them. After a moment's '^llence, she said : " My mother loved Aunt Lucy very dearly. Tier death made a deal of difference in mother's life." " Death is always a great sorrow to those who love us ; but for ourselves, it is only to bow our heads at going out, and to enter straightway another golden chamber of the Tving's, lovelier than the one we leave." Elizabeth ccarce knew how to answer. She had never been used to discuss sacred subiects with Iler ■nve." liad girls such and sublime confidence affected her with a seiipe of something strange and remote. Yet the conversation intei-ested lier greatly. People are very foolish who restrain spiritual coniidences ; no topic is so universally and i)ermanently interesting as religious experience. Elizabeth felt its charm at once. She loved God, but loved him, as it were, afar off; she almost feared to speak to him. She had never dared to speak of him. " Do you really tliink, Phyllis, that angels care about our earthly loves ? " " Ves, I do. Love is the rock upon which our lives are generally built or wrecked. Elizabeth, if I did not believe that the love of (Jod embraced <'very worthy earthly love, I should be very miserable." " Because 'i " ** Because, dear, 1 love, and am beloved again." "P)Ut how sliall we know if the love be worthy?" " Once in class-meeting I asked this question. That was when I first became aware that I loved John Millard. I am not likely to forget the answer my leader gave me." "What was it?" "Sister rhylHs," he said, "ask yourself what will your love be to you a thousand ages hence. Ask yourself if it will pass the rolling together of the heavens like a scroll, and the melting of the ele- ments with fervent heat. Ask if it will pass the judg- ment-day, when the secret thoughts of all hearts will 1 18 TiiK IIallam Succession. I I ( I ii \ III' I: \\ I I I I I I I l)(3 revealed. Dure to love only one whom you run love forever." " T have never thon^j^ht of lovinj; throui^hout all eternity the one whom I love in time." " Ah I but it IkS cur privilejjce to cherish the immor- tal in tlio man we love. Where I go I wish my be- loved to _i>o also. The thouii;ht of our love severed on the thresliold of i)aradise makes me weep. T cati- not understand an aiTeetion which must look forward to an irrevocable s('j)aration. Nay, 1 ask more than this; I desire that my love, even there assuininf;^ his own proper place, should be still in advance of me — my guide, my sujiport, my master every- where." " If you love John Millard in this way, he and you must be very happy.'' " We ar(», and yet what earthly light has not its shadow ? " " What is the shadow, Phyllis ? " " Richard dislikes him so bitterly ; and Richard is very, very near and dear to me. I dare say you think he is very cool and calm and (piiet. It is the restraint which he puts upon himself; really Richard has a constant fight with a temper, which, if it should take possession of him, would bo uncontrollable. He knows that." " You spoke as if you are a Wesleyan, yet you went to Church last Sunday, Phyllis." " Why not i Methodists are not bigots ; and just as England is my mother-country, Episcopacy is my 1 The IIallam Sixclssion. 19 inotlior-Chiirch. If Episcopacy should ever die, Lliz- alH'tli, Methodism is next of kin, and would be heir to all her chuiehes." " And Wesleyans and Methodists are the sauie ? " " Yes ; but I like the old name best. It came from the pen of the golden-mouthed Chrysostom, so you see it has quite an apostolic halo about it." " I never heard hat, Phyllis." " It is hardly likely you would. It was used at first as a word of reproach ; but how many such words have been adopted and made gloi'ious emblems of vic- tory. It was thus in ancient Antioch the first follow- ers of Christ were called ' Christians.' " " But how came Chrysostom to find a name for John Wesley's followers ? " '' Richard told me it was used first m a pani])hlet against Whitefield. I do not remember the author, but he quoted from the pages of Chrysostom these words, 'To be a Methodist is to be beguiled.' Of course, Chrvsostom's * Methodist' is not our Method- ist. The writer knew he was unjust and meant it for a term of reproach, but the woi'd took the popu- lar fancy, and, as such words do, clung to the peojile at whom it was thrown. They might have thrown it biu'k again ; they did better ; they accepted it, and have covered it with glory." " Why, Phyllis, what a little enthusiast you are ! " and Elizabeth looked again with admiration at the small figure reclining in the deep chair beside her. »20 The Hallam Succession. il: !i> 1 1 1 1 i i Its rosy chintz covering threw into vivid relief the exquisite paleness of PhylHs's complexion — that clear, warm paleness of the South — and contrasted it with the intense blackness of her loosened hair. Her dark, soft eyes glow ed, her small hands had involun- tarily clasped themselves upon lior breast. " What a little enthusiast you are ! " Then she stooped and kissed her, a most unusual demonstration, for Eliza- betli was not emotional. Her feelincrs were as a still lake, whose depths were only known to those \v'ho sounded them. Tlio conversation was not continued. Fine souls have an instinctive knowledge of times and seasons, and both felt that for that day the limit of spiritual confidence had been reached. But it was Phyllls's quicker nature whicli provided the natural return to the material life. " I know I am enthusiastic about many things, Elizal)eth. The world is so full of what is good and beautiful ! Look at those roses ! Could flowers be more sweet and perfect ? I always dream of happy things among roses." " B'jt you nmst not dream now, dear. It is very near dinner-time. We have had a very pleasant hour. I shall think of all you have said." But the thing she thought most persistently of was Richard Fontaine's temper. Was it possible that Ihe equable charm and serenity of his mood was only an assumed one ? As she went to the dining-room she The Hall am Succersion. 21 saw liim standing in the great hall caressing two large hounds. In the same moment he raised his head and stood watching lier approach. It seemed to iiim as if he had never seen her before. She advanced slowly toward him through the level rays of the west- ering siin, which projected themselves in a golden haze all around her. Those were not the days of Hut- ino-s and bows and rufflino;s innumerable. Elizabeth's dress was a long, perfectly phiin one, of white India mull. A narrow black belt conlined it at the waist, a collar of rich lace and a brooch of gold at the throat, llcr fair hair was dressed in a large loose bow on the crown, and lay in soft light curls upon her brow. Tier feet were sandaled, her large white hands unjeweled and ungloved, and with one she lifted slightly her flowing dress. Resplendent with youth, beauty, and sunshine, she affected Richard as no woman had ever done before. She was the typ- ical Saxon woman, the woman who had ruled the hearts and homes of his ancestors for centuries, and she now stirred his to its sweetest depths. He did not go to meet her. He would not lose a step of her progress. He felt that at last Jove was coming to visit him. It was a joy almost solemn in its intensity and expectation. He held out his hand, and Eliza- beth took it. In that moment they saw each other's hearts as clearly as two drops of rain meeting in air might look into each other if they had life. Yet they spoke only of the most trivial things — the na ii i 22 The Hall am Succession. dogs, and the weather, and Richard's ride to Leeds, and the stumbling of Antony's liorse. " We left the Squire in the village," said liiehard. " A woman who was apparently in very great trouble called him." "A woman who lives in a cottage covered with clematis ? " '' I think so." " It must have been Martha Craven. I wonder what is the matter ! " and they walked together to the open door. The squire had just alighted from his horse, and was talking earnestly to liis favorite servant. He seemed to be in trouble, and he was not the man to keep either sorrow or joy to himself. " Elizabeth ! my word, but I'm bothered ! Here's Jonathan Clough murdered, and Ben Craven under lock and key for it ! " "Why, father! Ben would never do a thing like that ! " " Not he ! I'd be as like to do it mysen. Thou must go thy ways and see Martha as soon as iver t' dinner is eat. I sail stand by Martha and Ben to t' varry last. Ben Craven murde^* any body ! Ilee ! I crack't out laug-hinj]: wlien I heard tell o' such non- sense )> In fact, the squire had been touelied in a very ten- der spot. Martha Craven's mother had been his nurse, and ]\rartlia herself, for manv years, liis wife's maid and confidential servant. He felt the imputa- tion as a j^ersonal slander. The Cravens had been I •• The II all am Succession. 23 faithful servants of the Ilallams for generations, and Clongh was comparatively a new-comer. liiglit or wrong, the squire would have been inclined to stand bv an old friend, but he had not a doubt of Ben's in- nocence. " What have you done about it? " asked Anton v. " I've been to see Israel Potter, and I've bound him to stand up for Ben. What Israel doesn't know 'bout law, and what Israel can't do with t' law, isn't worth t' knowing or t' doing. Then I went for t' Wesleyan minister to talk a bit wi' Martha, i)oor body ? She seemed to want something o' t' kind ; and I'm bound to say I found him a varry gentle- manlv, sensible fellow. He didn't think owt wrona: o' Bon, no more than I did." '' People would wonder to see you at the Wesl cy- an's door." " May be they'll be more cap't yet, son Antony. I'll ask neither cat nor Christian what door to knock at. I wish I may nivver stand at a worse door than Mr. North's, that's a'. What say you to that, then ? " " I say you are quite right, father." "I'm nivver far wrong, mj^ lad; nobody is that lets a kind heart lead them, and it w^ould be aijainst nature if I didn't stand up for any Craven that's i' trouble." Phyllis, who was sitting beside him, laid her hand upon his a moment, and he lifted his eyes and met hers. There was such a light and look of sympathy 1 24 The Hallam Succession. 1 i and admiration in tlieni, tliat she had no need to say a word. He felt that he had done the right thing, and was pleased with himself for doing it. In a good man there is still a deal of the divinity from which he has fallen, and in his times of trial his heart throbs upward. Dinner was insensibly hnrried, and when Elizabeth rose l^livllis followed her. " I must go with you dear ; if Martha is a Methodist she is my sister, and she has a r'ght to my sympathy and my purse, if it m necessary to her." " I shall be glad. It is only a pleasant v/alk through the park, and Antony and Richard can meet us at the park gates. I think you will like Martha." Few words were spoken by the two girls as they went in the amber twiliij:ht across the erreen, ij-reen turf of the park. Martha saw them coming and was at her door when they stepped inside the fragrant patch which she called her garden. She was a woman very pleasant to look at, tall and straight, with a strong ruddy face and blue eyes, a little dim with weeping. Her cotton dress of indigo blue, covered with golden-colored moons, was pinned well up at the back, displaying her home-knit stockings and low shoes fastened with brass latchets. She had on her head a cap of white linen, stiiily starched, and a , checkered kerchief was pinned over her ample bosom. Even in her deep sorrow and anxiv*^ ty her broad 'iU The IIallam Succession. 25 sweet mouth could not forget its trick of smiling. " Come this ways in, Joy," she said to Elizabetli, at the same moment dropping a courtesy to FhylHs, an ohl-fasliioned token of respect, wiiich had no particle of servility iu it. '' This is my cousin, Miss Fontaine, from America, Martha." "Well, Fm sure Fni right suited at meeting lier. Mother used to talk above a bit about Sibbald IIallam as crossed t' seas. She looked for him to come back again. But he nivver came." " I am his granddaugiiter. I am very sorry, Sister Martha, to hear of your trouble." " AVhy-a ! Is ta a Methodist, dearie 1 " Phyllis nodded brightly and took her hand. " AV^ell I nivver ! But Fm fain and glad ! And as for trouble, I'll not fear it. AVhy should I, wi' t' love o' God and t' love o' man to help me ? " '•When did it happen, IVIartha?" " Last night, Miss IIallam. My Ben and Jonathan Clough wern't as good friends as might be. There's a lass at t' bottom o' t' trouble ; there's allays that. She's a good lass enough, but good 'uns mak' as much trouble as t' bad 'uns sometimes, I think. It's Jona- than's daughter, Mary. She's ta'en Ben's fancy, and she's ta'en Bill Laycock's fancy, too. T' lass likes my Ben, and Clough he liked Laycock ; for Laycock is t' blacksmith now, and owns t' forge, and t' house be- hind it. My Ben is nobbut Clough's overlooker." 28 The Hallam Succkssiox. i' ! '• It is a pity he stopped at Clough's mill, if there was ill-feeling between them." " T' lad's none to blame for tliat. Cloiigh is mak- kin' some new kind o' figured goods, and t' men are all hired by t' twelvemonth, and boand over to keep a quiet tongue i' their mouths about t' new looms as does t' work. Two days ago Cloiigh found out that Tim Bingley hed told t' secret to Booth ; and Clough wer' neither to hold nor bind He put Bingley out o' t' mill, and wouldn't pay him t' balance o' t' year, ar.d somehow he took t' notion that Ben was in t' affair. Ben's none so mean as that, I'm sure." " But Bingley is a very bad man. J\fy father sent him to the tread-nnll last year for a brutal assault. He is quite capable of murder. Has no one looked for him ? " " Bingley says he saw my Ben shoot Clough, and Clough says it was Ben." " Then Clough is still alive ? " " Ay, but he'll die ere morning. T' magistrates hev been wi' him, and he swears positive that Ben Craven shot him." " Where was Ben last night ? " " He came from t' mill at six o'clock, and hed a cup o' tea wi' me. He said he'd go to t' chapel wi' mo. at eight o'clock ; and after I hed w^ashed up t' dishes, I went to sit wi' Sarah Fisher, who's bad off wi' t' fever ; and when I came back Ben was stand- ing at t' door, and folks wer' running here, and run- The IIallam Succession. 27 ning there, and all t' village was fair beside itscln. We wer' just reading a bit in t' Bible, wlicn consta- bles knocked at t' door and said they M-aiited Jjcn. My Iiciirt sank into my slioes, Miss IIallam, and 1 said, ' That's a varry unlikely thing, lads ; you're just talking for talkincr's sake.' And Jerry Oddv said, 'Xay, we bcan't, dame; Jonathan Clougb is dying, and he says Ben Craven shot him.'' Then I said, ' llu'll die wi' t" lie on his lips if he says that, thou tell him so.' And Jerry Oddy said, ' Not T, dame, keep a still tongne i' thy mouth, it'll mebbe be better for thee.' " " Martha ! How could you boar it ? " "I didn't think what I wer' bearing at t' time, Miss Ila'.lam ; I wer' just angry enongli for any thing ; and I wer' kind o' angi-y wV Ben takkin' it so quiet like. 'Speak np for thysen, lad,' I said; 'liesn't ta got a tongue i' thy head to-neet? ' " " Poor Ben ! AV'liat did lie say ? " " lie said, ' Thou be still, mother, and talk to none but God. I'm as innocent o' this sin as thou art ; ' and I said, ' I believe thee, my lad, and God go wi' thee, Ben.' There's one thing troubles me. Miss IIallam, and it bothered t' scpiire, too. Ben vras in his Sundav clothes — that wasn't odd, for he was o-oiiii!: to t' chapel wi' me — but Jerry noticed it, and he asked Ben where his overlooker's brat and cap was, and Ben said they wer' i' t' room ; but they wern't there. Miss IIallam, and they hevu't found 'em either." ! .; I ti it 28 The IIallam Succession. " That is Ptranire." a Ay, its varry queer, and t' constables seemerl to tliiiik ^o. Jerry nivver liked Ben, and he said to nie, ' Well, dame, it'ji a great pity that last o' t' Cravens should swing hinisen to death on t' gallows.' IJiit I told him, 'Don't thee be so sure that Ben's t' last o' t' Cravens. Tliou's niakkin' thy count without Provi- dence, Jerry ; ' and I'm none feared," slie added, with a burst of confidence; " I'll trust in God yet! I can't see him, but I can feel him." " And you can hold fast to his hand. Sister Martha ; and the darker it gets, you can cling the closer, until tli5 daylight breaks and the shadows flee away." " That I can, and that I will ! Look there, my dearies ! " and she j^ointed to a little blue and white tea-pot on the high mantle-shelf, above the hearth on which they w ere sitting. " Last night, when they'd taken Ben away» and I couldn't finish t' psalm and I coukbrt do much more praying than a little bairn thet's flayed and troubled in t' dark night, I lifted my eyes to thet tea-pot, and I knew t' words thet was on it, and they wer' like an order and a promise a' in one; and I said, 'There! thet's enough, Lord!' and I went to my bed and slept, for T knew there 'nd l)e a deal to do to-dav, and nothing; weakens me like missing my sleep." " And did you sleep, Martha? " " Ay, I slept. It w\asn't hard \vi' t' promise I'd got." Then Phyllis took a chair and stood upon it, and The IIallam Succession. 29 carefully lifted down the tea-pot. It was of coarse l>lue and white ])ottcry, and had been made in Staf- furdsliire, when the art was eme'-o-innj from its rude- ness, and when the pcojde were half barbarous and wholly irreligious — one of half a dozen that are now worth more than if made of the rarest china, the " IMuc Wesley Tea-pot ; rude little objects, yet formed by loving, reverential hands, to commemorate the apo.-tolie labors of Johr. Wesley in that almost savage district. Ilis likeness was on one side, and on the otiier the words, so often in his mouth, *' In God we trudy Phyllis looked at it reverently ; even in that poor portraiture recognizing the leader of men, the dig- nity, the intelligence, and the serenity of a great soul. She put it slowly back, touching it with a kind of tender respect ; and then the two girls went home. In the green aisles of the park the nightingales were singing, and the sweet strength of the stars and tiie macfic of the moon touched each heart with a thou2;ht- ful melancholy. Richard and Antony joined them, and they talked softly of the tragedy, with eloquent pauses of silence between. On the lowest terrace they found the squire — Fanny walking with quiet dignity l)eside him. lie joined Eli::abeth and Richard, and discussed with them the plans he had been forming for the unraveling of the mystery. He had thought of every thing, even to the amount of money necessary. Gi) The [Iallam Succession. 1 '^^ ;i,t .; i 1 ii " TI.ivG thoy no relations i " asked Kichard, a litflo c;iri()ii>ly. It fieenied to liiiii that the stjiiire's kind- ness w;'uS a trille ollicimis. However h>\vlv families might be, he believed tliat iu trouble a noble inde- pendencio wcjuld make them draw together, just as birds that scatter wide in the sunshine nestle up to each other in storm and cold. So he asked, "Have they no relatives i " " She has two brothers Ilkley way," said the squire, with a dubious smile. " 1 nivver reckoned mucli on them." "Don't you think she ought to send for them?" " Nay, I don't. You're young, Richard, lad, and you'll know more some day; but J'll tell you before- hand, if you iver hev a favor to ask, ask it of any body l)ut a relation — you may go to lifty, and not find one at hes owt o' sort about 'em." Thoy talked for half an liour longer in a desultory fashion, as those talk who are full of thoughts they do not share ; and when they parted Kichard asked Elizabeth for a rose she had irathered as ihev walked home too-ether. He asked it disiinctlv., the beamino; glance of his dark eyes giving to the rcfjuest a mean- ing she could not, and did not, mistake. Yet she laid it in his hand, and as their eyes met, he knew that as "there is a budding morrow in the midnight," so also there was a budding love in the rose-gift. 'I'liK IIam.am SrccEssiox. 31 'g id IS Bo CriAPTFJl IT. "Tamwitii thee, and no iiian slmll sot on thee to hnri thco," Acts xviii, 10. "There I will meet with thee, nnd 1 will romniuno with thee from above the mercy-scat." Kxotl. xxv, 2.'. nVTO man liveth unto liiuisclf. In that o;rocn, flovv- J_M cry Eden, with tlie soft winds blowing in at tlie open doors and windows, and the white .sunshine glorifying every thing, tiiere v;as the whimper of sor- row as well as the whisper of love. The homely life of the village, with its absorbing tragedy, touched all hearts; for men and women belie their nature when tliey do not weep with those that weep. At the close of the London season the Elthama returned to their country home, and there wa:: much visiting and good-will. One evening they were sit- ting in Elthani drawing-room after dinner. The squire had been discussing the Clough tragedy with great warmth ; for Lord Elthani had not unnaturally judged Ben Craven upon the apparent evidence, and was inclined to think his position, whether he was innocent or guilty, one of great danger. Ilallam would not see things in any such light. 1 le had lived only in the morally healthy atmosphere of the woods and iiolds, and the sinful tran^edies of life had not IVl The Uallam Slccessiun. i II htm ai'tujil to him. True, he hud read of them in his weekly paper, hut it was a dill'erent thing when they came to his own door, and called for his active sympathy. '• Uight is rii,dit, Eltham," lie i^aid, with the em- pliasis of one closed liand striking the other ; and it 'ud he a varry (pieer thing if right should turn out to be wrong. It'll do nowt o' t' sort^ not it." " Uut, llallam, it seems to me *hat you hcv made up your mind that Craven is riglit — right or wrong — and lawyer Swale told me t' evidence was all against him." " Swale ! " replied the squire, snapping his fingers disdainfully. '' Why-a! Swale nivver told t' truth i' all his life, if he nohbut lied t' time to make up a lie. As for Bingley, I wish I lied sent him over t' seas when I hed t' chance to do it — he's none lit to breathe f air in a decent country." " But Swale says that VAW Laycock has acknowl- edged that he also saw Craven in his working clotlies running ^ver t' moor just about t' time Clough was shot, and Bill and Craven were at one time all but brothers." " Ay, ay ; but there's a lass between 'em now — what do you make o' that ? " " As far as I can think it out, it's against Craven." " Then think twice about it, Elthain, and be sure to change thy mind t' second time ; for I tell thee, Craven is as innocent as thee or me ; and thougli t' ! TiiK Hallam Succkbsion, 3;J iiido all 5» tlevil iind t' lawyui;^ hv\ all t' cvidcnco on their side, ni lay thoe twenty soveivigns that right '11 win. Wliat dost ta say, Pliyllis, deario i " And Phyllis, who had heun watcliini,^ his largo, kindly face with the greatest admiration, smiled con- fidently back to him, and answered, " I think as you do Uncle ILallam, " ' For right is riglit, clnco God is fJod ; And riglit tho day must win ; To doubt would bo disloytdty, To falter would bo sin.' " Hallani looked proudly at her, and then at his op- ponent, who, with glistening eyes, bowed, and an- swered : •' My dear young lady, that settles tho (ques- tion, here. I wish with a' my heart it did so in ivery court in t' kingdom; but, squire, thou knows little o' til is world, I'm feared." " What by that ? I don't want to know. As far as I can judge, t' knowledge of t' world is only an acquaintance wi' all sorts o' evil and unjust things. But come thy ways, Eltham, and let's hev a bit of a walk through t' park. I hear t' cuckoos telling their names to ivery tree, and ivery bird in them, and there's few sounds I like better, if it bean't a nightin- gale singing." It was getting late, and the squire's proposition was generally indorsed. The whole party resolved to walk to the park gates, and the carriage and Antony's saddle-horse were ordered to meet them there. It "'VJ*T^-' ■>■ t ■■ ^mmm 34 The IIallam Succession. ii'Bt WHS a cle]'ut when one loves, one understands naturally. It has made nie very happy. Why, Elizabeth, you are weeping ! " " I am strangely sorrowful, Phyllis. A shadov/ which I cannot account for chills me. ^ , and to be careless as to its verdict. J)t)es sorrow make us indifferent, I wonder?" "Xo, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level—the earth-level; the sorrowful look up." Kot far from Martha s garden gate they met the Methodist preacher. Jle was goinir to see IMartha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he turned and 50 The II all am Succession. walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He was a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them. " Well I nivver ! " said old Peggy Ilowarth, nodding her head wisely, " what does ta think o' that, Jane Sykes ? " " It beats ivery thing ! There's Ezra Dixon. lie's on his way to a class-meeting, I'll lay thee owt ta likes ; Ezra ! " " Well, woman ! What does ta want ? " " Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi' t' preacher ? " " For sure I do. They're in varry good company." " They'll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on't. They say Martha taks it varry quiet like." " Ay, she's none o' them as whimpers and whines. Kow if it wer' thee, Peggy, thou'd worrit, and better worrit ; as if worritting wer' thy trade, and thou lied to work at it for thv victuals. Martha's none like that. Is ta going to thy class to-night ? " "Xay, then, I'm not going." " I'd go if I was thee, Peggy. Thou'lt hev thysen to talk about there, and thou'lt not be tempted to say things about t' Cravens thou wont be able to stand up to." " I'd hev some .aman nature in me, Ezra Dixon, The Hallam Succession. 51 inr lass ,r " if I was thee. To think o' this beini]^ t' first nuirder as iver was i' Ilallain ! and thou talking as if I ought to buckle up my tongue about it." " Thou ought ; but 'oughts' stand for nothing. To be sure thou'll talk about it ; but go and talk i' thy class-meeting wi' Josiali Banks looking i' thy face, and then thou'll talk wi' a kind heart. Do as I tell thee." "Xay, I'll not do it." " Thou nivver will disappoint t' devil, Peggy." Peggy did not answer; she was too mucli inter- ested in the rector's proceedings. He was actually crossijig the road and joining the ladies and the preacher. "Now, then ! Dost ta see tliat, Ezra? "VVbativer's coming to folk ? Why-a ! They're a' going on to- gether ! " " Why not ? T' rector's a varry good man. It 'ud be strange if he didn't feel for poor Martha as well as ivery other kind heart. Iler trouble lies made a' maks o' Christians feel too;ether." "If Martha was nobbut a Church o' Eno-land woman." " Dost ta really think that t' rector is cut on that sort o' a pattern ? Not he. A man may be a Chris- tian, Peggy, even if he isn't a Wesleyan Methody. Them's my principles, and I'm not a bit 'shamed o' them." It was quite true ; the rector had joined the girls wMHMMWIii *w i \ I ■ppp 52 The Hall am Succession. i' i ! I ! and tlie preaclier, and they walked on togotlior as far as the pai-k gates, talking of Martha and her great sorrow and gi'eat faith. Then the preacher tnriied back, carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that conies from real Christian sympathy and commnnion. '' What clear proplietic eyes that Mr. North has," said ilie rector, as they walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms. '' lie lives very near to the other world," said Phyllis ; '' 1 think his eyes have got that clear far-oif look with habituidly gazing into eternity. It is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feels that he is just from the presence of God." " I have heard that you arc a Dissenter, Miss Fon- taine." " O no, I am not. 1 am a Methodist." " That is what I meant." " But the two are not the same. I am quite sure that the line between Dissent and Methodism iias been well delined from the l)eginning." The rector smiled tolerantly down at PhvUis's bright thoughtful face, and said : "Do young ladies in America study theological history ? " " I think most of them like to understand the foundation upon wliich their spiritual faith is built. I have found every side studv of Methodism verv in- teresting. Methodism is a more chai'itable and a more spiritual thing than Dissent." ii Thk Hallam Successiox. 53 c. " if " Are yon sure of tluit? " " Yes. Dissenters l)egiin overy-wliere with show- ing liow fallen was tlu; (.'liurcli, liow unwortlij were her ministers ; but Methodism began every-where with showing lier hearers how fallen they themselves were, and how utterly nnworthy. Dissent was con- vineed that Episcopacy was wrong; Methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. Dissent discussed soliemes of church government, as if the salvation of the world depended upon certain forms; Methodism had one object, to save souls and inculcate personal holiness. Dissent boldly separated herself from the Church; Methodism clun.g with loving affection to her motliei-. Her separation was gradual, and accom- panied with fond regrets." " I like that reasoning, Miss Fontaine." " Do not give me credit for it ; it comes from those who have authority to spcaix upon such matters. But ought not a young lady to know as much about the origin and constitution of her Church as of her coun- try ? " "I suppose she ought. What do you say, Miss Hallam ? " " That I will begin and study the history of my Church. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it." "And I sny that I will look into Methodism a lit- tle. John AVesley, as a man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. It was a pity he left the Church." ffe ! I ' I il ^ I ' lii! !' I i ! i i 1 ' 54 The Hallam Succession. " But he never did leave it. Jnst as St. Petei and St. Paul and St. John went vip to the temple at Jemsaloni to pray, so Wesley, until the very last, frequented the Church ordinances. I think he was really a very Iligh-Churchinan. He was even preju- diced against Preshyterians ; and a very careless re;uler of his works must see that he was deeply impressed with the importance of Episcopacy, and that he re- garded it as an apostolic institution. If he were to return to this world again, he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the American Methodist Epis- copal Church. " But remember liow he countenanced field-preach- ing and religious services without forms." "Do von think it a sin to save souls out of church ? Don't you think the Sermon on the Mount a very fair precedent in favor of lield-preaching ? " " Miss Fontaine, you argue like a woman. That question is not in logical sequence. Here come Mr. Fontaine and the squire. I hope some other time you will allow me to resume this conversation." The squire's face brightened when he saw the rector. "A 'good-evening,' parson. Thou thought I'd be in a bit o' trouble to-night, didn't ta? " " I knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for Martha and Ben Craven to-night." "Ay, to be sure." He had clasped Phyllis's hand in one of his own, and turned round with the party ; as he did so, drawing the rector's attention by a The Hall am Slx'cessiox, and icr siVnlficant "fiance to Elizabotli, vvlio had fallen be- hind with Eicliard. " I am very glad if that is the case, squire." "Ay, it pleases me, too. Bnt about poor JVIartlia, hev you seen her ? " " She wishes to be alone." "And no wonder. I'm sure I don't know what- iver nuist be done." " Perhaps the queen will have mer^'y." "Mercy! He'll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. Hanging isn't any better than its called. ^ a be bound ; but if I was Ben, I'd a-deal rather b^ .ung, and done wi' it. That I would ! " " I think Ben Craven will yet bi proved innocent. His mother is sure of it, nnclo." " That's t' way wi' a mother. You can't make 'em understand— they will hang on." " Yes," said the rector. " JVIother-love almost sees miracles." " Mother-love does see miracles," answered Phyl- lis. " The mother of Moses would ' hang on,' as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracle of salvation. So did the Shunammite mother, and the Syro-phoe- nician mother, and millions of mothers before and eince. Just as long as Martha hopes, I shall hope ; and just as long as Martha prays, she will hope." "Does ta think Martha can pray against t' Eno-Hsh Constitution?" * "I heard the rector praying against the atmo^ I I I r '! !i ! i li 56 The Hallam Succession. ])]ioric laws last SuiK^ay, and you said every word after him, uncle. AVlien you prayed for fine weather to get the hay in, did you expect it in ppite of all the conditions against it — falling barometer, gathering clouds ? If you did, you were expecting a miracle." " Ay, I told t' beadle, mysen, that there wasn't a bit o' good praying for fine weather as long as t' wind kept i' such a contrary quarter ; and it's like enough to ruin to-night again, and heigh, for sui . ! its begun mizzling. We'll hev to step clev^er, or we'll be wet before we reach t' hall." The rector smiled at the squire's unconscious state- ment of his own position ; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, before they reached shelter the ladies' dresses were wet through, and there was so many evidences of a storm that the rector deter- mined to stay all night with his friends. When Elizabeth and Phyllis came down in dry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, and a servant laying the table for supper. ^ " Elizabeth, let's hev that round o' spiced beef, and some cold chicken, and a bit o' raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there's owt o' t' sort in t' but- tery. There's nothing like a bit o' good eating, if there's owt wrong wi' you." The rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of the anq:)le hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay ])lpe in their mouth. The serenity of their faces, and their air of thorough com- • ■:,": Thk II all am Succession. 57 5J rtli, if fort was a delightful ])icture to Phyllis. She placed herself close to her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. The two men were talking in easy, far- apart sentences of " tithes," and, as the subject did not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room, noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, and its heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-colored rugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on tlie high side- board, and tlie gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. The table, covered with snowy danuisk, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and Phyllis thought she had never seen Elizabetli look so jjrrandiv fair CD t/ and home-like as slio did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles. She did not wonder that Itichard heard nothing of the conversation, and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife. The squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared as if his advice was very good medicine. Happiness, hope, and a sense of gratitude was in each heart. The old room grew wonderfully cozy and bright ; the faces that gathered round the table and the lire were fall of love, and sweet, reasonable con- tentment. AYlien supper was over Richard and Elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, where there was always a little iire burning. They had their own hopes and joys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle, and this ! I 58 Thk 1 1 all am Succession. was fully recognized, riiyllis only gave them a bright smile as they withdrew. The squire ignored their absence; Antony was at Eltham ; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortals may be. The rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked htfuliy about " tithes."" It seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortably to the pauses in a long pipe. But when he had finished his "thim- bleful " of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes care- fully, he looked at Phyllis with a face full of renewed interest, and said, " Squire, do you know that your niece thinks John Wesley was a Ili<^h-Ciiurchman?" "What I meant, sir, was this: Wesley had very decided views in favor of the Episcopacy. He would suffer none to lay unconsccrated hands upon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, I think he M'as as ascetic as any monk." " Do you think, then, that if he had lived before the Eeformation he might have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like La Trappc ? " "Xo, indeed, sir! lie might have founded an order, and it would, doubtless, have been a rigorous one ; but it Avould not have been one shut uj) be- hind walls. It would have been a preaching order, severely disciplined, perhaps, but burning with all tlie zeal of the Kedemptionist Fathers on a mis- H sion. ?i I The TIallam Succkssion. 