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3ZX

AMYOT BROUGH

St vie Acco2mt of

Amyot Brough

Captain in His Majefly's loth Rcjrimrnt of Foof^ wlw fmiglit

(hutivith tio,i^rrcntj[^/orv) ufidrr H R.H. f/,c Duke of Cumberland

/// t/ic Low Countries, nfid/iad the /iciinur to he xvoimded in

iJic leftfhoulder under tlie eyes r/ General Wolfe at the

taking o/" Quebec.

By E. ViNCF.NT Briton

Second /idle ion

-<^i^L vy^

//':

LONDON
SEELEY 6- CO., 46, 47 & 48, ESSEX STREET, STRAxND
{Late of 54, FLEET STREET)
1886

PREFACE.

In relating the plain and unvarnished iistoi)' o(
Captain Amyot Brough, my mind has been entirely
at ease on one important point — none will ask
whether it be true or false. It is a pleasiiu'' re-
flection, and my pen has much enjoyed the libert)'
thereby secured.

But another name is found in these pages — a name
which all men honour, and concerning which I have
not felt a like freedom.

In treating of the doings and sayings of Captain
Brough, I needed to take council of no one ; but in
dealing with the character and deeds of the hero of
Quebec, I was constrained to seek aid from other
writers. I trust they have not misled me.

My chief aim, however, has been to paint the man
as I read his mind in his letters, of which a sufficient
number are given in the biography by the Rev. R.
Wright (1864) ; and I am bound to say that a careful
study of these letters has constrained me to follow
Mr. Wright in doubting the accuracy of the story
told by Lord Stanhope of Wolfe's extravagant
behaviour in his interview with Pitt

E. V. B.

October^ 1884.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND
EDITIOxN

In rcvisinj,^ this work for a cheaper edition, I have
done a somewhat unusual thing, concernin|jj which I
feel bound in courtesy to my readers to offer some
explanation. The much luirry in which all men
now live grows daily more apparent, and it has
caused me some pain to reflect that, in the former
edition of this book, I inflicted on my friends many
unnecessary details, and lengthy conversations, for-
getful that such trifles in the life of Amyot Brough,
as were therein mentioned, could be of interest only
to me, his faithful friend.

Having, therefore, this opportunity, I have set
myself to do away with much unnecessary matter,
and having shown myself thus tender of my readers
time and eyesight, I have ventured, encouraged by
the many kindly criticisms which greeted the first
appearance of this book, to add a few pages relating
to the more private and personal history of Captain

Brough.

E. V. B.

October, 1885.

CONTENTS.

CltAl'TKU J>A(iK

I. CONCKRNINO A DiRKFUL KVKNT - - - I

II. IN Wmcif AN IMPORTANT LK ITER IS WRITTEN- 15

III. TORY MAKI'.S KRI'.K WIIH OTHER PEOPLE'S TAILS- 28

IV. A RI<'AL (;01)I)ESS - - - '3^

V. IN WHICFI WE TAKE A JOURNEY- - - 54

VI. WHEN TORY EINDS HIS LIITLE .MLSTRESS - 71

VII. IINDING HIS LEVEE - - - - 84

VIII. WHEREIN AMVOT 1!R0U(;H BETAKES HIMSELF

TO THE NORTH - - - - lOI

IX. RE15EL OR NO? - - - - - III

\. CONCERNING THE AEEAIR OE CLIFTON liRIDGE - I23

XL OF EVENTS AFTER CULLODEN - - -137

XII. WHEREIN TWO LETTERS ARE RECEIVED - 148

XIII. CONCERNING A CHRLSTMAS ROUT - - 160

XIV. HUMILIATION - - - - - 1 76
XV. YEA OR NAY? - - - - - 187

XVI. CAPTAIN GUY - - - - - 197

XVII. CONCERNING A COUNTRY WEDDING - - 2IO

XVIII. OF A CERTAIN HOUSE IN DRURY LANE - - 224

XIX. ACROSS THE BORDER .... 237

XX. LEAVE OF ABSENCE ... - 250

Vlll

Conlcnts.

CirAPTKK

XXI. (JUK RY : A FOOL OR NOT?

PAOK
269

280
295

305

XXn. lAR FROM THF, HUSY HUM

XXIII. CONCr.RNINr, THF, F.NDINO OF A SHORT MFK

XXIV. IN WHICH A SKCRI.T COMES TO LIGHT -
XXV. IN WHICH WK MAKF. HUT .SMALL I'KOCRKSS

XX VL CONCERNING A SUUDIN VISIT TO DRURV LANE- 326

XXVI I. IN WHICH TWO FRIENDS MEET AGAIN - - 342

XXVIIL IN WHICH MANY QUESTIONS ARE DERATED - 356

XXIX, CONCERNING A LAUGHAMLE EXI'LOIT - - 364

XXX. OF A siccoNU WOUND rfx:eived by AMYOT

n ROUGH -.-... 377
XXXI. IN WHICH A LETTER ARRIVES - - - 399

XXXII. MRS. DARLRY CHANGF^S HER MODE OF DEALING 414
XXXIIL IN WHICH THE .SCENE SHIFTS TO ANOTHER

CONTINENT - - . - . 427

XXXIV. WHEN ENGLAND JOYED AND WEPT - - 440

XXXV. IN WHICH WE TAKE LEAVE OF MANY FRIENDS - 462

i\J

\MYOT B ROUGH

CHAPTER I.

427
440
462

rONTERMNCi A DIRKFUI- EVKXT.

' You arc rif^ht, iiiadain ; I'd have been wiser if I had
stayed by own fireside in such weather as tliis ; but, you
see, I had business to see to, and an old sailor is loath to
show the white feather, th()ut;"h all the sj)irits of evil in
the shai)e of sharp winds be abroad and adoin^ — which
same evil spirits, as it seems to me, do as much mischief
on land as on sea. Rut, as I said, it was business that
brought me out, though if I'd had two grains of good
sense I'd have stayed at home.'

So said Cajitain Brough, late of his Majesty's Navy, as
he stood at the door of the GrifTm Inn in Penrith town, and
looked forth into the fast gathering darkness. It was
barely three o'clock, but the snow had been falling tor
some hours, and dense black clouds were coming up, pre-
saging a still increasing fall. The mistress of the inn
shivered, ami drew her shawl around her, remarking that
her guest would have to stay the night in the town — the
road must be blocked by the snow-drifts by this time.
But that was of no matter ; the captain would find com-
pany in the parlour, and a warm chimney corner, at any
rate.

The captain smiled and shook his head.

2 Amyot B rough.

' A warm fireside and a hearty welcome you never fail
to offer, Mistress Thwaites,' he said ; ' but if your boy
win bring round my cob before the weatlier worsens, I
make no doubt but I'll cast anchor in my own port before
night; for though I can't deny that my eyes are fair dazed
with staring at the white blanket all a'^ound me, I'd trust
old Jonah to find his way home to Broughbarrow were it
as dark as pitch ; and I've my bits of bairns at home
expecting me.'

And with these words, waiting only till the stout horse
had been made ready, the captain bade her a courteous
good-night, and set out on his homeward way. Those in
the inn-parlour gazed after him with some wonder and
not a little anxiety, while the stable-boy shook his head
ruefully, saying :

' A rakkan he'll niver dew it ; lang afooar he gits heeam,
he an' t' nag '11 be lost in this terble girt snaa, sooa thae
will, sewer an' sartan.'

But the captain had no such misgivings. The distance
was not great, old Jonah was stout and willing, and with
the thought of the warm stable to allure him would breast
the storm bravely, and scoff at the snow-drifts; and in
imagination his rider fancied himself already past all danger,
and snugly ensconced in his high-backed chair by his own
chimney-corner.

We will leave him to his battle with the snow, and let
the wind carry us straight over hedges and ditches to that
same fireside in the old parlour of Broughbarrow Farm,
and make our own observations unconstrained by his pre-
sence. And in truth, reader, I had as lief trust myself to
the guidance of the wind as to aught else, for when I
looked for Broughbarrow Farm a while since, though it
seemed to me I knew exactly where it used to stand, I
could not find it ; and well I know that in days of yore
the captain used to say the wind and the old house were
well acquainted. So on the wings of the wind we will travel

let
hat
lirm,
ipre-
If to
•n I
[h it
lul, I
|yore
kvere
ravel

Aniyot B rough. 3

and whether it pleases to put us in at the front-door, or
drop us down the chimney, is small matter on such a night
as this, so long as we find ourselves safe sheltered from
storm and snow at last.

And the old parlour, with its high wainscoting and
faded curtains, its polished floor, its bright log-fire, is a
comfortable sight ; aye, and full of the cheerful sound of
children's play and children's voices, that best of all music
to the heart of him who loves God's creatures. The light
has nearly gone ; the room would be dark, but for the
glow on the hearth ; the lad who was reading by the
windo)v ha.s thrown down his book, the little sister has
deserted the task of sewing which has made her fingers
ache for the last half-hour, and they are playing a wondrous
same of their own in\'ention, which has no name in books
of sports, but is glorious fun for all that, not only in their
opinion, but in that of Tory, the dog, and Whig, the cat.
It leads to many a clamber over chairs and tables, many a
scamper out at one door and in at the other, many a spring
from stool to chair, many a rush behind the curtains.

' If only I could creep as Whig does,' sighs little loan,
quite out of breath, ' you'd never catch me, brother.'

' I ne\'er can catch Whig,' replied the boy. ' It's not
fair of him ; he won't let himself be caught. Tory often
thinks he's got him, but he's always just too late.'

And as he spoke th-^ white poodle, having caught sight
of the cat, made a bounce at him from the shining oak
table on which he had been keeping guard, and, as usual,
just missed his aim, but was unlucky enough to dexend
with unusual weight on little Joan's dearest treasure, a
waxen baby, which its mistress had ju.st put to sleep on a
footstool. Her cry of alarm checked the game. Whig
abandoned the idea of rushing up the curtains, and Tory,
much terrified, came timidly to discover how much
mischief he had done. The waxen beauty was tenderly
picked up by its mistress, who seated herself on the floor

Amyot B rough.

to examine into the misadventure. Tory's paw had fallen
too heavily on the doll's head, and the result was a serious
crack across the crown.

' It's bad — very bad,' said the child. ' I doubt if Cleo-
patra will recover. I do, indeed, Tory.'
' O-o-oh ! ' said Tory mournfully.

' You see, her head is cracked, and that's a mortal injury.
No human being can recover when the head is cracked.'
' 0-o-o-oh ! ' said Tory in despair.

' It's of no use to say " Oh ! " in that doleful way. You
should not be so clumsy, Tory ; I often tell you so.'

Torv hung down his head, and heaved a deep sigh,
whereupon Whig, who had been rubbing himself against
Joan's anxious little face, seeing that Tory was in disgrace,
thought it fitting to deal him a smart box on the ear.

Tory looked piteous, but was too depressed to avenge
himself, feeling that, considering the crime he had com-
mitted, even Whig might be at liberty to punish him ;
but Joan's sense of justice was ofrended.

' Whig, I wonder at you ! Have you no feelings at
all ! When you see the trouble I am in, must you, too,
begin to vex me ? Tory is not your kitten, that you
should beat him. Do mind your own business foi once in
your life ! My precious darling, does your head ache ?
Do you think you are going to die ? '

' Joan' said her brother, ' you are a goose. Who ever
heard of a wax doll dying ? You are making Tory
wretched ; he didn't mean to hurt the stupid thing.'

' He is careless, and thoughtless, and clumsy. You
know you are, Tory.'

Tory whined a piteous assent. He did know he was
a wretch, a brute, a monster, the greatest villain that
ever breathed ; but he adored his little mistress : he could
not live if she would not forgive him, and he continued to
utter short ejaculations of distress in such tones of larien-
tation, that at length Joan condescended to say :

Ajjtyoi Drough,

' There, that will do, I see you arc sorry ; we will hope
the child will get better, and the crack will not show
much if I make her a pretty cap to cover it. Shake
hands, Tory, and make your bow.'

Whereupon Tory wiped his eyes with his paws, rose
gracefully on his hind legs, and laying one paw on his
heart, extended the other to his little mistress, and th'-n,
feeling quite himself again, gave Whig to understand it
might be advisable to flee up the curtains, if he did not
desire some return for his ill-natured treatment.

Joan continued to lavish tender attentions on her baby,
and Amyot, seeing that the romp was at an end, picked
up his book and tried to pursue his reading by the fire-
light. But the flame was so flickering and uncertain that
he soon desisted, with the remark :

' It's very hard we mayn't have a light till father comes
in. There's nothing on earth to do.'