69 Tlie squire putted the little hand, which was upon his knee, and proudly asked, " Now, then, parson, what does ta say to that ? " " I say it would be a very good description of 'the people called Methodists' when they began their crusade in England." " It is always a good description of them w^hen they have missionary work to do. AVe have had brave soldiers among the Fontaines, and wise states- men, also ; but braver than all, wioer than all, was my grandfather Fontaine, who went into the wilderness of Tennessee an apostle of Methodism, with the Bible in his heart and his life in his hand. If I was a man, I would do as Kichard always does, lift my hat whenever his name is mentioned." " Such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes. Miss Fontaine ; men, of whom the world is not worthy." " Ah, do not say that I It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them. They are not extinct. They are still preaching — on the savannas of the south- west — on all the border-lands of civilization — among the savages of the Pacilic isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa; voices crying in the wilderness, 'God so loved the world, that ho gave his only be- gotten Son' for its salvation. A ^Methodist preacher is necessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hear "Wesley's 'charge' to his j)reaeh- ers ? " " No, I never hoard it, Miss Fontaine." 60 TiiK II ALL AM Succession. " If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let lilin liev it. Tso \varri:nt it '11 tit his ulHee ver^' well.'' "Yes, I kiiuw it; I have heard it niaiiy a time from my grandfather's li[js. In his old age, wlien he was addressing young preachers, he never e^aid any thing else to them. ' Observe,' charged AVesley, ' it is not your bnsiness to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can.' '' "Xow, then, that's enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t' candle and both o' you come wi' me ; Pve got sum- mat to say mysen happen." lie Jiad that happy lo(;k on his face which people wear who are consciou-- of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a large room above those in th^^ oast wing which were specially his own. It was a handsome bedroom, but evidentlv one that w^as rarel . used. "Look'ee here, now;" and he lifted the candle toward a picture over the lire place. " Who do you mail' that out to be i" " John Wesley," said Pliyllis. "For sure; it's John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory JTallam, was a Meth- odist — one o' t' lirst o' tliem — and so you see, Phyllis, my lass, yon hev come varry naturally by your w'ay o' thiid.'o, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined, thorongli-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Cluirch." *' Yes ; he came, indeed, from the triho of Levi." ''It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face — the face of a scholar and a i^entleman." ''A little of the fanatic in it — admit that. I have seen pictures of grand inquisitors, by Velasfpiez, which resend)le it." " You must not say such things, iny dear rector. Look again. I admit that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of the one with tlio inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other; but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity which comes from an assurance of the love of God." "God love thee, Phyllis! Thou'lt be makkin' a Methodist o' me, whether I will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a' that in t' picture. I wont stay here any longer. Tlianks be ! It's sleep- ing-time, missec." " I should like to sleep in this room, squire." "AVhy, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o' fire and some aired bed-clothes is a' it wants. Thou's sure f i ! !| HI i. 'r: ti 62 The IIallam Succession. to sleep well in it, and tliou'lt Lev t' sunrise to wake tliee up." And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept some of the sunshine in his face, lie was walking up and down the terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change like opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the soft earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air was full of a thousand scents. " 1:1 ovv beautiful all is, and how happy you look," and Phyllis put her hand in the rector's, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see tlie green country flooded with sunshine. " Did you sleep well in Wesley's chamber ? " " I slept very well ; and this morning the pleas- antest thing happened. Ujion a little table I saw a Bible lying, and I read the morning lesson, which was a very hnppy one ; then I lifted another book upon the stand. It was 'The Pilgrim's Progrcj-s;' and this was the passage I lighted upon : ' The Pil- grim they laid in a large upper chamber facing the sunrisiT-'g. The name of the chamber was Peace.' There was a pencil-mark against the passage, and I fancy John Wesley put it there. It was a little thing, but it has made me very happy." " I can understand." " God bless you, child ! I am sure you can." fi i 'm :i Thf. Hallam Succession. 63 CHAPTER III. " He shall call upon mo, uud I will nnswcr him : I v ill bo with him in trouble; I will deliver iiim, and honor him." Tsa. xci, 15. " Alas for hourly change I Alas for all The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall, Even as the beads of a told rosary I " THAT very day Richard received a letter froir' Bishop Elliott. He was going to the Holy Land and wished Richard to join him in Rome, and then accompany him to Palestine. Richard preferred to remain at Hallam, bnt botli Elizabeth and Phyllis thonglit he ought to respond to the Bishop's desire. He was an aged man among strangers, and, apart from inclination, it seemed to be a duty to accede to his request. So rather reluctantly Richard left Hallam, lialf-inclined to complain that Elizabeth was not sorry enough to part with him. In truth she was conscious of feeling that it would be pleasant to be a little while alone with the great joy that had come to her; to consider it quietly, to brood over it, and to ask some questions of her soul which it must answer very trutlifully. People of self-contained natures weary even of happiness, if happiness makes a constant demand upon them. She loved Richard with the first love of her heart, she loved him very truly and fondly, but i i i!i 64 The Hallam Succession. she was also very liappy tlirougli the long summer days sitting alone, or \vitli Phyllis, and sewing pure, loving thoughts into wonderful pieces of fine linen and canil)ric and embroidery. Sometimes Phyllis helped her, and they talked together in a sweet con- fidence of the lovers so dear to them, and made little j)lans for the future full of true unsellishness. In the cool of the day they walked through the garden and the park to see Martha ; though every day it became a more perplexing and painful duty. The poor woman, as time went by, grew silent and even stern. She heeded not any words of pity, she kept apart from the world, and from all her neigbors, and with heart unwaveringly fixed upon God, waited with a grand and pathetic patience the answer to her prayers. For some reason which her soul approved she remained in the little chapel with her petition, and the preacher going in one day, unexpectedly, found her prostrate before the communion tal)le, pleading as mothers oidy can plead. He knelt down ])e- side her, and took her hand, and prayed with her and for her. Quite exhausted, she sat down beside him after- •ward and said, amid heart-breaking sobs, ''It isn't Ben's life Fni askiuir, sir. (lod i>;ave him, an.d he's a fair riirht to tak' him, when and how he will. I hev given up asking for t' dear lad's life. But if he'd nobbat clear his good name o' the shameful deed ! I know he's innocent, and God knows it ; but even if The IIallam Succession. 05 ill miner ig pure, le linen Phyllis 3et con- de little igli the li every 111 duty, lent and she kept ors, and ted with to her pproved petition, leotedly, n tal)le, lown ho- lier and in after- It isn't \d he's a . I hev ) if he'd leed ! I ; even if they hang Ben lirst, I'll give my Maker no peace till he brings the guiity to justice, and sets t' innocent in t' leet o' his countenance." "'The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence,' Martha, 'and the violent take it by force.' Don't get weary. Christ had a mother, and he loved her. Does he not love her still ? " "Thank you, sir, for that word. I'll he sure and remind him o' her. I'd forget that there was iver any mother but me ; or any son but my son." " Say a word for all other weeping mothers. Think of them, j\[artha, all over the world, rich and poor, Christian and heathen. How many mothers' hearts are breaking to-day. You are not alone, ]\[artha. A great company are waiting and weeping with you. Don't be afraid to ask for them, too. There is no limit to God's love and power." " ril pray for ivery one o' them, sir." " Do, Martha, and you'll get under a higher sky. It's a good thing to pray for ourselves ; it's a far grandei thing to pray for others. God bless you, sister, and gi\'e rou an answer of peace." Very shortly ;;fter this conversation one of those singular changes in ])ublic opinion, which cannot be accounted for, began to manifest itself. After Clough's positive dying declaration, it was hardly to be expected that his daughter Mary could show any kindness to her old lover, Ben Craven. But week after week went by, and people saw that slie posi- r i Y i i l\ ■ i Iff 1 i 1 ! ■ 1 J S 1 1 1 1 i 1 1 ';V M 1'! ! 1-1 : Jjii „„ 66 The ITallam Succession. tively refused to sp'^ak to Bill Laycock, and that she shrank even from his passing shadow, and tliey be- gan to look queerly at the man. It amounted at hrst to nothing more than that ; but as a mist creeps over the la^'dscape, and gradually possesses it altogether, so this chill, adverse atmosphere enfolded him. He noticed that old acquaintances dropped away from him ; men went three miles farther off to get a shoe put on a horse. No one could have given a clear reason for doing so, and one man did not ask another man " why ? " but the fact needed no reasoning about. It was there. At the harvest festivals the men drew away from him, and the girls would not have him for a partner in any rural game. He was asked to resign his place in the knur club, and if he joined anv cricket elev^en, the match fell to the c-round. One September evening Elizabeth and Phyllis went to the villaijre to leave a little basket of dainties in Mar- tha's cottage. They now seldom saw her, she was usually in tiie chapel ; but they knew she was grate- ful for the food, and it had become all thoy could do for her in the hard struggle she was having. The trees were growing bare ; the flowers were few and without scent; the birds did not sing any more, but were shy, and twittered and complained, while tlic swallows were restless, like those o-oino; a lonix iourney. Singing time was over, life burning down, it was natural to be silent and to sigh a little. They left the basket on Martha's table and went TuE Hall AM Sl'ccession. 67 that she they be- i at first eps over ogether, 111. He ay from 3t a shoe 11 a clear ; another ig about, leii drew ave liini asked to le joined nnd. rlliswent >s ill Mar- , she was :ii?> grate- could do ng. The few and iiore, but vliile the 1011 rue V. 11, it was and went quietly up the street. In a few minutes they met the preaclier, but he also seemed strangely solemn, and very little inclined to talk. At the chapel gates there were five or six people standing. "Wo are going to have a prayer-meeting," he said, " will you come in ?" "It will soon be dark," answered Elizabeth, "we must reach home as quickly as possible." Just then Martha Craven came out of the chapel. A sorrow nobly borne confers a kind of moral rank. Her neighbors, with respect and pity, stood aside silently. She appeared to be quite unconscious of them. At Phyllis and Elizabeth she looked with great sad eyes, and shook her head mournfully. To the preacher she said, " It's t' eleventh hour, sir, and no answer yet ! " "Go thy ways, Martha Craven. It will come ! It is impossible thy prayers should fail ! As the Lord liveth no liarm shall come to thee or to thine ! " The plain little man was transfigured. No ancient prophet at the height of his vision ever spoke with more authority. Martha bowed her head and went her way without a word ; and Elizabeth and Phjdlis, full of a solemn awe, stood gazing at the man whose rapt soul and clear, prophetic eyes looked into the unseen and received its assurance. He seemed to have forgotten their presence, and walked with up- lifted face into the chapel. Elizabeth was the first to speak. "Wliat did he mean ? " .M ( ( I! 08 The Hallam Succession. "lie has hud some assurance from God. lie hnouisr ■ " Do you mean to say, Phyllis, that God speaks to men ? " "Most surely God speaks to those who will hear. Why should you doubt it ? He changeth not. When God talked with Enoch, and Abraham spoke with God, no one was astonished. When Ilao-ar wandered in the desert, and saw an angel descend from heaven with succor, she w\as not surprised. In those days, Elizabeth, men whose feet were in the dust breathed the air of eternity. They spoke to God, and he an- swered them. " Does Methodism believe that this intercourse is still possible \ " " Methodism knows it is possible. The doctrine of assurance is either a direct divine interposition or it is a self-deception. It is out of the province of all human reason and philosophy. But it is impossible that it can be self-deception. Millions of good men and women of every shade of mental and physical temperament have witnessed to its truth." " And you, Phyllis « " " I know it." How wonderfully certain moods of nature seem to frame certain states of mina. Elizabeth never forgot the still serenity of that September evening ; the rustling of the falling leaves under their feet, the gleaming of the blue and white asters through the The Hall am Succession. 69 misty haze gathering over the fields and park. Tlu^y had expected to meet the squire at the gates, but they were nearly at home ere they saw him. He was evi- dently in deep trouble ; even Fanny divined it, and, with singular canine delicacy, walked a little behind him, and forebore all her usual demonstrations. Antony was sitting at the hall lire. His handsome person Avas faultlessly dressed, and, with a newspaper laid over his knee, he was apparently lost in the con- templation of the singular effects made by the tire- lio'ht amonc; the antlers and armor that adorned the wall. He roused himself when the gii'ls entered, and aooloii'ized tor not havini]^ come to meet them ; but there was an evident constraint and unhappincss in the home atmosphere. Even the " bit o' good eat- ing," which was the squire's panacea, failed in his own case. Antony, indeed, eat and laughed and chatted with an easy indifference, which finally appeared to be unbearable to his father, for he left the table before the meal was finished. Then a shadow settled over the party. Elizabeth had a troubled look. She was sure there had been some very unusual difference between Antony and his father. They soon separated for the night, Eliza- beth going with PhvUis to her room for a final chat. There was a little lire there, and its blaze gave a pleasant air of cozy comfort to the room, and deep- ened all its pretty rose tints. This was to the girls their time of sweetest contldeneo. Thev miirlit bo I II- 1 * 1 f B '' TO TiiK IIallam Succession. together all the day, hut they grew closest of all at this i::oocl-iiii'"ht hour. They spoke of the squire's evident distress, but all Elizabeth's suppositions as to the cause fell distant from the truth. In fact, the s(piire had received one of those blows wdiicli none but a living hand can deal^ for there are worse things between the cradle and the grave than death — the blow, too, had fallen without the slightest warning. It was not the thing that he Lad feared which had happened to him, but the thing which he had never dreamed of as possible. He had been walking up and down the terrace with Fanny, smoking his pipe, and admiring the great beds of many -colored asters, when he saw Antony coming toward him. He waited for his son's approach, and met him with a smile. Antony did not notice his remark about the growing shortness of the days, but plunged at once into the subject filling his whole heart, " Father, Geor2:e Eltham and I are tliinkins; of o;o- ins: into business too-ether," " TVhatever is ta saying ? Business ? "What busi- ness ? " " Banking." " Now, then, be quiet, will ta ? Such nonsense ! " " I am in Jead earnest, father. I cannot waste my life any lono-er." "Who asks thee to waste thy life? ITev I iver grudged thee any thing to make it happy ? Thou he3 f all at but Jill distant ved one nn dea'^ and the ivitliout that he e thing Me liad Fannj, )eds of poiuiiig 'Ii, and ice his js, but whole of or-o- t busi- ise ! " 5te my I iver 3U hes TiiK IIallam Succession. 71 lied t' l)est o' educations. If ta wants to travel, there's letters o' credit waiting for thee. If ta wants work, I've told thee there's acres and acres o' wheat on the Ilallani marshes, if they were only drained, ril iind ta money, if ta wants work." " Father, I could not jnit gold in a jnarsh, and then sit down and wait for the wheat to grow ; and all the wheat on IIallam, unless it bore golden ears, would not satisfy me. George and I are going into Sir Thomas Harrington's for a few months. Lord Eltham has spoken to him. Then George is to marry Selina Digby. She has fifty thousand pounds; and we are going to begin business." " \Vi' fifty thousand pounds o' Miss Digby's money ! It's t' meanest scheme I iver heard tell on ! I'm fair shamed o' thee ! " " I must put into the firm fifty thousand pounds also ; and I want to speak to you about it." " For sure ! How does ta think to get it out o' me now?" " I could get Jews to advance it on my inheritance, but I would do nothing so mean and foolish as that. I thought it would be better to break the entail. You give me fifty thousand pounds as my share of Flallam, 'and you can have the reversion and leave the estate to whom you wish." The squire fairly staggered. Erealv the entail ! Sell Ilallani ! The young man was either mad, or he was the most wicked of sons. w 72 The IIallam Succession. " DoL's ta kiKJw wliat tliou is talking about! Hal- lam has been ours for a thousand years. Antony ! Antony!'' " AVe have had it so lone;, father, that we have crown to it like veirctables ») " lias ta no love for t' old plat'C ? Look at it. Is there a bonnier spot in t' wide world? AVliy-a! Tl lere s an old sa\inff. &» " ' When a' t' world is up aloft, God's share will be fair Ilallam-Croft.' Look at ta dear old home, and t' sweet old j^jardens, and t' great park full o' oaks that hev sheltered Sax- ons, Danes, Normans — ivery raee that has gone to make up t' En:, slnnan o' to-day." " There are plenty of fairer spots than IIallam. I will build a house far larger and more splendid than this. There shall be a Lord Hallam^ an Earl IIallam, perhaps. Gold Avill buy any thing that is in the mar- ket." " Get thee out o' my sight ! And I'll tell Lord Eltham varry plainly what I think o' his meddling in my affairs. In order to set up his youngest son I must give np t' bond on t' home that was my fathers when his fathers were driving swine, the born thralls of the Kerdics of Kerdic Forest. Thou art no Hallam. No son o' mine. Get out o' my sight wi' thee ! " Antony went without anger and without hurry. He had expected even a worse scene. He sa.'- down Tin: Ualla^l Su(X'Essi(»n. 73 It! Hal- Antony I We have t it. Is Why-a! Djardens, •ed 8ax- [^one to 'lam. I id than Tallam, lie mar- 1 Lord ling in t son I fatliers thralls irt no sight hurry, uown by tlio hull tire to think, and lie was by ii»> means hopeless as to his demand. i>ut the squiio had re- ceived a shock from which he never recovered him- self. It was as if some evil thing had taken all the sweetest and dearest props of love, and strnck him across the heart with them. He hud a real well-defined heart-ache, for the mental shock had had bodily sym- pathies which would have prostrated a man of less finely balanced ^V/y.svV/Wi?. AH night long he sat in his chair, or walked up and down his room. The anger which comes from wronged love and slighted advantages and false friendship alternately possessed him. The rooms he occupied in the east wing had been for generations the private rooms of the masters of Hallam, and its walls were covered with their pictures — fair, large men, who had for the most part lived simple, kindly lives, doing their duty faithfully in the station to which it had pleased God to call them. He found some comfort in their pictured presence. He stood long before his father, and tried to understand what he w^ould have done in his position. Toward day- light he fell into a chill, uneasy sleep, and dreamed wearily and sadly of the old home. It was only a dream, but dreams are the hieroglvi)hics of the other world if we had the key to them ; and at any rate the influences they leave behind are real ( nough. " Poor Martha ! " was the squire's first thought on rousins: himself. "I know now wliat t' heart- 'I i, dl 1 ' I ■ 74 TuE Hall AM SLccKssum. ac'lie sho spoke of is like. Tin feared 1 hevii't hvvn lis sorry as I luiglit liev been for her." Yet tliat very night, while the squire was suiter- iiiix from the iirst shock of wounded, indi'Miant aiiuizeinent, God had taken IMartha's case in liis own hand. The turn in Ben's trouble began just wlien the preacher spoke to Martha. At that liour Bill Laycock entered the village ale-house and called for a pot of porter. Three men, whom he knew well, were sitting at a table, drinking and talking. To one of them Bill said, " It's a fine night," and after a sulky pause the man answered, " It ails nowt." Then he looked at his mates, put dowi . his pot, and walked out. In a few minutes the others followed. Laycock went back to his house and sat down to think. There was no use fighting popular ill-will any longer. Mary would not walk on the same side of the street with him. It was the evident intention of the whole village to drive him away. He remem- bered that Swale had told him there was " a feeling against him," and advised him to leave. But Swale had offered to buy his house and forge for half their value, and he imagined there was a selfish motive in the advice. " And it's Swale's doing, I know," he muttered ; " he's been a-fighting for it iver since. Well, I'll tak t' £300 he offers, wi' t' £80 I hev in t' house, I can make shift to reach t' other side o' t' world, and one side is happen as good as t' other side. I'll go and see Swale this varry hour." The II all am Succession. 76 I teen Lniiuit ^% He was arrested by a peculiar sound in the cellar beneath his feet, a sound that made him turn pale to the very lips. In a few moments the door opened, and Tim r>in^lcy stepped into the room. " Thou scoundrel ! What does ta want here i " " Thou ^et me summat to cat and drink, and then ril tell thee what I want." His tone was not to be disputed. lie was a des- perate man, and Lay cock obeyed him. " Tliou told me thou would pjo abroad." " I meant to go abroad, but I didn't. I got drunk and lost my brass. Thou'U hev to give mc some more. I'll go clean off this time." " I've got none to give thee." " Yarry well, then I'll hev to be took up ; and if I'm sent to York Castle, tliou'lt liev lodgings varry close to me. Mak' up thy mind to that, Bill Laycock." " I didn't kill Clough, and thou can't say I did." Bingley did not answer. lie sat munching his bread and casting evil glances every now and then at his wretched entertainer. " What does ta want i " " Thou hcd better give me a fresh suit o' clothes ; these are fair worn out — and £20. I'll be i' Hull early to-morrow, and I'll tak' t' \ "ry iirst ship 1 can get." " How do I kno\v thou will ? " " Tliou'lt hev to trust my word — it's about as good as thine, I reckon." ml WBBB I I Ir:' i! I i ii:' 76 The Hall am Succession. O but the way of the transgressor is liard ! There was nothing else to be done. Hatefully, scornfully, he tossed him a suit of his own clothes, and gave him £20 of his savin_r,s. Then he opened the door and looked carefully all around. It was near midnight, and all was so still that a bird moving in the branches could have been heard. But Laycock was singularly uneasy. He put on his hat and walked one hundred yards or more each way. " Don't be a fool," said Bingley, angrily ; " when did ta iver know any body about at this time o' night, save and it might be at Ilallam or Crossley feasts? " " But where was ta a' day, Bingley 'i Is ta sure nobody saw thoe ? And when did ta come into my cellar ? " " I'll tell thee, if ta is bad off to know. I got into Hallam at three o'clock this morning, and I hid my- sen in Clough's shut-un mill a' day. Thou knows nobody cares to go nigh it, since — " " Thou shot him." " Shut up ! TJiou'd better let that subject drop. I knew I were safe there. When it was dark and quiet I came to thee. Now, if ta '11 let me pass thee, ril tak' Hull road." " Thou is sure nobodv lias seen thee i " " Ay, I'm sure o' that. Let be now. I hevn't any time to waste." Laycock watched him up the Hull road till he slipped away like a shauow into shade. Then he sat There .fully, gave the near mcr in * The IIallam Succession. 77 down to wait for morning. lie would not stay in Ihilhun anotlicr day. He blamed himself for stay- incr so lonix. He would take any offer Swale made him in tlie morning. There would be neither peace nor safety for him, if Tim Bingley took it into his will to return to Hallam wheneyer lie wanted money. At daylight Dolly Ives, an old woman who cleanctl his house and cooked his meals, came. She had left the evening before at six o'clock, and if any thing wii^ known of Bingley's visit to Hallam, she would likely have heard of it. She wasn't a pleasant old woman, and she had not a very good reputation, but her husband had worked with Lavcock's father, and ho liad been kiiul to her on several occasions when she had been in trouble. So she had " stuck up for Bill Laycock," and her partisanship had become warmer from opposition. It was at best a rude kind of liking, for she never failed to tell any unkind thing she heard about him. She had, however, notliing fresh to say, and Bill felt relieved. He eat his breakfast and went to his forae until ten o'clock. Then he called at Swale's. He fancied the lawyer was " a bit oliisji," but he prom- ised him the money that night, and with this ])romise I Jill had to 1)0 content. Business had long been skfck ; his forge was cold when he got back, and he had no heart to rekindle it. Frightened and miser- al)le, he was standino' in the door tvinoj on his leather S-fl ■rw" 78 The Hallam Succession. I apron, when he saw Dolly coming as fast as she could toward him. He did not wait, but went to meet her. " What- iver is ta coming here for ? " '' Thou knows. Get away as fast as ta can. There hev been men searching t' house, and they hev takken away t' varry suit Bingley wore at Ben Craven's trial. iS'ow, will ta go ( Here's a shiJling, it's a' 1 hev.'' Terriiied and hurried, he did the woiot possible thing for his own case — he fled, as Dolly advised, and was almost immediately followed and taken pris- oner. In fact, he had been under surveillance, even before Bingley left his house at midnight. Suspi- cion had been aroused by a very simple incident. Mary Clough had noticed that a stone jar, which had stood in one of the windows of the mill ever since it luid been closed, was removed. In that listless way wliicli apparently trivial things have of arresting the attention, this jar had attracted Mary until it had be- come a part of the closed mill to her. It was in its usual plar'p when she looked out in the morning ; at noon it had disappeared. Some one, then, was in the mill. A strong convic- tion took possession of her. She watched as tlie sparrow-hawk watclies its prey. Just at dusk she saw Bingley leave the mill and steal away among the alders that lined the stream. She suspected where he was going, and, by a shorter route, reached a field 41 TiiK IIallam Succession. 19 e could What- Tliere ij hev it Ben liiJlirig, 30ssible dvised, 11 pris- e, even Suspi- cideiit. cli had since it iss waj ing tlic lad be- s in its ng ; at 3on vie- as tlie sk she ng tlie ere he \ field opposite Laycock's house, and, fi'oni beliind the liedu'e, saw l>ingley push aside the cellar window and crawl in. He had tried the door first, but it was just at this hour Laycock was in the ale-house. The rector was a magistrate; and she went to liini with her tale, and he saw at once the importance of her information, lie posted the men who watched Laycock's house ; they saw Bingley leave it, and when he was about a mile from llallam they arrested him, and took him to Leeds. Laycock's arrest had followed as early as a warrant could be obtained, lla sent at once for Mi\ Korth, and frankly confessed to him his share in the tragedy. " Tt was a moment's temptation, sir,"* he said, with bitter sorrow, "and I hev been as miserable as any devil out o' hell could be iver since. T' night as Clough were shot, I had passed his house, and seen jMary Clough at t' garden gate, and she hed been varry scornful, and told me she'd marry Ben Craven, or stiiy unmarried ; and I were feeling bad about it. I thought I'd walk across t' moor and meet Clough, and tell him wdiat Mary said, and as I went ahu\g \ heaid a shot, and saw a man running. As he came near 1 knew it was Bingley i' Ben Craven's working clothes. lie looked i' my face, and said, ' Clough thinks Ben Craven I'ired t' shot. If ta helps me away, thou'lt get Mary. Can I go to thy cottage ? ' And I said, * There's a cellar underneath.' That was all. lie had stole Ben's overworker's brat and cap 80 The Hallam Succession. i ] m r I ■SI from t' room Avliile Ben was drinking his tea, and J3en nivver missed it till elerry Oddy asked where it was. At night I let him burn them i' my forge. I hev wanted to tell t' truth often ; and I were sick as could he wV swearing away Ben's life; indeed I were ! " Before noon tlie village was in an uproar of ex- citement. Laycock followed Bingley to Leeds, and both were committed for trial to York Castle. Both also received the reward of their evil deed : Bingley forfeited his life, and Laycock went to Norfolk Island to serve out a life sentence. The day of Ben's release was a great holiday. Troubled as the squire was, he thing o])cn the large barn at Ilallam, and set a feast for the whole village. After it there was a meeti.ig at the chapel, and Ben told how God had strengthened and comforted him, and made his prison cell a very gate of heaven. And Martha, who had so little to sa}' to any human being for weeks, spoke wondrously. Her heart was burn- ing with love and gratitude ; the hap])y tears streamed down her face ; she stood with clasped hands, telling how God had dealt with her, and trying in vain to express her love and praise until she broke into a happy song, and friends and neighbors lifted it with her, and the rafters rang to " Ilallolnjah to the Lamb, Wlio Ikio purchased our pardon! "Wc will praise liim again When we pass over JcuiUi '' The IIallam Succession. 81 tea, and wiiere it ori^o. I i sick as ndeed I V of cx- uds, and . Both Koi-folk liolidaj'. 10 large village, lid Jjon id ]iim, 1. And 1 being s burn- rcaiiied tel ling- vain to into a t witJi If we talk of heaven on eartli, surely they talk of earth in heaven ; and if the angels are glad when a sinner repents, they must also feel joy in the j(jy and justification of the righie(>'as. And though Martha and Ben's friends and neighbors were rough and illit- erate, they sang the songs of Zion, and spoke the language of the redeemed, and they gathered round the happy son and n; other with the uiiseltish sympathy of the sons and daughters of God. Truly, as the rectci- said, when speaking of the meeting, " There is something very humanizing in Methodism."' " And something varry civilizing, too, parson," answered the sipiire ; " if they hedn't been in t' Mechodist chapel, singing and praising God, they 'ud hev been in t' ale-house, drinking and dancing, and varry like quarreling. There's no need to send t' constable to a Methodist rejoicing. I reckon Mary Clough '11 hev to marry Ben Craven in t' long run, now." " J tliink so. Ben is to open the mill again, and to have charge of it for Mary. It seems a likely nuitcli." " Yes. I'm varry glad. Things looked black for Ben at one time." " Only we don't know wdiat is bad and wdiat good." " It's a great pity we don't. It 'ud be a varry com- fortid)le thing wdien affairs seemed a' wrong if some angel would give us a call, and tell us we were a bit mistaken. There's no sense i' letting folks l>e nnhan- m ^i! 82 The IIallam Si cession. py, wlien tliey might be tiikiiig life wi' a bit o' com- fort." " But, then, om* faith would not be exercised." " I don't mncli mind a()ont that. I'd far rather liev things settled. I don't like being M'orritted and unsettled i' my mind." The sqnire spoke with a toncliing irritability, and every one looked sadly at him. The day after Antony's frank statement of his plans, the scpiire rode early into Bradford and went straight to the house of old Simon Whaley. For three generations the Whaleys had been the legal advisers of the Ilallams, and Simon had touched the lives or memory of all three. He was a very old man, with a thin, cute face, and many wriidsles on his brow ; and though he seldom left his house, age had not dimmed his intellect, or dulled his good-will toward the family with whom he had been so frequently associated. " Why-a ! Hallam ! Come in, squire ; come in, and welcome. Sit thee down, old friend. I'm fain and glad to see thee. What cheer 'i And whativer brings thee to Bradford so early ? " " I'm in real trouble, Whaley." a jj About some wedding, I'll be bound. '' 'No ; neither love nor women folk hev owt to do wi' it. Antony IIallam wants me to break t' entail and give him £50,000." " Save us a' ! Is t' lad gone by his senses ? " Then the squire repeated, as nearly as possible, all Thk Ha I, lam SrccK.oioN. 83 com- ratlier LI and -M' that Antony luid suiil to him; after wliieh botli men sat (juite still ; the lawyer thinking, the squire watcli- inii; the lawyer. " I'll tell thee what, Ilallam, thou lied better give ]nm what he asks. If thou doesn't, he'll get Ilallam into bad hands. He has thought o' them, or he would ni vver hev spoke o' them ; and he'll go to them, rather than not hev his own way. Even if he didn't, just as soon as he was squire, he'd manage it. The Isov folk llallams, who are next to him, are a poor shiftless crowd, that he'd buy for a song. Now dost thou want to keep Ilallam i' thy own flesh and blood ? If ta does, I'll tell thee wliat to do." " That is the dearest, strongest wish I hev ; and thou knows it, Whaley." " Then go thy ways home and toll Antony Ilallam he can hev £50,000, if he gives up to thee every possible claim on Ilallam, and every possible assistance in putting it free in thy hands to sell, or to leave as thou wishes." "He'll do that fast enough." "Then thou choose a proper husband for thy danghter and settle it upon her. Her husband must take the name o' Ilallam ; and thy grandchildren by Elizabeth will be as near to thee as they would be by Antony." " Elizabeth has chosen her husband. He is a son of my aunt, Martha Ilallam; the daughter of Sib- bald Ilal'am." 84 The IIallam Succession. f i rv^ " What does ta want better ? That's famous ! " "But he's an American." "Then we must mak' an Englishman o' him. Ilallams must be ke])t up. What's his name ? " " Fontaine." " It's a varry Frenchified name. I sliould think he'd be glad to get rid o' it. Where is he now ? At Hallam ^ " " He is in t' Ilolv Land somewhere." " Is he a parson i " " No, lie's a planter ; and a bit o' a lawyer, too." " Whativer does he want m t' Holy Land, then ? " " He's wi' a Bishop." " Ay ? Then he's pious ? " "For sure; he's a Methodist." " That's not bad. Squire Gregory was a Method- ist. He saved more 'an a bit o' money, and he bought all o' t' low meadows, and built main part o' t' stables, and laid out best half o' t' gardens. There nivver was a better or thriftier holder o' Hallam. Ay, ay, there's a kind o' fellowship between Methodism and money. This Mr. Fontaine will do uncommon well for Hallam, squire, I should think." "If I got Antony to come to thee, Whaley, could ta do owt wi' him, thinks ta?" " I wouldn't try it, squire. It would be breath thrown away. Soon or later thy son Antony will take his own M'ay, no matter where it leads him. Tliou lies t' reins i' thy hand now, tak' my advice, and settle _1S. The ILnllam Succkssion. 85 T' tliis tliiiii;' while thou lies. It's ii tk-t-p wound, but it's a fleaii \V(»und yet; cut oil t' limh afore it begins to foster iiikI poison t' whole hodv. And don't thee quarrel wi' him. lie's a man now, and there lies to be a' niak's o' men to do t' world's work. Let Antony be ; he'll mebbe be a credit to thee yet." '"I don't believe, AVhaley, tliou understands what a sorrow this is to me." '•Don't 1^ I've got a heart yet, Ilallam, though thou'd happen think I've varry little use for it at eighty-nine years old ; but I'll tell thee what, instead o' looking at t' troubles thou lies, just tak' a look at them thou hesn't. I nivver gave tliee a bit o' advice better worth seven-and-sixpence than that is." " What does ta mean ? " "I'll tell thee. Thou's fi'etting because Antony wants to go into business, and to get hold o' as niueli gold and honor as iver he can put his hands on. Now suppose he wanted to spend a' t' money he could get hold of, and to drag thy old name through t' mire o' jockey fields and gambling houses, and t' filth that lies at t' mouth o' hell. "Wouldn't that be worse ? '' " Ay, it would." " And they M'ho haidvcr after an earldom '11 be varry like to pick up some good things on t' road +o it. When ta can't mak' t' wind suit thee, turn round and sail wi' t' wind." "Thou sees, "Whalev, I hcv saved a irood bit o' money, and I gave Antony t' bust education Oxford m m I B^': i SQ TiiH Il.vLr.AM 8i;cci:ssiuN. could luiiid ovLT for it; and 1 rt'ckuiiud on liini i^ct- tin^ into Parliament, and makkin' a bit o' a stir tliero, and buildini^ up t' old naiuo wV a deal o' honor." " Yarrv good ; hut strike f nail that ''U go! What is t' use o' hitting them that will only bend and break i' thy hand, and get niebbe t' weight o' t' blow on thy own llnger-ends. Go thee home and talk reasona- bly to thy son. He's gotten a will o' his own — that's a way wi' t' llallams — and he'll tak' it Mak' up thy mind to that." "Hut children ought to obey their fathers." " Ought hesn't been t' fashion since ivej" I remem- ber ; and t' young ])eople o' these days hev crossed out Fifth Connnandment — happen that's t' reason there is so few men blessed wi' the green old age that I asked for wi' the keeping o' it." The squire pondered this advice all day, keep- ing apart from his family, and really suffering very keenly. Ihit toward evening he sent for his son. As Antony entered his room he looked at him Mith a more conscious and critical regard than he had ever done before. Tie was forced to admit that he was different from his ancestors, though inheriting their physical peculiarities. They were mostly splendid animals, with faces radiant with courajxe and hiirh spirits and high health. Antony's face was clearer and more relined, more complex, more suggestive. His form, equally tall, was slighter, not hampered with superfluous flesh, not so aggressively erect. One I TlIK II AT J, AM SlHX'ESSION. 87 felt that tliu older Ilullanis would have walked sti'iu (i ^8 TiiK IIallam Succession. needed he'll go up to London to see thee. As long as thou art young Squire Ilallam I shall continue thy allowance ; when thou hest signed away thy birth- right thou wilt liev £50,000, and niver another penny- piece from Ilallam." " That is just and right." "And sooner thou leaves Ilallam, and better it will be for both o' us, I'm sure. It hurts me to my heart to see thee ; that it does," — and he got up suddenly, and walked to the window to hide the tears that forced themselves into his eyes. " Shake hands with me, father." " Nay, I'd rather not." He had his hands under his coat, behind his back, and he kept them there, staring the while resolutely into the garden, though his large blue eyes were too full to see any thing clearly. Antony watched him a moment, and then approached him. " Forget, sir, what I am going to do. Before I leave Ilallam give me your hand, father, as you would give it to your son Antony." The squire was not able to resist this appeal. Ho sunk into In's chair and covered his face, saying mournfully : " O, Antony ! Antony ! Thou lies broken my hea^t." But when Antony knelt down by his side, and kissed the hand that lay so pathetically suggestive upon the broad knee, he made no movement of dissent. In another minute the door closed softly, i I '^1' Till.; Uai.lam 8L•ccE^ssI<•^^ 89 and he was alone — as really a bereaved father as if he stood at aii open grave. Antony's adieu to Phyllis was easily made, hut his parting with his sister hurt him in his deepest affec- tions. Whatever of unselfish love he felt belonged to Elizabeth, and she returned to her brother the very strongest care and tenderness of her nature. They had a long conference, from which Antony came away pale and sick with emotion, leaving his sister sobbing on her couch. It is always a painful thing to witness grief from which we are shut out, and Phyl- lis was unhappy without being able to weep vith her uncle and cousins. But it is one blessing of a refined household that sorrow must be put aside for the duties and courtesies of life. The dinner table was set, and the squire washed his face, and put on his evening suit, his long white vest and lace kerchief, and, without being conscious of it, was relieved by the cliano;e. And Elizabeth had to rouse lierself and take thought for her household duties, and dress even more carefully than usual, in order to make her white cheeks and sorrowful eyes less noticeable. And the courtesies of eatinc: to2:ether made a current in the tide of unhappy thought ; so that before the meal was over there had been some smiles ; and hope, the ap- prehender of joy, the sister of faith, had whispered to both father and sister, ' Keep a good heart ! Things may be better than they appear to be.*" As the squire rose from the t;il)le, he said : " Xow, ■' ' 1 1 '' ■ I 90 The JIallam Sl'cckssion. .i i i I Elizuhetli, I liev something varry particular to say to thee. Pliyllis will bide by herself an hour, and then we'll liev no more seerets, and we'll try to be as happy as things will let us be." Elizabeth'was in some measure prepared for what her father had to say ; but she was placed in a very unhappy position. She did what was kindest and wisest under the circumstances, accepted without re- monstrance the part assigned hci'. The juung are usually romantic, and their first impulses are gener- ously impracticable ones. Elizabeth was not wiser than her years by nature, but she was wiser by her will. For the first few minutes it had seemed to her the most honorable and womanly thing to refuse to stand in her brother's place. But her good heart and good sense soon told her that it would be the kindest course to submit. Yet she was quite aware ihat her succession would be regarded by the tenants and neighbors with extreme dislike. They would look upon Richard and herself as supplanters; Richard's foreign birth would be a constant oifense ; her clear mind took in all the consequences, and she fel*'. hurt at Antony for forcing them upon her. She sat pale and silent, listening to all the squire said, and vainly trying to find some honorable and kind way out of the position. " Thou must know what thou art doing, Eliza^ both," he said, " and must take the charge wi' thy eyes open to a' it asks of thee." The IIallam Succession. 91 Then lie showed lier tlie books of the estate, made her understand the value of every iield and meadow, of every house and farm and young plantation of wood. " It's a grand property, and Antony was a born fool to part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' liner ones in t' bush. Does ta understand its value ? " " I am sure I do." " And thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land ? " " I love every rood of it." " Then listen to me. Thy mother gave thee £5,000. It was put out at interest on thy first birthday, and I hev added a £100 now and then, as I could see my way clear to do so. Tliou lies now £22,000 o' thy own — a varry tidy fortune. If ta takes IIallam thou must pay down a' of this to Antony. I'll hev to find t' other £28,000 by a mortgage. Then I shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o' Hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. That will take time to do wisely, and it will be work enough for me for t' balance o' my life. But I'll leave thee Hal- lam clear if God spare me five years longer, and then there '11 be few women i' England thou need envy." '' Whatever I have is yours, father. Do as you think best. I will try to learn all about the estate, and I promise you most faithfully to hold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me." I 92 The IIallam Succession. ■) M " Give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. I don't pay as a lass can iver be to Hallam what Antony should hev been ; but thou 'rt bound to do thy best." " And, father, Antony is very clever. Who can tell what he may do ? If a man wants to go up. the door is open to wit and skill and industry. Antony has all these." " Fair words ! Fair words, Elizabeth ! But we wont sell t' vheat till we have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. lie's gotten more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't like such ways ! " " If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own interest. lie knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure." " Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is a bad road until I'm safe off it." " We may as well hope for the best. Antony ap- peared to understand what he was doing." "Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbut talking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more 'an a bit lonely, I'm feared." A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rector was sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singing at the piano. She looked up with a smiJe in her eyes, and finished her \ The Hallam Succkssion. 03 hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious father and sister : " Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But tr\i3t him for liis grace ; Behind a frowning providence lie liides a smiling face." " Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless chambers with conlidenee and peace. 94 The IIallam (Succession. !'' li CHAPTER IV. "Stir the deep wells of life tliat flow within you, Toiiclied by God's f^cnial hand ; And let the cliastenod sure ambiiion win you To servo liis high comtnand. " And mighty love embracing nl" things human In one all-fathering name, Stamping God'a seal on trivial things and common, With consecrated aim." AS the weeks went on the squire's confidence in- sensibly grew, lie met Lord Eltham one day when he was out riding, and they did not quarrel. Ok the contrary, Eltham was so conciliating, so pa- tient, and so confidently hopeful, that it was almost impossible for IIallam not to be in some measure in- fluenced by him. " I'm quite sure t' young fellows will succeed," he said, " and if there's more 'an one son i' a family thou may take my word for it it's a varry comfortable thing to hev more 'an one living for 'em." " And if they spoil t' horn instead o' making t' spoon, what then, Eltham ? " " They'll hev lied t' experience, and they'll be more ready to settle down to what is made for 'em, and to be content wi' it." " That's varry fine i' thy case, for t experience '11 •J J 8 \ I The Hallam Succession. 95 ' i cost thee nothinp:. Tlioii is giving tliy younger son a chance out o' t' Digln-'s and Ilallam's money." Eltham only laughed. " Ivery experiment comes out o' somebody's pocket, Hallam — it'll be my turn next happen. Will ta come t' hunt dinner at Eltham on Thursday ? " " Nay, I wont. I'll not bite nor sup at thy table again till we see what wc shall see. If I want to say what I think about thee, I'm none going to tie my tongue aforehand." *' We'll be fast friends yet. See if we bcan't ! Good-bye to thee, Hallam. Thou'lt be going through t' park, I expect ? " " A}' ; I'll like enough find company there." It was about three o'clock, gray and chill. There had been a good deal of snow, and, except where it was bruslicd away from the foot-path, it lay white and unbroken, the black trunks of the trees among it looking like pillars of ebony in the ivory-paved courts of a temple. Up in the sky winter was passing with all his somber train, the clouds flying rapidly in great grotesque masses, and seeming to touch the tops of the trees like a gloomy, floating veil. Phyllis and Elizabeth, wrapped in woolens and furs, walked cheerily on, Phyllis leaning upon the arm of Elizabeth. They were very liapi)y, and their low laughter and snatches of Christmas carols made a distinct sound in the silent park, for the birds were all quiet and preoccupied, and flitted about the haw- ^r" 06 TnF: IIallam Succession. I I ■ 11 ii! I tlinrns witli anxious little wavs that were almost hu- man in their rare and nu'lancholy. The njirls had some crumbs of bread and cars of wheat in a basket, and they scattered them here and there in sheltered nooks. '* I'm so irlad you remetrdicred it, Phvllis. I shall never forgive myself for not having thought of it before." " It is only bare justice to our winged si-sters. God made the berries for their winter store, and we have taken them to adorn oi.'r hojises and churches. Un- less we provide a good substitute there is an odor of cruel sacrifice about our festal decorati(>ns. And if the poor little robins and wrens die of hunger, do you tidnk lie, who sees them fall, will hold us in- nocent ?" " Look how with bright black eves thev watch us scattering the food ! I hope it will not snow until all of them have had a good supper."' Elizabeth was unusually gay. She had had a de- lightful letter from Richard, and he was to return to IIallam about the New- Year. There had also been one from Antony, beginning " Honored Sir," and ending with the " affectionate duty "' of Antony Hal- lam ; and, though the s(|uire had handed it over to Elizabeth without a word, she understood well the brighter light in his face and the cheerful ring in his voice. They went into Martha's laughing, and found her ?! Thic Hallam Succession. 07 ^ standing npoti ji tal)le liaii^jjinc; up Chrit^tmas boughs. Tlie little tea-pot was in a bower of hoWy leaves, and held a po.^y of the scarlet hawthorn berries mixed with the white, waxy ones »f the mistletoe. " You wont forget tiie bir'is, Martiui i You have been stealing from tiieir larder, I see." " I'm none o' that sort, Miss Phvllis. Look oe there;" and she pointed to the broad lintel of her window, which had been scattered over with crumbs; where, busily picking them i. p, were two robin red- breasts, who chirruj)ed thankfully, and watched Martha with bright curious eyes. *'Mary dough's coming to dinner tomorrow, and her and Ben are going to t' chapel together. Ben's getten himsen a new suit o' broadcloth, and my word ! they'll be a handsome couple ! " '' You'll have a happy Christmas, IVEartha." "Nobody in a' England lies more reason to keep a joyful Christmas, Miss Hall?m." "No two Christmases are exactly alike; are they, Martlia? Last year your daughter was with you. Now she is married and gone far away. Last Christ- mns my brother was at home. He is not coming this ,. " year " I found that out long ago. Miss Hallam. First we missed father, then mother ; then it was a brother or a sister, or a child more or less ; then my husband went, and last year, Sarah Ann." " Will you and Bon come to the hall to-night ? " ik OS THK IIALLA^i SlCCE»6I0N. ' I ) ^ "Why — mobhe we will." "Ben h;i8 quite got over his trouble?" " All, Mary helped him a deal." "Mary will get a good husband." "She will that. Ben Craven is good at home. You may measure a man by his home conduct, it's t' right place to draw t' line, you may depend upon it. Tak' a bit o' Christmas loaf, and go your ways back now, dearies, for wcMl be heving a storm varry soon." They went merrily out, and about fifty yards away met Mr. North, lie also looked very hajjpy, and his lips were moving, as if he was silently singing. In fact, he was very happy ; he had been giving gi'*ts to the poor, and the blessing of many "ready to perish" W5U upon him. lie thanked Phyllis and Elizabeth for the Christmas offerings sent to his chapel ; and told them of a special service that was to be held on the first Sunday of the new year. " I should like you to be there, Miss Fontaine," he said, " for I think this peculiar service of Methodism is not held in America." Ilis happiness had conquered his timidity. He looked almost handsome, as he gave them at parting " God's blessing," and the wish for a " Merry Christ- mas. ?? "I wish you would ask him to dinner, Elizabeth ? '' " Certainly, I will. I should like to do it." They hurried after him, and overtook him, with his hand upon a cottvige gate. Tm; IIai.i.am Sl'lvkmsion. u< i>y J5 " Will you coiiii' ;iikl dint' with us, Mr. Norths It is II pil.'i iii;j;lit at thu hall, and many of y(»ur pt'opU; will bo there. They will like to st3e you, and you will luld to our pleasure als(,».'' " Thank you, Mis.s Ilallani. It will be very pleasant to lue. My duty will be finished in hall" an hour, then I will follow you." His face was as happy and as eandid as a child's, as lie lifted his hat, and entered the eottage garden. Elizabeth involuntarily watched him. " lie seems to tread ujjon air. 1 don't believe he remembers he is still in the body. He looks like a gentleman to-day." " He is always a gentleman, Elizabeth. I am told he has about £7U a year. Who but a gentleman could live upon that and look as he does i lien Craven has double it, but who would call Ben a gentleman?" " There is a singular thing about the appearance of Methodist preachers, Phyllis ; they all look alike. If you see a dozen of them together, the monotony is tiresome. The best of theui are only larger sj)eci- mens of the sajne type — are related to the others as a crown piece is related to a shilling. You know a Methodist minister as soon as you see him." "That is just as it ought to be. They are the Methodist coin, and they bear its image and its super- scription. The disciples had evidently the same kind of ' monotony.' People who were not Xaza- rencs ' took knowledge of them, that they had been u > 100 The Hall am Succession. ; i: m' witli Jesus.' liiit if tliis is a fault, surelj' the English clergy have it in a remarkable degree. I know an Episcopal clergyman just as soon and just as far as I can see hiuh" " Their cloth—" " O, it is not oidy their ' cloth.' That long surtout, and nicely adjusted white tie, and general smoothness and trimness, is all very distinctive and proper; but I refer quite as much to that peculiar self-contained- ness of aspect and that air of propriety aitd polish which surrounds them like an atmosphere." "Now we are quits, Phyllis, and I think we had better walk faster. See what large tiakes of snow are beginning to fall ! " The squire had reached home first, and was stand- ing at the door to meet them, his large rosy face all smiles. There was a roaring, leaping fire in the hall, and its trophies of chase and war were wreathed and » crowned with fir and box and holly. Branches of mistletoe hung above the doors and the hearth-stone ; and all the rooms were equally bright. The servants tripped about in their best clothes, the men with bits of hawthorn berries and box on their breast, the women wdth sprigs of mistletoe. There was the hap- piest sense of good liumor and good-will, the far-away echo of laughter, the tinkling of glass and china and silver, the faint delicious aroma, through opening doors, of plentiful good cheer. " Whativer kept you so long, dearies ? Run away i 1 ; Thb: Hallam Succkssion. 101 and don yourselves, rjul make yourselvT!^ _iz:ay and fine. Christmas comes but once a year. And don't keep dinner waiting; mind that now! T' rec^"or's here, and if there's any thing* that puts him about, it's waitiniir for his dinner." " We asked Mr. Kortli, father ; he will be here soon 5? "I'm uncommon glad you asked him. Go your ways and get your uest frocks on. I'll go to t' door to meet him." [n about an hour the girls came down together, Phyllis in a pale gray satin, with delicate edgings of tine lace. It litted her small form to perfection, close to the throat, close to the wrists, and it had about it a slight but charming touch of puritanism. Tiiere was a white japonica in lier hair, and a flame-colored one at her throat, and these were her only ornaments. Elizabeth wore a plain robe of dark blue velvet, cut, as was the fashion in those days, to show the stately throat and shoulders. Splendid bracelets were on her arms, and one row of large white pearls encircled her throat. She looked like a queen, and Phyllis wished Richard could luvve seen her. " She'll be a varry proper mistress o' Ilallam- . Croft," thought the scpiire, witl. a passing sigh. But his eyes dwelt with delight upon Phyllis. "Eh!" he said, "but thou art a bonny lass! T' flowers that bloom for thee to wear are t' ha[)piest flowers that blow, I'll warrant thee." II 11 1 t ; \i I 1 m ii f 102 The Hall am Successiox. After dinner the squire and his uungliter went to tlie servants' hall to drink " loving cup " at their table, and to give their Christmas gifts. The rector, in the big chair he loved, sat smoking his long pipe. Mr. North, with a face full of the sweetest serenity and pleasure, sat opposite, his thin white hands touch- ing each other at all their finger tips, and his clear eyes sometimes resting on the blazing fire, and some- times drifting away to the face of Phyllis, or to that of the rector. " You have been making people happy all day, Mr North ? " " Yes ; it has been a good day to me. I had twelve pounds to give away. They made twelve homes very liappy. I don't often have such a pleasure." "I have noticed, Mr. North," said the rector, "that you do very little pastoral visiting." " That is not my duty." " I think it a very important part of my duty." " You are right. It is. You are a pastor." " And you ? ", " I am a preacher. My duty is to preach Christ and him crucified. To save souls. There are others whose work it is to serve tables, and comfort and ad- vise in trouble and perplexity." " But you must lose all the personal and social in- fl^ience of a pastor." " If I had desired personal and social influence, I should hardly have chosen the office of a Meth- I The IIallam Succession. 103 odist preacher. ' (^ut of breath pursuing souls,' was said of John Wesley and his pretorian band of helpers. I follow, as best I can, in their footsteps. But though I have no time for visiting, it is not neg- lected." " Yes?" said the rector, inquiringly. "Our class-leaders do that. John Dawson and Jacob Harg raves and Hannah Saruni are the class- leaders in IIallam and West Croft. You know them ? " " Yes." " They are well read in the Scriptures. They have Borrowed and suffered. They understand the people. They have their local prejudices and feelings. They liave been in the same straits. They speak the same tongue. It is their duty to give counsel and comfort, and material help if it is needed ; to watch over young converts ; to seek those that are backsliding ; to use their influence in every way for such of tiie flock as are under their charge. John Dawson has twenty- two men and Jacob Ilargraves nineteen men under their care. Hannah Sarum has a very large class. No one pastor could do as regards meat and money mat- ters what these three can do. Besides, the wealthy, the educated, and the prosperous ernnot so perfectly enter into the joys and sorrows of the poor. If a woman has a drunken husb:ind, or a disobedient child, she will more readily go to Hannah for com- fort and advice than to me ; and when James Baker n ft! « f ;! 1U4 TiiK Hall AM Succession. was ont of work, it was John Dav/aoii who loaned him five pounds, and who finally got him a job in Bowl- ing's mill. I could have done neither of those things for him, however willing I might hav^e been." " I have never understood the ofKce, then. It is a wonderful arrangement for mutual help." " It gives to all our societies a family feeling. We are wdiat we call ourselves — brothers and sisters ; " and, with a smile, he stretched out his hand to take the one which Phyllis, by some sympathetic understand- ing, offered him." "There was something like it in the apostolic Church ? " " Yes ; our class-leader is the apostolic diaconate. The apostles were preachers, evangelists, hasting here and there to save souls. The deacons were the pas- tors of the infant churches. I preach seven times a week. I walk to all the places I preach at. It is of more importance to me that men are going to eternal destruction, than that they are needing a dinner or a coat." *' But if you settled down in one place you would soon become familiar with the people's needs ; you would only have to preach two sermons a week, and you could do your own pastoral duty." "True; but then I would not be any longer a Methodist preacher. A Methodist pastor is a sole- cism ; Methodism is a moving evangelism. "When it set- tles down for a life pastorate it will need a new name." k I II. The 1Jai.lam Succession. 105 t )' •' However, Mr. North, it seems to me, that u preacher should bring every possible adjunct to aid him. The advantages of a reputation f< r piety, wis- dom, and social synjpathy are quite denied to a man who is only a preacher." " He has the c^oss of Christ. It needs no aid of wealth, or wisdom, or social sympathy. It is enough for salvation. The banner of the Methodist preacher is that mighty angel flying over land and sea, and having the everlasting Gospel to preach ! " His enthusiasm had carried him away. He sighed, and continued, " But I judge no man. There must be pastors as well as preachers. I was sent to preach." For a moment there was silence, then the fine in- stinct of Phyllis perceived that the conversation had reached exactly that point when it demanded relief in order to effect its best ends. She went to the piano and began to sing softly some tender little ro- mance of home and home joys. In the midst of it the squire and Elizabeth entered, and the conversa- tion turned upon Christmas observances. So, it fell out naturally enough that Phyllis should speak of her southern home, and describe the long rows of white cabins among the live oaks, and the kind-hearted dusky dwellers in them ; and, finally, as she became almost tearful over her memories, she began to sing one of the " spirituals," then so totally unknown be- yond plantation life, singing it sotto voce, swaying her i'l '!' ., ' 11 \ 106 My JIallam {Succession. body gently to the inulody, and softly dapping her small hands as an aeconipaninient : " My soul ! Massa Jesus ! 3Iy soul I My sou' ! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' de more I dig him, de better he spring ; My soul 1 Dar's a little thing lays in iny heart, An' he set my soul on fire : My soul I Massa Jesus ! My soul 1 My soul I " Then changing the time and tune, she continued : " ^e water deep, de water cold, Nobody here to help me I O de water rise! De water roll! Nobody here to help me ! " Dear Lord, Nobody here to help me ! " She had to sing them and many others over and over. Mr. N^orth's eyes were full of tears, and the rector hid his face in his hands. As for the squire, he sat looking at her with wonder and delight. " Why did ta nivver sing them songs afore, Phyl- lis ? I nivver heard such music." " It never has been written down, uncle." " Who made it up for 'em ? " "It was never made. It sprung from their sor- rows and their captivity. The slave's heart was the slave's lyre." They talked until a deputation came from the serv- ant's hall and asked for Mr. North. They belonged The Hallam Succession. 107 to tlie Christmas waits, and if he was going back to tlie village they wished to accomj)any him home; an offer he readily accepted. " I have had a happy evening, squire ; *' and his smile included every one in the blessing he left be- hind. They all followed him to the door, and Matched the Httle crowd take their way through the white park. The snow had quite ceased, the moon rode full and clear in mid-heaven, and near ^ly her there was one bright, bold, steady star. In a short time Elizabeth went with Phyllis to her room, and they laid aside their dresses and ornaments, and, sitting down before the fire, began to talk of Kichard and Antony, of Rome and America, and of those innocent, happy hopes which are the joy of youth. How bright their faces were! How pret- tily the tire-light glinted in their white robes and loosened hair! How sweetly their low voices and rippling laughter broke the drowsy silence of the large, handsome room ! Suddenly J;he great clock in the tower struck twelve. They counted off tlie strokes on their white fingers, looking into each other's faces with a bright expectancy ; and after a moment's pause, out clashed the Christmas bells, answering each other from hill to hill through the moonlit midnight. Phyllis was in an ecstasy of delight. She threw open her window and stood listening, "O, I know what they say, Elizabeth. Glory be to God on high ! And hark ! There is singing ! " I I 108 The Hallam Succession. I 1 r :i i " It is the waits, Phyllis." A company of about fifty men and women were coming through the park, filling the air as they came with music, till all the hills and valleys re-echoed the " In Excelsis Gloria " of the sweet old carol : *' When Christ was born of Mary free, In Bethlehem that fair citie, The angels sang in holy glee, ' In excelsis gloria 1 ' " They finished the last verses under the Hall win- dows, and then, after a greeting from the rector and the S(|uire, they turned happily back to the village, singing llerrick's most perfect star song : " Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue, Where is the Babe that lately sprung ? Lies He the lily-banks among V " Phyllis was weeping unrestrainedly ;" Elizabeth, more calm and self-contained, held her against her breast, and smiled down at the happy tears. Blessed are they who have wept for joy ! They have known a rapture far beyond the power of laughter to express. The next week was full of visiting and visitors. The squire kept open house. The butler stood at the sideboard all day long, and there was besides one large party which included all the families within a few miles of Hallam that had any acquaintance with the squire. It was, perhaps, a little trial at this time for Phyllis to explain to Elizabeth that she could not dance. u The Hallam Succession. 109 " But father is expecting to open the ball with yon. He will be very mnch disappointed." " I am sorry to disappoint him ; but, indeed, I can- not." " I will teach you the step and figure in half au hour." " I do not w.^li to learn. I have both conscien- tious and wonnanly scruples against dancing." " I forsfot. The Methodists do not sanction danc- ing, I suppose ; but you nuist admit, Phyllis, that very good people are mentioned in the Bible as dancing." " True, Elizabeth ; but the religious dances of Judea were triumphant adoration. You will hardly claim so much for the polka or waltz. All ancient dances were symbolical, and meant something. Every motion was a thought, every attitude a sentiment. If the dauirhter of Herod ias had danced a modern cotillion, do you think that John the Baptist's head would have fallen at her feet ? " " Don't associate modern dancing M^ith such un- pleasant things. We do not want it to mean any thing but pleasure." " But how can you find rational pleasure in spinning round like a teetotum in a room of eighty degrees temperature ? " " All people do not waltz ; I do not myself." " The square dances, then ? What are they but slouching mathematical dawdling, and 'promiscuous ' bobbing around ? " I I' I 110 The IIallam Succession. "But people must do something to pass the time."' " I do not see that, EHzahcth. "We are tohl not ' to pass the time,' hut to 'redeem' it. I think dancing n foolish thing, and folly and sin are very close kin." " You said ' unwomanly ' also 'i '' " Yes ; I think dancing is unwomanly in public. If you waltz with Lord Francis Eltham, you permit liim to take a liberty with you in pul)lic you would not allow under any other circumstances. And then just look at dancers ! IIow heated, flushed, damp, and untidy they look after the exercise ! Did you ever watch a lot of men and women dancing when you could not hear the music, but could only see them bobl)ing up an down the room ? I assure you they look just like a party of lunatics." Elizabeth laughed ; but Phyllis kept her resolution. And after the ball was over, Elizabeth said, frankly, " You had the best of it, Phvllis, every way. You looked so cool and sweet and calm in the midst of the confusion and heat. I declare every one was glad to sit down beside you., and look at you. And how cheerfully you sang and played ! You did not dance, but, nevertheless, you were the belle of the boll." On the first Sabbath of the new year Phyllis M'as left at the little IVFethodist chapel. Her profession had always been free from that obtrusive demonstra- tion of religious opinion which is seldom united with true piety. While she dwelt under her uncle's roof it had seemed generally the wisest and kindest thing X,. V ;m t I » 1 II The TTallam Si'cckssion. HI to worship with liis family. It involved nothiiifj; that hurt her conseienee, and it prevented numy disputes which would ])robably have begun in some small household disarrangement, and bred only dislike and reliirious olTense. Iler Methodism liad neither been cowardly nor demonstrative, but had been made most conscious to all by her sweet comj)laisanee and chari- table concession.^. So, when she said to the squire, " Uncle, Mr. North tells me there is to be a very solemn Method- ist service to-morrow, and one which I never saw in America ; I should like you to leave me at the chapel," he answered: " To be sure, Phyllis. We would go with thee, but there's none but members admitted. I know what service thou means well enough." She found in the chapel about two hundred men and women, for they had come to llallam from the smaller societies around. They were mostly from what is often called " the lower orders," men and women whose hands were hard with toil, and whose forms were bowed with labor. But what a still so- lenmity there was in the place ! No organ, no dim religious light, no vergers, or beadles, or robed choris- ters, or priest in sacred vestments. The winter light fell pale and cold througli the plain windows on bare white-washed walls, on a raised wooden pulpit, and on pews unpainted and uncushioned. Some of the congregation were very old ; some, just in the flush of manhood and womanhood. All were 112 TiiK IIam-am SrccKssiox. \: I; I ll I I'M m 8'')'' *f| i it- it ill tlio InimcdJaU preseiipc of (Todjimd were intensely cuiisciona of it. There wjis Ji Kolenin liynin simp; and a sliort prayer ; then AFr. Kor'li's mize waiulered over the eonij-reira- tion nntil it rested npon a man in the center — a very old man — witli liair as white as wool. "Stephen Lanp;sidc, can you stand np before (lod and man to-day?" The old man rose, and, supported by two young farmers, lifted up a face full of lii:;ht and eoniidence. " They tell me that you are ninety-ei^^ht years (»ld, and that this is the seventy-tirst time that you will renew your covenant with the eternal Father. Bear witness this day of him."' "His word is sure as t' everlasting hills! I liev been young, and now I'm old, and I hev hed a deal to do wi' him, and he lies lied a deal to do for me; and he nivver lies deceived me, and he lies iiivver failed me, and he has nivver turned t' cold shoulder to me; ay, and he lies stuck up to his promises, when I was none ready to keep mine. There's many good masters, but he is t' best Master of a' ! There's many true friends, but he is the truest of a' ! IVEany a kind father, but no father so kind as him ! I Jtiioio M'hoin I hev believed, and I can trust him even unto death ! " " Brothers and sisters, this is the Master, the Friend, the Father, whom I ask you to enter into covenant with to-day — a holy solemn covenant, which you shall kneel down and make upon your knees, and II I The IIallam Slx'cession. 113 itoiisoly pray CM* ; mi'Tc'irii- — ii very )re God ) young ifideiice. L'jirs old, ^'ou will •. Bear I I hev d a deal for 1110 ; iiivver lioidder s, when IV c:ood s many a kind whom eath ! " riend, )venant h you es, and / stand up and ratify in the sight of angels and of men." Not ignorantly did Phyllis enter intotliis covenant with her Maker. She had read it carefully over, and considered well its awful solemnity. Slowly the grand abnegation, the solemn engagement, was formed ; every sentence recited without haste, and with full consciousness of all its obligations. Then Mr. North, after a short pause for mental examination, said : *' Remember now that you arc in the actual j)rc8- ence of the Almighty God. He is nearer to you than breathing, closer than hands and feet. He be- sets you before and behind. He lays his hand upon you. Therefore let all who, by Fta'iding up, give their soul's assent to this consecration, rumember well to whom they promise." Slowly, one by one, the congregation arose ; and so they remained standing, until every face was lifted. Then the silence was broken by the joyful singing of Doddridge's tine hymn, " happy day lliat fixed my choice," and the service closed with the administration of the Holy Communion. " Thou looks very happy, Phyllis," said the squire to her, as they both sat l)y the fire that night. " I am very haj)py, uncle." "Thou beats me! I told t' rector where ta had gone to-day, and he said it were a varry singular ( i I • ? lit |.: I'l ii'i 114 The IIallam Succession. thing that thou sliouhl take such an obligation on thee. He said t' terms of it would do for t' variy strictest o' Koman Catliolic orders." " Do you not think, uncle, that Protestants should be as strict regarding personal iioHness as Catholics ? '' "Nay, I know nowt about it, dearie. I wish women were a' like thee, though. They'd be a deal better to live wi'. I like religion in a woman, it's a vairy reliable thing. I wish Antony lied lied his senses about him, and got thee to wed him. Eh! but I would have been a happy father ! " " Uncle, dear — you sec — I love somebody else." " Well I nivver! Thee! Why thou 's too young! When did ta begin to think o' loving any body T' " When I was a little girl John Millard and I loved each other. I don't know when I began to love him, I always loved him." " What is ta talking about ? Such nonsense ! " " Love is not nonsense, uncle. You remember the old English «ong you like so much : " ' 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love That makes the world go round ! ' " "Now be quiet wi' thee. It's nowt o' t' sort. Songs and real life are varry different things. If ta comes to real life, it's money, and not love ; t* A'orld would varry soon stick without a bit o' money." About the middle of Januarv Richard returned to IlalLnn. The l>i>liop was with friends in Liverpool, The IIallam Succkssion. 