' But candle-light costs a deal,' was the sage reply of
the eight-year-old maiden, ' and you can think as well in
the dark, and talk as well in the dark ; and I don't think
it's good manners to sit mum and silent when you're not
alone in the room. Deborah says book-learning makes
men-folk dull and poor company ; and I think so, too.'

' And I think', said Amyot vehemently, ' that a man that
can't read can have nothing to say worth hearing ; and so
he'd better be mum, as you call it. Joan.'

' You are rude,' was the little maiden's calm reply ;
' why speak so loud, Amyot ? I am not deaf.'

' No ; but you aggravate me, Joan. I can't tell why,
but you do.'

The little sister looked at him with the same quiet gaze
of dignified surprise with which she had subdued the dog
Tory. She was a soft, gentle little creature, but wondrous
staid and managing for her years. Her blue eyes ^vere
serious and earnest; she could laugh a good ringing laugh,
but she never smiled. Sometimes Amyot felt subdued by

Amyot B rough.

her air of unconscious authority, but not unfrequcntly his
temper, naturally somewhat hasty, was ruffled by her very
quietness. Being a year older than she was, it seemed to
him that he ought to be able to consider himself older and
wiser ; but instead of being able to enjoy any such feeling,
he was continually conscious of her superiority in every
respect but that of physical strength. He not unfre-
qucntly lost his temper, she never did ; he was often idle
and careless, she was ever occupied and busy ; he was
constantly reproved for his short and uncourteous speeches,
she could always say just the right word to everybody ;
and thus, from one cause or another, Amyot could scarcely
fail to have an idea that his little sister was his superior.
Happily he could not accuse her of anything like conceit,
and consequently his love for her was as real as his respect.
True, as he had said, her calmness aggravated him, but he
hated himself that so it was.

She was a pretty thing to gaze at, this little maiden,
with her fairy-like figure, clear skin, and long fair hair.
Amyot's hair, too, was long, and both children wore it
low upon their foreheads ; but Amyot's hair and skin had
a darker tinge, his shoulders were broad, and he had little
grace of movement. Tory and Whig took liberties with
him which their sense of propriety would never have per-
mitted them to attempt with their little mistress. He was
their playfellow, she was their goddess. They would turn
a deaf ear to his commands when such commands were
not entirely to their minds ; her voice, never raised above
the gentlest tones, brought them to her feet in a
moment.

The sudden cessation of the noisy game in the oak-
parlour had brought on the scene one of the inmates of
the kitchen — the afore-named Deborah, a stout, elderly
country-woman, who, ever since the death of the captain's
wife, four years before, had, to use her own expression,
' kept things going ' at the farm. Her husband, Michael

,.!f

Amyot Brough.

Jepbson, was hind, or managincr man, out of doors ;
for the captain was, in their opinion, a mere babe about
farm matters ; and how could he be auirht else,
seeing that ploughs and harrows, spades and pitchforks,
are of no account on board ship ? No doubt he might
be well enough at driving a ship ; but it took a wiser
man than he to keep a farm going, and that wiser man,
in his own and his wife's opinion, was honest Michael
Jepbson.

But though they did not think highly of their master's
wisdom, both husband and wife were truly attached to
him and his children ; and Deborah's usually cheery face
wore an expression of anxiety as she opened the door of
the parlour to see how the children were amusing them-
selves, and, in reply to Amyot's exclamation, ' I wish
father would come home ! ' remarked :

* It'll be lang afooar he'll git heeam t' ncet. Only hcear
what a terble storm's cumman ; t' hoose an' t' trees can
scarce bide wheer thae bea. Mappen he's stoppin' in
Peerith, Michael says. Sewer, he'd niver bother to cum
heeam sick a neet as thisan.'

' Not come home ! ' cried Amyot. ' Father's been a
sailor ; he cares nought for wind and snow. Oh, he'll
come home, I make no doubt at all ! '

' Whist, lad, ycr ivver fur thinkin' yasell reet. We'll
sec. I'd i''e terble glad to knaa as t' maester, top-cooart,
pipe, an' a\ be. safe in Peerith this varra minute.'

' And I'd be glad to know he was coming down the
lane, as I dare say he is,' responded Amyot. ' I'll ask
Mike to come with me to meet him.'

* Nae, that ta wilna. Mike an' his rheumatic to gang
oot in t' snaa ! '

' Then I'll go by myself.'

' Nae, I tell ya ; sit still in t' house, an' hooap all's reet
sae lang as ya can.'

And she turned back into the kitchen, leaving the chil-

,1
I' <

Arnyot B rough.

ti'

dren gazing at each other with awe-struck faces. Joan
was the first to speak.

' Deborah is frighted,' she said ; ' but fatlier is never
afraid of the wind and the rain. He will come home,
Amyot.'

' If he can,' said Amyot. ' Mike told me one day that
he remembered a storm which blocked up all the roads
about here in a few hours, and it has been snowing all
day. He said several men were lost in snow-drifts.'

' To-day ? '

' No, not to-day ; that time years ago that Mike was
telling me about.'

' Years ago the roads, I dare say, were very bad,'
suggested Joan. ' I do hope father will get safe home.
The wind does howl terribly.'

There was something unusually sad in the little girl's
voice. Tory's ear caught it, and fearing, doubtless, that
she was still fretting over the mischance of her waxen
baby, he came to her side with a sympathetic and re-
gretful whine.

' Yes, Tory,' his little mistress said, ' we are thinking of
your master and the storm, and we are very unhappy
about him.'

Tory sighed deeply, and went to the window to gaze
out into the darkness. After a few minutes he pricked
up his ears and seemed to listen. The children noticed
this movement, and ran to the window to discover what
was to be seen. But all was dark as pitch ; the wind
howled, the snow beat against the pane ; and though
Tory evidently heard something more, the children
strained their ears in vain to catch the much-desired
sound of horse's hoofs.

* I shall go and tell Mike and Deborah,' Amyot ex-
claimed. ' Tory thinks he hears something — thfl's plain
enough.'

MikQ and Deborah were sitting at their supper with

Amyot B rough.

ex-

YdSw

dth

the two lasses who formed the kitchen stafT, when Amyot
burst into the room exclaiming :

' Tory thinks he hears father coming ; but we can see
nothing. Do, Mike, bring a light and come and see ! '

He rose slowly, but willingly enough ; for he too had
had misgivings, though it was not his way to talk about
them. Suddenly he stopped.

' A heears summat tew,' he said, ' bet it'll no be at t'
hoose-dooar, Amyot, lad. A heears a scratchin' loike at
t' shippen ; sewer t' maester's beean androoad rin theear ;'
and he went down a long flagged passage, and opened a
door that led into the back-yard.

' It isn't like father to do that,' murmured Joan, as the
two children followed down the dark, cold passage,
shivering as they met the keen blast that rushed in at the
open door.

Mike had disappeared ; but ere they reached the open
air, they heard him utter an exclamation of astonishment
and dismay, and at the same minute Tory rushed past
them, barking furiously.

'Amyot, lad, bid yan o' t' women fooak ta get es a
leet ; yan can see nowt,' called Michael in a voice which
was full of fear ; and in a few minutes Deborah and both
the lasses were out in the yard, she holding a lantern, by
the light of which Michael was to be seen holding by its
bridle a poor drenched horse, in as sorry a plight as horse
could well be.

' Whist, whist ! ' said Deborah, as the girls began to
utter cries of alarm. ' Joan, my lamb, rin in t' hoose ; t'
wind will blaa ya reet awa'. Yer fadther mun a tummelt
aff in t' snaa. Mike '11 ga a bit o' t' rooad, and he'll be
sartan to meet wi' him, if bet t' mooan wud cum oot.'

' Let me come too, Mike,' pleaded Amyot, with white
lips and eyes wide open with terror ; ' let me get up on
Jonah, and come with you. Oh, I must go and find
father ! '

A?nyoi Brouj^/i.

Mike looked at his wife. She had pulled olTher shawl,
and was wraj^ping it round the boy as he scrambled on
to the weary horse's back.

' Ya mun let him ga,' was her reply ; and Mike took
the bridie and turned the horse's head back the way he
had just come.

It was not easy to make Jonah stir: he was almost
spent. Every hair on his bod}', as well as the saddle,
was wet as possible. What could have hapi)cned to the
master ? Where could he be at that moment ?

This was the question in Deborah's mind ; but as
Mike and the lantern disappeared, and the coiul was left
in darkness, she turned to the trembling child beside her,
and drawing her into her arms, carried her back into the
warm kitchen, soothing her as best she might. Joan did
not speak, but some quiet tears were falling ; and Deborah
wished she would talk, and be for once, as she said to
herself, like other bairns. There was a long silence, only
broken by the one question from Joan, ' Did Tory go with
hem ! ' and in answer to the assurance that the dog had
followed close in the horse's steps, she sighetl, ' That is
right ; it was his duty,' and said no more.

An hour passed in this quiet suspense ; then the same
muffled sound of trampling in the snow was heard, and
Joan slipped down from Deborah's knee and darted to the
door. The three women were following, but before they
could lift the latch the door was opened from outside, and
Amyot, panting, wet, and utterly worn out with battling
against the wind, stumbled mto the room.

Joan shrank back in alarm. Amyot's eyes stared at
her, but did not seem to see her. Great sobs shook his
whole body, and his breath came in deep gasps ; his face
was as white as ashes, his long dark hair hung over his
face.

' Ya mun teeak aff hes claes, and git him summat
warm ta drink,' Deborah,' said Mike, who followed

Affiyoi I ) rough.

1 1

. at
his

face
his

mat
wed

closely ; 'and a mun teeak Jonah t' shippcn, and then I'll
ga call oot t' lads, and we'll ga tagither and leeak in t'
river and ivverywhaars, an' niebbe we'll find hitn tecan
side o' tuther. Bet git t' bairns t' bed, an' niak' 'em
teeak summat to it.'

He swung the heavy door behind him as he spoke, and
was gone.

Amyot had sunk down on the hearth before the fire,
and, deaf to all Joan's entreaties that he would tell her
where he had been, did nothing but fTy and sob, till the
little sister fell into her wonted manner, and said :

' You will never be a man. I thought boys were
ashar' 'd to cry and moan like babies. I am surprised at
you, Amyot — Mike was right to say that Deborah should
put you to bed.'

' Deborah will not put me to beil, and I am not a baby.
But you do not care, Joan. I suppose it is nothing to you
that father is drowned, and will never come h(;me again
— never ! ' and Amyot burst out into a piteous wail which
brought tears into Deborah's kind eyes, and made the two
strong country lasses sob and cry.

But Joan did not cry. Her little face grew very pale
and almost old in its intense anxiety, as she clasped her
small hands together, and gazed earnestly at her weeping-
brother.

' It is not true, Amyot ; you love to frighten me, but
I will not believe it is true. Deborali, it isn't true ;
he is frightened, and doesn't know what he is saying.
Jonah came safely home. Father may have fallen off
and hurt himself, but he can't be drowned — can he ? '

' Nae, nae, ma lamb. He sud a gaan roond be t' rooad ;
bet mebbe he cudna find t' naarest rooad. Speeak ta her,
Amyot, and tell her wot Mike telled ya, and whya ya are
sae sewer es yer fadther's lost.'

Amyot, tiius urged, made an effort to control himself,
sat up, and in a choking voice told his tale.

Amyot B rough.

' Wo went exactly tlie way Jonah liad come. It was
easy to find it, because he had slru}j;ifled alonj; thruuj^h
the snow ; he had come straight ilown liic lane, but
before that he must have lost himself, for the rack led
into the little meadow, and right down to the river-side,
and there, Mike says, he must have stumbled and l(jst his
footing, and iMike believ>.'s they both fell into the water ;
and, oh, it is deep there, and goes rushing and foaming
along, and we could see nothing — nothing at all — neither
in the river nor along the bank, and Jonah wouldn't stay;
he was so frightened Mike couldn't hold him; he broke
away, and would come home, and carried me with him.'

' An' a varra gude thing tew,' said Deborah sooth-
ingly ; ' fer ya cuddent hae deen nae gude. Mike '11 dew
better by hissel. An' noo, ma barn, ya mun coom
ta bed, an' Joan '11 cum tew, loike a gude lile barn.'

'I'll come and sit by Amyot, but I cannot go to bed,'
was Joan's resolute rejoinder. ' If they bring father home
all wet and cold, there will be a deal to do, and he will
want me.'

Amyot's heavy eyes were closing before he was laid in
his little bed. Was it the shock or the cold that had so
crushed the strong-spirited lad ? Deborah feared it was
both, and fears for her master, anxious thoughts for her
husband out in the storm, and great misgivings for the
little lad, together made up a burden, the like of which
she had seldom known.