115 the sort. Ifta 1 >vorld led to Irpool, bnt he wished to sail immediately, and Richard thou Hit it best to sail with him. Phyllis was williiis: to go. She had had a charming visit, but she had many duties and friends on the other side, and her heart, also, was there. As for danger or disco?nfort in a winter passage, she did not think it worth considera- tion. Some discomfort there must be ; and if storm, or even death came, she was as near to heaven hy sea as by land. The squire had not written to Richard about his plans for the succession of Hallam. He had felt more uncertainty on the subject tlian he would admi- even to his own heart. lie thought he would prefer to ex^^lain matters to him in person. So, one morn- ing, as they were together, he said '• Look 'ee here, Richard ! " and he led him to the portrait of Colonel Alfred Hallam. " Thou can see where ta comes from. Thou is t' varry marrow o' that Hallam ! " Richard was much pleased at the incident, and he traced with pleasure the resemblances between them. " Richard, I am going to leave Hallam to thee." It was not in the squire's nature to "introduce" a subject. He could never half say a thing. His bald statement made Richard look curiously at him. He never for a moment believed him to mean what the words implied. So he only smiled and ])o\ved. "Xay, thou needirt laugli ! It's no laughing matter. I'll tell thee all about it." i! '1 II ;i : 1 * 1,1 116 The IIallam Succession. In the squire's way of telling, the tnle was a very short one. The facts were stated in a few sentences, without comment. They amazed Richard, and left him for a moment speechless. " Well, what does ta say ? " " I will be as frank a? you have been, uncle. I cannot possibly accept your offer." " Thou'lt hev a reason ? " " More than one. First, I would not change my name. I should feel as if I had slandered the Fon- taines. My father was a brave soldier; my grand- father was a missionary, whose praise is in all our churches. I need go no farther back. If I had been born ' Hallani ' I would have stood by the name just as Urmly." "Then, thou wilt hev to give up Elizabeth. Suc- cession nmst go in her children and in her name." "Miss IIallam and you accepted me as Ilichard Fontaine. Have I not the right to ex])eet that both she and you will keep your word with me ? " " Thou forgets, Ilichard. Her duty to her father and to her ancestors stands before thee. If thy duty to thine will not let thee give up thy name, hers may well be due to home and lands that hold her ])V a tenure o' a thousand years. Ihit neitlier IMiss lialhim nor IIallam Ilall need go a-liegging, lad. I ask tliy ])ardon for offering thee owt so worthless." " Dear uncle, do not be angry with me." " Ay, ay ; it's ' dear uncle,' and ' dear father,' but I The IIallam Succession. Ill ler liC'V it's also, ' I'll tak' my own way', wi' both Antony and thee. I'm a varry unhappy old man. I am that ! " lie walked angrily oii", leaving Richard standing before the picture which so much resembled him. He turned quickly, and went in search of Elizabeth. She was sitting with Phyllis in the breakfast parlor. Phyllis, who was often inclined to a dreamy thought- fulness, was so inclined at that hour, and she was answering Elizabeth's remarks, far more curious of some n^ental vision than of the calm-browed woman, sitting opposite to her, sewing so industriously. Richard came in like a small tempest, and for once Elizabeth's quiet, inquiring regard seemed to irritate hiu), "Elizabeth;" and he took her work from her hand, and laid it on the table. " My dear love ! does Phyllis know ? " "AYluit, Richard?" " About Antony and the Hallam estate ? " "No; I thought it best to let you tell her." "PecauHc you were sure 1 would refuse it? — Phyllis ! " " Yes, Richard." "Your uncle is going to disinherit Antony; and ho wishes me to become his heir and take his name. 5) )Ut "But that is impossil)le. You could not take Antony's place. You could not give up your name — not for a kingdom." I 'Ni ' *l * fkmt ir 1 1 t:Pf '■ IN; I; 118 The ILvLLAM Succession. '' Then," said Elizabeth, ii little proudly, "he must give me up. I eiiuuot disobey my father." Phyllis quietly rose aud weut out. She could uot interfere with the lovers, but she felt sorry enough for them. Richard's compliance was for- bidden by every sentiment of honor. Elizabeth was little likely to give way. Richard held her to her promise, and pleaded for its fullillment. He wanted no fortune, lie was quite content that her fortune should 2:0 to free Haliam. But he did not see that her life and happiness, and his, also, should be sacri- ficed to Antony's insane ambition. " Jle will marry, doubtless," he urged, '" He nuiy have a large family ; cannot one of them, in such case, be selected as heir ?" This was the only hope Elizabeth would admit. In her way she was as immovable as Richard. She had made up her mind as to what was her duty in the premises, and her lover could not move her from this position. And, as the unhappy can seldom per- suade tliemselves that " sutTicient unto the day is the evil thereof," each heart was heavy with the prob- ai^le sorrovrs that were to flow from this complication of affairs. Phyllis, musing thoughtfully at her own room win- dow, saw the squire walking on the terrace. Her first impulse was to go to him, but she sat down to consider the inclination. Her class-leader, a shrewd, pious old Scotchman, had once said to her — "Nine impulses oot o' ten, Sister Phyllis, come fra the de'il f J till ■ 5! r 'm iif The Hall am Succkssion. 119 Just put an impulse through its catecliisiri before je go the gate it sends ye." So she sat down to thin'k - Wliat riglit iiave I to interfere ? Ought I to solicit a confidence ? Can I do good ? Might I not do harm? A good word spoken out of season is often a bad word ; and I am not sure what is the good word m this case. I had better be still and wait." Her patience had in some measure its reward Toward afternoon Elizabetii came to lier room Her eyes were red with weeping, but she said, "Father and Richard have shaken hands, Phyllis ; there is to be no ill-will about the disappointment." "I aui very glad.- But is it to be a disappoint- ment—to you, I mean, Elizabeth ?" "1 fear so; I must stand by father's side as re- gards Hallam. I can wait and love on. But I will not bind Richard. He is free." "I am quite sure he is not free. Richard will never be free while there remains a hope of eventu- ally winning you." "He says that nothing but my marriage to some other person shall make him lose hope ; but men say these things and forget." " Richard means what he says. He will not for- .^^-t ; and tune gives with botli hands to tlie patient and the truthful. Is the squire satisfied ? " '' I don't think he blames Richard. The shadow 1 felt on the night of our betrothal has beink ril)l)ons, and all the pretty aceessories of a young niuideu's evening toilet. "Thar now, Miss Pliill ! J'se ready — and I 'speets thar's some good news for you, honey ! '' Phyllis opened her eyes, " I heard you, Harriet. I was not asleep. As for goc^d news, 1 thiidc you are always expecting it — besides, I had some to-day." " Dat's de reason, Miss Phill — ' whar you going good news ? Jest wliar I'se been afore.' Dat's de way. I reckon I knows 'bout it." " What makes you know this time, Harriet ? Has the postman been, or a bird whispered it to you, or have some of Waul's servants been making a call here ? " "I don't 'ceive any of de AYaul's servants. Miss Phill. I'se not wanting my char'ctar hung on ebery tree top in de county. Ko, I draws my s'picions in de propercst way. Mass'r Eichard git a letter dis morning. Did he tell von, Miss Phill ?" " I have not seen him since breakfast." " I thought he'd kind ob hold back 'bout dat letter. 1 knows dat letter from Mass'r John. I'se sure ob it." I / 1 ■ s; 128 The Hallam Succession " Did you look — at the outside of it, I mean — Har- riot ? " " No, Miss Phill, I didn't look neider at de outside, nor de inside ; I's not dat kind ; I look at Mass'r Kichard's face. Bless you, Miss Phill ! Mass'r Richard kaint hide nothing. If he was in love Har- riet would know it, quick as a flash — " " I think not, Harriet." "Den I tell you something, Miss Phill. Mass'r Richard been in love eber since he come back from ober de Atterlantic Ocean. P'raps you don't know, but I done found him out." Phyllis laughed. " I tell you how I knows it. Mass'r Richard allays on de lookout for de postman ; and he gits a heap ob dem bluish betters wid a lady's face in de corner." " That is Queen Victoria's face. You don't sup- pose Master Richard is in love with Queen Vic- toria ? " " Miss Phill, de Fontaines would fall in love wid de moon, and think dey pay hei' a compliment — dey mighty proud fambly, de Fontaines ; but Fse no such fool as not to know de lady's head am worth so many cents to carry de letter. Ihit, Miss Phill, who sends de letters? Dat am de question." " Of course, that would decide it." " Den when Mass'r Richard gits one of dem letters, he sits so quiet -like, thinking and smiling to himself, and cf you speak to him, he a^iswcrs you kind ob far- The IIallam StcCEssiox. 129 n — Ilar- outside, t Mass'r MassV )ve llar- Miiss'r ick from 't know, rd allays heap ob ner." m't snp- en Vic- wid de lit — dey I'se no vorth so ill, who letters, limself, ob far- away, and gentle. I done tried him often. But he didn't look like dat at all when he git de letter dis morning. Mass'r Richard got powerful high tem- per, Miss Phill." Then take care and not anger him, Harriet." " You see, when I bring in de letter, I bring in wid me some fresh myrtles and de tube roses for de vases, and as I put dem in, and lixed up de chimley- piece, I noticed Mass'r Richard through de looking- glass — and he bit his lips, and he drew his brows together, and he crush'd de letter up in his hand." " Harriet, you have no right to watch your master. It is a very mean thing to do." " Me watch Mass'r Richard ! Now, Miss Phill, I'se none ob dat kind ! But I kaint shut my eyes, 'spe- cially when I'se 'tending to de flow^er vases." " You could have left the vases just at that time.'* " No, Miss Phill, I'se very partic'lar 'bout de vases. Dey has to be 'tended to. You done told me ober and ober to hab a time for ebery thing, and de time for de vases was jist den." "Then, the next time you see Master Richard through the glass, tell him so, Harriet ; that is only fail-, you know." "Go 'way. Miss Phill! I'se got more sense dan tell Miiss'r Richard anv sich thinir." Phyllis did not answer; she was thinking of a de- cision she might be compelled to make, and the ques- i n '^ Ull f 130 The Hallam Succession. tion was one wliich touched her very nearly on very opposite sides. She loved her brother with all her heart. Their lives had been spent together, for Phyl- lis iiad been left to his guardianship when very young, and had learned to give him an alfection which had something in it of the clinging reliance of the child, as well as of the proud regard of the sister. But John Millard she loved, as women love but once. He was related by marriage to the Fontaines, and had, wiien Phyllis and liichard were children, spent much of his time at the Fontaine i^lace. But even as boys Richard and John had not agreed. To ask " why " is to ask a question which in such cases is never fully answered. It is easy to say that Richard was jealous of his sister, and Jealous of John's superiority in athletic games, and that John spoke sneeringly of Richard's aristocratic airs, and finer gentleman w^ays ; but there was something deeper than these things, a natural antipathy, for which there seemed to be no reason, and iV. ^.vhich there wns no cure but the compelling pov. " Confound- " Eichard ! " " I beg your pardon, Phyllis. Be so good as to keep Harriet out of my way. Yes; T had a letter— ^ 'I m ml I ,, l\ 132 The Hallam Succession. a most impertinent one, I think. Civilized human beings usually wait for an invitation." "Unless they imagine themselves going to a home." " Home i " " Yes. I think this is, in some sense, John's home. Mother always made him welcome to it. Dear Rich- ard, if it is foolish to meet troubles, it is far more foolish to meet quarrels." "1 do not wish to quarrel, Phyllis; if John does not talk to you as he ought not to talk. He ought to have more modesty than to ask yo ■ to share such a home as he can offer you." " Richard, dear, you are in a bad way. There is a trustees' meeting to-night, and they are iu trouble about dollars and cents ; I would go, if I were you." " And have to help the deficiency ? " " Yes ; when a man has been feeling unkindly, and talking unkindly, the best of all atonements is to do a good deed." " O, Phyllis ! Phyllis ! " " Yes, Richard ; and you w^ill see the Bishop there, very likely ; and you can tell the good old man what is in your heart, and I know what he will say. ' It is but fair and square, son Richard, to treat a man kindly till he does you some wrong which deserves unkind- ness.' He will say, ' Son Richard, if yon have not the proofs upon which to blame a man, don't blame him upon likelihoods.' " " My good little sister, what do you want me to do ? " v\ ■i ^ i The IIallam tSuccKssii/x. 133 5> IS i} " I want you to meet Jolm, as we were mot at IIal- lam, with trusting courtesy." "If you will promise me to — " " I will promise you to do nothing secretly ; to do nothing my mother would blame me for. To ask more, is to doubt me, and doubt I do not deserve. Kow put on your hat and go to church. They will be disappointed if you are absent." " It will cost me $100," " A man jught to pay his debts ; and it is nicer to go and pay them than to compel some one to call here and ask you to do it." " A debt ? " " Call it a gift, if you lj^:e. Wlien I look over the cotton-lields, Ilichard, and see what a grand ci'op you are going to have this year, somehow I feel as if you ought to have said $200." " Give me my hat, Phyllis. You have won, as you always do." And he stooped and kissed her., and then went slowly through the garden to the road. Slie did not see him again that night, but in the morning he was very bright and cheerful. " I am going to ride to Greyson's Timbers, Phyllis," he said ; " I have some business with Greyson, and John will be almost sure to ' noon ' there. So we shall likely come back too;ether." Siie smiled gladly, but knew her brother too well to either inquire into his motives or comment upon them. It was sufficient that Richard had conquered 134 The Hallam Succession. |i I liis lower self, and whether the victory liad been a single-handed one, or whether the BirJiop had been an ally, was not of vital importance. One may enjoy the perfume of a good action without investigating the processes of its production. In the middle of the afternoon she heard their ar- rival. It was a pleasant thing to hear the sound of men's voices and laughter, and all that cheerful con- fusion which as surely follows their advent as thun- der follows lightning. And Phyllis found it very pleasant to lie still and think of the past, and put off, just for an hour or two, whatever of joy or soitow was coming to meet her ; for s1k> had not seen John for two years. lie might have ceased to love her. He mio;ht be so chanwd that she Mould not dare to love him. But in the main she thought hopefully. True love, like true faith, when there seems to be nothing at all to rest upon, " Treads on the void and finds The lock beneath." Few w^omen will blame Phyllis for being unusually careful about her toilet, and for going down stairs with a little tremor at her heart. Even when she could hear Richard and John talking, she still delayed the moment she had been longing for. She walked into the dining-room, looked at the boy setting the table, and altered the arrangement of the flowers. She looked into the parlor, raised a curtain, and opened the piano, and then, half aphamed of her self- h The Hallam Succession. 135 i.i'^'y consciousness, went to the front piazza, where the young men were sitting. There was a subtle likeness between Ricliard and liis English ancestors that neither intermarriage cli- mate, nor educational surroundings had been able to overcome ; but between him and John Millard tiiere were radical dissimilarities. Eichard was sitting on the topmost of the broad white steps which led from the piazza to the garden. With the exception of a narrow black ribbon round his throat, he was al- together dressed in white ; and tliis dress was a sin- gularly becoming contrast to liis black hair and glow- ing dark eyes. And in every attitude which he took he managed his tall stature with an indolent grace suggestive of an unlimited capacity for pride, passion, aristocratic — orcottonocratic — self-sufficiency. In his best moods he was well aware of the dangerous ])oints in his character, and kept a guard over them ; other- wise they came prominently forward ; and, sitting in John Millard's presence, Richard Fontaine was very nuich indeed the Richard Fontaine of a nature dis- tinctly overbearing and uncontrolled. John Millard leaned against the pillar of the piazza, talking to him. He had a brown, handsome face, and short, brown, curly hair. His eyes were very large and blue, with that steely look in them which snaps like lightning when any thing strikes fire from the heart. He was very tall and straight, and had a lofty carriage and an air of command. His dresa 13u TuK Hallam Succession. was that of an ordinary frontiersman, and he wore no anus of any kind, yet any one would have said, with the invincible assurance of a sudden presenti- ment, " The man is a soldier." Kichard and he were talking of frontier defense, and Richard, out of pure contradiction, was opposing it. In belittling the cause he had some idea that he was snubbing the man who had been fighting for it. John was just going to reply when Phyllis's ap- proach broke the sentence in two, and he did not finish it. He stood still watching her, his whole soul in his face ; and, when he took her hands, said, heartily, " O, Phyllis, I am so hajipy to see you again ! I was afraid I never would ! " " What nonsense ! " said Richard, coldly ; " a jour- ney to Europe is a trifle — no need to make a fuss about it ; is there, Phyllis ? Come, let us go to din- ner. I hear the bell." Before dinner was over the sun had set and the moon risen. The mocking-birds were singing, the fire-flies executing, in the sweet, languid atmospliere, a dance full of mystery. The garden w^as like a land of enchantment. It was easy to sit still and let the beautv of heaven and earth sink into the heart. And for some time John was contented with it. It was enough to sit and watch the white-robed figure of Phyllis, which was thrown into the fairest relief by the green vines behind it. And Richard was silent because he was trying to conquer his resentment at The IIallam Succession. 137 John fiu(lin•<>-- in tr;;;:,::ss:;r^'^--"-%-ee. -s: ^ Gs, fatJior Til " Wliat was said ? " people were talking about his '■-•■ ■fK7i*ari:stss:-^_ " You heard the quarrel, then, Harriet ? " " Couldn't help hearin' ob it, Miss Phill, no way ; 'case I right thar. I was in de dinin'-room tixin' up >r V ' ^ -\?(.#v'-i^»tv t;"JW«UttiBWt*.«i-tf,»w«t rfT-i. T The IIallam Succession. 145 : de clean window curtains, ana de young gen'lenien were on de p'azza. Cassie never do fix de curtains right ; she's not got de liang ob deni, Miss Pliill ; so I jist made up my mind to do 'em myself ; and while I was busy as a honey-bee 'bout dem, Mass'r Kichard he walk proud-like up to Mass'r John, and say, ' he want to sjDcak a few W(^rds wid him.' Den I kind ob open my ears, case, Miss Phill, when gen'lenien want to ' say a few words,' dey're most ob de time onpleas- ant ones." " Did Master John answer ? " " He looked kind ob ' up-head,' and says he, ' Dat all right. I'se nothin' 'gainst you sayin' dem.' So Mass'r Ei chard he tell him dat he hear some talk down town, and dat he won't have you talked 'bout, and dat as tliar was to be no marryin' 'tween you two, Mass'r John better go 'way." " Did Master Kichard say ' go away,' Harriet ? " "Dat's jist what he say— < go 'way,' and Mass'r John he flasli up like, and say, he sorry to be turn'd out ob de olc home, and dat he'll go as soon as he see you. Den Mass'r Richard, he git up in one ob his white-hot still tempers, and he say, 'No gen'le- men need more 'an one word ; ' and Mass'r John say, ' No gen'leman eber say dat one word ;' and MassV Ricliard say, ' Sir, you in my house, and you 'sume on dat position ;' and Mass'r John say he ' mighty soon be in some oder house, and den Mass'r Richard not hab sich 'cuse ; ' and, wid dat, he stamp his foot, ^ !■ y • « S ii '1 I'. ■; 4 ; r f ; I i if M 146 The IIallam Succession. and walk off like both sides ob de argument 'long to him." " Then what, Harriet ? " " Mass'r Richard tear roun' to de stables, and he tole Moke to saddle up Prince, and whilst de poor boy doin' his best, he storm roun' at dis thing and dat thing, till Prince woj'k himself up in a fury, too, and I 'spects dey's both tired out by dis time. Prince he jist reared and kicked and foamed at de mouth, and did all de debil's own horse could do to fling Mass'r Richard, and Mass'r Richard, he de Avhitest white man any body eber seen. Ki ! but de whip come down steady. Miss Phyli." " O, Harriet, how wretched you do make me." " Dar isn't a bit need to worry. Miss Phyll. Prince done tried himself wid Mass'r Ricliard 'fore dis, and he alius come in de stable meek as a lamb. When Mass'r Richard's got dat dumb debil in him, he'd ride a ragin' lion, and bring him home like a lamb." " It's not that, Harriet ; it's not that. But if he meet Master John there will be trouble — and O, the sin of it." " Dat am true as preachin', Miss Phyll." " If I could only see John Millard." " I'll mighty soon go for him, ef you say so." "No; that will not do." For Phyllis was aware that such a messenger would only make more trouble. Harriet was known to be her maid, and John was known to be her lover. To i I f I The Hali.am Succession. 1-i I do any thing which would give cause for ill-natured renuirks was to find Richard the excuse which would permit him active interference. "I must avoid the appearance of evil," she said, anxiously. " What must I do ? " "Clar' I don't know. Miss Phyll. 'Pears like you'se on a bery dangerous road. I reckon you'd best pray for de grace to choose de cleanest, safest steppin'-stones." " Yes ; that is best, Harriet." But Phyllis was noi one of those rash beings who rush into the presence of God without thought or solemnity. Slowly bending, body and soul, she com- muned with her own heart and was still, until it burned within her, and the supplication came. When she rose from her knees, she was resigned in all things to God's will, > matter what self-denial it involved; and she was not unhappy. For, O belif/re this truth, the saddest thing under the sky is a soul incapable of sadness ! Most blessed are those souls who are capable of lodging so great a guest as Sor- row, who know how to regret, and how to desire, and who have learned that with renunciation life begins. And Phyllis foresaw that renunciation would be the price of peace. At the commencement of the in- quiry with her own soul she had refused to enter- tain the idea. She had tried to find reasons for seek- ing some other human adviser than Bishop Elliott, M ! M' 1^8 TiiE Hallam Succkssion. because she feared that he would counsel hard thing's to her. Fre she slept, Iiowever, she had determined to go to him very early in the morning. But while she was drinking her coffee John Mil- lard entered the room. lie took her hands, and, looking sorrowfully into her face, said, " Phyllis, my dearest, it was not my fault." " I believe you, John." " And you love me, Phyllis ? " " I shall always love you, for I believe you will always try to deserve my love. But we must part at present. I was just going to ask tlie Bishop to tell you this. I can trust you, John, and you can trust me. He will tell you what you ought to do. And don't tliink hard of me if I say ' good-bye ' now ; for though Richard went to the plantation last night, lie may be back any hour, and for my sake you must avoid him." " Phyllis, you are asking a very hard thing, Rich- ard has said words which I can scarcely ignore. Two or three men have inquired if I was going to put up with them ? " "What kind of men?" " Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade and — " " Nay, you need say no more. Will you sacrifice my happiness to the opinion of Captain Lefferts and Jim Wade ? Are you their slave ? Richard is not himself now ; if you permit him to force a fight upon you, you will both sorrow for it all your lives." ) t I The IIallam Succebbion. 149 " I will go and see the Bishop, and do whatever he tclhi nic. If I need a defender from ill words— " " Yon may safely leave yonr good name in his care, John. And who M'ould dare to dispnte a word he Gaid ? Dear John, I knew I could trust you. Good- bye, my love ! " lie drew her to. his breast and kissed her, and with a look of fervent, sorrowful love, was leaving the room, when Kiehard entered by another door. He intercepted the glance, and returned it to John with one of contemptuous defiant anger. It did r . help to soothe Pdcbard that John looked u^m- .ally hand- some. There was a fire and j 3rsuasion in his face, a tenderness and grace in his manner, that was very irritating, and Richard could neither control his hands nor his tongue. lie began at once to feel for his pistol. " Why is John Millard here ? " he asked of Phyllis. " Answer me that." '^ He is here to promise me that he wnll not put the name of Phyllis Fontaine in the mouth of every drunken gambler and scornful man and woman to satisfy his own selfish, false pride." " He is too big a coward to fight a gentleman, he prefers fighting half-armed savages ; but I propose to honor his behavior with more attention than it de- serves — unless he runs away." " John, dear John, do not mind what Eichard says now. He will be sorry for it. If you care for me, ever so little, "ou will not fight about me. {!; ' (' 150 The IIallam Succession. Tlie sliame would kill me. I don't deserve it. I will never marry a man wlio drags my name into a quarrel. Eichard, for our mother's sake, be your- self. Brotlier, you ought to protect me ! I appeal to you! For God's sake, dear Richard, give me that pistol ! " " Phyllis," said John, " I will go. I will not fight. Your desire is sufficient." " Coward ! You shall fif]jht me ! I will call vou coward wherever I meet you." " No one, who knows us both, will believe you." It was not the taunt, so much as the look of deep affection which John gave Phyllis, that irritated the angry man beyond further control. In a moment he had struck John, and John had cocked his pistol. In the same moment Phyllis was between them, looking into John's eyes, and just touching the dangerous weapon. John trembled all over and dropped it. "Go your ways safely, Richard Fontaine. I could kill you as easy as a baby, but for Phyllis's sake you are safe." " But I will make you fight, sir ;" and as he uttered the threat, he attempted to push Phyllis aside. Ere one could have spoken, she had faced Richard and fallen, ller movement in some way had fired the cocked pistol, and, with a cry of horror, he flung it from him. John lifted her. Alreadv the blood Vv'as stain- ing the snowy nmslin that covered her breast But she was conscious. i I to I'- ll e The Hallam Succession. 151 " Kiss me, John, and go. It was an accident, an accident, dear. Ilemeniber tksit." " Stay with her, Richard. I will go for a doctor, niy horse is saddled at the door ; " and John rode away, as men ride between life and death, llicliard sat in a stupor of grief, supporting the white form that tried to smile upon him, until the eyes closad in a death-like unconsciousness. ^ 1 s'> The IIallam Succession. *. i CHAPTER YI. "Wlio rodccmeth tliy life from destruction." "Strike — for your altars and your fires; Strike — for the green gruves of your sires; God, and your native land 1 " THE hours that followed were full of sulTei-ing to the heart. John came back with the doctors lie summoned, and during their investigation he walked restlessly up and down the room in which the tragedy had occurred. T^lichard never noticed him. He sat in a chair by the open window, with his head in his hands, quite overcome by grief and remorse. It was in Jolin's strong arms Phyllis had been carried to her own room, and no one now disputed his right to watclii and to Avait for the doctors' verdict. He was very white ; white through all the tan of wind and sun ; and, as he paced the room, he wrung his hands in an agony be- yond speech. Terrible, indeed, to both men was the silent house, with the faint noises of Inirried footstci)s and closing doors up stairs ! "What a mockery seemed the cool, clear sunshine outside I What a stnmge sadness there was in the call of the crickets, and tlie faint blooms of the last few flowers ! There are scenes and sounds which, as backgrounds to great ■r- The II all am Successiox. 153 events ill life, photogra])li themselves in their small est details upon the mind. In the midst of his dis- tress John could not help noticing the pattern of the ^vall-paper, and the rustling of the dropping leaves and nuts in the garden. He pitied Eichard ; for, even in the depth of his own sorrow, he perceived a grief he could not touch — the anguish of a remorse which might have no eiid in this life. As the doctors came down stairs John went to meet them, for even a minute's reprieve from his torturing anxiety was worth going for. The fore- most made a slight movement, a motion of the lips and eyes which somehow conveyed a hope, and when he heard the words, " She inay recover," he hastened back to Eichard, and said, " There is a hope for her, and for us. God forgive us I" Eichard never answered a word, and John wan- dered for hours upon the beach, gazing at the gray melancholy sea, and trying to understand how far he had been to blame. Perhaps it is in the want of pity that the real infernal of Satan consists ; for whenever he sees us overwdielmed with sorrow, then he casts into our throbbing heart his fiercest weapons. Doubt, anguish, and prostration of hope, worse than death, assailed him. He tried to pray, but felt as if his cries were uttered to an inexorable silence. As for Eichard, he was so mentally stunned that it was not until he had been taken to Phyllis, and she had wdiispered, '' I shall be better soon, Eichard," 151 The II all am Succession. K • J '7 that a saving reaction could bo induced. Then the abanilon of ids grief was terrible; then ho felt some- thing of tiiat remorse for sin which needs no mate- rial Hery adjunct to make a hell for tiie soul. The Bishop watched him with intinite pity, but for several days offered him no consolation, lie thought it well he should sorrow ; he wished him to know fully that humiliation which Jesus exalts, that wretchcdnes'3 which he consoles, that darkness which he lightens. So, whe^ lie heard him one night, muttering as he walked gloomily up and down, " O that I could forget ! O tiiat I could forget ! " he answered, " Not so, son B-ichard. Can you escape eternity by forget- ting it ? And even for this life to forget is a kind of moral forfeiture, a treason against your own soul. Foi'get nothing, caiTy every thii(g about yourself to God — yopr Wv.a,iiness, your regrets, and your de- •9? m sires " How can tlie liifinite God heed my pitiful regrets and desires ? " " Because he loves men individually ; he deals with them soul by soul You, Hichard Fontaine, you, your very self, must go to him. You are not only a sinner in the general mass, but a particular sinner un- der your own name and in your i)ec'.il person. So, then, for j^ou he has a special pardon. He has the special liolp you need ; the very word of grace, that your soul, and yours only, may be able to under- stand." ■'■!«<«* The IIalf.am kSuccession. 155 "O that (lod would pity me ! " " You belong to the God of compassions. Ho re- sists the proud, but he conies to abide with the broken in spirit." "If I was only sure Phyllis would recover!" "And if not r' "Then 1 have no hope for this life or the other." " God will do what scenieth good to him." "I do not understand — God seems so indilfereut to my cries." " My son, God's indifference does not exist ; and if to comprehend the cross of Christ, you must suffer to extremity, I would not spare you, Richard ; though I love yon. There are four words that you can say, whicii will shake the gates of heaven ; which will make the Father meet you, and the elder Brother welcome you, and the angels sing for joy. Desolate souls, full of anguish, and yet full of hope, have comprehended them : Have trier cy upon Die ! " But the soul is a great mystery. IIow often is it called, and will not answer. llichard for many weeks could neither believe, nor yet ardently desire. The hour in whicli he heard that Phyllis was out of danger was the hour of his spiritual deliverance. Then a speechless, overwhelming gratitude took pos- session of him. He went into his room, and, amid tears and broken prayers of thankfulness, his heart melted. A wondrous revelation came to him, the revelation of a love greater than his sin. He was lost r?5^ 156 The Hallam Succession. ; : in its rapture, and arose witli the sacred, secret sign of the eternal Father in his soul. Phyllis saw the change as soon as he knelt down by her side, for his whole countenance was altered. She drew near to him, and kissed iiim. It was after Cliristmas, and the days bleak and cold ; but a great lire of cedar logs burned in the grate, and Phyllis had been lifted to a lounge near it. She was whiter than the pillow on which she lay, white with that pallor of death which the shadowy valley leaves. But O, what a joy it was to see her there once more, to feel that she was coming back, though as one from the grave, to life again ! After half an hour's happy talk he walked to the window and looked out. It faced the garden and the beach. The trees were now bare, and through their interlacini.»: branches he could see the waters of the gulf. As he stood watchin^^ them, a figure came in sight. ]Ie knew well the tall erect form, the rapid walk, the pause at the gJite, the eager look toward the house. lie had seen it day after day for weeks, and he knew that, however cold the wind or heavy the rain, it would keep its watch, until Harriet went to the gate with a word of conrfort. Suddenly a thought came into Kichard's heart. lie left Phyllis, put on his hat, and walked rapidly down to the gate. John was about fifty yards away, and he went to meet him. John saw him coming and walked steadily forward, lie c\pe(;ted unkind The IIallam Successiox. 15: words, and was therefore amazed when Ricliard put out his hand, and said, " John, forgive nie." " Willi all my heart, Eichard." The tears were in his ejes, his brown face fhished scarlet with emotion. He held Ilichard's hand lirmly, and said, " I beg your pardon also, Richard." " Will you come in and see Phyllis?" "Do you really mean such a kindness? " " I do, indeed ; if Phyllis is able to see you. Let us go and ask." Harriet Avas idling about the parlor, dusting the already dusted furniture as they entered. The face was as impassive as a bronze statue. "Go and ask Miss Phyllis, Harriet, if she is able to see Mr. Mil- lard." In a minute she was by Phyllis's side. "Miss Phill, honey. Miss Phill, dar's a miracle down stairs, notliin' at all less. Mass'r Richard and Mass'r John sittin' together like two lambs, and Mass'r Richai-d says, ' Can you see Mass'r John a few minutes? ' " The poetic Greek said, " Destiny loves surprises," and our Christian forefathers called all unexpected pleasures and profits, " Godsends." I think such " Godsends " come often to those who ask them. At any rate, Phyllis was asking this very favor, and even while the supplication was on her lips it was granted her. It was Richard, too, who brought John to her side; and he clasped their hands in his, and then went away and left them together. The solemn ten- s 158 The II all am Succession. ilVi \ 'E 1. ''■ derness of such a meeting needed but few words. John thought life could hardly give him again moments so holy and so sweet. O, how precious are these sudden unfoldin<>:s of lovinnj-kindness ! These Godsends of infinite love! He had not dared to expect any thing for himself ; he had only asked for the life of Phyl- lis, and it had been given him with that royal com- passion that adds, " grace unto favor." The happy come back to life easily ; and when the snow-drops were beginning to peep above the ground, Phyllis, leaning upon Jolm and Ivichard, stood once more under the blue of heaven, and after that her re- covery was rapid and certain. The months of Jan- uary and February were peculiarly happy ones, full of delightful intercourse and hopeful dreams. Of course they talked of the future ; they knew all its uncertainties, and faced, with happy hearts, the strug- gle tliey might have together. At the termination of John's last service he had possessed about two thousand doUars, but this sum had been already much encroached upon, and he was anxious to find a career which would enable him to make a home for Phyllis. There seemed, however, but two possible ways for John : he must have mili- tary service, or he must take up land upon the front- ier, stock it, and then defend it until he had won it. He had lived so long the free life of the prairie and the woods, that tlio crowds of cilies and their occupa- tions almost frightened him. For theology he had no li I The IIallam Succession. 