She paced restlessly to and fro, upstairs and down,
now listening at the back door, now gazing out into the
darkness from an upper window, now returning to the
room where the dark head was nestled in the pillow in an
uneasy slumber, while the brighter head of the little girl
lay back in a rocking-chair, as she kept her weary watch
by the bedside ; anon returning to the kitchen to see that
the fire was good and the kettle was boiling, that when
the master came all might be in readiness.

Amyol Brouc^h.

When lie came ! Ah, if ever he should come !

The lon^ hours crept on slowly — oh, how slowly !
Only those who have watched for the morning' can j^uess
how slowly it came at last. Debtirah hail listened to each
hour as it struck, had struggled against the drowsiness
which assailed her at the darkest, stillest hour of all, luul
wrapped herself in her warmest shawl as the night grew
colder and colder, had built uj) the logs on the hearth,
had seen her candle burn down in the socket, and had
lighted a fresh one, and still no sound was heard outside
the farm. She had seen with relief that Amyot's sleep
had grown more peaceful and natural, and had rejoiced to
find, on one of her visits to his room, that the little
sister's eyes had closed, and her bright head had sunk
down on the pillow by his side ; the fears, the sense of
responsibility at last forgotten, and the children were
both fast asleep.

How the good woman dreaded their awakening ! Long
before simrise the beasts would be astir, the lasses would
be at work, and then the children would awake. And
what should she say to them ? How tell them to hope,
when all hope had died in her breast ? ' But children
are children,' she thought ; ' they'll not die of grief,
though Amyot has a warm heart, and the lassie is not
quite like other barns.'

A footstep in the snow, a hand softly lifting the latch,
and her husband stood within the door. A miserable
figure, drenched and battered, dejection in every line of
his usually cheery face, utter weariness and exhaustion in
every movement ; and behind him, looking, if possible,
still more a picture of despair, was the dog Tory.

Michael spoke no word as he put down his lantern and
stout stick, and spread his hands to the blazing log.

Deborah gazed at him, and uttered the one word :

' The maestcr ? '

He shook his head.

I
(

* Ysc nowt to tell.' 'I'hcn, turning to the iloj;, Nvlio
was making tor the stairs, • Na, 'I'ory, lad/ lie saiil, ' tlioo
imiiitia j;.inj; to t' barns. I<cL tlic lilc ihiii^rs be, tliac'll
knaa siiiic cnoo.'

The (lojr hesitated a iiiimite, then, convinced apparently
aj;ainst his nill, he returned to the hearth, stretched hiin-
seir wearily down and waited ; waited tor the day to come,
and all that it might bring.

1 I

}

CHAPTKR 11.

IN WIIKK AN IMPORTANT I.KTTKK IS WUITTMN.

An, inc ! that uailiiij; time! that weary waiting time,
how lon^ il la^'tccl ! People were, niethiiiks, more patient
in those d.iys than they are now. This eentury has
u.sliereil in the demon haste, am' we can wait tor nolhinj;,
bear nothing, j)iit up with nothing, as in days j;()ne by
our forefathers could. Uncertainty is unbearable ; delay
not to be tolerated. Last century events moved more
slowly, and, perha])s, it seeineil more natural to ha\e to
wail. 1 Uiiow not, but it seem« to me that in the bustle
and liurry ot lite oi" these days many (jf the virtues of our
race ha\e become extinct. We ha\e no time for the
genial courtesies of life; scarce time to enjoy our
pleasures ; may it not sometimes be said, scarce time to
mourn oiu" dead ?

But in .Vmyot Rrough's cliildliood there was time
enough anil (,» spare. No telegraph called friends to his
help ; no railway brouglit them in a few h(nirs to his
door. Not that sym})athising friends were wanting.
Neighbours came in plenty ; stout farmers wailed thrc^ugh
snowdi;ift;i to lielj) in the search, and more than one
kind-hearted motherly woman came to comfort the
j)oor children ; but so long as the snow continued to fall,
no trace of the lost father could be found. Day after
day Amyot rolled restlessly about the house, and Joan
sat silent by the window. Mike and other men came
and went with never a word to say, and Deborah and the
maids whispered together, and wondered how it all would

Amyot B rough.

4
»•

end. And in the evening the children would crouch in the
chimnej^-corner, silent still, but ever listening, with Tory
and Whig beside them, full of comprehending sympathy.

How long those days of uncertainty seemed ! But the
certainty came at last, when the snow melted, and the
river grew less troubled, and the skies cleared, and the
snowdrops peeped above the ground. Then the doubt —
if doubt it had been — passed away. The good old
captain, who had many a time braved the wildest
tempests on far-oif seas, had met his death not far from
his own house-door, in that stream which looks so harm-
less as it rushes over its rocky bed, in bright summer
weatLjr. The certainty had come — the certainty that a
grave in the old churchyard was all that the captain now
needed ; the certainty that the children were alone in the
world, and must now live for each- other — Amyot for
Joan, and Joan for Amyot.

Looking back, in after years, on those long days of
waiting, Amyot once said, ' They seem to me as long as
any year of my life ; and Joan grew paler and more still
every day.'

She was very still and silent for many a week after the
father had been hidden from her sight under the sod
behind the church. Amyot longed to make her talk ;
but in those dreadful days he had made many a firm
resolve, and one was that never again would he speak
sharply to that little sister who was now his one and
only possession ; he would be to her a real elder brother,
knight, and protector. But why — oh, why would she
not talk to him ? At last she did. It was a bright day
at the beginning of February. The church bells had
been sounding in the morning ; but it was long since any
one had taken them to church, and the idea of going had
not occurred to either of the children when suddenly
Amyot spoke.

' There are lots of snowdrops under the apple-trees in

Amyot B rough.

. the
Pory
thy.
; the
I the
1 the
.ibt—
1 old
ildest
from
liarm-
mmer
Lhat a
1 now
in the
ot for

lays of
iong as
re still

:er the
le sod
talk ;
firm
speak
le and
[other,
Id she
It day
s had
;e any
Ig had
jdenly

jes in

the orchard, Joan. I have heard of people putting
flowers on graves. Sliall we go to the town and take
some ? It would be something to do.'

Joan woke as if froni a dream, and said somewhat
listlessly, ' If you like.'

Amyot remembered his good resolution, and replied,
' It is as you like, Joan dearie.'

'It is hard for a lad to have nought to do,' reflected
the little girl ; 'but about the snowdrops, Amyot — I
scarcely know why we should take them. Why do
people do such things ? But I'll come ; we can think
about it as we go.'

' Shall we take Tory ? ' asked her brother, when she had
arrayed herself in her cloak and hood for the walk, and
was standing by his side in the orchard. The dog had
followed her, and was earnestly seeking leave to go with
them.

' Take Tory to the churchyard ! it wouldn't be right —
he might tread on the grave.'

* Oh, no ! indeed he wouldn't ! he went the other day,
you know,'

' Well, he can come ; and the flowers — I wish I knew
aboat them ; there are so many things we don't know,
Amyot.'

' Yes, indeed,' — it was delightful to have a talk once
more. Amyot determined to encourage her to continue :
' But if people put flowers on graves it must be the right
thing to do.'

' That is just like a boy,' Joan replied, in quite her old
tone ; 'you speak without thinking ; but, Amyot, people
always say that those who are buried know nothing about
it. So why we should put flowers on their graves, I
caimot see.'

' It's the only thing we can do for father now, at any
rate.'

' No, indeed !' Joan's pale face grew animated and

Aniyot Broiigh.

earnest. * We can do just the same things now that we
used to do. I don't mean to make the least difference.'

' Don't you ! but he won't know !'

' How can you tell, Amyot ?'

'Well, I can't tell, that's just about it. We know
nothing about him now, Joan ; people say that he is
alive, gone to heaven, and such things, but I don't know
what they mean, do you ?'

' I don't know what heaven means, so I can't think
about that ; but I've been thinking, Amyot, about father
and us, and it seems to me it's like this. When father
went to market, or to Carlisle, and was away a day or two,
we did just as we should have done if he'd been at home.
I helped Deborah, I read my books and sewed my seam
just as usual, and you did your lessons and worked in the
garden ; sometimes father asked what we'd been doing,
and sometimes he didn't ; but we went on just the same.
Weil, why should things be different now ? Father's
gond somewhere, perhaps farther than Carlisle, perhaps
not so far ; he's away, but if we're honest folks, we shall
treat him just the same as if he was here.'

' Have you been thinking this lately, Joan, while
you've been so quiet ?' asked Amyot, with admiration ;
but as she did not reply, he continued, ' But father's gone
farther than Carlisle, it seems to. me.'

' Does it ? Well, to me it doesn't, and I'll tell you
why. Some time ago, I forget when it was, I was sitting
in the kitchen one evening — you were in the parlour with
father, looking at his maps — well, I was undressing
Cleopatra, and Tory was waiting to rock the child to
sleep, when I heard Deborah reading to Mattie and Sue
while they ironed the clothes in the laundry. She read
about a number of different people. I can't remember
half their names, but I know they were dead, and some
had died_] very hard, starved with cold, and famished, out
on the mountains ; some had been murdered. I felt very

Amyot B rough.

I we

Lnow
le i^
^now

think
faUier
father
•r two,
home.
/ seam

in the

doing,
1 same,
father's

erhans

e shall

while
Iration ;
:'s gone

|ell you
sitting
|ur with
iressing
Ihild to
Ind Sue
Ihe read
Inember
Id some
;ied, out
ilt very

sorry for them, but I wished Deborah would not read
such doleful stories, and I was trying not to listen, when
she stopped a minute and then went on ; she was still
reading about the same people, but the book, called them
a cloud of witnesses, and said they encompassed us, and
that as they were watching us, we ought to run our
race well. It was like poetry, but it wasn't poetry. I am
not quite sure I know what the race meant, but if the
book spoke the truth, those who are dead are not so far
off as Carlisle.'

' It was a fairy tale, I suspect ; you always did like to
hear about fairies and ghosts, and sometimes, I believe,
you fancy you see them ; don't you, Joan ?'

Joan avoided the question. ' I like to think that father
is not very far off — that part of him, I mean, that thinks
and loves ; the best part of him, that is.'

' /don't believe he is anywhere near ; you believe so easily,
Joan, and you imagine so much ; but look here, if father
should be able to see us now, he can't be happy, because you
know he'd see how dull we are without him, and people say
folks are always happy when they go to heaven.'

* I've thought of that, too,' Joan replied, with
hesitation ; ' but if he isn't as happy as he will be some
day, I believe he's satisfied, and that's a kind of happiness.
Of course, he's glad to have mother again ; and as for us,
perhaps as they say it's good for us to have to manage for
ourselves. Mother and he might have taken too much
care of us if they'd stayed with us — who knows ?'

She stopped with a sob, and Amyot felt a great lump
rise in his throat ; som.ething within him seemed to say
that that slight, fairy-like creature needed a good deal of
care, and that anyone would say it was hard for her to
have to do without both father and mother's
guardianship.

They trudged along in silence for some time, Joan
choking down her sobs, and struggling to be as calm as it

A))i\'ot Ih-ouoh.

scciiK'd to licr she (iiii;li; to be. and Aiiuot lij^litin^ witli
the nnj;ry sorrow that was el.iiiioiiiin^ to know the why
ol it .ill. Neither spoke till Peinith town was reatlu-d,
and tlu'v erossed the market -i)laei', and passed muler the
«)ld ehureh-tower to the new-made gra\e on the north
side of the elunchyanl. 'I'here was a sound ol music Irom
within the chinch, and when they had laid the snowdrops
in order on the grave, they stood and listened. .loan
loN'ed nuisic, and lhou,i;hl the sounds \ery sweet and
pleasant.

A •

\i'

^Cft -■''' ;■«.'

\jt^

riNRirn ciiuRcii.

' Shall we go to church somclimcs ?' Amyol suggesteil.
' I should like to hear the singing.'

'Yes; we'll ^o sometimes^ Joan said; ' jusl as we did
when lather was alive ; ami when we grow up, we'll go
e\ery Sumiay, I hearil him say lo Mike once, " It isn'l
well lor the children to see loo much of the parsons ;
they're a breed that don't improve, Mike." I don't know
what he meant, do you ?'

h(
th
th

'h//j'o/ nroupli.

why
•bol,

r iIk'

Joan
. ami

, '.. TO' '

rcvcslcd.

\vc clid

kVC

11 ^^'

' U

isn't

)av

sons ;

know

'Not (juiti'; Init, loan, last timol went to the elnirch
with latlicr ii niatk' inc (ccl as it we'd all been doin^ scjnie-
thinj; wron^, and \ diJn'l want to ^o a^ain at all.'

'When was it, Ainyot ; and wIkU happened ?'

' h was just beloie thceold weathei the roads weie had,
and lather wouldn't let you come. That Sunday when
Tory ran alter us, and came into church. Don't you
renieniher ? I told you ahout it.'

' Yes ; he ilidn't bchiue well. ^^)U s.iid he sat and
t;roanetl.'

' But I'x'e often thought of it since, and 1 thiid< 1 know
why he groaned, ^'ou know he always groans \\ hen he
has been taken-in — when he thinksa bone is meant lor him
and Whit; j;ets it ; or anything like that. Well, I'd had
a notion till that Sunday that churcii was a solemn sort of
l)lace, and that decent, respectable sort of folks went ihere ;
but that day it .seemed to me that it was all niake])elieve
and i)lay-acting. Of course, I liked the singinj^, a- . i liked
the stories one liears read ; but I tlidn't like the rest f>f it.
The parson wasn't our j)arson that Sunday — not }*ar.son
Morland — but a man from the h'elis somewhere. I know
ail about him, but I can't remember liis name. He made
a great talk about folks denying themselves, and working-
hard, and doing their duties, and not drinking and eating
too nnich, or wasting their time going to cock-fights, and
the like. He said it quite solcnni, as if he meant it ; but
it was all make-believe, because I know, Joan, tliat that
man himself drinks hard, spends all his time playing
bowls or skittles at the public-house, and never does any
work at all.'

' Oh, Amyot ! you must be mistaken. You can't have
seen him, so how can you know ?'

' Never mind. I do know. But that wasn't all. Before
he began to preach I'd been wondering about some other
things. The parson had read out a long list of things
that people ought to do or oughtn't to do. He said folk

Amyot B rough,

il.

'«il'

mustn't steal ; and there was that bad lad, Nick Bowles
that Deborah says she can't keep from stealing the eggs
and pulling up the cabbages, looking quite good and
honest, and saying very loud — as loud as the parson — that
he hoped he never should steal, or something of the sort.
And there was Jem Sykes, who beats his old mother, who's
bedridden, praying as loud as loud could be that he might
honour his father and mother ; and Farmer White, who
makes his men work on a Sunday, saying the prayer about
keeping the Sabbath. Oh ! it was play-acting, every bit
of it — that's why Tory groaned. And, do you know,
Joan, that crusty old doctor was sitting in front who
always swears at Tory, and when the parson said folks
oughtn't to swear, Tory gave a grunt and caught his
coat- tails in his mouth, as if he would say, "There, listen ;
that's meant for you." But if he could have got up in the
pulpit, Tory would have made a better sermon than the
parson, I believe — for he likes things honest and straight-
forward, Tory does ; and it's my belief he won't go there
again in a hurry.'

Amyot looked very hot as he ended this long speech, and
his little sister's ' Hush, they're coming out of church,'
scarcely availed to silence him, so excited had he become.

They mingled with the departing congregation, and
receiv^ed a great deal of compassionate notice from many
who were sorry for the poor captain's children. Just as
they were passing through the little iron gate, they were
overtaken by the vicar — Parson Morland, as he was
generally called. Joan looked with reverence at the tall
figure in gown and bands, and laid a warning hand on
Tory's head, as she fancied she caught the sound of a
low growl beside her. Amyot pretended not to see the
clergyman, lest, as he said to himself, he should have to
listen to some good advice which would be all sham and
tomfoolery. But he was too well-bred not to answer when
he heard his name called, and, as it happened, the vicar's

iiihi.

Aniyot Brouoh.

h, and
lurch,'
come,
a lid
many
ust as
were
was
le tall
nd on
of a
ee the
ave to
■m and
when

mind was not just then set on giving good advice —
perhaps he had exhausted his supply in church.

' I've been thinking of you children many times/ the
parson said. ' If the roads hadn't been so bad, I should
have come out to see you. But I want to know what is
going to happen to you. You can't go on living at the
farm by yourselves. Have you written to your father's
relatives to tell them of his sad death ? '

No such thought had occurred to either of the children,
and they said so, Amyot adding that they knew none of
their relations, and couldn't write to them. They meant
to go on living at the farm, he said ; they were not alone —
Deborah and Michael lived there, and were very good to
them.

' Oh, yes ; I know. All very well for the present.
But your friends ought to know, my lad ; you must
write to them and ask their advice — or if you don't, I
must. What relations have you ? '

' Father had neither brother nor sister,' Joan replied,
for her brother did not like the vicar's peremptory way
of speaking, and was not inclined to reply. ' He often
said he had nought but distant cousins — and mother's
family lived in the South : grandmother lives in Kent,
and I've an uncle and aunt in London. Father used to
write to them sometimes. Mother was half French, and
father said Aunt Aimee was like her.'

' Do you know where they live, these people ? '
inquired the vicar.

' There are some of aunt's letters, and grandmother's
too, in father's desk,' answered Amyot, rather sullenly.
'I can write to them if you like, sir. But we do very
well as we are.'

' Amyot, the vicar knows best,' suggested Joan timidly.
' Yes, sir, we will write. Amyot can write a nice letter if
he tries.'

' Then try, by all means, and do it quickly, Amyot ;

Amyoi B rough.

¥\

' h%

business is business, and should always be attended to
without loss of time.'

He patted the children on the head and strode rapidly
away, feeling glad to have thus discharged his duty
towards the lambs of his flock.

Amyot was inclined to be very angry at what he called
the vicar's meddling, but Joan's decided ' I am sure it was
kind of him to trouble his head at all about us,' quieted
him, and he began to wonder what he should say in
this important business letter, and what the result of
it would be.

* I hope they won't say that we can't go on living
by ourselves, as the vicar did,' sighed little Joan. ' I
shouldn't like to leave Broughbarrow at all, and Mike
and Deborah, and the cows and all.'

'It is my farm,' said Amyot ; 'I couldn't leave it ;
everything would go wrong if I did ; people should
always live on their property.'

Joan's demure little face relaxed a little. ' Deborah
said our uncle and aunt would be our guardians, whatever
that means. I suppose we shall have to do what they
say. But I hope they'll say we may stay here.'

The composition of that letter was a most serious
business, so serious that Joan was inclined to think it
ought to be put off till the next day, Sunday not being
the day to transact business ; but when Amyot protested
that he would not have the vicar say that he neglected
business, she gave way, and consented to ask Deborah
to light the candles for them in the oak parlour that
evening, that they might be quiet while they wrote their
letter.

' Now, if you really want to help me, Joan,' her brother
remarked as he seated himself before the old desk which
had been his father's, ' you must put Cleopatra to bed,
and not allow Whig to jump on my back, and you had
better have \ cloth ready, in case I should upset the ink.

A>nyot B rough.

-5

3ther
hich
bed,
had
ink.

Joan did most truly wish to help him, so these httle
arrangements were soon made, a chair drawn to Amyot's
side, and all was in readiness.

The name of Broughbarrow Farm was carefully written
at the top of the page ; then Amyot paused.

' I shall write to grandmother,' he said ; ' I have seen
her picture, and know what she is like. I can't write to
this stranger man, my uncle;' and Joan assenting, the
letter began

'To Mistress Dari.ey.

' HoNOUKFD Madam, mv Okandmothkk,

' You will marvel why it is I, Amyot Brough, who
write, and not my Honoured Father, but a Terrible sad
thing has come to pass, and I am forced to write you
word of it.'

' You know that is quiic true, Joan. I am forced — I
would not do it otherwise.'

' Yes; but never mind, go on.'

' I am not going to hurry, Joan, or I shall make
mistakes. I don't know what to do. Must I tel' all
about it — about the snow, and the long time that we
didn't know what had happened ? I can't tell that ! '

' No, there's no need ; all that does not matter now,
you know ; just tell that father's dead, and that we are
living here just as usual ! '

' And that we want to stay — I shall say that too, Joan.'

' Shall you ? — will it be respectful, do you think ? '

' Of course it will, if I write it neatly, and put plenty of
capital letters — that's the difficult part of a letter, to know
just when to put capitals.'

' And the spelling ! ' suggested Joan ; ' but you'd better
go on, Amyot, it's getting late.'

So the letter proceeded :

'It is a verry Sad thing for Us, Joan and Me, and I

2()

/huyot /iroiti^/i,

'.n-

'i<.

in.iki- IK) (Itiwt (li.il you will he iinuli disc oiiMil.iti* too
ulun \»)u lu'.it ill. It (Mil (li'.ii I'.itlui is (li'.ul. I'loplf
U'll I's tli.it III' is luttci oil, but we tliinU III' w.is (|uiti'
conti'iit lull', .mil \Vi' wish llr li.ul st.iyt'tl with lis, th.il
is, Joan .uiil Mi-. \Vr .iii' \i'ny loiu'lir without lliiii, hut
hyc-.iMiI hyi' \\c sh.ill Ik- yoiist to it lu-ihaps. 'I'lii' \ ir.ir
hado Mo writi' N'oii this s.id iiiws, so W'l' hopi' you will
I'xiusi' this short kltti, whiih is writ by nic in f;rc.it
trouble.

' ^'ou^ ilutiliil j;ranilson,

' A.Myi)!' niv'orcii.'

' 1 ha\t' hoanl pi'oplo say,' ri'inai kcil Joan, who !iail
wMlclu'il i'\i.ry woiil with ikip intiii'st and iniKh admi-
ration, 'that a k'ttiT oui;lit to have a poslscri|>t ; do you
know wh.it a postscript is ? '

' Vt's, it's a picvo written on at tlu' ond .liter the name
ol the writer .my iniport.mt tiling whieh has been
torgotlen ; it should be soniethinj; \eiy iin|>ortant, and
I've written all there is to write.'

' Well, 1 hope it's all rii;ht ; it looks ijuite beautiful.
Po you know how to lold it uj) and fasten it ? \'ou
must be sure to write tb.e adilress very larj^e, because
when Mike has taken it to IVnrith and jiaid tor it, and
sent it olV, we shall not have the least idea what sort ol"
people take care of it ; they mayn't be able to read well,
or they may be blind, or very old and stupid, and it is
such an important letter, you know.'

Thus cautioned, Amyot wrote the address in very larpje
letters, and added, by way of additional security, ' Kent is
in the south of Kngland, a long way olT.' A remark
which. Mike tbought e.\tiemely prudent. ' If ya nobbet
sewer, Amyot, as it beant in t' Noarth.' But on this
point both the children were confident. Father had so
otten spoken of their relations in the South, that there
could be no doubt about it ; and it would doubtless be a

/hnyoi lUoui:^/i,

s (|\iiti'

IS, tiMl

m, bill
If vii.u
ttu will

(Mill.

lu) liacl

1j iulmi-

ilo yovi

10 iiiinu"
las Ikvu
ml, aiul

icautiiul.

? You

because

r it, anil

sort of

ad well,

md it is

;ry large

I' Keut is

remark

nobbet

on this

had so

lat there

ess be a

help t(» tlir people at the post to kiwiw ; (»l liei wise, o|
I (Mirse, llii'v "Ui^lil lia\(' to look it out on tin- map, and
then, it they i lianied to ^it tlu; map wrong side upwards,
the lettir would (i-rtaiidy go right away over the border.

'An' I've lueard es they be sii k a set o' let k less fooak
tuther side o' t' 'l'wei:d, like i-s ii(»t ya letter w()uld be
liggin in a ditch, il so be es ihay git hoald on it,' was
Miki^'s opinion ol his Siottish neighbours; ' lu-t mebbe
looak in t' South are a gae bit dalt. I's heeard nowl sae
\'erra good aboot them.'

' bather was loud of Aunt Ainu'e,' Joan remarked, with
a sigh. ' lie always hoped that I should hi; like her, and
like my mother ; and they both lived in the vSoulh,
Mike.'

' Na (loot ; and I's verra sewer es ya cuddent dew
better than be loike ya mudther, niy lile lassie. She wes
es bonny an' es blithe es a bird, and a reet good wife to
t' fadther ; ay, she wer ower good fur this war Id. Het,
hawivver, theear beeant mickle looak loike her ; an'
Jvondoneers, es I've heearil tell, are po(jar feckless things,
a-gossipin' an' a-bodderin' wi' udther fooaks' consarns ;
a-riimin' ofT a feytin' in forran j)arts, an' leavin' t' wife an'
t' barns ta lash for 'emselves.'