159 •ds. John jments so 50 sudden Isends of iny thing i of Plijl- )yal coni- wlien the 3 ground, ood once at her re- . 5 of Jan- i- )nes, full ■ ^ ' Lins. Of w all its h he strug- 3 he had ihis suju I he was i him to owever, vc mili- e front- ^ won it. irie and ooou pa- 1 had no I, •III vocation and no "call." Medicine he had a most decided repugnance to. Law seemed to him hut a meddling in other people's business and preilica- nicnts. lie felt that he would rather face a band of savaues tlian a constant invasion of shoppei's; rather stand behind a breastwork than behind a desk and le(l:^er. The planter's life was too indolent, too full of small cares and anxieties; his whole crop might be ruined by an army of worms that he could not tight. But on the frontier, if there was loss or danger, he could defy it or punish it. He talked to Phyllis of the healthy, happy life of the ])raii'ies; of the joy of encamping in forests, and seeing the sun rise between the leaves ; of wan- dering without hinderance ; of being satisfied with lit- tle. It was these sweet, unplanted places of earth, these grand wastes of green, unpartitioned off into squares of mine and thine, that attracted John and charmed Phyllis: for her heart was with his. She thought of the little home that was to have a look southward and eastwnrd, and which she was to make beautiful ; and no grand dame, with the prospect of roj-al favor and court splendor, was ever half so gl;id in her future as Phyllis in her dream of a simple and busy Arcadia. It cannot be said that Richard shared her enthusiasm. In his heart lie thoujz-ht Phvllis "too good" for such a life, and to the Bishop he once permitted himself a little lament on the subj(!ct. "•But, son Bichard," was the answer, "what kind 11 P-^ :l'- \"i i « ; li \i: •i II 1(50 The IIallam Succession. of men build np new States and lead the van of the onward march? Are they not the heroes of tlie re- public? brave men of large souls and large views, that go naturally to the front because they are too big for the ranks?" ''I suppose so." " And, depend upon it, the noblest women in the country will love them and go with them. Blessings upon those women who go into the untrampled lands, and serve God and suckle heroes ! We forget them too often. The Pilgrim Mothers are as grand as the Filgriiii Fathers, every whit. The men, riiie in. hand, take possession of the wilderness ; the women make it blossom like the rose. No woman is too fair, or bright, or clever, or good to be a pioneer's wife. If John Millard had been willing to measure out dry goods, or collect debts, I should have had serious doubts about marrying Phyllis to him. If Phyllis had been unwilling to follow John to the frontier, I should have known that she was not worthy of John." t.' Three dnys after this conversation John went to New Orleans with tlie Bishop. The Bishop was upon Church business. John had heard of the colony which had gone with Stephen Austin to Texas, and wished to make further inquiries ; for at this time there were three words upon every lip — Santa Anna, Texas, and Houston. At the beginning of John's visit there had been present in his mind an intention of li-oiuijc from New Orleans to Texas at its close. The Hallam Succession. 161 \ ntion jlose. He was by no means certain that he would stay there, for he mistrusted a Mexican, and was neither dis- posed to fight under their orders, nor to hold land upon their title. But he had heard of the wonderful beauty of the country, of its enchanting atmosphere, and of the j)lenty which had given it its ha])py name ; and there had been roused in him a vague curiosity, which he was not averse to gratify, espe- cially as the sail was short and pleasant. He left the Bishop on Canal Street, and went to the St. Charles Hotel. As he approached it he saw a crowd of men upon the wide steps and the piazza. They were talking in an excited manner, and were evidently under strong emotion. One of them was standing upon a chair, reading aloud a paper. It was the noble appeal of Sam Houston, "in the holy names of Humanity and Liberty," for help. Travis and his brave little band had fallen, like heroes, every soul of them at his post, in the Alamo. Fannin and his live hundred had just been massacred in cold blood, and in defiance of every law of warfare and humanity; and between the Anglo-Americans and a brutal, slaughtering army there was only Houston and a few hundred desperate men. The New Orleans Greys and a company of young Southern gentlemen from Mobile had just sailed. Every man's heart was on fire for this young republic of Texas. Her shield was scarcely one month old, and yet it had been bathed in the blood of a thousand martyrs for M : m i-i il F'( I Si" ■ 1 il' 1 1/ Uf i- ^1 i 1! j ^1 i ^: Hi 1 PH 1^'' '"-M 1(12 The Hall am Succession. frcoduin, and riddled with the bullets of an alien foe. Julin caught fire as spirit catches fire. His blood boiled as he listened, his lingers were handling his weapons, lie must see Phyllis and go. That little band of eight hundred Americans gathered round Sam Houston, and defying Santa Anna to enslave them, filled his mind. He could see them retreating across the country, always interposing themselves be- tween their famiHes and the foe ; hasting toward the settlements on the Trinity Eiver, carrying their wounded and children as best they could. Every man, women, and child called him; and he cast his lot in with theirs, never caring what woe or weal it might bring him. The Bishop had promised to call at the hotel for him about four o'clock. John went no farther. He sat there all day talking over the circumstances of Texas. Xor could the Bishop resist the enthusiasm. In fact, the condition of the Texans touched him on its religious side very keenly. For the fight was quite as much a fight for religious f;S for political freedom. Never in old Spain itself had priestcraft wielded r. greater power than the Twoman priesthood in Texas. They hated and feared an emigration of Americans, for they knew them to be men opposed to tyranny of all kinds, men who thought for them- selves, and who would not be dictated to by monks and priests. It was, without doubt, the clerical ele- The JIam-am SuccEdsioN. 163 i >^ meiit which had urged on the military element to the massacre at the Alamo and at Goliad. The Bishop was with his countrymen, heart and soul. Ko man's eje flashed with a nobler anger than his. "God de- fend the brave fellows!" he said, fervently. " I shall start for Texas to-morrow," said John. " I don't see how you can help it, John. 1 wish I. could go with you." "If you hadn't been a preacher, you would have made a grand soldier, father." " John, every good preacher would make a good solciler. I have been lighting under a grand Captain for forty years. And I do acknowledge that the spirit of my forefathers is in me. Thev fought with Balfour at Drumclog, and with Cromwell at Dunbar. I would reason with the Lord's enemies, surely, John, I would reason with them ; but if they would not listen to reason, and took advantage of mercy and forbearance, I would give them the sword of Gideon and of Cromwell, and the rifles of such men as are with Houston — men born under a free government and baptized in a free faith." Itichard and Phyllis were standing at the garden gate, watching for their arrival; and before either of them spoke, Phyllis divined that something unusual was occupying their minds. " What is the matter ? " she asked; "you two look as if you had been in a fight, and won a victory." " We will take the wDnh as a good propliecv," an- m m i* ' d 11 'i^, K l!Mi 4.< 11 1G4 The IIallam Succession. swerod tlie Bishop. " John is i^oing to a noble war- fare, and, I am sure, to a victorious one. Give us a cup of tea, Phyllis, and we will tell you all about it." John did not need to say a word. lie sat at Phyllis's side, and the Bishop painted the struggling little re- public in words that melted and thrilled every heart. " When do you go, John ? " asked Phyllis. " To-morrow." And she leaned toward him, and kissed him — a kiss of consecration, of love and approval and sympathy. Richard's pale face was also Hushed and eager, his black eyes glowing like live coals. " I will go with John," he said ; " Texas is my neighbor. It is a fight for Protestant freedom, at my own door. I am not going to be denied." " Your duty is at home, Kichard. You can help with your prayers and purse. You could not leave your plantation now without serious loss, and you have numy to think for besides yourself." Of the final success of the Texans no one doubted. Their cry for help had been answered from the New England hills and all down the valley df the Missis- sippi, and along tlie shores of the (Julf of Mexico and the coasts of Florida. In fact, the first settlers of Texas ha 'a been young men from the oldest north- ern colonies. Mexico had cast longing looks toward those six vigorous States which had grown into power on the cold, barren hills of New England. She be- lieved that if she could induce some of their popula The 11 all am Succession. 1G5 >1 tion to settle witliin Mexican limits, she could win from tliem the secret of their success. So a hand of hardy, working youths, trained in the district schools of Xew England and New York, accepted the pledges of gain and protection she offered them, and, with Stephen F. Austin at their head, went to the beauti- ful land of Western Texas. They had no thought of empire ; they were cultivators of the soil ; but they curried with them that intelligent love of freedom and that hatred of priestly tyranny which the Spanish Jiature has never understood, and has always feared. Yery soon the rapidly-increasing number of Amer- ican colonists frightened the natives, who soon began to oppress the new-comers. The Eoman Catholic priesthood were also bitterly opposed to this new Prot- estant element; and, by tiieir advice, oppressive taxa- tion of every kind was practiced, especially the extor- tion of money for titles to land which had been guar- anteed to the colonists by the Mexican government. Austin went to :Mexico to remonstrate. lie was thrown into a filthy dungeon, where for many a month he never saw a ray of light, nor even Uie hand that fed him. In the meantime Santa Anna had made himself Dictator of Mexico, and one of his first acts regard- ing Texas was to demand the surrender of alt the private arms of the settlers. The order was resisted as soon as uttered. Obedience to it meant certain death in one form or other. For the Americans »5t7 10(3 TiiK IIai,i,am SrcOKSSIUN. :m were anioiiu^ an alien people, In a country overrun by fourteen diJl'erent tribes of Jtulians; some of them, as the Comanelies, Apaehes, and Li])ans, peciiharly lieree and erueL IJesides, many I'liuulies were de- jtendent upon the pime and birds which tliey shot tor daily I'ood. I'o be without their I'illcs meant starvation. They refused to surrender them. At Gonzales the peoi)le of Dewitt's Colouv had a little fonr-})oundcr, \yhich they used to protect them- selves from the Indians. C'olonel U^i^artchea, a JVEex- ican, was sent to take it away from them. Kvery colonist hastened to its rescue. It was retaken, and the Mexicans irsued to Bexar. Just at this time Austin ri turned from Ids Mexican dnuijeon. Xo hearing had been 2;ranted him. Every man wns now well aware that Mexico intended to enslave them, and they rose for their rights and freedom. The land they ^vere on they had bonght with their labor or with their gold ; and how conld they be expected to lay down their riiies, surrouni '; f I 172 The II all am Successiox. " You are wronging both Elizabeth and John. "What has Ehzabeth done or said ? " '' There is a cliange in her, though I cannot define it. Her letters are less frequent ; they are shorter ; they are full of Antony and his wild, ambitious schemes. They keep the form, but they lack the spirit, of her first letters.'- " It is nearly two years since you parted." " Yes." " Go and see her. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. If it did, we should never forget the dead. Those who touch us move us. Go and see Elizabeth again. Women worth loving want wooing." " Will you go with me i " " Do not ask me. I doubt whether I could bear the tossing to and fro for so many days, and I want to stav whei'e I can hear from John." There was much further talk upon the subject, but the end of it was that Richard sailed for England in the early summer, lie hardly expected to renew the enthusiasm of his first visit, and he was prepared for changes; and, perhaps, he felt tlie changes more be- cause those to whom they had couie slowly and sep- arately were hardly conscious of them. Elizabeth was a different Avoman, 'ilthough she would have de- nied it. Her character had nuitured, and was, perhaps, less winning. She had fully accepted the position of Leiress of Hallani, and Richard could feel that it was a controlling influence in her life. Physically she A^'k .11 The IIallam Succession. 173 was miicli handsomer, stately as a queen, fair and radiant, and " most divinely tall." She drove into Leeds to meet the sta^e which brought Richard, and was quite as demonstrative as he had any right to expect; but he felt abashed slightly by her air of calm authority. He forgot that when he had seen her first she was in a com- paratively dependent position, and that she was now prospective lady of the manor. It was quite natural that she should have taken on a little dignity, and it was not natural that she should all at once discard it for her lover. The squire, too, was changed, sadly changed ; for he had had a fall in the hunting field, and had never recovered from its efliects. He limped to the door to meet Richard, and spoke in his old hearty way, but Richard was pained to see him, so pale and broken. '" Tliou's welcome beyond ivery thing, Richard, " he said, warndy. " If ta lied brought Phyllis, I'd hev given thee a double welcome. I'd hev liked to hev seen her bonny face again afovo T go t' way I'll nivver come back." "She was not strong enough to bear the jour- 5> ney " Yonder shooting was a bad bit o' work. Tve nowt against a gun, but dash pistols ! They're black- guardly weapons for a gentleman to carry about ; 'specially where women are around." t^ ii I 1-' i-x The TIallam Stccession. li: :l « '' You are (juite right, uncle. Tliat pistol-shot cost 1110 many a day's heart-ache." " And t' poor little lass lied to sufTer, too ! Well, well, we thought about her above a bit." Elizabeth liad spoken of company, but in the joy and excitement of meeting her again, llichard had asked no questions about it. It proved to be An- tony's intended wife. Lady Evelyn Darragh, daughter of an Irish nobleman. Eicliard, without admiring her, watched her with interest. She was tall and p;ile, with a transparent arpiiline nose and preternat- urally large eyes. Her moods were alternations of immoderate mirth and immoderate depression. "Slie expects too much of life," thought Eicliard, " and if she is disappointed, she will proudly turn away and silently die." She liad no fortune, but Antony was anibitious for something more than mere money. For the carrying out of his Unancial schemes he wanted inlluence, rank, and the prestige of a name. Tlie Earl of Darragh had a large family, and little to give them, and Lady Evelyn having been selected by the promising young linancier, she was not permitted to decline the liand ho offered lier. So it happened she was stopping at ILdlam, and she brought a change into the atmosphere of the place. The scpiire was anxious, fearful of his son's undertakings, and yet partly proud of his commercial and social recognition. But the good-natured even- ness of his happy teinperame i; v.<)s quite gone. \\\ The Hallam Succession. 175 Elizabetli, too, had little cares and hospitable duties; she was often busy and often pre-occupied. It was necessai'v to h'lve a great deal of company, and l?aehard perceived that among the nsnal visitors at llallum he had more than one rival. But in this re- spect he had no fault to find with Elizabeth. IShe treated all with equal regard and to llichard alone unbent the proud sufficiency of her manner. And yet he was unhap[)y and dissatisfied. It was ncjt tiie Elizabeth he had wooed and dreamed aiout. And lie did n()t lind that he reached any humt- satisfactory results than iiv.' had done by letter. Elizabeth could not "see her way clear to leave her father.'' " It' xVntony married ? " he aisked. "That would not alter affairs nmcli. Antony conld not live at Ilallam. His business biiids him to the vicinitv of London.'" Tliere was but one new hope, and that was but a far probability. Antony had I'cquested permission to repay, as soon as he was able, the £50,000, und resume his right as heir of Ilallam. When lie was able to do this Elizal)etli would be freed from the duties which specially pertained to the property. As to her father's claim upon her, that could only end with his or her own life. IS'ot even if Antony's wife wn:- mistress of Ilallam would she leave the squire, if h^ wished or needed her love. And Elizabeth was rather hurt that Eicliard coMld not see the conditions as reasonable a service as sh" did. 12 r h i i III. in 111 ■;i ii wi li. 176 The Halla> Stccession. *' Yon may trust me," she said, " for ten, for twenty years ; is not that enough ?" " No, it is not enough ," he answered, warndy. " I want yon now. If you loved me, you would leave all and come with me. That is how Phyllis loves John Millard." "I think you are mistaken. If you were sick, and needed Phyllis for your comfort, or for your business, slie would not leave you. Men may leave father and mother for their wives, that is their duty ; but women have a higher commandment given them. It may 1)6 an unw^-itten Scripture, but it is in evejy good daugliter's heart, Richard." The r-quirc did not again name to him the succes- sion to Ilallam. Antony's proposal had become the d(!rnv.^t hope of the old man's heart. He wished to live tiiat he might see the estate honorably restored to liis son. He had fully determined that it should go to Elizabeth, unless Antony paid the uttermost farthing of its redemj:)tion ; but if he did this, then he believed that it might be safely entrusted to him. For a man may be reckless with money or land which he acquires by inheritance, but he usually prizes what he buys with money which he himself earns. Therefore Richard's and Elizabeth's hopes hung upon Antony's success ; and with such consolation as he could gather from this probability, and from Eliza- beth's assurance of fidelity to him, he was obliged to content himself. The li'ALLAM Slccession. IT twenty ly. "I eave all js John re sick, )r your y leave r duty ; n them. Q evejy succes- »me tlie shed to •estored should termost is, then to him. i which 38 what 8 hung ation as 1 Eliza- iged to CHAPTER VIL " For ireedorn's battle, once begun, Bequeathed bj l;leodipg sire to son, I'hoiigli batlled oft, is ever won." "The Ufieonqiiorublo mind, and fi-cedotu'a holy Ilarae." " Witli freedom's soil bencatli our feet, Aiivl tV>.-edoin's buaner stieaining o'er us." "And the King hath laid his hand On the wateiior's head ; Till the heart thnt w,',b wora nnd sad, I.s qiiiet and coinfortcd." IT waB a beautiful day at j,he close of ^fay, Ir-oC-, and iNew Orleans was holding a jubilant holi- day. The streets were full of flowers and gay with flying flags ; bells were ringing atid bands of mu- sic playing ; and at the earliest dawn the levee was black with a dense crowd of excited men. In the shaded balconies beautiful women were watchin^*- and on the streets there was the constant chatter of gaudily turbaned neirresses, and the rollickiu'i' o-uf. faws of the darkies, who had nothing to do but laugli and be merry. New Orleans in those days took naturally to a hohday ; and a very little excuoC made her put oJi her festal garujonts, and this day she harl tlie Tcry best of reasons for her rejoicing. The hero of San olacinto was coming to be her guest, and though he \i\ 178 The IIallam Succession. M was at death's door with his long-neglected wound, she was determined to meet him with songs of tri- un)})h. As he was carried in his cot tlirough tlie crowded streets to tlie house of the physician who was to attend to his sliattered bone, shouts of accla- mation rent tlie air. Men and women and little children pressed to the cotsidej to touch his hand, or to look upon his noble, emaciated face. And though he had striven with things impossible, and was worn to a shadow with pain and fever, he must have felt that " welcome " an over-j^ajment for all his toil and suffering. Yet it was not alone General Houston that was honored that day by the men of Xew Orleans. He represented to tliem the heroes of the Texan Ther- mopylae at the Alamo, the brave five hundred who liad fallen in cold-blooded massacre at Goliad, and the seven hundred who had stood for liberty and the inalienal)le rights of manhood at San Jacinto. He was not only Sam Houston ; he was the ideal in whom men honored all the noblest sentiments of humanity. A few friends accompanied him, and among them John Millard. On reaching Texas John had gone at once to Houston's side ; and in da^'s and nights of such extremity as they sliared together, friendship grows ra})idly. Houston, like the best of great gen- erals, had immense personal magnetism, and drew close to him the brave and the honest-heai'ted. John The Hal I.AM Succession. 179 [ wound, gs of tri- )ugh tlio ciiiii wlio of acclu- iid little is hand, B. And ible, and he must or all his that was ins. He an Ther- Ircd who , and tlie and tlie ito. He ideal in nents of ng them lad gone nights of :*iendship :'eat gen- nd drew id. Jolin gave him tlie love of a son for a father, and the hom- age of a soldier for a great leader. He rode hy his tide to victory, and he could not bear to leave him when he wiis in sulfering and dauijjer. r I ly ills expected John, and the Bishop went into die city to meet him. O, how happy she was! She went from room to room re-ari'anging the lace cur- tains, and placing every chair and couch in its pret- tiest position. The table on such holidays is a kind of altar, and she spread it with the snowiest damask, the clearest crystal, and the brightest silver. She made it beautiful with fresh cool fei-ns and buddinir roses. Outside Kature had done her part. The orange-trees lilled the air with subtle fragrance, and the warm south wind wafted it in waves of perfume through the open doors and windows. Every vine was in its first beauty, every tree and shrub had as yet its spring grace, that luminous emerald ti-anspar- ency which seems to make the very atmosphere green. The garden was wearing all its lilies and pansies and sweet violets, and the birds were build- ing, and shedding song upon every tree-top. To meet her lover, when that lover comes back from the battle-field with the light of victory on his brow, what women will not put on all her beautiful garments ? Phyllis's dark eyes held a wonderfully tender light, and the soft, rich palh^r of her complex- ion took just the shadow of color from the dress of pale pink which fell in tiowing lines to her small san- i i I I i i II i bnirii) '-: 1 ' ^ ;ll J 180 The 11 all am Slccession. (l;ili'd feet. A few white iiiircissus were at her belt and in lier black hair, and a fairer picture of pure and graceful womanhood never gladdened a h)ver"'s heart. John liad taken in and taken on, even in the few weeks of his absence, sonic of that peculiar air of in- dependence which seems to be tlie spirit infusing every thing in Texan land. " I can't help it," he said, with a laugh ; " it's in the air ; the very winds are full of freedom; they know nothing will challenge them, and they go roving over the prairies with a sound like a song." The Bishop had come back with John, but the Bishop was one of tliose old men who, while they gather the wisdom of age, can still keep their young heart. After supper was over he said : " Phyllis, my daughter, let them put me a chair and a table under the live oaks by the cabins. I am going to have a class-meeting there to-night. That M'ill give me the pleasure of making many hearts glad, and it will give John a couple of hours to tell you all the wonderful thino-s he is ij-oini; to do." And there, two hours afterward, John and Pliyllis went to find him. lie was sittin^: under a mvat tree, with the servants in little ebony squads around him at the doors of their white cabins; and singularly wliite they looked, under the swaying festoons of gray moss and in the soft light ; for the moon was far up in the zenith, calm and bright and worship- ful. John and Phyllis stood together, listening to icr bolt lire luid s heart, the few ir of in- nfnsiiig it," lie inds are lallerige with a but the le they ' young ^hyllis, a table oinor to ill give and it all the Phvllis it tree, id hini ularly ons of on was orship- ing to I TiiH IIali.am ISlX'LKSSIOX. LSI the close of liis di.sc'onrt^e, and sliaring in tlie peace of his li"nediction. Tlu ii tliey walked Bilcntly l. ick to tlu' hcii?ie, wouderiully toiiclied hy the pathos of a little ''Spirit liar' th;it an old negress started, and whose whisp{,'ring minor tones seemed to pervade all the garden — " Stt'iil away — steal away ! isteal away to Jesu.s ! " And in tliose moinents, though not a word was uttered, the hearts of Pxiyllis and Jolni were knitted togetlier as nj sensuous pleasure of dance or song could ever have boiiml them. Love touched the s])iritual element in each soul, and received its earnest of imniortalitv. And lovers, who have had such ex- periences together, need never fear that chance or change of life can separate them. 'Slohn," said the liishop, as they sat in the moon- light, " it is my turn now. I want to hear about Texas and about Houston. VV^here did you meet him ?" •"■ I met him falling back from the Colorado. 1 crossed the Buffalo Bayou at Vance's Bridge, just above San Jacinto, and rode west. Twenty miles away I met the women and children of the western settlements, and they tt»ld me that Houston was a little farther on, interposing himself and his seven hundred men between the ^Mexican -trmy and them. O, how my heart bled for them ! They were foot- sore, hungry, and exhausted. M'lny of the women were carrying sick chilui'en. The whole country I IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 11.25 UilM |2.5 ■^ 1^ 12.2 2.0 u mil 1.6 V] v^ '^F ^> >^^ (? / Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STftEET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4S03 if. iK'aniii'ffl wmm Vim i ,1 I IS ■ til V, ii 182 The 11 all am SLccLssiioN. bc'liind them hud been depopidated, and tlieir only hope was to reach the eastei'ii settleinents on the Trinity before Santa Anna's army overtook them. I could do nothing to help them, and I hasted onward to join tlie defending party. I came np to it on tlio evening of the 20th of April — a desperate handful of men — chased from their homes by an overpower- ing foe, and (j[uito aware that not only themselves, but their wives and children, were doomed by Santa Anna to an exterminating massacre." "What was your iirst impression of Houston, John ? " " That he was a born leader of men. lie had the true imperial look. He was dressed in buckskin and an Indian blanket, and was leaning upon his rifle, talk- ing to some of his men. ' General,' I said, 'lama vol- unteer. I bring you a true heart and a steady rifle* '• ' You are welcome, sir,' he answered. ' AVe are sworn to win our rights, or to die free men. Now, what do you say?' " ' That I am with you with all my soul.' Then I told him that there were two regiments on the wa}", and that the women of Nashville were raising a company of young men, and that another company would start from Natchez within a week. ' Why, this is great iKMvs,' he said ; and he looked me steadily' in the face till bot'ii our eves shone and our hands met — I know not how — but I loved and trusted him." " I understand, John. When soldiers are few they U' I. . TiiK Hallam Slccessiox. 183 theiv onlj 1 ts on the tliein. I d onward 1 it on tlio * B liandfiii V'crpowor- ernsolvcvs, l>y Santa Houston, liad the skin and ifle, talk- un a vol- dv rifle* We are . Now, en I told ray, and onipany dd start is ^reat 'lie face r know !W tliev witli any on't have I ring men y beneath We are lid for the trike like Jolni ; or, who did 'S in our ling that as worth ber how ps, there lYorcester time for she can- Tou must n behind their breastworks, and seven hundred despei-ate Tex- ans facing tlieni. Abon^" noon three men took axes, and, mounting their horsos, rode ra}>idly away. I heard, as they mounted, Houston say to them, ' Do your vork, and come back like eagles, or you'll be behind time for the tight.' Tiien all was quiet for an hour or two. About the middle of the afternoon,- whe»i Mexicans are usually sleeping or gambling, we got the order to ' stand ready.' In a few moments the three men who had left us at noon returned. Thev were covered with foam and mire, and one of them was swinging an ax. As he came close to us he cried out, ' Vance's Bridge is cut down ! Xow tight for your wives and your lives, and remember the Alamo ! ' Instantly Houston gave the order, ' Charge ! ' And the whole seven hundred launclied themselves on Santa Anna's breastworks like an avalanche. Then there was three minutes of smoke and tire and blood. Then a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. Our men had charged the breastwork, with their rifles in their hands and their bowie-knives between their teeth. AVhen rifles and pistols had been discharged they flung them away, rushed on the foe, and cut their path through a wall of living Mexicans with their knives. 'Remember the Alamo!' 'Remember the Goliad ! ' were the cries passed from mouth to mouth whenever the slaughter slackened. The Mexicans were panic-stricken. Of one column of Ave hundred 180 The IIallam Succession. Mexicans only thirty lived to surrender themselves as prisoners of war." a AVas such slauiirhter needful, John ? " " Yes, it was needful, Phyllis. What do you say, father ? " '' I say that we who shall reap where others sowed in blood and toil, must not judge the stern, strong hands that labored for us. God knows the kind of men that are needed for the work that is to be done. Peace is pledged i^ war, and often has the Gospel path been laid o'er fields of battle. San Jacinto svill be no barren deed ; ' one death for freedom makes millions free ! ' " " Did you lose many men, John ? " " The number of our slain is the miracle. "VVe had seven killed and thirty wounded. It is incredible, I kno AT ; and when the report was made to Houston he asked, ' Is it a dream ? ' " " But Houston himself was among the wounded, was he not ? " *' At the very beginning of the fight a ball crashed through his ankle, and his horse also received two balls in its chest ; but neither man nor horse faltered. I saw the noble animal at the close of the engage- ment staggering with his master over the heaps of slain. Houston, indeed, had great ditHculty in arrest- ing the carnage ; far over the prairie the Hying foe were followed, and at Vance's Bridge — to which the Mexicans fled, unaware of its destruction — there waa ThK IIaI.LAM SltCKSSION. 187 aselves as you say, Ts sowed n, fctrong ) kind of be done. e Gospel into will n makes We had edible, I iston he ounded, crashed ed two altered. 3ngage- eaps of arrest- ing foe ch the jre was an awful scene. Tlie bayou was choked with men and horses, and the water red as blood." " Ah, John ; could you not spare the flying ? Poor souls ! " "Daughter, keep your pity for the women and children who would have been butchered had these very men been able to doit! Give your sympnthy to the men who fell in their defense. Did you see Stephenson in the iight, John?" John smiled. " I saw him after it. He had torn up every shirt he had into bandages, and was busy all night long among the wounded men. In the early dawn of the next day we buried our dead. As we piled the last green sod above them the sun rose and flooded the graves with light, and Stephenson turned his face to the east, and cried out, like some old He- brew prophet warrior : " ' Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when the people willingly offered themselves.' . . . " ' My heart is toward the governors of Israel, that offered themselves willingly among the people. Bless ye the Lord.' . . . " 'So let all thine enemies perish, O Lord : but let them that love him be as the sun when he goeth forth in his mio'ht.' " '' Verses from a famous old battle hymn, John. How that Hebrew book fits itself to all generations ! It is to huniimity what the sunshine is to the material world, new every day; as cheering to one genera- t I I ill 188 The ILm.lam Succession. tion as to another, suitable for all ages and cir- camstanccs." " I asked liini wliere tlie verses were, and learned them. I want to forget nothing pertaining to that day. Look here ! " and John took a little box ont of his pocket and, opening it, displayed one grain of In- dian corn. " Father, Phyllis, I wonld not part with that grain of corn for any money." " It has a story, I see, John." " I reckon it has. When Santa Anna, disguised as a peasant, and covered with the mnd of the swamp in which he had been hiding, was brought before Hous- ton, I was there. Houston, suffering very keenly from his wound, was stretched upon the ground amoncr his oflBcers. The Mexican is no coward. He bowed with all his Spanish graces and complimented Houston on the bravery of his small army, declaring * that he had never before understood the American character.' *I see now,* he said, laying both his hands upon his breast, * that it is im})ossible to enslave them.' Houston put his hand in his pocket and pulled out part of an ear of corn. ' Sir,' he asked, * do you ever expect to conquer men fighting for freedom who can march four days with an ear of corn for a ration ? ' Young Zavala looked at the corn, and his eyes filled. * Senor,' he said, *give me, I pray you, one grain of that corn ; I will plant and replant it until my fields wave with it.' We answered the request with a shout, and Houston gave it SLMAy. i The Hallam Successdjn. 189 cir- grain by grain. Plijllis sliall j)lant and M-atcli mine. In two years one grain will give ns enough to sow a decent lot, and, if v/e live, we shall see many a broad acre tasseled with San Jacinto corn." " You must take me to see your general, John." " Bishop, we will go to-morrow. You are sure to like him— though, it is wonderful, but even now he has enemies." " Not at all wonderful, John. No man can be liked by every one. God himself docs not please all ; nay, as men are, I think it may stand with divinity to say, He cannot." " He will like to see you, sir. He told me himself that nearly all the Texan colonies brought not only their religion, but their preachers with them. Ho' said it was these Protestant preachers who had fanned and kept alive the spirit of resistance to Spanish tyr- anny .;nd to Roman priest craft." " I have not a doubt of it, John. You cannot have a free faith in an enslaved country. They knew that the way of tlie Lord must be prepared. if '" Their frcc-brcdsr.!)!s Went not with priests to sc!;ool, To trim the tippet and the stele, And pray by printed rule. !:| " ' And they would cast the engcr word From their hearts fiery core, Smoking and red, as God had stirred The Hebrew men of yore.' " 190 TllK 1 1 AM, AM Sl.'CCr^SION. During the next two weeks many siniihir conversa- tions made the hours to all three hearts something far 1110" ' than time ehopj)e(l uj) into minutes. There was scarcely a barren momenc, and faith and hoj)e anu love grew in them rapidly toward liighcr skies and wider horizons. Then (Teiieral Houston was so much relieved that he insisted on going back to his post, and John returned to Texas with iiim. But with the pleasant memories of tliis short, stir- ring visit, and frequent letters from John and Richard, the summer passed rapidly to Phyllis. Her strength was nearly restored, and she weni; singing about the house full of joy and of loving-kindness to all living things. The youngest servant on the place caught her spirit, and the flowers and sunshine and warmth all seemed a part of that ampler life and happiness which had come to her. Richard returned in the fall. He had remained a little later than he intended in order to be present at Antony's marriage. "A very splendid affair, indeed," he said ; " hut I doubt if Lady Evelyn's heart was in it." It w\as rather provoking to Phyllis that Richard had taken entirely a masculine view of the ceremony, and had quite neglected to notice all the sm?H details wliich are so important in a woman's estimate. Ho could not describe a single dress. " It seemed as if every one wore white, and made a vast display of jewelry. Pshaw! Phyllis, one wedding is just like another." TilE IlALLAM SUCCKSSION. 191 *•' Not at all, Kiehard. Wlio married them ? " "There was a Bisliop, a dean, and a couple of clcroked ^ill of dainty crinklingfl, mottled with pale maroon, and cuir, purple, and cream-color. "How beautiful is this place!" cried Tticliard, reverently; "surely this is one of the many nuinsions of our Father! One would be at^hamed to be caught sinning or worrying in it ! " As they reached the i»ine sands the breeze was keener, and their spirits were still more joyous and elastic. The golden dust of the ])ine flower floated round in soft clouds, and sunk gently down to the ground. Was it not from the flower of the pine the old gods of Olympus extracted the odorous resin with which they perfumed their nectar? And then, shortly afterward, they came to the magnificent roll- ing prairies of the Colorado, with their bottondess black soil, and their timbered creeks, and their air full of the clean dainty scent of miles of wild honey- suckle. " Now, liichard, drink — drink of the Colorado. It has a charm to lure you back to Texas, no matter how far away you stray. Soon or later 't :e mustang feeling ' will seize you, and you'll leave every thing and come back. Do you see yonder hilly roll, with the belt of timber at its foot ? " " Yes, I see it." " On its summit I am croinnj to build a home — a long, low log-house, spreading out under the live oaks, and draped with honeysuckles. Phyllis helped me to draw the plan of it when I saw her last. The r^^^^^^-anr^-^m !' £ ' I' f i i 194 The IIallam Succession. house will be built, and the vines phinted by the end of this year. Then she has promised to come. I hope you will be glad, Kichard." " I shall be glad to see her and you happy." But although the pretty nest was built, and the vines growing luxuriantly, it was not until the close of 1838, nearly two years and a lialf after San Ja- cinto, that the lovers could venture to begin their housekeeping. The Indians hung persistently about the timber of the Colorado, and it was necessary to keep armed men constantly on the ' range ' to protect the lives of the advance corps of Anglo-American civilization. During this time John was almost con- stantly m the saddle, and Phyllis knew that it would be folly to add to his responsibility until his service was performed. As it frequently happens, one change brings anoth- er. While the preparations were making for Phyllis's marriage, a letter arrived from IIallam which Richard could not refuse to answer in person. "My father is dying," wrote Elizabeth, " and he wishes much to see you." So the marriage was hurried forward, and took place in the last days of September. Some marriages do not much affect the old home, but that of Phyllis was likely to induce many changes. She would take with her to Texas Harriet and several of the old serv^ants; and there was no one to till her place as mistress of the house, or as her brother's companion. So that when she thought of the cheery »*-HI The IIallam Succession. 195 rooms, closed and silent, she wus glad that Richard hud to leave them, until the first shock of their sepa- ration was over. She went away with a pretty and cheerful eclat. A steamer had been chartered to take the party and all their household belongings from New Orleans to Texas, for Phyllis was carrying much of her old life into her new one. The deck was crowded with boxes of every description ; the cabin full of a cheerful party who had gone down to send away the bride with blessings and good wishes. It seemed all sad enough to llichard. After our first youth we have lost that recklessness of change which thro^vs off the old and welcomes the new without regret. The past had been so happy, what the future might be none could tell. lie turned his face eastward without much hope. Elizabeth's letter had been short and inexplicit. " She would see him soon ; letters never fully ex- plained any thing." He arrived at IIallam toward the end of October, and having come by an earlier packet than had been named, he was not expected, and there was no one at the coach to meet him. It was one of those dying days of summer when there is a pale haze over the brown bare fields of the gathered harvests. Elizabeth was walking on the terrace ; he saw her turn and come unconsciously toward him. She was pale and worn, and an inexprcssil)le sadness was in her face. But the surprise revealed the full y \ i I mmmmm ) ( ii i ■ k" 196 The IIallam Succession. beauty and tenderness of her soul. " O, Ricliard ! Richard ! my love ! my love ! " and so saying, slie came forward with hands outstretched and level palms ; and the rose came blushing into her ciieeks, and the love-light into her eyes ; and when Richard ki'-ticd her, she whispered, "Thank God you are come ! 1 am so glad ! " People are apt to suppose that in old countries and among the wealthy classes years come and go and leave few traces. The fact is that no family is pre- cisely in the same circumstances after an interval of a year or two. Gold cannot bar tli« door against sor- row, and tapestry and eider-down have no covenant with change. Richard had not been many hou 's in IIallam when he felt the influence of unusual cur- rents and the want of customary ones. The squire's face no longer made a kind of sunshine in the big, low rooms and on the pleasant terraces. He was con- fined to his own apartments, and there Richard went to talk to him. But he was facing death with a calm and grand simplicity. " I'd hev liked to hev lived a bit longer, Richard, if it hed been His will,' but he knows what's best. I s'all answer willingly when he calls me. He knows t' right hour to make t' change ; I'd happen order it too soon or too late. Now sit thee down, and tell me about this last fight for liberty. Phyllis he fair made my old heart burn and beat to t' vary name o' Texas. I'm none bound by York- The Hall am Succession. 197 shire, though I do tliink it's best bit o' hmd on t' face o' c' world. And I like to stand up for t' weakest side — that's Yorkshire ! If I hed known nowt o' t' quar- rel, I'd hev gone wi' t' seven hundred instead of t' two thousand ; ay, would I !" Decay had not touched his mind or his heart ; his eyes flashed, and he spoke out with all the fervor of his youth : " If I'd nobbut been a young man when a' this happened, I'm varry sure I'd hev pitch'd in and helped 'em. It's natural for Englishmen to hate t' Spaniards and Papists. Why, thou knows, we've hed some tussles wi' them our- selves ; and Americans are our children, I reckon." " Then Texans are your grandchildren ; Texas is an American colony." " They hed t' sense to choose a varry fine country, it seems. If I was young again, I'd travel and see more o' t' world. But when I was thy age folks thought t' sun rose and set i' England ; that they did." He was still able, leaning upon Eichard's arm, to walk slowly up and down his room, and sometimes into the long, central gallery, where the likenesses of the older Hallams hung. He often visited them, pausing before individuals: "I seem ta be getting nearer to them, Richard," he said, one day ; " J wonder if they know that I'm coming." " I remember reading of a good man who, when he was dying, said to some presence invisible to mor- tal eyes, ' Go ! and tell my dead, I come ! ' " 5 < . -1 1 .1 1 ill ■ m 198 The II all am Succession. y V ! I " 1 would like to send a message to my father and mother, and to my dear wife, and my dead son, Edward. It would be a varry pleasant thing to see a face you know and loved after that dark journey." " I have read that " ' Eyes watch us that we cannot see, Lips warn us that we may not kiss, Tliey wait for us, and starrily Lean toward us, from heaven's lattices.' " " That's a varry comforting thought, Richard. Thou sees, as I draw near to t' other life, I think more about it ; and t' things o' this life that used to worry me above a bit, hev kind of slipped away from )) me. It seemed to be very true that the things of this life had slipped away from him. Eichard expected him every day to speak about Hallam and Elizabeth ; but week after week passed, and he did not name the estate. As Christmas drew near he was, however, much excited. Lady Evelyn was expected, and she was to bring with her Antony's son, who had been called after the squire. He longed to see the child, and at once took him to his heart. And he was a very beautiful boy, bright and bold, and never weary of lisping, " Gran'pa." One night, after the nurse had taken him away, the squire, who was alone with Richard, said, " I commit that litt.e lad to thy care, Richard ; see he hes his rights, and do thy duty by hinu" The Hallam Succession. 199 " If his father dies I will do all I am permitted to do." "For sure; I forgot. What am I saying? There's Antony yet. lie wfiiitR Hallam hack. What does tasay?" " I should be glad to see him in his place." "I believe thee. Thou wilt stand by Eliza- beth?" "Until death." " I believe thee. There's a deal o' Hallam in thee, Richard. Do thy duty by t' old place." " I will. Yon may trust me, uncle." " I do. That's a' that is to be said between thee and me. It's a bit o' comfort to hev heard thee speak out so straightfor'ard. God bless thee, nephew Richard ! " He bi'ightened up considerably the week before Christmas, and watched Elizabeth and Lady Evelyn deck his room with box and fir and holy. The young mother was quiet and very undemonstrative, but she attached herself to the dying man, and he regarded her with a ]Htying tenderness, for which there appeared to be no cause whatever. As she car- licd away her boy in her arms on Christmas-eve, he looked sadly after her, and, touching Elizabeth's hand, said, "Be varry good to her, wilt ta?" They had all spent an hour with him in honor of the festival, and about seven o'clock he went to bed. Richard knew that the ladies would be occupied for 1 i SI ( ■1 f 'i ^lllj I ! I. 1i; ; -^ TuK iIallam Slcceson. a short time with some CJiristiiias arraiiria.-.''.-±-!iU^ . .. ThK HaLLAM ScCCEfiSION. 207 tense with and iture, You neral promise. I think it is my right to understand clearly what you intend about Ilallam, and how soon you will become my wife." She answered with a frank affection that delighted him : " We must give one year to my father's mem- ory ; then, Richard, come for me as soon as you do- Sire. '* Say twelve months hc'ice." " I will be waiting for you." " You will go with me to New Orleans ? " " I will go with you wherever you go. Your God shall be my God ; your home, my home, llicli- ard." " ^ly dear Elizabeth ! I am the proudest and happiest man in the world ! " *' And 1, Richard ; am I not happy, also ? I have chosen you freely, I love you with all my heart." " Have you considered well what you give up ? " " I have put you against it. My gain is incalcu- lably greater than my loss." « What will you do about Ilallam ? " " I shall hold Ilallam for Antony ; and if he re- deem it honorably, no one will rejoice more truly than I shall. If he fail to do this, I will hold it for Antony's son. I most solemnly promised my father to save Hallam for Ilallam, if it was possible to do so wisely. He told me always to consult with Whalcy and with you ; and he has left all to our honor and our love." ' !' : ! 20S TnK ITaM-AM SlCCESSION. I I' • « III ' ^ ii^ '.<:{. " r will Avork with yon, Elizabeth. I promised your father I would. " " [ told Antony that I only liold the estate for liim, or his; but he did not believe me." '' AV'hen I come for you, what is to be done with it ? " " Vrhaley will take cluir«j;-e of it. The income will be in the meantime lawfully ours. Father foresaw so many ' it's ' and eontingeneies, that he preferred to trust the future welfare of llallam to us. As events chanire or arise, we nuist meet them with all the wis- dom that love can call forth." Perhaps, considering all things, Richard had, after this explanation, as sure a hope for his future as he could e\})ect. lie left llallam full of happy dreams and plans, a'-d as soon as he I'eached his home began the improvements which were to make it beautiful for his wife. Tt had its own charm and fitness; its lofty rooms, furnished in cane and Indian matting; its scented dusk, its sweet '()rcczes, its wealth of flow- ers and foliage. AVhatever love could do to make it fair TJichar<^ did ; and it pleased him to think that his wife would come to it in the spring of the year, that the orange-trees would be in bloom to meet her, and the mocking-birds be pouring out their fiery lit- tle hearts in melodious welcomes. Elizabeth was just as happy in her preparations; there was a kind of mystery and sacredness about the'"n, for a thoughtful woman is still in her joy, and not inclined to laughter or frivolity. But happy is *^.L The Ha M.AM Succession. 209 its ting; flow- tilvC it til at year, t lier, [y lit- lions ; ibout I, and )y is the man whose bride thus dreams of him, for she will bring into his home and life the repose of a sure alTeelion, the cheerfulness of a well-considered pur- pose. Their corres])ondence was also peculiarly pleas- ant. Elizabeth threw aside a little of her reserve. She spoke freely to liichard of all her plans and feara and hopes. She no longer was shy in admitting her alfection for liim, her happiness in his j)resence, her loneliness without him. It was easy for liichard to see that she was gladly casting away every feeling that stood between them. One morning, at (he end of October, Elizabeth j)nt on her mantle and l)onnet and went to see Martha Craven. She walked slowly, as a person walks who has an nncertain purpose. Jler face had asha(h)\v on it; she sighed freqnently, and was altogether a dif- ferent Elizabeth from the one who had gone, two days before, the same road wnth (piick, firm tread and bright, uplifted face. Martha saw her coming, and hasted to open the gate ; but when Elizabeth per- ceived that Ben's wife was wutliin, she said, " Nay, Martha, I don't want to stay. "Will yon walk back part of the way with me?" " Ay, for sure! I'll nol)but get my sliawl. Miss Ilallam. I was turninfj; thee over i' mv mind when I saw thee cominj;. Is there antjht wron;; i " " AVhy do you ask, Martha ? " " N?y, I'm sure I can't tell ; only I can sec fine that thon ar'n't same as thou was yesterday." 210 The IIallam Succession. li They were just entering the park, and Elizabeth stood musing while Martha closed the gates. Then, after walking a few yards, she said, " Martha, do you believe the dead can speak to the living ? " "Ay, I do. If t' living will hear, t' dead will speak. There's good men — and John Wesley among 'em — who lived w' one foot i' this world, and one in t' other. I would think man or woman hed varry little o' t' next world about 'em, who hed nivver seen or heard any thing from it. Them that hev sat weeping on their bedside at midnight — them that hev prayed death away from t' cradle side — them that hev wrestled a' night long, as Jacob did, they know whether t' next world visits this world or not. Ilev you scon aught. Miss IIallam ? " " I have seen my father, Martha. Indeed I have." "I don't doubt i' not a minute. He'd hev a rea- son for coming." " He came to remind me of a duty and to strengthen me for it. Ah, Martha, Martha ! If this cup could pass from me ! if this cup could pass from me ! " " Honey, dear, what can Martha do for tliee ? Ivery Christian some time or other comes to Gethsemane. I hev found that out. Let this cup pass. Lord. Didn't I pray that prayer mysen, niglit and day ? " " Surely, Martha, about Ben — and God let it pass. But he docs not always let it jiass when we ask him." " Then he does what is happen better — if we hev t' heart to trust him — he sends an angel to strengthen » The Hallam Slcoessiun. 211 «8 to drink it. I Jiuv seen tliem as drank it wi' thanksi^•ivinf^" '' O Martiia ! I am very, very sorrowful about it." " And N-arry often, dearie, it is God's will for us to go forward-thou knows what I mean-to make a Calvary of our breaking hearts, and offer there t' sacrifice that is dearest and hardest. Can ta tell me what ta fears, dearie ? " ^ "Just what you say, Martlia, that I must pass from Gethsemane to Calvary, and sacrifice there what is my dearest, sweetest hope ; and I shall have to bear it alone." " Nay, thou wont. It isn't fair o' thee to say that ; for thou knows better. My word, Miss Hallam, tiiere's love above and below, and strength all round about. If thee and me didn't believe that, O what a thing it would be ! " " Martha, I may need help, the help of man and the help of woman. Can I trust to Ben and you?" " I can speak for both of us. We'll wear our last breath i' your service. Neither Een nor I are made o' stuif that '11 shrink in t' wetting. You can count on that. Miss Hallam." The next evening, just after dusk, Elizabeth was standing at the dining-room wnndow. The butler had just arranged the silver upon the sideboard, and was takmg some last orders from his mistress. He was an old man with many infirmities, both of body and temper, but he had served Hallam for fifty years and n } I h '4 212 The Hallam ^Succession. ■'1 ■ I was permittod many privileges. One of these was ])lain s[)ecel» ; and after a moment's consideration upon the directions given liim, he said : " There's summat troubhng them as are dead and gone, Miss llaUam. If I was thee, I'd hev Mr. An- tony come and do liis duty by t' land. They don't like a woman i' their shoes." " What are you talking about, Jasper ? " " I know right well what I'm talking about, Miss Ilailam. What doe& t' Bible say % T' old men shall see visions — " He had advanced toward the window to draw the blinds, but Elizabeth, with a face pale as ashes, turned quickly to him and said : " Leave the blinds alone, Jasper." She stood between him and the window, and he was amazed at the change in her face. " She's like 'em a'," he muttered, angrily, as he went to his own sitting-room. "You may put a bridle in \^ wind's mouth as easy as you'll guide a woman. If I hed been t' young squire, I'd hev brokken t' will a' to bits, that I would. ' Leave t' blinds alone, Jasper ! ' Highty-tighty, she is. But I've saved a bit o' brass, and I'll '^one stand it, not I ! " So little do we know of the motives of the soul at onr side ! Elizabeth was very far, indeed, from either pride or anger. But she had seen in the dim garden, peering out from the shrubbery, a white face that filled her with a sick fear. Then she had but one thought, to get Jasper out of the room, and was quite 4„i The Uallam Succession. 213 unconscious of having spoken with unnsmil unger or authority. When he had gone she softly turned the key in the door, put out the candles, and went to the window. In a few lainutes Antony stood facing her, and by a motion, asked to be admitted. " I don't want any one to know I have been here," he said, as he stood trembling before the tire. " It is raining, I am ^vet through, shivering, hungry. Eliz- abeth, why don't you sj^eak ? " " Why are you here— in this way ? " She could hardly get the words out. Her tongue was heavy, lier speech as difficult as if slie had beeu in some terror-haunted dream. '• Because I am going away— far away— forevei'. I wanted to see you first." " Antony ! My brother ! Antony, what have you done ! " ^ " Hush, hush. Get me some food and dry clothes." " Go to my room. You are safer there." He slipped up the familiar stair, and Elizabeth soon followed him. " Here is wine and sweet-bread. I cannot get into the pantry or call for food without arousing remark. Antony, what is the matter ? " "I am ruined. Eltham and those Darraghs to- gether have done it." " Thank God ! I feared something woi-se." " There is worse. I have forged two notes. To- gether they make nearly £11),()00. The first falls due l-\ II I! s I h [ill n i 214 The Hallam Succkssion. ' I ' I in three days. 1 have no liope of redeeming it. I am going to the other end of the world. I am glad to go, for I am sick of every thing here. I'll do well yet. You will help me, Elizabeth ? " She could not answer him. " For our father's sake, for our mother's sake, yea must help me away. It will be transportation for life. O, sister, give me another chance. I will put the wrong all right yet." By this time she had gathered her faculties together. " Yes, I'll help you, dear. Lie down and rest. I will go to Martha. I can trust the Cravens. Is it Liverpool you want to reach ? " " No, no ; any port but Liverpool." " Will Whitehaven do ? " " The best of all places." " I will return as quickly as possible." "But it is raining heavily, and the park is so gloomy. Let me go with you." " I must go alone." He looked at her with sorrow and tenderness and bitter shame. Her face showed white as marble against the dead black of her dress, but there was also in it a strength and purpose to which he fully trusted. " I must ring for my maid and dismiss her, and you had better go to your own old room, Antony ; " and as he softly trod the corridor, lined with the faces of his forefathers, Elizabeth followed him in thought, and sl\uddered at the mental picture she evoked. The IIallam Succession 215 80 . 5J J 3es It, Then she rang licr bell, gave some trivial order, and excused her maid for the night. A quarter of an hour afterward she was hastening through the park, scarcely heeding the soaking rain, or the chill, or darkness, in the pre-occupation of her thoughts. She had flung a thick shawl over her head and shoulders, a fashion so universal as to greatly lessen her chance of being observed, and when she came to the park gates she looked up and down for some circumstance to guide her further steps. She found it in the lighted windows of the Methodist chapel. There was evidently a service there, and Martha would be pres- ent. If she waited patiently she would pass the gates, and she could call iier. But it was a wretched hour before Martha came, and Elizabeth was wet and shivering and sick with many a terror. Fortunately Martha was alone, and the moment Elizabeth spoke she understood, without surprise or explanations, that there was trouble in which she could help. " Martha, where is Ben ? " " He fctopp'd to t' leaders' meeting. He'll be along in a little bit." " Can he bring a wool-comber's suit and apron, and be at the gates, here, with his tax-cart in a couple of hours ? " " Yes ; I kaow he can." " Martha, can you get me some bread and meat, without any one knowing ? " ^4 M\ li I V: ^ i II '[J ' ■M' J 210 Thk IL^LLAM Succession. " Ay, I can. Mary '11 be up stairs wi' t' baby, I'se warrant. I'll be back wi' it, i' iive minutes;" and she left Elizabeth walking restlessly just inside the gates. The five miinites looked an hour to her, but in reality ^lartha returned very speedily with a small basket of cold meat and bread. " My brother, Martha, my brother, will be here in two liours. See that Ben is ready. He must be iu AVhitehaven as soon as possible to-morrow. Don't forget the clothes." "I'll forget nothing that's needful. Ben '11 be waiting. God help you. Miss Ilallam ! " Elizabeth answered with a low cry, and Martha watched her a moment hastening through the rain and darkness, ere she turned back toward the chapel to wait for Ben. A new terror seized Elizabeth as she returned. What if Jasper had locked the doors ? How would it be possible for her to account for her strange ab- sence from the house at that hour? But Antony had also thought of this, and after the main doors had been closed he had softly nndone a side en- trance, and w^atched near it for his sister's return. His punishment begun when he saw her wretched condition ; but there was no time then for either apologies or reproaches. " Eat," she said, putting the basket before him ; " and Ben will be at the gates with liis tax-cart. He will take vou to Whitehaven." I ! The Hall am JSuccErisiuN. 217 " Can I trust Ben { " Shu looked at liini sadly. " Yon must liave been much wronged, Antony, to doubt the Cravens." " I have." " God ])ity and pardon yon." He ate in silence, glaneinir fnrtively at his sister, who sat white and motionless opposite him. There was no light but the lire-light ; and the atmosphere of the room had that singular sensitiveness that is ap- parent enough when the spiritual body is on the alert. It felt full of " presence ; " was tremulous, as if stirred by wings; and seemed to press heavily, and to make sighing a relief. After Antony had eaten he lay down upon a couch and fell into an uneasy sleep, and so continued, until Elizabeth touched him, and said, softly, '^ It is time, my dear. Ben will be waiting." Then he stood up'and looked at her. She took his hands, she threw her arms around his neck, slie sobbed great, heavy, quiet sobs against his breast. She felt that it was a last fare- well—that she would never see his face again. And Antony could not restrain himself. He kissed her with despairing grief. He made passionate prom- ises of atonement. He came back three times to kiss once more the white cold face so dear to him, and each time he kissed a prayer for his safety and pardon off her lips. At the last moment he said, " Your love is great, Elizabeth. My little boy! I have wronged him shamefully.'' J* ri sn fi I I I ' ;! ■ }i Hi 1 ' '^1 i ' il i i .! 218 The IIallam Succession. " lie eliall be mv child. He shall never know shame. I will take the most loving care of his future. You maj trust him to me, Antony." Then he went away. Elizabeth tried to see him from the window, but the night was dark, and he kept among the shrubbery. At such hours the soul ap- prehends and has presentiments and feelings which it obeys without analyzing them. She paced the long corridor, feeling no chill and no fear, and seeming to see clearly the pictured faces around her. She was praying ; and among them she did not feel as if she was praying aloud. She remembered in that hour many things that her father had said to her about Antony. She knew then the meaning of that strange cry on her mother's dying lips — "A far country! Bring my son home ! " For an hour or two it was only Antony's danger and shame, only Antony's crime, she could think of. But when the reaction came she perceived that she must work as well as pray. Two questions first sug- gested themselves for her solution. Should she go to Whaley for advice, or act entirely on her own responsibility ? Would she be able to influence Page and Thorley, the bankers who held her brother's forged notes, by a personal visit ? She dismissed all efforts at reasoning, she deter- mined to let herself be guided by those impressions which we call " instinct." She could not reason, but The IIallam Succession. 219 lUt she tried to feel. And she felt most dccidedl}' that she would have no counselor but her own heart. She would doubtless do what any lawyer would call " foolish things; " but that was a case where "fool- ishness" might be the highest wisdom. She said to herself, " My intellect is often at fault, but where Antony and IIallam are concerned I am sure that I can trust my heart." As to Page and Thorley, she knew that they had liad frequently business transactions with her father. Mr. Thorley had once been at the hall ; he would know thoroughly the value of the proposal she in- tended making them ; and, upon the whole, it ap- peared to be the wisest plan to see them personally. In fact, she did not feel as if she could endure the delay and the uncertainty of a correspondence on the subject. On the morning of the second day after Antony's flio-ht she was in London. In business an Eno-lishman throws over politeness. He says, " How do you do ? " very much as if he was saying, " Leave mo alone ; " and he is not inclined to answer questions, save, by "yes" or "no." Elizabeth perceived at oiico that tears or weakness would damage her cause, and that the only way to meet Antony's wrong was tu repair it, and to do this in the plainest and simplest manner possible. " I am Miss Hallam." "Take a seat, Miss Hallam.** , 4 ! ■ i 1 1 • ll ii I i'i . I;' ) >\ 220 TnE II ALL AM SlTCEfiPION. " Yoli hold two notes of my hrotlier r, one purport- ing to he drawn hy Lord Elthain for i:0,000; the other by Squire Francis Horton for ilOjfiOO." " Yes ; why ' purporting 'i ' " " They are forgeries." " My — ! Miss Ilallani, do you know what you are saying r' "I do. My brotlier has left EngUind. He is ruined." " I told you, Page ! " said Thorley, with ;?roposal ; why keep her in suspense? " " There is no need. It is not her fault in any way." But Elizabeth was obliixed to remain two davs in London before the necessary papers were drawn out and signed, and they were days of constant terror J % 222 The Hallam Succession. and anii^uisli. She went neither to Antony's lionse, nor to liis j)hice of business ; hut reniiiined in lier hotel, so anxious on this subjeet, that slie could not force lier mind to entertain any other. At length all was arranged, and it did comfort her slightly that both Page and Thorley were touched by her grief and uu' sellishness into a s])ontaneous expression of their Bympathy with her : " You have done a good thing, Miss Ilallam," said Mr. Page, " and Page and Thorley fully understand and appreciate your motives ; " and the kind faces .and firm hand-clasps of the two men brought such a look into Elizabeth's sorrowful eyes, that they both turned hurriedly away from her. During her jour- ney home ishe slept heavily most of the way ; but when she awoke among the familiar hills and dales, it was as if she had been roused to consciousness by a surgeon's knife. A quick pang of shame and terror and a keen disappointment turmKl her heart sick ; but with it came also a sense of i-enewed courage and strength, and a determination to face and conquer every trouble before her. .Tasper met lier, and he looked suspiciously at her. For his ]xirt, lie distrusted all women, and he could not understand why his mistress had found it neces- sary to go to London. But he was touched in his way by her white, weary face, and he busied himself in making the fire burn bright, and in setting out her dinner table with all the womanly delicacies he knew TlIK IlAI.LkM SlHJCKSSION. 22)5 ■ i Jill lior. ould ^ccs- his isclf her lew pile likcMl. If l']li/ul)et]i could only liavo fully trustiMl liiiii, Jasper would have heiMi true as steel to her, a very sure and certain friend ; hut lie rcHcnted trouhk; from vvhicli he was shut out, and he wa.s fihrewd enoui^h to feel tli;it it was present, thougli hidden from him. " lias any one heen here while I was ahsent, Jasper ? " " Ay, Squire Fairlei<»;h and Miss Fairlei r i!! I I i i' 228 The IIallam Succession. "Tliiuik goodness!" said Jasper, "I've saved a bit o' brass, and miss nuij be as higbty-tiglity as she likes. This is what comes o' lettiu' women out o' t' place God put 'em in." " Slie's gettin' that near and close," said cook, " I wouldn't stop wi' her for nowt. It's been, 'Ann, be careful here,' and, 'Ann, don't waste there,' till I'se fair sick o' it. She'll not get me to mak' mysen as mean as that. Such like goings on, I nivver ! " " And she's worst to please as iver was ! " said Sarah Lister, Miss Ilallam's maid. " I'm sure I don't know what's come over her lately. She used to give me many a dress and bit o' lace or ribbon. She gives nowt now. It isn't fair, you know ! " " She's savin' for that foreign chap, that's what it is," said Jasper. " I'll nivver believe but what t' land goes back to t' male heirs some way or t' other. It stands to reason that it should ; and she's gettin' a' she can, while she holds t' keys. She'll mak' a mess o' it, see if she doesn't ! " And with this feeling flavoring the household, Elizabeth found the last month of the year a dismal and resentful one. In pursuance of the plans she had laid down for herself, the strictest economy was imperative ; for what little she could now save from the plenty of the old housekeeping, might have to see her through many days. At Christmas she bid "good-bye" to every one of her old servants, and even this simple duty had its trial. She stood a hard The II all am Succession. 229 ^'a' less |iold, >inal she was irom |e to bid and liard ten niiiiutes witli the few sovereigns in her liand wliich would be requisite if she gave theiri their usual Christmas gratuity. Pride urged her to give it ; prudence told her, "■ You will need it." She was not fortjetful of the unkind thin(>;s that would be said of her, but she replaced the money in her desk with tliis reflection,"! have paid them fully for their service ; I must be just before I am generous." They left early in the day, and for a few hours Elizabeth was the only soul in the old haU. But at night-fall Ben Craven's tax-cart brought his mother, and a few of her personal belongings, and then the village gossips understood "what Miss Ilallam was going to do with hersen." Martha took entire charge of the hall, and of all its treasures; and the lonely mistress went to her room that night with the happy consciousness that all she had was in loving and pru- dent keeping. It was also a great comfort to feel that she was not under the constant prying of unsympathetic eyes. Elizabeth had suffered keenly from that bitterest of all oppressions, heart-constraint. She often wished to weep, but did not dare. The first servant that entered the room was her master. She owed him a ciilm expression of face and pleasant words, and if she failed to give them he rent her secret from her. O be certain that every sorrowful soul sighs for the night, as the watchman of Judaea did for the morn- mg. It longs for the shadows that conceal its tears ; i t 1 ij I I 'I ■ -I i. :|! I S , ^! Hi 230 The IIallam Successiox. it invokes the darkness which gave it back to it- self ! With a sense of infinite relief Elizabeth sat in the still house. It was pleasant to hear only Martha's feet going to and fro ; to feel that, at last, she was at liberty to speak t^r to be silent, to smile or to weup, to eat or to let food alone. When Martha brought in her bedroom candle, and said, "Good-night, Miss llallam ; you needn't hev a care about t' house, I'll see to ivery thing," Elizabeth knew all was right, and went with an easy mind to her own rooiii. Christmas-eve! She had looked forward all the year to it. Kichard was to have been at llallam for Christmas. She had thought of asking Antony and his wife and child, of tilling the old rooms with young, bright faces, and of heralding in her new life in the midst of Christmas joys. She had pleased herself with the hope of telling Antony all her plans about "the succession.'* She had dreamed many a bright dream of her bridal in the old church, and of the lovely home to which she was going soon after the New Year. It was hard to give all up ! Still harder to suffer, in addition, misconstruction and visi- ble dislike and contempt. " "Why had it been permitted ? " She fell asleep with the question in her heart, and was awakened by the singing of the waits. It was a chill, windy night, with a young moon plunging wildly in and out a sea of black driving clouds. Slie sat by the fire listening The IIallam Succession. 231 to the djinc. melody, and thinking of the Christmas- eve when Phyllis stood by her side, and the ^vorld seemed so full of happiness and hope. She had had a letter from Phyllis a few days before, a very lov- in- comforting, trustful letter, and she thought she would read it again. It had been laid within a book which Phyllis had given her, and she brou-ht it to the fireside. It was a volume of poetry, and Eliza- beth was not poetical. She could not remember imvmg read a page in this volume, but as she lifted the letter her eyes fell upon these words : "The priests must serve Eacli in his course, and we must stand in turn Awake with sorrow, in the temple dim To bless the Lord by liight." The words affected her strangely ; she turned the page backward, and read, "It is tlie nicjht, And xti tne temple of the Lord, not mado By mortal hands, the lights are burning low Before the altar. Clouds of darkness till The vastuess of the sacred aisles. ... A few short years ago And all the temple courts were thronged with those Who worshiped and gave thanks before they went To take their rest. Who shall bless His name at midnight? "Lol a band of pale Yet joyful priests do minister around TI.e altar, where the lights are burning low In the breathless night. Each grave brow wears the crown { J t i I i ( i. ■■ 1 . 1 ! 232 The II all am Succession. Of scirrow, iiml cncli heart is kept nwako By its own restless pain: for these are thoy To whom the nigiit-walch is app(jintcd. St-e I Tiioy hft their hands and l)loss God in tlie niM 'iin ii li i liad tried in imagination to face every annoyance in connection witli her peculiar position. But facing annoyances in reality is a different thing, and Elizabeth's sprang np from causes quite unfore- seen, and from people whom she had never remem- bered. She had a calm, proud, self-reliant nature, but such natures are specially wounded by small stings ; and Elizabeth brought home with her from her necessary daily investigations many a sore heart, and many a throbbing, nervous headache. All the spirit of her fathers was in lier. She met insult and wrong with all their keen sense of its intolerable nature, and the hand that grasped her riding whip could have used it to as good purpose as her father would have doric, only, that it was restrained by con- siderations which would not have bound him. In her hom'j she had, ho^'ever, a shelter of great peace. Iler neighboiV' and acquaintances dropped her without ceremoii V. The Whalevs had thought it neces- sary in their own defense to say some unkind things, and to suppose others still more unkind ; and it was more convenient for people to assume the Whaleys' position to be the right one, than to continue civilities to a woman who had violated the traditionary customs of her sex, and who was not in a position to return them. But in her home Martha's influence was in every room, and it always brought rest and calm. She knew instinctively when she was needed, and when solitude was needed; when Elizabeth would l>* The II all am Succession. 