' liut grandmother doesn't live in London. She lives
in Kent ; still farther off than London. Father said
it was.'

* I rakkan it meaks lile differ; somewoeears in t' South ;
tudther side o' t' Atlantic, beant it ? '

'The Atlantic ! Oh, no, Mike ! The Atlantic Ocean is
on the west of England,' cried both children at once.
' Father sailed across more than once.'

'Ay, ay; all reet. I tliowt as 'twer a river. Ret river
or ocean, it mecaks na matter, call it which ya wull.'

!'f

I 1.

CHAPTER III.

TOKV MAKKS FHHK WITH OTHKK IM-'.OIM.k's TAILS.

I'l" is impossible at this distance of time to follow, even in
imagination, the career of that important letter ; whether
it went soutii or whether it went north ; whether it
crossed the Atlantic, or contented itself with a trij) to
Ireland, we do not pretend to say ; one thing otdy seems
certain — its travels must have been tedious. More than
once had the vicar, who was not an im})atient man,
expressed the belief that it must have miscarried. More
than once had Mike vowed that next time a letter needed
to travel so far, he should have to go with it, and see it a
bit on its way ; and many times more than once had
the children wondered whether the people at the post
troubled themselves to send children's letters at all, be-
fore anything seemed likely to happen in consequence
of the epistle composed with so much care on that
Sunday evening.

' Not that it matters much,' Amyot would say ; ' we did
our duty by them, and if grandfather and my uncle don't
care that father is dead, we cannot help that.'

But Joan wai. "ot so easy about the matter. Perhaps
she felt more desolate than he did, and had a yearning in
her heart for these far-off relatives, who, though strangers,
were still her own flesh and blood.

She believed in them. Father had always spoken with
much affection of her mother's sister, her Aunt Aimee,
and as she lay in her bed at night, weeping those tears
■which were never seen in the daytime — tears that came

Amyoi Jirouj^/i.

PAILS.

', even in
whctlicr
let her it
1 trip to
ily seems
ore than
■nt man,
1. More
;r needed
J see it a
)nce had
the post
all, be-
sequcnce
on that

' we did
:le don't

Perhaps
ning in
rangers,

en with

Aimee,

se tears

It came

}

fr))m htr very hean, so desolate ami hungry she
wondered what that Aunt Aimte was like, who was her
own mother's sister her own mother's I Joan eould
but faintly rememix-r that mother; but the picture that
!nem(jry when sorely taxed would still ocfasionally call uji
was a \ery sweet one, and Joan could not but long to
see one who was said to be like that dear mother gone
far away.

Ami yet she scarcely knew what she hoped would
happen. Aunl Aimee was not likely to come and live at
Rroughbarrow, and Joan did not wish to leave it, not
e\'en to go to see that wonderful jilace called London.
Still, siie wanted something to happen, and when Amyot
said every day, ' You see, Joan, they don't wan^ to be
troubled about us. They think we can look after our
own affairs ; and they're quite right, so we can,' she did
not echo his words, or seem cheered by them.

She was sitting one day in the deep window of the oak
parlour, pondering over the uncertainties of the future.
Her seam had been forgotten; Cleopatra, too, was un-
noticed, though seated close beside her, and Whig, after
trying in vain to attract some attention, had curled him-
self up atid gone to sleep, when she was roused from her
reverie by Amyot's voice calling her in impatient tones
from the garden. There was something in the sound of
his voice that made little Joan's heart beat more quickly,
and a flush mount to her pale face. ' Joan, where are
you ? Joan, Joan ! ' and by the time she had reached the
lawn in front of the house, her brother, breathless and
panting, came rushing up the slope from the rocky
stream which flowed below the farm.

'Joan, Joan, Mike says ' was all he could gasp out ;

then, stopping to recover breath : ' Mike says that Tom,
the carter, told him this morning that a post-chaise from
London has brought company — that he saw a gentleman
from London at the Griffin Inn yesterday evening ; and

v>^

A my at llrouo-li.

'ii

tlie laiullonl loUl him lie was a real p;cntlcman, and no
mistake.'

Joan drew lier head uj), and lookinj; at her brother,
said :

' If the j;eiitleman is our uiKle, Amyot, he will not say
the same of you ; he would think you a cowboy, il he saw
you now.'

'Why? because I'ni' been lishinj^, and the bank is all
red mud, and it stieks to my elothes, anil my hat has
j;one somewiiere down the stream, and it's useless to wear
shoes and stoekin^s when one's alter trout ? If he's a
real gentleman, and if he's my unele, he won't judge me
by my elothes. lley, Tory, what's the matter ? '

'Oh, Amyot, rmi, hide yourself!' eried his sister in
dismay, as, turning to ascertain the cause of Tory's bark,
she saw a tall gentleman in wondrous trim attire coming
towards them.

Such an elegant coat, such perfect small-clothes, such
lovely shoe-buckles little Joan had never seen. She
gazed in speechless admiration, and so, alas ! did Amyot,
totally forgetful of his rough hair, red face, and dirty
clothes.

'Hush! down, down, my good fello'.v' ! ' were the
stranger's fust words, addressed to I'ory, who had his own
good reasons for wishing to ascertain the character of the
visitor. Then, as Joan moved shyly to meet him, making
the prettiest curtsey she could accomplish, he added :

' So this is Broughbarrow Farm, and you two are my
niece and nephew. I am glad I have found you at last,
tor 1 thought once that I should verily have been lost in
the mud, and had to go back to I^ondon without seeing
vou, and that would have been a pity, si;eing that I have
been travelling nigh upon fourteen days for that very
purpose. My little maid, will you lead me into y ^r
house and let me rest awhile ? '

Joan promptly complied, wliile her brother, somewhat

Aniyot Brou^Ji.

.'I
if

ewhat

nbaslicd that his sister was rcccivinjr more iu)tice than he,
ran olTto wash his face at the j)ump, repeating to himself,
with a pertinacity not unusual with him, that he should
not change his clothes, since a man could be wf)rth
nothing who would jud^e another man by his ^rarments.
But in this resolution he was overruled. Deborah cauj^ht
him ;• he was cominji i'-, by the yard-door, and, turning
a deai ear to all his arguments, fairly dra^jred him to his
room, where she did not leave liim i iitil she had seen him
attired in what he called his vSunday-best.

Hut a change for the better in the outward man is not
always accompanied by a corresponding imj)rovement in
the mind and tem])er. Amyot's disposition had not im-
proved durinjjj the last few months. 1 1 i.^ was a character
that greatly needed control. He had been his own master
of late, and the least attempt at dictation roused a spirit
of opposition and defiance which was apt to break forth
in surly sj)eech.

Joan's little face grew anxious as she turned it towards
him as hj entered the parlou'-. vShe knew the look on his
face, and her heart misgave her.

She had been trying to act the hostess, feeling terribly
shy and timid, and lotiging that Amyot, who was never
shy, would come to help her ; but when she saw that
scowl on his face, she repented of her wish most sincerely.

'And you arc fond of your old home ? ' their uncle was
saying as he entered ; ' you love Broughbarrow, you say ;
but, nevertheless, my little mountain fairy, you must say
good-bye to it for a while — only a while perhaps. Aunt
Aimee wants you, and your grandmother too.'

Joan's lip quivered, and she glanced at the gathering
cloud on Amyot's face. Did her uncle see it, she wondered ?
She half thought he did, for he was watching Amyot with
a strange smile lurking round the corners of his mouth.
His face was grave ; n-^*: exactly severe, but Joan felt that,
whatever her brother might say, she at least could never

1 1

Anivot IhojioJi.

Ml,

(larc lo tjucslitm lior stranger uncle's will, lie was so
ililTcrciit Iroin the onlv man she luul ever known inti-
mately — her lather — that though he held her hand and
his arm was ri)und her waist, she knew she should never
feel inclined to lean her head against his shoulder, t)r
nestle into his arms, as with her father she loved to do.

'Yes, your grandmother says you will he a real comlort
to her, anil when your letter arrived, she was greatly dis-
tressed that it was impossible tor me to start at once to
fetch you ; but I was busv, and it is a long way to these
mountain wilds. And Amyot is growing a big lad ; we
must find a school for him.'

'There's a school here — that is, at Penrith. Father
always said I should go there,' Amyot broke in suddenly ;
then, so far remembering himself as to reflect that a man
may fairly be ji.ulged by his manners, if not by his raiment,
lie addcxl, ' I beg your pardon, sir, but that was my father's
wish.'

'Oh, .Amyot ! ' exclaimed his sister, ' but if I go away,
you could not stay here — you will not separate us, will
you, sir ? '

' My uncle said I was to go to school, Joan ; 3'ou could
not go with me there.' There was a quiver in the boy's
voice, but he tried to make it sound hard and indifTerent.

Joan's head drooped : this was a trouble she had not
antici})ated, and the future was instantly shrouded in the
deepest gloom. Torv, sitting at her feet, threw his head
back, and set u|i a most tlismal howl.

'Come. Come,' said their uncle, ' we must not be so
doleful ; \vh\'. e\en the dog thinks something terrible is
going It) h.ippen.'

' lV,i! Tory always knows what wc think,' Amyot re-
plietl hastily, upon which his uncle laughed, and, getting
up, said :

'Well, well, we will talk more of this by-and-by. I
shall call upon your vicar, and consult him about you ;

Auiyot liroitoh.

as so
I inti-
il and
never
er, or
do.

)nitt)rl
ly ilis-
nce to
I these
d ; >vc

I^^ither
detily ;
a man
liuient,
father's

away,
us, will

.1 could
e boy's
ITcrent.
Iiad not
in the
lis head

be so
[rible is

•ot re-
Letting

[by. I
you ;

t
I

and in tiie meanwhile let me see this house ol yours, and
the man who manages the farm — 1 nuist have some talk
with him ; anil then you nuist show me where your
father kept his j)ajiers, my little maid.'

Again that preference for Jf)an. Amyot felt much
aggrieved ; and it was with a swelling heart and a strong
sense of ill-usage that he accompanied Mr. Pomfret about
the j)remises. Was he not master of the farm ? — luul not
e\'en the men learned to imderstand that, and to treat
him with something like a proper degree of res|)ect ? —
while this stranger- uncle looked down u])on him as a
mere child, who would, of course, ha\e no will of his own !

During the next two or three days Mr. I'omfret stayed
at Broughbarrow, looking over j)apers and settling many
matters of business which had fallen into confusion since
the death of Captain Rrough ; and one day he had old
Jonah saddled and rode into Penrith to see the vicar.

Not to linger over this period — rather a melancholy
period in my story — I must pass over the succeeding days,
during which the children by degrees discovered that
their Uncle Godfrey had determined that, as he said,
' Amyot should have his will — for a while at least — and
that the mountain nymph,' as he called little Joan, must
pack up her baggage and come with him to the South.'

' You'll be separated for a year or two, of course,' he
said, ' but don't let's have any crying or fuss about that ;
your facher's children ought to be brave, and I hate tears,
and so does your aunt.'

And he saw none — rather to his surprise, I think. Joan
squeezed Cleopatra tight to her heart, to still the wild
beating there, but she said nothing, and kept her tears for
those dark hours when she alone lay awake in the old farm
house. Deborah wept, but Joan never cried, merely
because others did; I think the sight of tears' rather
served to dry up hers than to cause them to flow — it is
thus with some natures. Joan's natural reserve made her

ItJfVOf /irOKoJi.

Ji!

'Ii,

eotisiaiitlv ictiuMiilnM lu"i imelc's woids, ami they scrval
clUvtuallv to k(H'|) luM calm.

Ami Amvot ? Prido kept bac k lii'^ Icar^.

' II uas (jiiite liKlit,' lie said ; ' loan should bo u'ith
ladies, he had no <loubt ; bill a tanner should always
stick to his latid, and a tarmer he meant to be'

Joan knew that there was a great lump in his throat
which made his voice so strained and odd. If she had
not known it, I believe her heart would (|uite have
bioken.

it was a verv pale little lace, and verv still, ipiiet little
j)erson that Uncle (Jodlrey saw by his sidc> as they stood
on the high-road waiting lor the hea\-y post-chaise which
was to carry them to Lonilon. Until that morning
dawncil, Joan had cherisluHl a secret hope that Amyot's
courage would give way, and he woidd beg to be allowed
to go too ; but no such retpiest had been preferred, and
the l.ist moment had come.

IVborah .and Mike wiMC ndibing their eyes, but the
childicn's cheeks were dry. Uncle (Jodlrey was proud
ot tlu'm, .and much rclicxt-il also, lor he had dreaded the
l^attiug abo\e all things.