237 was eys' ities 01 ns turn was aim. and 'ould clioose to bear lier troubles in silence, and when she wanted ^^\e comfort of a sympathizing listener. Thus the first nine months of her ordeal passed. She heard during them several times from Phyllis, but never one line had come from Richard, or from Antony. Poor Antony ! He had dropped as abso- lutely out of her ken as a stone dropped in mid-ocean. The silence of both Richard and her brother hurt her deeply. She thought she could have trusted Richard if their positions had been reversed. She was sure she would have helped and strengthened liim by con- stant hopeful letters. For a month or two she wiitehed anxiously for a word ; then, with a keen pang, gave up the Jiope entirely. Through Phyllis she learned that he was still in New Orleans, and that he had gone into partnership with a firm who did a large Mexican trade. " He is making money fast," said Phyllis, " but he cares little for it." It is one ffood thiuij in a recrular life that liabit rec- onciles us to what was at first very distasteful. As the months went on Elizabeth's businoss difficulties lessened. The tenants got accustomed to her, and realized that she was neither going to impose upon them, nor yet suffer herself to be imposed upon. The women found her 'Sympathizing and helpful in their peculiar troubles, and there began to be days wlien she felt some of the pleasures of authority, and of the ])ower to confer favors. So the summer and autiinm passed, and she began to look toward the end of her . ! [ : I maa i ■' ' i 1 , ■! = li I til 238 The Hall am Succession. first year's management. So far its record had been favorable ; Page and Thorley had had no reason to complain of the throe installments sent them. She was sitting making np her accounts one even- ing at the end of October. It was quite dark, and very cold, and Martha had just built up a fire, and was settiniic a little table on the hearth-ruii; for Miss Ilallam's tea. Suddenly the bell of the great gates rang a ])QiA which reverberated througli the silent house. There was no time for comment. The peal had been an urgent one, and it was repeated as Martha, followed by El'zabeth, hastened to the gates. A car- riage was standing there, and a man beside it, who was evidently in anxiety or fright. " Come away wi' you ! Don't let folks die waiting for you. Here's a lady be varry near it, I do be thinking." The next moment Martha was helping him to carry into the house a slight, unconscious form. As they did so, Elizabeth heard a shrill cry, and saw a little face peering out of the open door of the carriage. She hastened to it, and a child put out his arms and said, " Is you my Aunt 'Izzy ? " " Then Elizabeth knew who it was. " O my dar- ling!" she cried, and clasped the little fellow to her breast, and carried him into the house with his arms around her neck and his cheeks aij-ainst hers. Evelyn lay, a shadow of her former self, upon a sofa ; but in a short time she recovered her conscious- m t*:-^ The Hallam Succession. 239 nes3 and, opening lior laro-e, sad eyes, let tlictn rest upon Elizabeth, wlio still held the boj to her breast. " I am come to yon, Elizabeth. I am come here to die. Do not send me away. It will not be lono-." '' Long or short, Evelyn, this is yonr home. You are very, very welcome to it. I am glad to have you near me." There was no more said at that time, but little by little the poor lady's sorrowfnl tale was told. After Antony's failure she had returned to her father's house. " Bnt I soon fonnd myself in every one's way," she said, mournfnlly. " 1 had not done well for the family— they were disappointed. I was inter- fering with my younger sisters— I had no money— I was an eye-sore, a disgrace. And little Harry was a tronble. The younger ciiildren mocked and teazed him. The day before T left a servant struck him, and my mother defended the servant. Then I thought of you. I thought you loved the child, and would not like him to be ill-used when I can no longer love him." ^ " I do love him, Evelyn ; and no one shall ill-use him while I live." "Thank God! Now the bitterness of death is passed. There is nothing else to leave." The boy was a lovely boy, inheriting his father's physique with much of his mother's sensitive refined nature. He was a great joy in the silent, old house. lie canie, too, just at the time when Elizabeth, hav- 16 * t I \ if if \ .1? 240 The IIallam Succession. fi ! 1 ; ing conquered tlie first g-reac pangs of her sorrow, was needing some fresli interest in life. She adopted hiin with all her heart. He was her lost brother's only child, he was the prospective heir of Ilallaui. In him were centered all the interests of the struggle she was making. She loved him fondly, with a wise and provident affection. It scarcely seemed to pain Evelyn that he clung to Elizabeth more than to herself. " He cannot reason yet," she said, "and instinct leads him to you. He feels that you are strong to love and protect him. I am too weak to do any thing but die. She was, in- deed, unable to bear his presence long at a time ; and his short visits to the silent., darkened chamber were full of awe and mystery to the sensitive child. In a month it became evident that the end was very near. She suffered much, and Elizabeth left her as little as possible. She was quite dependent upon her love, for Elizabeth had notified the dvino; lady's family of her dangerous condition, and no action of any kind was taken upon the information. One night Evelyn seemed a little easier, and Harry stayed longer with her. I^Fartlia came three times for the child ere she would consent to let him go. Then she took the pretty face in her hands, gave it one long gaze and kiss, and shut her eyes with a painful, pitiful gasp. Elizabeth hastened to her side ; but she knew what was passing in the mother's heart, and presumed not to intermeddle in her sorrov^. But ' were In a ' near. tie as love, ily of kind JHtirry les for Then it one linfiil, Int she [t, and But The II all am Succession. 241 half an hour afterward, when she saw heavy tears steal slowly from under the closed eyelids, she said, as she wiped them gently away, " Dear Evelyn, why do you weep ? " " For my poor little wasted life, love ; what a mis- take it has been. I do not remember a single happi- ness in it." " Your childhood, Evelyn ? " " I think it was saddest of all. Children miss hap- piness most. My childhood was all books and lessons and a gloomy nursery, and servants who scolded us when we were well, and neglected us when we were sick. I remember when I had scarlet fever, they used to put a little water and jelly on a chair beside me at night, but I was too weak to reach theuL Wlmt long hours of suffering ! What terrors I en- dured from many causes ! " " Forget that now, dear." " I cannot. It had its influence on all the rest. Then when I grew to childhood I heard but one thing: 'You must marry well.' I was ordered to make myself agreeable, to consider the good of the family, to remember my little sisters, my brothers who had no money and very few brains. It was to be my duty to sacrifice myself for them. Antony saw me; he thought I should be of service to him. My father thought Antony's business would provide for the younger boys. I was told to accept him, and I did. That is all about my life, Elizabeth. I had h '!! \ :|; '\ 242 The Hallam Succession. I \ I 1 :,| ! ,1 my dream of love, and of being loved like all other girls, but — " " But Antony was kind to you ? " " Yes ; lie was never unkind. He troubled me very little. But I was very lonely. Poor Antony ! I can remember and understand now ; he also had many sorrows. It was in those days I first began to pray, Elizabeth. I found that God never got tired of hearing me complain ; mother scarcely listened — she had so much to interest her — but God always listened." " Poor Evelyn ! " " * So I am watching quietly PiVery day; Whenever the sun shines briglitly, I rise, and say, * Surely it is the shining of His face I ' I think he will come to-night, Elizabeth." " You have no fear now '( " " It has gone. Last night I dreamed of passing through a dreary river, and as I stumbled, blind and weak, in the water, Christ Jesus stretched out his hand — a gentle, pierced hand, and immediately I was on the shore, and there was a great light whose glory awoke me. When the river is to cross, ' the hand ' will be there." She spoke little afterward. About midnight there was a short struggle, and then a sudden solemn peace. She had touched the hand pierced for her salvation, ' The Hallam Succession. 2^3 and tlie weary was at rest. Elizabetli Iiad promised her that she should be laid in the church-yard at Hallam. There was no opposition made to this dis- position of the remains, and the funeral was very quietly performed. Unfortunately, during all these ciianges the rector had been away. About a week before Antony's flight he was compelled to go to the south of France. His healtli had failed in an alarming manne.'-, and his recovery had been slow and uncertain. Many a time, in her various trials, Elizabeth had longed for his support. She had even thought that it might b" possible to tell liim the full measure of h r s^orrow. At Evelyn's funeral she missed him very i iuch. She remembered how tender and full of grace all his ministrations had been at her father's death. Hut the poor little lady's obsequies were as lonely and sad as her life. She was only the wife of an absconding debtor. She had died under the roof of a woman who had seriously olfended society by not taking it into her confidence. It was a cold, rainy day; there was nothing to be gained in any respect by a wretched stand in the wet sodden grave-yard. Even the curate in charge hurried over the service. The ceremony was so pitiably deso- late that Elizabeth wept at its remembrance for many a year ; and between her and Martha it was always a subject of sorrowful congratulation, that lit- tle Harry had been too ill with ■. sore throat to 1 I 5 . ' i t ... I 2U The Hallam Succession. !i i; p go to the funeral ; and had, therefore, not witnessed it. The wronged have always a hoj)e that as time passes it will put the wrong right. But it was get- ting toward the close of the third year, and Eliza- beth's trial was no lighter. There had been varia- tions in it. Sometime during the first year an opin- ion had gained ground, that she was saving in order to pay her brother's debts. As there were many in the neighborhood interested in such a project, this report met witli great favor ; and while the hope sur- vived Elizabeth was graciously helped in her task of self-denial by a lifted hat, or a civil good-morning. But when two years had passed, and no meeting of the creditors had been called, hope in this direction turned to unreasonable ani^er. " She must hev saved nigh unto £10,000. Why, then, doesn't she do t' ri i 41 J-: •• f ' !; ])(j(>r ? AVell, there was a eliaiige lliere tliat pained Iier eqiuilly. If slie visited tlieir cottages, and was l>leasaiit and generous, they thought little of tlie grace. " There must be summat wrong wi' her, or all t' gentlefolks wouldn't treat her like t' dirt under tlieir feet," said one old crone, after pocketing a shilling with a courtsey. "Ay, and she wouldn't come sniilin' and talkiu' here, if sheVl any body else to speak to. Tm a ])t)or wonuin, Ijetty Tibbs, but I'm decent, and I'm none set up wi' Miss' fair words — not I, indeed ! " said an- other; and though people may not actually hear the syllables which moutli such sentiments, it seems really as if a bird of the air, or something still more subtle, did carry the nuitter, for the slandered person instinctively knows the slanderer. And no word of regret or of love came from An- tony to lighten the burden she was carrying. If she had only known that he was doing well, was en- deavoring to redeem tlie past, it would have been some consolation. Phyllis, also, wrote more seldom. She had now two children and a large number of servants to care for, and her time was HUed with many sweet and engrossing interests. Besides, though she fully believed in Elizabeth, she did also feel for her brother. She thought liichard, at any rate, ought to have been tieated with full confidence, and half- feared that pride of her family and position was at The Hallam Succession. 247 An- she en- )een dom. of tlie bottom of Elizabeth's severance of tlie enungo- nieiit. Iliiiiian nature is full of coniplexitie.^, and no Olio })robablj ever acts from one pure and simple motive, iiowever nmch tliey may believe tli(>y do. ]\[artba Craven, however, was always true and c:en- tle, and if any thin<^ more respectful than in Eliza-, beth's bri^^'htest days; and for this blessiiiir gjie was very grateful. And the boy grew ra])idly, and was very handsome and interesting; and no malignity could darken the sweet, handsome rooms or the shady flower-garden. Iiowever unpleasant her day among the tenants mi<;ht have l)eon, she could close her doors, and shut out the world, and feel sure of love and comfort witliin her own gates. Things "were in this condition in tlie spring of 1813. But more than £1(),0()0 had been paid, and Elizabeth looked with clear eves toward tlie end of I. her task. Socially, she was as far aloof as ever ; per- haps more so, for during the winter she had found her courage often fall her reijardiny: the church services. The walk M'as lont!; on wet oi* cold davs ; the boy was subject to croupy sore throat; and her heart sank at the ])rospect of the social ordeal through which slie must pass. It may be doubted whether people are really ever made better by pelty slights and undeserved scorn. Elizabeth had tried the dis- cipline for three years, and every Sabbath evening her face bm'ned with the same angei-, and her lieai't was full of the same resentment. So, it had often 'If 218 The HalliUi Successiox. ', 1 I i ,1 ,1 ronie to pass durinij; tlie winter tliiit she liad staid at lioinc upon inclement days, and read the service to Iier ncpliew and lierself, and talked \vith the child aljont tlie hoys of the Old and New Teistaincnts. And it was noticeable, as indicatin new and loved my father. O, sir, could you not have trusted me ? If I had been your friend's son, instead of his daughter, you would have done so ! You would have said to all evil speakers, 'Mr. Ilal- 1am has doubtless just reasons for the economy he is l^ractlcing.' But because I was a woman, I was sus- pected ; and every thing I could not explain was necessarily wicked. O, how your doubt has wounded me ! What wrong it has done me ! How sorry you would be if you knew the injustice you have done •■ 1 1 how The IIallam Succession. 251 the child of your old friend— the woman jou bap- tized and coniinned, and never knew ill of ! " Standing still with her hand upon his arm she poured out her com])laints with passionate earnest- ness; her face flushed and lifted, her eyes misty w'th unshed tears, her tall erect form quivering with emo- tion. And as the rector looked and listened a swift change came over his face, lie laid his hand upon hers. When she ceased, he answered, promptly: " Miss IIallam, from this moment I believe in you with all my heart. I believe in the wisdom and purity of all you have done. Whatever you may do in the future I shall trust in you. Late as it is, take my sincere, my warm sympathy. If you choose to make me the sharer of your cares and sorrows, you will find me a true friend ; if you think it right and best still to preserve silence, I am equally satisfied of your integrity." Then he put her arm within his, and talked to hor so wisely and gently that Elizabeth found herself weeping soft, gracious, healing tears. She brought him once more into the squire's familiar sitting-room. Slie spread for him every delicacy she knew he liked. She took him all over the house and grounds, and made him see that every thing was kept in its old order. lie asked no (questions, and she volunteered no information. IJut he did not expect it at that time. It would not have been like Elizabeth IIallam III il i 252 The Hallam Succession. S 5 h 3 n f I to spill over either her joys or her sorrows at the first offer of sympatliy. Her nature was too self-contained for snch effusiveness. But none the less the rector felt that the cloud had vanished. And he wondered that he had ever thought her capable of folly or wrong — that he had ever doubted her. After this he was every-where her chani|)ion. He was seen going to the hall with his old regularity. He took a great liking for the child, and had him fre»|uently at the rectory. Very soon people began to say that " Miss Hallam must hev done about t' right thing, or t' rector wouldn't iver uphold her;" and no one doubted but that all had been fully explained to him. Yet it was not until the close of the year that the subject was again named between them. The day before Christmas, a cold, snowy day, he was amazed to see Elizabeth coming through the rectory garden, fighting her way, with bent head, against the wind and snow. At first he feared Harry was ill, and he went to open the door himself in his anxiety ; but one glance into her bright face dispelled his fear. " Why, Elizabeth, whatever has brought you through such a storm as this ? " " Something pleasant. I meant to have come yes- terday, but did not get what I wanted to bring to you until this morning. My dear, dear, old friend ! Rejoice with me ! I am a free woman again. I have paid a great debt and a just debt ; one that, unpaid. fully The Hall am Succession. 253 would have stained forever the name we both love and honor. O thank God with me ! tlie Lord God of my fathers, who has strengthened my heart and my hands for the battle ! " And though she said not another word, he under- stood, and he touched her brow reverently, and knelt down with her, and the thin, tremulous, aged voice, and the young, joyful one, recited together the glad henedictus : "Blessed be the Lord God of Israel ; for he hath visited and re- deemed liis people, "And hath raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David ; ^ " As he spa!.3 by the mouth of his holy prophets, which have been since the world began : "That we should be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us ; "To perform the mercy promised to our fathers, and to remem- ber his holy covenant ; " The oath which he sware to our father Abraham, " That he would grant unto us, that we, being delivered out of the han(i of our enemies, might serve him without fear, "In holiness muI righteousness before him, all the davs of our life. "And thou, child, Shalt be called the prophet of the Hi-hest • for thou Shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways; " To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of their sins, "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the Diivsprin- from on high hath visited us, ' " " To give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace." And Elizabeth rose up with a face radiant and peaceful ; she laid upon the table £100, and said, " It ^4 \ n ■^T" i 254 The Hallam Succession. is for the poor. It is mj thank-offering. I sold the bracelet my brother gave me at his marriage for it. I give it gladly with my whole heart. I have much to do yet, but in the rest of my work I can ask yon for advice and sympathy. It will be a great help and comfort. V ill you come to the hall after Christ- mas and speak with me, or shall I come here and see you ? " " I will come to the hall ; for I have a hook for Ilarrv, and I wish to ffive it to him myself." The result of this interview was that the rector called upon the firm of Whaley Brotlicrs, and that the elder Whaley called upon Elizabeth. He at- tempted some apology at first, but she graciously put it aside : " There has been a mistake, Mr. AYhaley. Let it pass. I wish you to communicate M'itli all the creditors of the late firm of Antony Hallam. Every shilling is to be paid and the income of the estate will be devoted to it, with the exception of the home farm, the rental of which I will reserve for my own necessities, and for keeping Hallam in order." And to Martha Elizabeth said : " We are going to live a little more like the hall now, Martha. You sliall have two girls to help yju, and Peter Crag shall bring a pony for Harry, and we'll be as happy as never was again ! "We have had a bit of dark, hard road to go over, but the end of it has come. Tliank God ! " "It's varry few as find any road through life an : The Hallam Succession. 255 easy one ; t' road to heaven is by Weeping Cross Miss Hallam." " I don't know why that should be, Martha. If any have reason to sing, as they go through life, they should be the children of the King." " It's t' sons o' t' King that liev t' battles to fight and t' prayers to offer, and t' sacrifices to mak' for a' t' rest o' t' world, I think. What made John Wes- ley, and the men like him, be up early and late, be stoned by mobs, and perish'd wi' cold and hunger ? Not as they, needed to do it for their own profit, but just because they were the sons o' t' King, they couldn't help it. Christians mustn't complain of any kind o' a road that tak's 'em home." "But sometimes, Martha, it seems as if the other road was so smooth and pleasant." " Two roads are a bit different— t' road to Babylon and t' road to Jerusalem aren't t' same. You may go dancin' along t' first ; the last is often varry narrow and steep." " But one can't help wondering why." " If it wasn't narrow, and varry narrow, too. Miss Hallam, fenced in, and watchmen set all along it, we'd be strayin' far and near, and ivery one o' us going our own way. There isn't a church I knows of—not even t' people called Methodists— as mak's it narrow enough to prevent lost sheep. But it isn't all t' Hill o' Difticulty, Miss Hallam. It isn't fair to say that. There's many an arbor on t' hill-side, A 9 H I ' .4 i 256 The Hallam Succession. ,>V '. I and many a House Beautiful, and whiles we may bide a bit wi' t' shepherds on t' Delectable Mount- ains. And no soul need walk alone on it. That's t' glory and t' comfort ! And many a time we're strengthened, and many a time we're carried a bit by unseen hands." " Well, Martha, those are pleasant thoughts to sleep on, and to-morrow — to-morrow will be another day." " And a good one, Miss Hallam ; anyhow, them as bodes good are t' likeliest to get it. I do think that." So Elizabeth went to sleep full of pleasant hopes and aims. It had always been her intention to pay every penny that Antony Hallam owed ; and she felt a strange sense of delight and freedom in the knowl- edge that the duty had begun. Fortunately, she had in this sense of performed duty all the reward she asked or expected, for if it had not satisfied her, she would have surely been grieved and disappointed with the way the information was generally received. No one is ever surprised at a bad action, but a good one makes human nature at once look for a bad mo~ tive for it. "She's found out that it wont pay her to hold on to other folks' money. AVliy-a ! nobody notices her, and nivver a sweetheart comes her way." " I thought we'd bring her to terms, if we nobbut made it hot enough for her. Bless you, Josiah! women folks can't live without their cronying and companying." '3u I HE Hallam Succession. 2.->7 "It's nobbut right she should pay ivery penny, and I tell'd l>er so last time I met J.er on ilaUam Uoinmon." "Didta? Why, thou hed gumption! Whativer did she say to thee ? " "She reddened up like t' old squire used to, and her eyes snapped like two pistols; and says she, Mannaduke Ilalcroft, you'll get every farthing o' your money when I get ready to pay it.' " "Thank you, miss," says I, "all the same, I'll bo bold to n>ention that I've waited going on five years lor it." '' "'And you may wait iive years longer, for there «re others besides yon,' says she, as pcacocky as anv Inng 'but you'll get it;' and wi' that, she laid her whip across her mare i„ a way as made me feel .t were across my face, and went away so quick I couldn't get another word in. Eut women will hev t last word, if tliey die for 't." " If she'll pay t' brass, she can hev as many wor.ls as she wants; I'm none flayed for any wou.an's tongue— not I, indeed." And these sentiments, expressed in fo,-ms rnr,ro or less polite, were the prevailing ones regarding Mi.s. I a ams tardy aeknowhdgment of the debt of Ilallam to the neighbornood. Many were the dis- cussions in fashionable drawing-rooms as to the ,.ro. priety of rewarding the justice of Elizabeth's action by bows, or smiles, or calls. But privately few peo- ;,' f. ■ ■'' s i5 «. J (, m 258 Thk IIallam Succession. ' , /!. .'.' 1 'i i t| I plc were really inclined, as yet, to renew civilities with her. They argued, in their own hearts, tliat during the many years of retrenchment she could not afford to return hospitalities on a scale of equiva- lent splendor; and, in fact, poverty is offensive to wealth, and they had already treated Miss Ilallani badly, and, therefore, disliked her. It was an irrita- tion to have the disagreeable subject forced upon their attention at all. If she had assumed her broth- er's debts at the time of his failure, they were quite sure they would have honored her, however poor she had left herself. But humanity has its statutes of limitation even for good deeds ; every one decided that Elizal)cth had become honorable and honest too late. And for once the men were as hard as their wives. They had resented the fact of a woman being set among the ranks of great English squires; but having been put there, they expected from her virtues of far more illustrious character than they would have demanded from a man. '' For whativer can a wom- an need wi' so much brass ? " asked Squire Ilorton, indignantly. "She doesn't himt, and she can't run for t' county, and what better could she hev done than clear an old Yorkshire name o' its dirty trade stain. I'll lay a five-pound note as Squire Henry left her all for t' varry purpose. lie nivver thought much o' his son Antony's fine schemes." " There's them as thinks he left her Hallam to prevent Antony wearing it on his creditors." RL M tra(l< THK JJaLLAM SUCCKSSION. 259 "There's tl.em tliet thinks uvil o' (iucl Ahiiiirhfy hiiusen, Tlionias Uaxter. lleniy ILilhim wisagoii- tleiiian to t' bone. Uu'd huv paid iveiy sliillin^r aforo tljis if lieM been alive. Vorksliire squires like their own, but they don't want what belongs to other folk ; not they. Squire llallani was one o' t' best of us. He was that." And though Elizabeth had expected nothing better irom her neighbors, their continued coldness liurt her. Who of us is there that has not experienced that painful sui-prise that the repulsion of others awakens in our hearts ? VV^e feel kindly to them, but they draw back their hand from us ; an antipathy es- tranges them, they pass us by. What avail is it to tell them that /Appearances deceive, that calumny has done us wrong ? What good is it to defend ourself, when no one cares to listen ? when we are con- denmed before we have spoken ? Nothing is m cruel as prejudice ; she is blind and deaf ; she" shuts her eyes purposely, that she may stab boldly ; for she knows, if she were to look honestly at her victim, she could not do it. But O, it is from these desolate places that heart- cry comes which 1)rings God out of his sanctuary, wdiich calls Jesus to our side to walk there with us. It is in the deserts we have met angels. A great trial is almost a necessity for a true Christian life; for faith needs a soil that has been deeply plowed. The seed cast upon the surface rarely finds the circura- tl l I ^ I I I I l-tii ri ! r I,: 2G0 TlIK 11aij-am Slccessiux. Btaiices that aro surticiuiit fur its development. And blessed also are those souls to whom the "lon'^- watches." ol' sorrow are given! It is a great soul that is capable of long-c(jntimied sulfering, and that can bring to it day after day a lieart at once sub- missive and energetic and all \ ibrating with hope. Yet it nuiy be fairly said that Elizabcili Ilallam was now upon this plane. Her road was still rough, but she was traveling in the daylight, strong and cheerful, and very happy in the added pleasure of her life. Iler five years of enforced poverty had taught lier simple habits. She felt rich with the £800 yearly rental of the home farm. And it was such a delight to have Harry riiK by her side ; she was so proud of the fair, bi'ight boy. She loved him so dearly. He had just begun to study two hours every day with the curate, and to the two women at the hall it was a great event every morning to watch him away to the village on his pony, with his books in a leather strap hung at his saddle-bow. They followed him with their eyes until a turn in the road hid the white nag and the little figure in a blue velvet suit upon it from them. For it was Elizabeth's pride to dress the child daintily and richlv as the "young scpiire of Ilallam " ought to dress. She cut up gladly her own velvets for that purpose, and Martha considered the clear-str rching of his lace collars and ruffles one of her m ;>st important duties. One morning, at the close of January, Elizabeth had '-U rv Teik IImj.am Succkssion. 2«;i IT had to ij^o to the vilhigu, and ishe told Harry wlien liis lessons were linished to wait at tiu) curate's until slic called for liini. It was an ex(|uisite day ; cold, but clear and sunny, and there was a particular joy in rapid riding on such a morning. They to(dv a circu- itous route home, a road which led them through lonely country lanes and across some fields. The robins were siniiinLj; a little, and the wrens twitterin;' about the hawthorn berries on the bare hedjfes. Elizabeth and Harry rode rai)idly, their horses' Icet and their nieny laughter nudging a cheery racket in the lanes. They reached the hall gates in a glow of 8pir'*-s. ]\[artha was standing there, her round rosy face all smiles. She said little to Elizabeth, but she whispered something to Harry, and took him away with her. " Martha ! Martha ! " cried Elizabeth, " yon will spoil the boy, and make him sick. What dainty have you ready for him ? Cannot I share it i I am hungry enough, I can tell vou ! " Martha laughed and >liook her head, and Elizabeth, after a word to the groom, went into the parlor. The angels that hn-ed her must have followed her there. They would desire to see her joy. For the»*e, with glowing, tender face, stood Richard. Siie asked no questions. She spoke no word at all. She went straight to the arms outstretched to clasp her. She felt his tears mingling with Ik r own. She heard her name break softly in two the kisses that said what 1 h )\ \ )/. I ' ft ■ n 11 d llil 2I)(m1 liis eyes; uiid, turning' the 8iil)jc'ct, Kiiid, '^ I calli'd at tlio I'cctor's as I ciiino liure. Ho insists upon my staying,' with liim, Klizabctli. IIo says tlie liall is not prep.ired for visitors." "1 tliink he is riu-ht, Richard." " 1 l)ron<^-lit him a likeness of Phyllis and her hns- band. I have a similar iiil't for you." " 2s'o one will prize them more. When did you see Phyllis^" " A month a liave hoped jiiid songlit ami sli'ivoii and lost our aim, tl.rii liic initli frmits \is, licaniiiiL;' out of llio darkucHS." '■ Sjvakiiii;' of lliiims rciuctnhorod, and so sit Sjiooi'ldi'ss wliiK' liiii'^s foru()U(.'ii cal! to us." " We wiio say as wi> ^o, 'Straii;:;c' to think by the way, WhaU'vor thcro is to know, Tiiat wo shall know one day.' " ^' I AVOIILI) tell lier everv tliiiiir." 1 It was the roctor wlio spoke. He ami Rieliard were sittiiio; before the study tire; they had been talkiiii»; loiiij^ and seriously, and the rector's eyes ■were dim atid troubled. " Yes, I M'ould tell her every thiuij;," Then he put his pipe down, and be- gan to walk about the floor, niiirinurini!; at intervals, '^ Poor fellow ! ])oor fellow ! God is merciful." In accord with this advice Ilichard went to see Elizabeth. It was a painful story he had to tell, and lie was half inclined to hide all but the unavoidable in his own heart ; but he could not doubt the wisdom which counseled him '' to tell all, a'ul tell it as soon as possible."" The op})ortunity occurred immediately. He found Elizabeth mendin":, with skillful fingers, Bome tine 0"j lace, which she was going to make into ruliles for Harry's neck and wrists. It was a stormy Tiiic IIallam Succkrsion. 2<)7 inominf!^, and tlio boy Iiud not been pcnoittod to go to the villniro, hut ho sat hcHi'do hv.r, vvwUnir aloud th;it (h'hi^'ht of Imyhood, " Uohiiison ('rusoe." Kliza- hotii liad uovor reiru)ved her iriourtiiM«r, l)ut licr lair hair and white liiuiu collar and culls niad<; an excjui- sit(^ contrast to tlio soft soinhcr I'olds of her dress- while Harry was just a hit of brilliant color, from the tawny «rol(l of his lon^j curls to the rich lio much miswHl. They both followed liim with admirinir eyes as he left the room; and when he stood a moment in the open door and touched liis bi-owr vvitli liis liand, as a l)arting' courtesy, neither could help an expression of satisfaction. '^ What a handsome lad ! '' said Richard. "lie is. If he live to take his fatlutS\ or my place here, ho will be a noble S(piire of llallam." " Then he is to ho, your successor'^ " " Failin_i]j Antony." " Then, Elizabeth dtar, he is Sfpiire of Ilalhmi already, for Antony is dead." " Dead ! Without a word ! Without sign of any kind — O, Eiehard, is it re.'dly — death?" I ': U! i( liii 268 The Hallam Succession. Hichard bowed his head, and Elizabetli sat gazing out of the window with vacant introspective vis- ion, trying to call up from the past tlie dear form that would come no more. She put down her sew- ing, and Richard drew closer to her side, and com- forted her with assurances that he believed, "all was well with the dead." " I was with him during the last weeks of his sad life," he said ; " I did all that love could suggest to soothe his sufferings, lie sleeps well ; believe me." " I never heard from him after our sorrowful fare- well. I looked and hoped for a little until my heart failed me; and I thought he perished at sea." " "No ; God''s mercy spared him until he had proved the vanity of all earthly ambition, and then he gave him rest. When he awoke, I have no doubt that ' he was satisfied.' " " "Where did he die ? Tell me all, Richard, for there may be words and events that seem trivial to you that will be full of meaning to mo." " Last Mnrch I went to Mexico on business of im- portance, and passing one morning through llie Grand Plaza, I thouglit a figure slowly sauntering before me was a familiar one. It went into a small oflice for the exchange of foreign money, and, as I wanted some exchange, I followed. To my surprise the man seemed to be the proprietor; he went behind the counter into a room, but on my touching a bell re- appeared. It was Antony. The moment o\ir ever i The IIallam Succession. 209 I, for 'ial to hf im- Rraiid )efore offioe [anted man Id the i\\ ve- met, we recognized each otlier^ and after a sliglit hesitation, I am sure that lie was tlumkfnl and de- liglited to see me. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked fifty years of acre, and had lost all his color, and was extremely emaciated. We were soon in- terrupted, and he promised to come to my hotel and dine with me at six o'clock. " I noticed at dinner that he ate very little, and that lie had a distressing and nearly constant congh, and afterward, as we sat on the piazza, I said, 'Let ns go inside, Antony ; there is a cold wind, and you have a very bad congh.' " ' 0, it is nothing,' he answered fretfully. ' The only wonder is that I am aliye, after all I have been made to suffer. Stronger men than I ever was fell and died at my side. Yon are too polite, Richard, to ask me where I have been ; but if you wish to hear, I should like to tell you.' "I answered, 'You are my friend and my 1)rother, Antony ; and whatever touches you for good or for evil touches me also. T should like to hesir all you wish to tell me.' '' ' It is all evil, Kichard. You would hear from Elizabeth that I was obliged to leave England T '' ' Yes, she told me.' " ' How long have you been married ? ' lie asked me, sharply ; and when I said, ' We are not married ; Eliza- beth wrote and said she had a duty to perform which might bind her for many years to it, and it 270 The IIallam Succession. g! 1 1 alone,' your brother seemed to be greati^ troubled ; and asked, angrily, ' And you took lier at her word, and left her in her sorrow alone ? Ricliard, I did not think you would have been so cruel ! ' And, my darling, it was the first time I had thought of our reparation in that light. I attempted no excuses to Antony, and, after a moment's reflection, he went on : " ' I left Whitehaven in a ship bound for Havana, and I remained in that city until the spring of 1841. But I never liked the place, and I removed to New Orleans at that time. I had some idea of seeing you, and opening my whole heart to you ; but I lingered day after day unable to make up my mind. At the hotel were I stayed there were a number of Texans coming and going, and I was delighted with their bold, frank ways, and with the air of conquest and freedom and adventure that clung to them. One day I passed you upon Canal Street. You looked so mis- ei-able, and were speaking to the man with whom you were in conversation so sternly, that I could not make up my mind to address you. I walked a block and returned. You were just saying, " If I did right, I would send you to the Penitentiary, sir ; " and I had a sudden fear of you, and, returning to the hotel, I packed my valise and took the next steamer for Galveston.' " I answered, ' I remember the morning, Antony ; the man had stolen from me a large sum of money. I was angry with him, and I had a right to be angry.' piV !