' We shall get olV without any scenes,' he said, and he
ment.dly rubbed his li.nuls with satisfaction ]iut, alas !
he h.ul forgotten one person, anil that one no insignificant
part of Joan's ivorld.

* Vou will be very good, Tory, will you nt)t ?' Joan h.ul
sail! to her humble slave that morning. ' You will not
whine, or crv. or e\'en gri>an, because you know my
triHible is big enough, ami if you forget yourself, I may
lcH>." v\nd Tory had promiscxl ; nay, more, he had given
her his hand upon it. 'Two years will soon pass away,
Tory, and then Amyol will come to see me. and bring
you with him ; so you see we need not cry ! ' Tory
agreed, but he went away and told N\'^hig, and they both
declared that it was a scandalous shame, and that under

:*:

i
1

SLMVn

10 uitli
always

, tbioal
Mo bail
Le have

icl littlo
c'Y stood
^c \vliicli
niornitig

> allowed
ned, and

ln\t the
us |iroud
aded the

|l. and lie
kut, alas !
|ii;i\ilicanl

I Joan had
will not
Inow my
It, I may
luul given
liss away,
|,id bring
Tory
[hey both
(lal under

Iniyot J)ronii/i.

the ( it( ninstani ('- it was (iculv impos-ihic to rat any
breakfast .

' i'ot y MCN'cr breaks bis word,' loan said to herself, a's
she w.ittlii'd flic dowiuast mien of her favonrile, and read
in bis tnoundul eyes the tab- of bis bitter grief ; ' hv will
do as In; has promised.'

/•nd so be did. Ibit loan's ( ompac t bad lujt been as
eomprebensixe as she had fancied. Tory received her
parting caress witl> t^very sympffjn of sid)dned sorrow, and
made no attempt to follow her into the chaise ; bnt bis
pain conid not be cotitrolled— it must liave a vent— and
as Mr. Potnfret was following bis niece into the chaise be
found bis stiF coat-flaps seized from beliind ! 'I'bere was
a crack and a rent — and Tory's pent-up rage was let loose
in full hny over a large piece f)f rich silk, wbicli bis teetli
had torn away, and were now dragging about it) the dusty
road. The chaise rolled off; little .Foan's face, as it was
last seen, was a strange mixtme of amusement and con-
sternation. Tory's fit of frantic revenge was not wholly
misjudged, for it bad the efTect, at least, of changing the
current of his little mi.stress' sad thoughts, and if, as in
duty bound, she made his excuses to her nnicb-incensed
uncle, I tbiid< her favourite's parting (lemonstratif)n f)f
affection, though uid)ccoming in tlie highest degree, did

ler sorc! Iiear

t good.

The chaise had entirely disappeared from view ere Tory
had satisfied himself that bis spoil was torn to shreds ;
until then, Amyot's stern orders to him to let that thing
alone and come home, fell on perfectly unheeding ears.
At last, groaning bitterly, he obeyed ; but Amycit marked
that one shred of the rag was carried bf)me between bis
clenched teeth and taken straight to Whig, and then the
two, who bad forgotten many grudges in their mutual
hatred of the departed guest, united to make an entire
end of this unfortunate fragment of his dress.

' I suspect Whig put him up to that 'piece of mischief,'

.\^

////I'r'/ /yfOHi^/l,

.\tn\<>( iluMij;lU (t) Inmst'll ; ' il is like Whim's spilclnl
ways '

I iH'lunr \\\,\\ \\\ his luMil \\\c I)i>v Icll )(>,«|itMs dl ihcsf
two ilwiub iuuinals ; tlu'V I Mil cu li ot hci '; soi kM \-, atiil lir,
wliv — lu> u.is all altM\(> ! Il \v.is v(>i V scUish i| loan lo
ha\r |',oni> a\\a\- ami Icll liim; no (lo\i|)| it was Iiim" to
travel up h) I .otul. ;> in </ three horse eluiisc with Ihulc
(iotlln'N , t\o (lo\ibl, wluii lu' saw liri next, slic would lie
a Inu" x'ounp, ladx , H'ail\- to lan|.',h at liri i l<twinsli hiotlici ;
no doubl shi" n>rant to IoijmM all abtmt liini.aml lu- liappy
and .dl tlu> ii'st ol it ! W'rll, lu> lould not lu'lp il : In
l«ad donr \\\\,\K \vas iij;lit ; lot a man slionid lixc i>n Ins
pio|HMt\- i'\iM\(MU' saitl that and il lie was tnist>i.il»lc
lluMr. wliv, ho su))|>iisi>d it lonldn'l lu' hclurd ; oidy il
.Kvin had sta\cd all woidil ha\o Ihhmi lij^hl.

Then ho wont o\il ti> look at his |)ro|HMty tlu' holds,
tho liavsl.uks, tho latni horsos. '/no oows. tho shoop ; thoy
all Uh kod jvist as nsnal.and paid no spooial roj^aid lo him,
tlu'ir owniM .nul inastor ; had loan boon with him, tho
oows at loast wonKl ha\ol\nnoil thoir lu-ads ti> look at hoi.

Thon ho wont intotlu' honso .i^ain, .md liiulin^ not hinj;
to ilo, ho lotohod tho hook whioh Hnolo ( Jovllioy had ^ivon
him iMi palling, and strotohoil himsollOn tlu' wiiulow-soat
to road it.

It was by that wondorinl m.m wlu) wrolo 'Tho His
torv ol the IMagno.' .nul it was .i roal boy's book ; moii>
th.in iMuo rajit.hn Hrongh h.ui promisoil that ho wonld
bny 'Robinson Crnsoo ' tor his boy, hut tho purol(aso
liavl Ivon jiut otV trotn limoto timo, ami this was Amyot's
tirsl oxporionoo of iho dolighls ot that wondrou.s lalo.

Tory , sitting in hopoloss griot at .i little ilistanoo,
wondorod n\uoh at his absorjilion, and ga\o it alterwanls
as i\is tixod opinion to NN'hig th.it boys were but poor
creatures, had no tooling, were stupiil, senseless beings;
in whioh decision Whig fully oonourred, being much
aggrieyed because Amyot had read his hook while he ate

. I I>IV<>/ /*> (>N!'/l.

ami lit',
loan tn
line I"
1, Uiulc
VtHlIll l»t'
hiotlu'i ;
u- happv
I \\ : lu
^(> (in his

; only il

ho lic'lils,

i|) ; tluy

il to Inin,

Www, tlio

)k at luM .

u, notliiiH',

lail ^iviMi

ulow-scMt

■s

( ,ir I I <• cil ,
W .111(1 (|rr|i
I r,il '.oLm r,
lie Weill to

'(litis |(ii i'\ri !' Ill li.nl '.ml, |iii liiiij'. In ..immi o
tiiilk IdW.iids I'm \', wIki, llimipli he ii.id m* I
rmilil lint triiisc sii ln\',il ,1 JM.isI, ,111(1 (li.iiik Im

|{iil .ill li(iii|',li ' Kdliiii .(III ('iir.dc' W.I . ,1 );
lli.il il.iv u.i; li'iiilily lull)', .iml dicity, .iml .i
|i((l, ,\iii\( il w.i. I Kit '.(ii I y td I hi Ilk I h.il ,i m \v lilc w.i . In
Ih/mii fill him (Ui I he mm i nw.

licw.iitd hcidiiic.i jM.iminai s( hddl Imy lli . iiih jc
Ii.kI .(llicd Ihdt hfldic he went .iw.iy ; ( \'(i y d.iy, wet (H
line, hr h.id luld hi'; m|»lM'W he w.r. Id yn Id I'ciiMth
withdiil f.iil : llicic w.r. Id he iki diii kiii|',, iki iiii|iiiti(
tii,ilil\' ; (iidydii I hdsi' ( (iiidil idii . Ii.id \1i rmiilicl deemed
Il li^lil Id .illdw his iiejihew to lem.iiii -it I'tfMij^hhai row

.And /\mydl had |)i(imised, lhiiikiii|', this iiijiiiK I ion
\iTy iiiKalled Im and inlcrk'i in|;, and with (hf(i(iilly
reprt'ssinjT a haughty answer, 'line, il w.is ,i Idii^^ walk,
hilt what dl that ? Il wdiild while .iway the loii).^ days,
and at si liddl he slimdd ha\i' some liieiids.

'VUv llis-
>k ; mm I'
JO would

j)iucliasi'
s Atnyot's
, talc.

dislaiKV,
aitcrwaids

hul p<H)r
•ss beings;
inj; much
hilc he ate

I', 'll,

*i;! I!

CHAPTER IV.

A K r \- A L ("r O I) n K s s.

Amyot, as we have seen, had not improved in temper
or disposition during the months which had elapsed since
his father's death ; a strong will, somewhat hasty temper,
and dislike to submit to authority, had always charac-
terised the lad, and his uncle had not been slow to discover
these peculiarities. He had shrunk from the task of
putting himself into the lost parent's place, being by
nature averse to trouble, and not specially fond of children.
The boy must, by-and-by, go to a good school, but for
the present, perhaps, a somewhat rough one would do
well enough. If the boys wererather uncouth in manner,
and of very different grades of social rank, as Mr. Pomfret
deemed likely, they would do Amyot little harm, since
he, in his uncle's opinion, had no manners at all ; if they
were rough and knocked him about, it might take the
conceit out of him, which was much to be desired.

But in this last respect Mr. Pomfret's hopes were not
destined to be realised. With many of the little fellows
who frequented Queen Elizabeth's Grammar School, the
son of Captain Brough, who had a right to call himself
owner of a good-sized farm, who could ride into Penrith
on his own nag, and who, moreover, was as good a
scholar as the other boys of his age — I say, such a new
pupil was decidedly worthy of consideration — in fact,
rather a great man.

' I loike him verra weel, for all he's a gentlemon, es ya
can heear by his talk,' said a sunburnt, white-haired

Atfiyof BtougJi.

temper

3d since

temper,

charac-

liscover

task of

uing by

hildren.

but for

Duld do

iianner,

omfret

, since

if they

ike the

ere not
fellows
ool, the
himself
J^enrith
e;ood a
a new
■in fact,

n, es ya
haired

laddie, who came from the Fellside, and could give Amyot
no further address, but was very desirous to place himself
on a footing of something like intimacy, because, ' ya see,
when t' weather be dirty, twa could ride on t' beeast es
well es yan, and t' wud be sae convanient loikc.'

But something, I scarce know what, made Amyot
rather shy of the Fellside laddie, and much more dis-
posed to make friends with some of the town boys, whose
conversation was more interesting, inasmuch as they heard
* if anything was stirring, and brought word to school
with them.'

Three of these, brothers of the name of Kirkbride, were
not slow in responding to his advances ; they lived at a
very short distance from the school, in a square, dark-red
house, with their mother, who had been a widow for the
last ten years. The eldest. Lance, was fifteen years old,
and the head boy of the school, and Amyot looked up to
him accordingly with great respect ; the other two were
younger, and worked in the same class with Amyot — but
as Jasper and Percy were neither very clever nor very
fond of books, their new class-mate viewed them with
quite different feelings ; they were his peers, in no ser
at all demanding respect. Jasper, it is true, declared thai
he could lick Amyot in a fair fight whenever he liked,
but as yet no fitting cause for a fight had presented it-
self, and Lance set his face against fighting for nothing.
' But we'll have a bout before long, let Lance say what he
likes,' Jasper assured Amyot ; * but I'll not fight you
when that poodle of yours is by — he'd be a dangerous sort
of second, I warrant you.'

That poodle, as Tory was so irreverently termed, was
very frequently by. The farm was dull without either of
the children, and Whig had been driven by despair to
take to poaching, so Tory was fain to follow his young
master's example, and spend much of his time in the
town. Of course he was too sensible to spend hours shut

: III,

I «

up ill a closi' room stariiijjj al hocjks ; lie bad a iiukIj
j;rcalcr \'a»'icty of resources than Ainyol, and carried on
inquiries of many kinds: there was a weekly fair which
alTorded him much amusement ; there were rats by the
ri\er side to be hunted ; there were cats who, unlike
W^hig, ran away when he came near; there were others
who rushed up trees, and at a safe distance spat at b.un —
\'ery amusinf; creatures they were. Then there was an
old woman who sj)ent much time cleaninj; and dusting the
church. Tory made friends with her, and whiled away
many a half-hour runnintr up and down the gallery stairs,
or watching her from the gallery or from the pulpit itself.
The church was so conveniently near to the school that
Tory felt always safe, when there, that he should not miss
the happy moment when Amyot came out free to go
home. Among Amyot's school-fellows he had also many
friends : the white-haired laddie, whose pockjts often pro-
duced some dainty for him ; the three brothers, who lo\'ed
to teach him new tricks ; and sundry others, who capered
and shouted around him whenever they saw him. But in
Tory's faithful bosom there was still a terrible blank. 'The
days were well enough,' as he told Whig, 'but the even-
ings were fearfully tiresome ; no games now, no helping
to put Cleopatra to bed, none of that sweet society with-
out which a dog feels liimself sinking to the level of the
brutes ; ' and Whig condoled and suggested that he should
try poaching, but to this proposal Tory turned a deaf ear.

But one warm afternoon towards the close of August,
on coming out of school, Amyot found that his dog had
made a new friend. The gate into the churchyard stood
open, and there, walking round and round the quaint
stones called the Giant's Grave, Amyot saw Tory in com-
pany with a little girl whom the three Kirkbride lads at
once hailed as Primrose.

' Hilloa, little one ! hilloa, Primrose ! how came you
here ? '

rit'd on

by llic
U'llikc
; others
Inni —
was an
ling the
;d aAN'ay
y stairs,
(it itself,
ool tliat
lot miss
e to go
.o many
ten pro-
lio loved
capered
But in
k. 'The
le even-
helping
y with-
1 of the
should
eaf ear.
\ugust,
og had
d stood
quaint
in com-
lads at

liie you

' Come I. take you home, if you's been good little
l;ul>.' was the little maiden's prompt reply; 'mother's
left me liere to wait for you-- she's gone to see Goody
(ireenaway.'

I I •',■

■>.v

■I.

^'-•^-^^^

'■■■V^^:^' 1/ V>-.;^. ,:•.; 4i/f" 1^- .i^'.V' ,

fc^'ii^kiyfe'ii •■ J

THF. GIANT S CRAVE.

' And you've found a friend while you've been waiting ;
you're a rare ono for makmg friends.'

' Such a funn} dog ! such a dear dog ! ' said the child,
seating herself on the stones and taking Tory's head in

: '1.1

it i|)

Amyoi B rough.

her arms ; whereupon Amyot, thou, feehng shy, came
up and stood by his dog's side. 'Is he yours?' asked
Httle Primrose, hfting up her face and looking at him.

It was such a lovely little face that Amyot 's whole
thoughts were given up to considering it, and he quite
forgot to answer her. Eyes of the deepest violet blue,
with long dark fringes ; a rosy budding mouth, and skin
as white and soft as milk. It was a face that rippled all
over with smiles ; there was the merriest laughter in the
eyes, the gleefulest quiver about the lips, while the tiny
feet seemed rather to dance than walk.

' Of course, this is Tory, and he belongs to Amyot
Brough. We've told you about him many a time. Prim-
rose,' said Lance, taking the child's hand to lead her away;
but she stopped him.

' Wait a minute, I am not ready yet ; he has been very
agreeable to me — I must give him something that he may
not forget me. Have none of you lads something nice in
your pockets?' and she looked round at the three boys,
who searched but in vain.

' Oh ! Tory needs nothing, Miss Primrose ; he would be
hurt, if he thought you wanted to pay him,' said Amyot,
blushing up to the roots of his hair.

' How stupid of me,' he thought, ' to grow red as a
turkey-cock because a little girl speaks to me ; what a fool
she will think me ! '

But if she did, she did not say so, though she gazed at
him very earnestly as she said :

'I like your dog ; I almost love him. I wish he could
come and spend the day with me sometimes, while you are
at school and do not want him. I like gentlemanly dogs ! '

' Tory will be very pleased,' Amyot said, feeling much
the bitterness of the fate which cut him off from such a
privilege. ' If we may walk home with you now, Tory
will know where to come ; and I too should like to know
where you live.'

A my of B rough.

^, came
' asked
[lim.
5 whole
le quite
iCt blue,
md skill
)pled all
jr \w the
the tiny

Amyot
le, Prim-
ler away ;

)cen very
t he may
ig nice in
ree boys,

would be
1 Amyot,

red as a
hat a fool

gazed at

he could
le you are
lly dogs ! '
Ing much
Im such a
|ow, Tory

to know

Me said this with another blush, and the little maiden

laughed.

' You are almost as gentlemanly as your dog,' she said,
as she allowed him to take her left hand, the right resting
in Lance's large palm ; and in this order they went down
the narrow path towards the street where the Kirkbrides
li\ed.

They parted on the steps, Primrose laying her soft hand
on Tory's head, and saying :

' Do you understand, you dear dog, that T want you to
come and spend the day with me on PViday — not to-
morrow, because I shall be busy, but the day after —
h'riday — shall you remember, Tory ? '

' Trust him — he'll remember ! ' Amyot answered ; and
Tt)ry made his very best bow and departed.

What an evening that was ! Whig wondered what had
come over his master and Tory ; but he was left to wonder,
for no one enlightened him.

The evenings were very long just then, and Amyf)t
usually spent them in poring over ' Robinson Crusoe,' and
another Lale by the same fascinating author, which had
lately come to him from London, called the ' Memoirs of
a Cavalier.'

How Tory and Whig hated those books ; but on this
particular evening, though the book was open before him,
Amyot lay on the grass and stared absently at the blue
sky, though I doubt whether he saw the sky at all, or the
trees either ; the fairy vision which had crossed his path
that afternoon was still before his eyes. It had made him
think of Joan, and long, more than he had ever yet done,
that she would come back, and things would be as in days
of yore. And Tory, he too sat staring straight in front,
only starting up occasionally to rush round the garden
and then return to his seat, with an air of great content-
ment — ' Just for all the world,' Whig said to himself, ' as
if the little mistress had come back.'

■ !!|H

Amyol B rough.

!•»

)ll

MV-

Had Tory been the hero of my talc, as I am h.ilf
incHiied to wish he vere, dogs being for the most pari
more easily comprehended than men and women — I say,
had Tory been my liero, it would be my du:.y, as it
would also be my pleasure, to follow him on that eventful
day when he found himself introduced into the new world
of Blencathara House, and go with him through the
many excitements that aM'aitcd him, as his new :Vicnd
showed him her many treasures, her family of waxen
babies — all whose virtues and faults she detailed to him
as he sat sedately before her, and listened with eyes wide
open and full of interest ; we would follow them into the
old garden and see the jackdaws, whose chattering almost
turned Tory's brain ; we would sit under the old cedar
and listen to Primrose's tales of the fairies that lived under
ev'ery bush, until we longed, as Tory did, that our eyes
could see all hers saw from under those wondrous long
lashes. To br appreciated once more was balm to Tory's
spirits; to b'. talked to, as Joan had talked to hini; to be
the trusted recipient of many secrets ; to be assured
finally, ' I have told you all this, Tory, because ycu are
so gentle and polite, and because I see that you under-
stand all my feelings,' was simply enchanting ; and the
good dog became on the spot her devout adorer, a slave
once more to beauty and virtue.

But we must not be led away from the straight path
of duty by the bright eyes or witching wiles of this wee
damsel, but return to the plain, unvarnished I'istory of
Amyot Prough. AjkI truth compels us to admit that
the day which was so bright to Tory was but .'i -oxxy one
with his young niast(n'. Ne\'er had school i3een so
fruitful in woes to him ; never had lessons seemed so
hateful, or the master so stern a tyrant. Unhappily his
thoughts had gone after his dog. The master grimly
assured him that he wa> daft, or little short o^ it, and
when that observation failed to bring him to his senses,

i J

A myoi Broiigh.

.m lialf
ist 'pari
-I say,
^, as it
iventful
^v world
gh the
1 friend

waxen
to him
'es wide
into the
r ahnost
d cedar
;d under
)ur eyes
:us long
) 1 ory s
11 ; to be
assured
you are

under-
and the
, a slave

ht path
this wee
story of
nit that

)rry one
ixjen so
emed so
ipily his
- grimly
f it, and
,s senses.

recourse was had to a hunch of twigs from the tree,
created, as the master assured him, for the special benefit
of children. Proud as he was, Amyot had no doubt of
the soundness of this reasoning; his father had held the
same views, and acted upon them, and even when most
uplifted by the idea that he was master of Broughbarrow,
he had never failed to recognise the fact that as long as
he wa;'. young enough to be whipped, he must not expect
exemption from that most necessary part of education.

Nay, had Fate so willed it, that Amyot had escaped
correction, far from respecting himself the more for such
exemption, I suspect that he would have felt in after
years that he had missed something which might have
nude him a wisjr and a stronger man. His education
would have been iu some sort imperfect ; his childhood
would have teen a childhood of neglect.

Nevertheless, it was a sorry day, and this Tory was not
slow in perceiving, when, full of bounding glee, he met
his master coming out ot school, and iound his rapture at
once checked and chilled by an almost unnoticed recep-
tion. There was no need to tell the wise dog what had
happened : he had been young himself, and knew well
the consequences of youthful folly ; perhaps he wondered
wheth'^r Amyot had been drinking the cream, or tearing
up the flowers in the garden ; but he wisely refrained
from inquiries, and showed his sympathy by respectful
silence, and by walking quietly by his master's side all the
way home, instead of rushing wildly backwards and for-
wards, as was his usual practice.

But the darkest days in our lives have an eno, and the
sun that sets in a storni often shines its fairest on the
morrow ; and so it proved on the morrow of that gloomy
day. It was a half-holiday, and the Kirkbride lads, full
of good-natured remorse for having laughed at Amyot's
afflictions on the previous day, had resolved to make
their peace with him by inviting him to go for a long

Anivot /h'ouo/i.

^iii

L j4 I

U li

» '

walk with tlu'in ni tlu- altci ikkhi, and Ainyot, wlio in
liis bitter lr()iii)It' had xowcil that ho would never speak to
them ag.iiii, was re.ulily .i|>|)eased, and j;ladly agreed to
their proposal.

'We are going to lake some eakes with us, and stay
till the little one's Ix'd-tinie,' Lanee said ; and both Amyot
and I'ory Ws.re rejoiced to tind that Primrose was to he ol
the i)arty.

' I'he little madam, ilid you think she would let us leave
her at home ? ' Lanee exclaimed ; ' no, indeed, wherever
we go she goes, to keep us out ol mischief, she always
says, and my mother says she is right. But we shall iiave
to carry her, for we want to go right up to the Beacon,
ami that is too far for her.'

' I-ance,' said vXmyot, with some hesitation, as they
starteil for Blencathara House, ' is Primrose your si.ster ?
1 thougiit she was, but the boys say no.'

' She's t)ur sister, and she is not,' Lance rejilieil.
'That is, my mother has adopted her, but by-aiui-by she
will Iv my wife,' and the lad blushed with an air of
priile and some defiance. ' Didst never hear h.ow she
came to us 1 '

' No. indeed, tell me.'

' It's more than tlree years ago — wc think she is about
si.\ now, she may Ix.^ more, but we cannot tell ; I was
sauntering about in the woods, trying to shoot wood-
pigeons with a bow I had made, when I hearil a strange
sobbing sound. At first I thought it was a bird, and then
I feared it was a l">ixy, lor I ''.ere are queer creatures in
some of these woods, but I could see nothing. 1 looked
all around me, and grow more scared every moment, for
the wood was still and silent, and no living thing seemed
stirring, and yet ever and anon I heard this sobbing noise.
Folks tell of uneasy ghosts that cannot rest, but wander
about crying and lamenting their wicked lives, and it
seemed to me that this sound might come from some

li:
h(

.hnyot Broiii:^/i.

who in
speak to
;rcrcl to

mil stay
I Aniyot
to be ol

us leave
lierexer
I always
all have
Heacon,

as t hey

• sister ?

re|"»liecl.
[-by she
air of
:)W she

Is about
I was

wo(h1-
st range
ul then
ures in

looked

nt, for
seenieil

noise,
wander

and it
i some

such wretched being. Hut while I was wondering and
listening, a tiny child came tottering from among a
quantity of bushes and bracken, holding up the skirts of
her little petticoat, which was full of primroses. Her
pretty face was all swollen with crying, and when I
asked her who she was and what she was doing in the
wood alone, she (ndy sobbed and cried most pitifuily,
and kept repeating, *' Nanny dorn away." And then I
coidd just remember that Iwjfore I heard that sound of
crying, I had caught sight of a woman's figure just dis-
appearing along a distant path. I had thought little
about it, and could never call to mind in the least what
she was like.'