■! ibled ; word, I did id, my Df our uses to nt on : Havana, ^ 1841. New ig you, ngered At the TexaiiB li their ast and neday so mis- whom uld not block right, and T hotel, aer for ntony ; money, angry.' rr The IIallam Succession. 271 " Antony frowned, and for some minutes did not re- sume his story. He looked so faint, also, that I pushed a little wine and water toward him, and he wet his lips, and went on: "' Yes, you liad a perfect right ; but your manner checked me. I did nut know eitlier how matters stood between you and my sister ; so, instead of speaking to you, I went to Texas. I found Houston — I mean the little town of that name — in a state of the greatest excitement. The tradesmen were work- ing night and day, shoeing horses, or mending rifles and pistols ; and the saddlers' shops were besieged for leathern pouches and saddlery of all kinds. The streets were like a fair. Of course. I caught the en- thusiasm. It was the Santa Fe expedition, and I threw myself into it heart and soul. I was going as a trader, and I hastened forward, with others similarly disposed, to Austin, loaded two wagons with merchan- dise of every description, and left with the expedi- tion in June. " ' Yon know what a disastrons failure it was. "We fell into the hands of the Mexicans by the blackest villainy ; through the treachery of a companion in whom we all put perfect trust, and who h;id pledged ns his IMi.sonic faith that if we gave up our arms we should be allowed eight days to trade, and then have them returned, with permission to go back to Austin in peace. But once disarmed, onr wagons and goods were seized, we were stripped of every thing, tied six 18 I I liVfv !f I: J lilt 1^ ! iiHi I : H 1^ ■h L*r ' r p - :} - H , • ■' 272 The IIallam Succession. or ei^lit in a lariat, and sent, with a strong military uscort to Mexico. " ' Try to imagine, llicliard, what we felt in prospect of this walk of two thousand miles, through deserts, and over mountains, driven, like cattle, with a pint of meal each night for food, and a single 1)laidritisli consul, and he said, ' I Lad a reason for not doing so, Richard. I may tell you the reason sometime, but not to-night. I knew that there was diplomatic cor- respondence going on about our relief, and that, soon i; y 9' 2U The IIallam Succession. M ■ I or later, those who survived their brutal treatment would be set free. 1 was one that lived to have my ehains knocked off ; but 1 was many weeks sick after- ward, and, indeed, 1 have not recovered yet.' '' So you began the exchange business here V^ '" Yes ; I had saved through all my troubles a little store of gold in a belt around my waist. It was uot much, but 1 have more than doubled it; and as soon as 1 can, 1 intend leaving Mexico, and beginning life again among civilized human beings.'" Elizabeth was weeping bitterly, but she said, " I am glad you have told me this, llichard. Ah, my brave brother ! You showed in your extremity the race from which you s})rung! Sydney's deed was no greater than yours ! That ' Dead Man's Journey,' Richard, redeems all to me. I am proud of Antony at last. I freely forgive him every hour of sorrow he has caused me. His picture shall be hung next his father's, and I w'ill have all else forgotten but this one deed ITe gave his last drink of water to the boy perishing at his side ; he begged for him when his own store failed, he supported him when he could scarce- ly walk himself, and had tears and righteous anger for the wrongs of others ; but for his own sufferings no word of complaint ! After this, Ilichard, I do not fear what else you have to tell me. Did he die in Mexico ? " " Xo ; he was very unhappy in the country, and he longed to leave it. As the weather grew warmer his weakness and suffering increased ; but it was a hard TiiK Uallam Succession. 275 "I was ICO?" thing for ];iii» to jxlinit that he was seriously ill. At last he was unable to attend to his i)Usiness, and 1 ])er- Buaded him to close his office. I shall never for^a't his face as he turned the key in it; I thiidv lie felt then that life for him was over. I had remained in Mexico for some weeks entirely on his account, and I now suggested, as he had no business cares, a journey home by way of Texas. I really believed that the rare, line air of the prairies would do him good ; and I was sure if we could reach I'hy^.Is, he would at least die amonu^ friends. " When I made the proposal he was eager as a child for it. lie did not want to delay an hour, lie re- membered the ethereal, vivifying airs of Western Texas, and was quite sure if he could only breathe them ajjain he would be well in a short time. lie was carried in a litter to Vera Cruz, and then taken by sea to Brownsville. And really the journey seemed to greatly revive him, and I could not help joining in his belief that Phyllis and Western Texas would save him. "But when w^e reached the Basrpie there was a sud- den change, a change there was no mistaking. He was imable to proceed, and I laid his mattress under a great live oak whose branches overshadowed space enough for our camp. I cannot tell you, Elizabet'., what a singular stillness and awe settled over all of us. I have often thought and wondered about it since. There was no quarreling, no sing^:ig,nor laugh- IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) % :/ 4^0 1.0 11.25 jjj 12.2 "i Uj I I.I ? -^ 11^ 6" U 1 1,6 Phote)graphic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 4n^ ^ V ^ <^ ^ # ,.* .<* ^ '<^l^ %^^ M^?^ 0' & 270 The IIallam Succkssion. ; I ing among the men, who were usually ready enough for any of thein ; and this ' still ' feeling, I suppose, was intensified by the weather, and the peculiar atmosphere. For we had come by such slow stages, that it was Indian summer, and if you can imagine an English October day, spiritualized, and wearing a veil of exquisite purply-grey and amber haze, you may have some idea of the lovely melancholy of these dying days of the year on the prairie. " We waited several days in this place, and he grew very weak, suffering much, but always suffering patiently and with a brave cheerfulness that was inex- pressibly sorrowful. It was on a Sunday morning that he touched me just between the dawn and the daylight, and said, ' Richard, I have been dreaming of Hallamand of my mother. She is waiting for me. I will sleep no more in this world. It is a beautiful world ! ' During the day I never left him, and we talked a great deal about the future, whose mystery he was so soon to enter. Soon after sunset he whispered to me the wrong he had done, and which he was quite sure you were retrieving. He acknowledged that he ought to have told me before, but pleaded his weak- ness and his dread of losing the only friend he had. It is needless to say I forgave him, forgave him for you and for myself ; and did it so heartily, that be- fore I was conscious of the act I had stooped and kissed him. "About midnight he said to me, ' Pray, Richard ;' The 11 all am kSuccEssioN. 2 < 4 and surely I was helped to du so, for crowding into nij memory came every blessed promise, every com- forting hope, that could make the hour of death the hour of victory. And while 1 was saying, ' Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world,' he passed away. We were quite alone. The men were sleeping around, unconscious of ' llini that waited.' The moon Hooded the prairie with a soft, hazy light, and all was so still that 1 could hear the cattle in the distance cropping the grass. 1 awoke no one. The last offices 1 could do for him 1 qi/jtly performed, and then sat down to watch until day- light. All was very happy and solemn. It was as if the Angel of Peace had passed by. And as if to check any doubt or fear I might be tempted to in- dulge, suddenly, and swift and penetrating as light, tliese lines catne to my recollection : " ' Down in the vnlley of Dentli, A Cross is standiiifT plain ; Wlioro stranjre and awful tlio sliadows slocp, And tlio uround lias a deep, roil st.iin. " ' This Cross npliftod thore For1)ids, with voice divino. Onr anfruishod hearts to bronk for the (load Who have diod atid niado tio siu;n. " ' As thoy turned away from ns. Dear eyes that wore heavy and dim. May have mot His look who was lifted there, May be 'oleopinp safe in Him.' " ""Where did you bury him, Tlichard ? " "Under the tree. Not in all the wrn-ld could we .'\ 17 '27S TiiK IIallam Succession. • 1 K: P i have found for liiiii so lovely and so still a ^i-ave. Just at suiu'iso wo laid liini there, 'in sure and certain hope ' of the resurrection. One of the Mexicans cut a cross and placed it at his head, and, rude and i«!;no- rant as thev all were, I l)elievc every one said a pi-ayer for his repose. Then 1 took the little gold he had, divided it among them, paid them their wages, and let them return home. I waited till :dl the tunnilt of their departure was over, then I, too, silently lifted my hat in a last ' farewell.' It was quite noon then, and the grave lay in a band of sunshine — a very j)leasant grave to remember, Elizabeth." She was weeping unrestrainedly, and Kichard let her weep. Such rain softens and fertilizes the soul, and leaves ii harvest of blessedness behind. And when the first shock Mas over, Elizabeth could almost rejoice for the dead ; for Antony's Mfe had been set to extremes — great ambHious and great failures — and few, indeed, are the spirits so finely touched as to walk with even balance between them. Therefore for the mercy that had released him from the trials and temptations of life, there was gratitude to be given, for it was due. That night, when Martha brought in Elizabeth's candle, she said : " INFartha, my brother is dead. i»Ias- ter Harry is now the young scpiire. You will tec that this is understood by every (»ne." "God love him! And may t' light o^ his counte- nance be forever on hiiu 1 " TlIK 11 ALLAM yucCESSION. 2TD "And if any iisk about Mr. Antony, jou may say that lie (lied ii. Texas." "That is where Mrs. Millard lives T' " Yes, Mrs. Millard lives in Texas, ^[r. Antony died of eonsuniption. O, Murllia ! sit down, 1 must tell you all about him ; " and Elizabeth went over the pitiful story, and talked about it, until both women were weary with weeping. The next morning they hung Antony's picture between that of his father and mother. It had been taken just after his return from college, in the very first glory of his youthful man- hood, and Elizabeth looked fondly at it, and linked it only with memories of their happy innocent child- hood, and with the g.-and self-abnegation of " the dead man's journey." The news of Antony's death caused a perceptible reaction in popular feeling. The young man, after a liard struggle with adverse fate, luid paid the last debt, and the great debt. Good men refrain from judging those who have gone to God's ti'il)unal. Even his largest creditors evinced a disposition to take, with consideration, their claim, as the estate could pay it; and some willingness to allow at last, " thet Miss Ilallani hcd done t' right thinir." The fact of tlic Whaley Tlrothei-s turning her defenders rather confoun.led them. They had' a i)rof(„n,d re- spect for - t' Whaleys ; " and if " t' AVhaloys were for backin' up Miss [lallam's ways," the majority were sure that Miss Ilallam's ways were such as com- 280 The Hallam Succession. 4^! : 5 mended tlieniselvus to " men as stood tirm for t' law and t' laud o' England." With any higher test they did not trouble themselves. The public recognition of young Harry Hallam as the future squire also gave great satisfaction. After all, no stranger and foreigner was to have rule over them ; for Itichard they certainly regarded in that light. " He might be a Hallam to start wi','' said Peter Crag, " but he's been that way mixed up wi' French and such, thet t' Hallam in him is varry hard to find." All the tenants, upon the advent of Kichard, had stood squarely upon their dignity ; they had told each other that they'd pay rent only to a Hallam, and they had quite determined to resent any suggestion made by Kichard, and to disregard any order he gave. But it was quickly evident that Eichard did not intend to take any more interest in Hallam than he did in the Church glebe and tithes, and that tlio only thing lie desired was the bride he had waited so lono; for. The spring was far advanced, however, be- fore the wedding-day was fixed ; for there was much to provide for, and many things to arrange, in view of \he long-continued absences whicli would be almost certain. The Whaleys, nrged by a lover, certainly hur- ried their work to a degree which astonished all their subordinates ; but yet February had passed before all the claims against Antony Hallam had been collected. The debt, as debt always is, was larger than had The IIallam Succession. 281 been expected ; and twelve years' iiiconie would be exhausted in its liquidation. Elizabeth glanced at Harry and looked gravely at the papers; but liichai-d said, " Be satislied, dear. He will have tho income at the age he really needs it— when lie begins his university career— until then we can surely care for hini." 80 Dallam was left, financially, in the Whaleys' care. They were to collect all its revenues, and kecj) the house and grounds in repair, and, after paying all expenses incidental to this duty, they were to* divide, ill fair proportions, the balance every three years among Antony's creditors. This arrangement gave perfect satisfaction, for, as Marmaduke Ilalcroft said, " If t' Whaleys ar'n't to be trusted, t' world might as well stand still, and let honest men get out o' it." As to the house, it was to be left absolutely in Martha's care. Inside its walls her authority was to be undisputed, and Elizabeth insisted that her salary should be on the most liberal basis. In fact, Martha's position made her a person of importance— a woman who could afford to do handsomely toward her chapel, and who might still have put by a large sum every year. The wedding was a very pretty one, and Elizabeth, in her robe of white satin and lace, with pearls around her throat and arms, was a most lovely bride. Twelve young girls, daughters of her tenants, dressed in white, and carrying handfuls of lilies-of-the-valley, 282 The IIallam Succession. I K went with her to the aUar ; and llieharcl had lor his attendant the handsome little squire. Tiie rector took the place of Elizabeth's father, and a neighbor- ing clergyman i)erft»rmed the ceremony. Most of the surrounding lamilies were present in the church, and with this courtesy Elizabeth was (piite satisfied. Immediately after the marriage they left for Liver- pool, and when they arrived at lllchard's home it was in the time of orange blooms and building birds, as he had desired it should be, six years before. But one welcome wliich they would gladly have heard was wanting. Bishop Elliott had removed, and no other preacher had taken his ])lace in Ilichard's home. This was caused, however, by the want of Bome womaidy influence as a conductor. It was Phyllis who had brought the kindred souls together, and made pleasant places for them to walk and talk in. Phyllis had desired very much to meet Eliza- beth, on her advent into her American life, but the time had been most uncertain, and so many other duties held the wife and mother and mistress, that it had been thought better to defer the pleasure till it could be more definitely arranged. And then, after all, it was Elizabeth that went to see Phyllis. One day Pichard came home in a hurry. "Elizabeth! I am going to Texas — to Austin. Suppose you and Harry go with me. We will give Phyllis a surprise." " But housekeepers don't like surprises, Kichard." TllK II ALL AM SUCCKSSION. 2s;i 1 t'«>r his 3 rector eighbor- Most of cliurcli, ^utistied. )r Liver- hoine it ig birds, re. lly have ived, and licbard's want of It was together, and talk et Eliza- , but the ny other 3s, tliat it lire till it len, after lis. One ) Austin, will give ichard." "Then we will write before leaving, but I doubt if the letter will be in advance of us." It was not. John Millard's home was a couple of miles distant from Austin, and the mail was not gone for with any regularity. Besitles, at this time, John was attending to his duties in the Legisla- ture, and riiyllis relied upon his visits to the post- ofiice. It was a pleasant afternoon in June when the stage deposited them in the beautiful citv, and after some refreshment liichard got a buggy and deter, mined to drive out to the Millard place. Half a mile distant from it they met a boy about seven years old on a mustang, and Richard asked Iiim if he could direct him to Captain Millard's liouse. " I reckon so," said the little chap, with a laugh ; " I generally stop there, if I'm not on horseback." " O, indeed ! What is your name ? " " My name is Eichard Millard. What's your name, sir ? " " My name is Richard Fontaine ; and I shouldn't wonder if you are my nephew." " I'm Jibout certain you are my uncle. And is that my English aunt? Wont ma be glad? Say, wont you hurry up ? I was going into the city. My pa's going to speak to-night. Did you ever hear my pa S]3eak ? " " No ; but I should like to do so." " I should think you would. See ! There's ma. 284 The II all am Succkssion. •I t ,iV That is Lulu hanging on to lier, and that is Sam Houston in hur arms. JVIy pony is called ' San Jacinto.' Say ! Who is that witli you and aunt, Uncle Itichard ? I mean f/ou / " and he nodded and smiled at Harry. '' Tliat is Harry Hallam — a relation of yours." " I'm glad of that. Would he like to ride my pony 'i " " Yes," answered Harry, promptly. But llichard declined to make exclianiazzas, and over the walls and roofs, and even dropped in at the chamber windows. There was there, also, the constant stir of happy servants, laughing and singing at their work, of playing children, of trampling horses, of the coming and going of guests; for Captain Millard's house was near a great highway, and was known far and wide for its hospitality. The stranger fastened liis Vi I'l I Thk I 1am, am Succession. 2S7 1 tlireo I wliuii 10 I'll a ps, ■hiUhvii [)}• tuars py vide er it — a of care, I fricud- aiid airs a roomy ing does «»• open, it wa3 a the vast uvf was itiulc of \tticca of and even of happy work, of le coming d's lionse II far and ;tcncd liis iiorse at tliu fence, and asked uudonhtinuly for a cup of coll'ee, or a <;Ia.en Elizabetl, went on the gallery, and Harry was standing between his knees, and Dick Millard leaning on his shoulder Half a dozen of the more favored dogs were lyin<, aronnd him, and at least a dozen negro children wert crawling np the piazza steps, or peeping through the ra.hngs. He was dressed in buckskin and blue flan- nel and at first sight had a most unclerical look. Bnt the moment he lifted his face Elizabeth saw ;;^r, I "'''"■; "'^,''''' ^''"' 'o"^'^^ "« from the small tw nkhng 0,-bs beneath his large brews. And as ho grew excted m the evening's conversation, his mus- ^™ nerved his body straightened, and he be an.e 2 -O'- l^notted en,bodi„.ent of calm power and aeternimation. _" W-e expectedyou two weeks ago," said .Tohn to huru There was work laid o„t for me I hadn't ealcu- l.'te.l on, John. Bowie's men were hard up for fresh meat, and I lent thorn my rifle a few dajs. i^: the Indians bothered me. They were hanging around ill i I '■! 290 The IIallam Succession. Sidedo settlement in a way I didn't like, so I watched them until I was about sure of their next dirty trick. It happened to be a thieving one on the Zavala ranche, so I let Zavala know, and then rode on to tell Granger he'd better send a few" boys to keep them red-handed Comanche from picking and steal- ing and murdering." " It was just like you. You probaWy saved many lives." " Saving life is often saving souls, John. Next time I go that way every man at Zavala's ranche and every man in Granger's cr.rnp will listen to me. I shall then have a greater danger than red men to tell them of. But they know both my ride and my words are true, and when I say to them, ' Boys, there's hell and heaven right in your path, and your next step may plunge you into the fiery gulf, or open to you the golden gates,' they'll listen to me, and they'll believe me. John, it takes a soldier to preach to soldiers, and a saved sinner to know how to save other sinners." " And if report is not unjust," said Richard, " you will find plenty of great sinners in such circuits as you take." "Sir, you'll find sinners, great sinners, every- wli( re. I acknowledge that Texas has been made a kit I of receptacle for men too wicked to live among their fellows. I often come upon these wild, carrion jail-birds. I know them a hundred yards oft". It is a ratclied Y trick. Zavala ! on to to keep d steal- id many Next ranclie to me. I men to and my , 'Boys, md yoni* , or open me, and o preach 7 to save rd, " you ircuits as s, every- n made a ve among 1, carrion f. It is a The Hallam Succession. 291 great thing, every way, that they come here. God be thanked ! Texas has nothing to fear from them. In the first place, though the atmosphere of crime is polluting in a large city, it infects nobody here. I tell you, sir, the murderer on a Texas prairie is mis- erable. There is nothing so terrible to him as this freedom and loneliness, in which he is always in the company of his outraged conscience, which drives him hither and thither, and gives him no rest. For I tell you, that murderers don't willingly meet to- gether, not even over the whisky bottle. They know each other, and shun each other. Well, sir, this subject touches me warmly at present, for I am' just come from the death-bed of such a man. I have been with him three days. You remember Bob Black, John ? " " Yes. A man who seldom spoke, and whom ro one liked. A good soldier, though. I don't believe he knew the meaning of fear." " Didn't he ? I have seen him sweat with terror. He has come to me more dead than alive, clunc to my arms like a child, begged me to stand between hnn and the shapes that followed him." "Drunk?" "No, sir. I don't think he ever tasted Hquor; but he was a haunted man ! He had been a sixfold murderer, and his victims made life a terror to him." " How do you account for that ? " "We have a spiritual body, and we have a natural 292 The Hallam Succession. body. AVlicn it pleases the Almighty, he opens the eyes and ears of our spiritual body, either for com- fort, or advice, or punishment. This criminal saw things and heard words no mortal eyes have per- ceived, nor mortal ears understood. The man was haunted. 1 cannot doubt it." " I believe what you say," said Elizabeth, solemnly, " for I have heard, and I have seen." " And so have I," said the preacher, in a kind of rapture. " When I lay sleeping on the St. Mark's one night, I felt the thrill of a mighty touch, and I heard, ivith my spiritual ears, words which no mortal lips uttered ; and I rose swiftly, and saved my life from the Comanche by the skin of my teeth. And an- other night, as I rode over the Maverick prairie, when it was knee-deep in grass and flowers, and the stars were gathering one ])y one with a holy air into the house of God, I could not restrain myself, and I sang aloud for joy! Then, suddenly, there seemed to be all around me a happy company, and my spirit- ual ears were opened, and T heard a melody beyond the voices of earth, and I was not ashamed in it of my little human note of praise. I tell you, death only sets us face to face with Him who is not very far from us at any time." "And Bob is dead?" " Yes ; and I believe he is saved." No one spoke ; and the preacher, after a minute's silence, asked, " Who doubts ? " )ens the 3r com- nal saw ve per- lan was )leinuly, kind of rk's one I heard, rtal lips fe from A.nd au- prairie, and the air into If, and I seemed [J spirit- ' beyond in it of u, death not very minute's The Hall am Succession. 293 " A sixfold murderer, you said ? " "Kay, nay, John ; pre you ^oing to limit the grace of God ? Do you know the height and deptli of his mercy ? Have you measured the length and breadtli of the cross ? I brought the cross of Christ to that fiend-haunted bed, and the wretched soul clasped it, clung to it, yes, climbed up by it into heaven I '' "It was peace at last, then ?" said Phyllis. " It was triumph ! The devil lost all power to tort- ure him ; for, with the sweet assurance of his for- giveness came the peace that passeth understanding. What is there for great crinn'nals ? Only the cro^s of Christ ? O the miracle of love, that found out for us such an escape ! " "And you think that the man really believed him- self to be forgiven by God ? " " I am sure that he knew he was forgiven." " It is wonderful. Why, then, do not all Chris- tians have this knowledge ? " "It is their privilege to have it ; but how few of us have that royal nature which claims all our rights I The cross of Christ ! There are still Jewish minds to whom it is a stumbling-block ; and still more minds of the Greek type to whom it is foolishness." "But is not this doctrine specially a Methodist one?" "If St. Paul was a Metliodist, and St. Augustine, and Martin Lutlier, and the millions of saved men, to whom Go.I has counted 'faith' in his word and wmmmi 294 Thk Hallam Succession. io 'I f',' 1^ *ll mercy ' for rigliteonsness,' then it is specially Meth- odist. What says the Lord ? ' Tlieref ore being jus- tilied by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' I do not say but what tliere are many good men without this assurance; but 1 d(> say, that it is the privilege of all who love and helieze God. John Wesley himself did not experience this joy until lie heard the Moravian, Peter Bolder, preach. ' Before that,' he says, ' I was a servant of God, ac- cepted and safe, but now I knew it.'* " Elizabeth did not again reply. She sat very still, her hand clasped in that of Phyllis, whose head was leaning upon her breast. And very frequently she glanced down at the pale, spiritual face with its lumi- nous dark eyes and sweet mouth. For Phyllis had to perfection that lovely, womanly charm, which puts itself en rapport with every mood, and yet only of- fers the sympathy of a sensitive silence and an an- swering face. As the women sat musing the moon rose, and then up sprang the night breeze, laden with the perfume of bleaching grass, and all the hot, sweet scents of the south. " How beautiful is this land ! " said Kichard, in an en- thusiasm. '' What a pity the rabble of other lands cannot be kept out of it ! " The preacher lifted his head with a quick belliger- ent motion : " There is no such thing as rabble, sir. For the meanest soul Chi-ist paid down his precious The Hallam Succession. 295 Meth- g j^s- jh our re lire I dc. helieve ce this 3reacli. lod, ae- ry still, 3ad was itly she ts lumi- 5 liad to cli puts ouly of- an an- ,nd then erfume ents of lin an en ler lands Ibelliger- )ble, sir. [precious blood. What you call ' rabble ' arc the builders of kingdoms and nationalities." " Yes," said John, " I dare say if we could sec the fine fellows who fought at Hastings, and those who afterward forced Magna Charta from King Jolin with' out the poetic veil of seven hundred years, we should be very apt to call them ' rabble ' also. Give the found- ers of Texas the same time, and they may also have a halo round their heads. Was not liome foundeu by robbers, and Great Britain by pirates ? " '' There is work for every man, and men for every work. These ' rabble,' under proper leaders, were used by the Almighty for a grand purpose — the re- demption of tliis fair land, and his handful of ])e()ple in it, from the thrall of the priests of Rome. AVould such men as the Livingstons, the Carrolls, the Renselaers, or the wealthy citizens of Philadelpliia or Washington have come here and fought Indians and Mexicans ; and been driven about from pillar to post, living on potatoes and dry corn ? Good respectable people suffer a great deal of tyranny ere they put their property in danger. But when Texas, in her desperation, rose, she wiis glad of the men with a brand on their body and a rope round their neck, and who did not value their lives more than an empty nut-shell. They did good service. Many of them won back fair names and men's respect and God's love. 1 call no man ' rabble.' I know that many of these outcasts thanked God for an opportunity to •■\-";-.»' ■ ■ V 2'J6 The Hallam Succession. I oiler their lives for tlie general good," and, lie added, dropping his voice almost to a M^iisper, " I know of instances where the sacrifice was accepted, and as- surance of that acceptance granted." " The light for freedom seems to be a never-ending one. 5) " Because," said the preacher, " Man was created free. Freedom is his birthright, even though he be born in a prison, and in chains. Hence, the noblest men are not satisfied with physical and political freedom ; they must also be free men in Christ Jesus ; for let me tell you, if men are slaves to sin and the devil, not all the Magna Chartas, nor all the swords in the world, can make them truly free." And thus they talked until the moon set and the last light was out in the cabins, and the ' after mid- night ' feeling became plainly evident. Then Phyl- lis brought out a dish that looked very like walnut shells, but which all welcomed. They were pre- served bears' paws. " Eat," she said, " for though it is the last hour we may meet in this life, W3 nmst sleep now." And the Texan luxury was eaten with many a pleasant word, and then, with kind and solemn ' fare- wells,' the little party separated, never in all the years of earth to sit together again ; for just at daylight, John and Phyllis stood at their gates, watching the carriage which carried Richard and Elizabeth pass over the hill, and into the timber, and out of sight. II fi 1 added, :now of and as- -ending created •li lie be I noblest political t Jesus ; and the J swords and the ter niid- 3n Phyl- ! walnut ere pre- tliough life, W3 many a m ' f are- the years daylight, ihing the eth pass ■ sight. THa IIallam Succession. 2i)7 CHAPTER XL - The evening of life brings with it its lamp."— Toubekt. " And there arrives a lull in the hot race: And an unwonted calm pervades the breast. And then he tliinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea, where it goes."— ARNOLa "Slie hiis passed To where, beyond these voices, there is peace." TT is the greatest folly to think that tlie onlv time 1 worth writing about is youth. It is an" equal folly to imagine that love is the only passion univers- ally interesting. Elizabeth's years were no less vivid, no less full of feeling and of changes, after her marriage than before it. Indeed, she never quite lost the interests of her maiden life. Hullam de- manded an oversight she did not fail to give it. Three times during the twelve years of its confiscation to Antony's creditors she visited it. In these visits she was accompanied by Richard, and Harry, and her own children. Tlien the Whaleys' accounts were carefully gone over, and found always to be perfectly honorable and satisfactory. And it' is needless to say how happy Martha was at such times. Gradually all ill-feeling passed away. The young squire, though educated abroad, had just such a train- a 298 The Hallam Succession. ing as made him popular. For ho passed part of every year in Texas with Dick Millard, and all that could be known about horses and hunting and wood- craft, Harry JIallam knew, lie had also taken on very easily the Texan manner, frank, yet rather proud and phlegnuitic : " Evidently a young man who knows what he wants, and will be apt to get it," said Whaley. '' Nine Yorkshire jockeys knocked into one couldn't blind him on a horse," said young llorton. "And 111 lay a guinea he'll lead in every hunting field." " And tliey do say, he's r first-rate sctholar besides." Such conversations regaiuirghim were indefinitely repeated, and varied. When he ^vas in his eiij^hteenth year the estate was absolutely free of every claim, and in a condition which reflected the greatest credit upon tliose in ■whose care it had been placed. It was at this time that Richard and Elizabeth took the young man into his grandfather's room, and laid before him the title deeds of his patrimony and the schedule of its various incomes. Then, also, they told him, with infinite kindness and forbearance, the storv of his father's ef- forts and failures, and the manner in which the estate had been handled, so that it might be made over to him free of all debt and stain. Harry said very little. His adopted parents liked him the better for that. But he was profoundly The IIallam Succession. 209 -.mazed and grateful. Then he went to Cambridge and for tliree years Elizabeth did not see him. It liad l)een arranged, however, tliat the wliole family should meet at IJallam on the anniversary of his ma- joi-ity, and the occurrence was celebrated with every public festivity that had always attended that event m the JJallani family. There was nothing to di.u the occasion. Every one, far and near, took the op- portunity to show that ill-thoughts and ill-feelings were forever buried, and Elizabeth and Richard were feted with especial honor. '^ Few women would hev done so well by t' land and t' family," admitted even Lord Eltham, "and if I wasn't so old and feeble, I'd go and tell her 60 ; and to be foreign-born, that Mr. Fontaine has been varry square, that lie hes. He shows t' English blood in him." " Ay, it's hard to wear Yorkshire out. It bears a deal o' waterin', and is still strong and straight- for'ard," answered Whalev. t/ "Now he'll hev to wed and settle down." " He'll do that. I've seen a deal o' him, and I've noticed that he has neither eyes nor ears but for our little lass, a varry bonny lass she is ! " "It '11 be Alice Horton, happen?" "Nay, it isn't. It's his cousin, Bessie Fontaine. She's but a girl yet, but she's t' varry ima-e o'her mother, just what Elizabeth Plallam was at sixteen- happen only a bit slighter and more delicate-looking " [■I • i ]^\ i ' 300 The Hallam Succession. " And no wonder, AVliuley. To be brought up i* a place like that New Orleans. W}^h-a ! they do say that t' winter weather tliere is like our haymakin* time I Poor thing I She'll get a bit o' color here, I'se warrant." The Yorkshire lawyer had seen even into a love afTjiir with clear eyes. Bessie and Harry had already confided their alTection to Elizabeth, but she was quite determined that there should be no engagement until after Harry returned from a three years' travel in Europe and Asia. '' Then, Harry," she said, " you will have seen the women of many lands. And Bessie will also have seen something of the world, and of the society around her. Slic must choose you from among all others, and not simply because habit and contiguity and family relations have thrown you together." - Still it pleased her, that from every pai't of the world came regularly and constantly letters and tokens of Harry's love for her daughter. She would not force, she would not even desire, such a consum- mation ; but yet, if a true and tried affection should unite the cousins, it would bo a w^onderful settle- ment of that succession which had so troubled and perplexed her father, and which at last he had humbly left to the wisdom and direction of a higher 1*0 we r. Therefore, when Harry, in his twenty-fourth year, browned and bearded with much travel, came back to The IIallam Succession. 301 t up i* a r do say ymakin' ere, I'se ) a love , already she was agement 's' travel seen the ilso have y around hers, and d family \'i of the :crs and le would eonsuni- In should 1 settle- 3led aud he had a higher irth year, e hack to Kew Orleans, to ask the hand of the only woman he liiid ever loved, Elizahcth was very happy. Her daugliter was going hack to her old home, going to he the mis- tress of its fair sunny rooms, and renew in her young life the hoi)es and memories of a hy-gone genera- tion. And to the hii)^py bridal came John and Phyllis, and all their liau' .^ome sons and daughters, and never was there a more sweetly, solenm maniage-feast. For many wise thoughts had come to Elizahcth as her children grew up at her side, and one of them was a conviction that marriaijje is too sacred a thinii: to i)e entered into amid linmhter and danciim' and thonirht- less feasting. "If Jesus wns asked to the marria;^e, as he was in Cana of Galilee, there would he fewer un- happy marriages," she said. So the young bride w;is sent away with smiles and kisses and h)ving joyful wishes, but not in a whirl of dancing nnd champagne gayety and noisy selfish merriment. And the years came and went, and none of them were alike. In one, it was the marriage of her eldest son, Richard, to Lulu Millard ; in anotlier, the death of a baby girl very dear to her. She had her daily crosses and her daily blessings, and her daily jiortion of duties. But in the main, it may be said, for liichard and Elizabeth Fontaine, that they had " borne the yoke in their youth," and learned the great lessons of life, before the days came in which their strength began to fail them. 302 The IIallam Slxcession. i The last year of any life may generally be taken ar the verdict upon tliat life. Elizabeth's was a very hajipy one. SliL! was one of those women on whom time lays a consecratin