'And you do not know any more than that? You
have no idea whether Primrose was born in Penrith, or
had Ix^en brought here by that horrid woman ? '

* My mother did all she could to find out something
about her, but all we coidd learn was this: s(;mc travellers
had .stopped for a few hours at " The Two Lions," a tall
gentleman, a little girl, a man and a maid ; they only
waited to have a meal and bail their horses, and then
they rode away. The landlord of the inn thought little
Primrose was like the little girl, but he had not asked
their names, nor heard anything al)(>ut them. So my
mother to(jk the little lass and said she should be our
sister ; but, I .say that she is mine, and when she grows
up I mean to wed her, and then, Amyot Brough,
what say you, shall I not have the fairest bride in old
England ? '

' She is right bonny,' said Amyot warmly; ' but how
did you know her name was Primrose — did she tell you ?'

' Nay, I say she could tell us nothing ; wc called her
Primrose because I found her among the primroses. My
mother chose the name, and we all liked it well. But
here is the child, all ready and waiting, you see.'

It was a blithesome afternoon, something too sultry

lih'yot />roifi^/i.

"'It. i«

M I

% !

.f »!f

: i.

pcrhajts, but as llicy had nought to do but atinisc them-
selves, the heat was no great matter ; tlie two younger
lads were very intent just then on an insect collection
which they were making, and had little thought or
attention to bestow on aught *^hc. Lance and Amyot
sauntered along, now talking to f^rimrose, now conver!>ing
with each other. ' You need not mind me,' the little
maid had graciously remarked ; ' Tory is quite as
interesting to me as any boy can be — he has more sense
than many boys.'

'Has he? — how does he show his superior sense?'
asked Lance, much amused.

' He takes no pains to show it, that is why he is so
charming,' Primrose observed. ' Now you, and Master
Brough, you talk in fine long words, just to make me
think you are wiser than L'

' Well, Tory does not do that certainly,' Amyot
answered, laughing ; ' but as he does not talk at all, Miss
Primrose, how do you know he is so wise !'

' He understands,' the child replied, ' and he believes,
that is why I like him. You boys believe nothing.'

' Indeed, Miss Primrose. I believe everything you say,
every single word.'

• I will not try you,' the child replied, shaking her head
doubtfully ; ' boys believe nothing.'

' What is it she wishes us to believe ?' Amyot asked,
much perplexed.

Lance smiled. ' Her little head is ever running on
fairies, pi.xies, and such like, and we laugh at her ; it is
stupid of us, for her fancies are pretty ones enough. I
will take a run down the hill and see what Jasper is after,
and perhaps she will tell you some of her visions if you
are very docile and teachable.'

He ran off, and Primrose looked after him in some
alarm ; then, laying her hand on Tory's head, she seemed
satisfied that she was protected, and sat down on the

'■m

.iifiyof Ih'ouo^h,

[3 tlUMIl-

illcction
ight or
Amyot
ivcrsiiijj;
le little
uite as
re sense

sense ? '

iie is so

Master

lake nie

Aniyot
all, Miss

elieves,

^ou say,

ler head

asked,

ling on
;r ; it is
ugh. I
is after,
s if you

n some
seemed
on the

mossy trunk of an olil Hr-tree, anil began tyitig up a
buneh of blue harebells, to make a posy to adorn the side
of his head.

' If you were my very own dog you should wear a
bright knot of ribbon every day,' she said ; ' do you love
flowers, my Tory dear ? The littl** fays do : they take
such care of the flowers, am! are so sorry when they are
all withered and dead ; what will they do, now all the
foxgloves are drooping? They ring their tunes of joy
on them ; these pretty little bells are so feeble, they give

rKNKITU liEACON.

scarcely any sound at all, that is why everything seems so
still and quiet to-day.'

'Where do the fairies go in the winter time. Miss
Primrose ?' inquired ^Vniyot in a humble tone of meek
inquiry.

The large violet eyes rested on him with a look of
strange wonderment, then, with a tone of calm assurance,
she said, ' The flower fairies must have some rest, I

iu-

Amyot liroui^h.

suppose, like other people. Why, tliey sleep while the
llowers are sleeping, and then the others come out.'

' What others, Miss Primrose ?'

' Poor boy, he goes to sehool, and yet he asks such
simple questions ! Why, the wind fairies, and the water
fairies, and the ice and snow fairies. Oh ! Tory, such a
lovely ice fairy stayed in our garden last winter — she was
there for e-er so long. The jackdaws .saw her, and they
took care never to hurt her, she was so beautiful — all
bright and clear and shining — and she had such a sweet
little face. 1 got up one moonlight night to look at her,
and she was standing on the edge of the stone fountain
looking into the water.'

' Do they do any good, these fairies, tliitik you, Miss
Primrose ?'

' Oh ! I wish,' said the child fervently, ' that I might
ever do half as much. I can't tell you all they do, but
they are busy all day long, and some of them work in
the night too. The wind fairies dry up the damp, and
make the ground nice and hard ; and the ice fairies, they
get rid of those nasty grubs that spoil my plants ; and
the Avater fairies — oh ! of course you know all the good
they do ; but, perhaps, you don't know how bright they
all make this world, for you don't look as if you thought
it very bright, Master Brough !'

' Perhaps I don't. It isn't always bright, is it, not even
to you ?'

' Yes, always ; and I mean that it always shall be bright.
I hate dull faces, dull colours, and dull speeches. Why
should people be dull and sad, I wonder ? even mother,
who has had sorrow of her own, looks bright, and so will I.'

Amyot looked at the smiling face uplifted to his, and
wondered in his heart whether if sorrow came to her, such
as had visited him and Joan, she would still talk about
the world being bright ; and Tory looked thoughtful —
perhaps he v.-as thinking the same thing.

Atfiyof Broil i^/i.

ilc Ihu

cs such
e water

such a
she was
k1 tliey
ful -ail
a sweet

at her,
ountain

•u, Miss

I miejht
do, but
work in
lip, and
ies, they
and
he good
It they
thought

lot even

3 bright.

Why
mother,
o will I.'
his, and
er, such

about
htful—

' Lance is a long while gone,' the child said '• length,
' and I am growing tired ; we must soon go home.'

' We must wait here until he comes back, or we shall
certainly miss each other,' Amyot replied, ' but I will
shout.' So he did ; and from the rock:, overhead there
came back the mocking echo, ' Lance, Lance !'

'That is a wicked pixy answering you,' Primrose said ;
' she is very rude to mimic what you say. 1 v/ish
somebody would pull her ears.'

But, nothing discouraged by the echo's bantering
sound, Amyot raised his voice and tried again : 'Lance !
Jaspi r ! I\'rcy !' but mo Lance or Jasper or Percy
replied.

An anxious look stole over Amyot's face, for the sun
was going down, and to confess the truth, the Beacon
Hill wood was not by any means such a familiar place to
him as to his friends. ' If it gets dark before they come
back, I shall find it hard to make my way out of this
wood,' he said to himself, and Tory, guessing, by force of
sympathy, his master's thoughts, began to whine gently.

But Primrose was still engaged quite happily with
her own imaginings, and the grave faces of her two
companions quite amused her. * The lads have gone
rushing after a wondrous butterfly — I know their ways,'
she said ; ' perhaps they have run a mile or two, but they
will come back presently ; and we are very happy here,
are we not ?'

'Very happy indeed,' Amyot declared, but in I:is heart
he knew that this was not true. The strange tales he had
often heard of all manner of wild and savage beasts who
had oiiCe inhabited these parts, wild boars, wild cats, and
the like, not to speak of pixies and hobgoblins, returned
to his memory ; a night in such company would not
Ixi pleasant, and to his excited fancy the night seemed
coming on with extraordinary swiftness. And Primrose —
ought she to sit so long on the £,rass, which might, even

!l!

»'

llll

f ^'

Amyoi Ji rough.

now, be growing damp ? Aniyut almost wrung his hands
as these thoughts passed thiough his mind, and Tory
again looi<.cd up in liis face with a whine ot anxiety.

' Perhaps it would be best lor us to turn round and
walk slowly home,' he at length suggested : * surely they
will overtake us.' But to this plan Primrose seemed
loath to agree. Lanee might be \'exed, and mother
always bade her stay with the lads.

Amyot reflected that the lads had not stayed with her,
and grew each moment more indignant at their delay.
Tory roamed about uneasily — looked down every path,
and pricked up his ears at every sound ; but, alas ! no step
could be heard — r.o movement but the twittering of birds
among the branches, or the rustle of the leaves in the
evci.ing breeze.

The sweet contentment on the little one's face showed
no variation ; ' it was vtxy sweet in the wood at evening,'
slie said, but it was getting :i little cold ; perhaps it would
be well to run about. And so for a while they played
a mcrrv game of her own invention over some mounds of
earth and some trimks of fallen trees.

The moon came out, and one or two stars j)eeped forth,
and ' the light was so very pretty,' the little maiden said ;
but she was getting sleepy, she would like to go to bed, if
only Lance would come and carry her, for she was tired,
and could not walk.

' Then I will carry you,' Amyot bravely said, ' and we
won't wait any longer, for I am sure your mother must
be looking for you, and Lance and the others must have
missed their way.' And then lie lifted her up, and
carried her what he thought was a \ery long way ; but
she was much heavier than she looked, and before long
she slipped from his arms, and said ^he would walk, for Le
was not strong enough to carry t persi..n nearly as big as
himself. Amyot did not tell her, but a great fear had
taken possession of him that they had neither of them

■(!/'

hands
Tory

id and
y they
i,eenicd
iiothcr

th her,
delay.
y path,
no step
of birds
in the

showed
^•ening,'
t would
played
mnds of

d forth,
1 said ;
bed, if
las tired,

and we
er must
ist have
up. and
ay ; but
re long
, for Le
s big as
"ear had
of them

A myo t B rough .

much tiotion in which ilirection they ought to proceed,
and that it might be a very long time before they
reached home, even if she succeeded in walking so far.

It was a piteous sight to see the child striving bravely
to drag herself along, though her legs ached terribly, and
her eyes positively refused to keep oi)en ; but she per-
severed for half-an-hour, during which they seemed to
make little progress, so slowly did those tiny feet travel.
Then she stopped, and saying, ' I think it would be rather
nice to sleep out of doors such a warm night,' she sat
down at the foot of a tree, and leaning her weary little
head against the trunk, was almost asleej) in a mometit.
She roused herself, however, to say, when Amyot, sitting
down beside her, drew her on his knees and rested her
head against his shoulder :

' Shall I tire you ? It is very cosy so, and good Tory
will bark and drive away all the lions and tigers and
bears, and you and I can have a nice sleep.'

' There's nothing else to be done that I can see. I
can't make her walk,' Amyot reflected ruefully ; ' but 1
fear she'll catch her death of cold. Tory, come and sit
close to her ; your coat will help to keep her warm.'

The dog obeyed, nothing loath, and licked his master's
face in token of sympathy ; then the three sat still and
silent. Primrose's soft breathing soon showed that she
was fast asleep, but fear and anxiety kept the others wide
awake.

.■■ft

CHAPTER V

♦-' t.

IN VVHK H \VK TAKK A JOUHNKV.

Pknkith town, as I have before observed, was belwecn
two and three miles from Broughbarrow — farther than
Deborah Jephson cared to walk ; for she was not so
young as she had been, and stirring about the farm was
all the exercise that she for the most part deemed
necessary.

Therefore, when real necessity called her to the town,
she was wont to make the journey in the farm waggon,
seated by Mike's side ; and as the roads were for the
greater part of the year very bad, the journey was not so
short as might liave been expected.

It was a very real necessity, and a very serious piece of
business which took Deborah to Penrith on the special
occasion we have in mind. She was expected there, and
when the waggon had made its '••low way through the
town, and was pulled up by Michael at the door of Blen-
cathara House, it was no surprise to either of the worthy
couple to see Tory sitting on the doorstep, watching for
them.

' In coorse, he made sewer es I sud coom,' the good
woman observed, as she received his somewhat subdued
caress. 'B.est in t' dolorums aboot t' young maester,
Tory ? Nae, he's no' that sick scwerly.'

But hopeful as the good woman was wont to be, she
could not deny that it was a very white face that lay on
the pillow in one of the rooms of Blencathara House, to
which she was led by Mistress Kirkbride, who, in much

Awyot Jh'ouQh.

between
er than
not so
irm was
deemed

e town,

.vaggon,

for the

not so

piece of
special
ere, and
igh the
)f Blen-
worthy
ling for

le good
mbdued
Tiacster,

be. slie

lay on

ouse, to

II much

anxiety, had sent to summon her to liclp in nursing her
young master. ' All that nursing and doctoring could
do she would gladly provide,' the good lady said ; ' but
it was natural the lad should want his old nurse;'
and Deborah replied, with a curtsey, 'Ay, ay, to be
sewer.'

But for some days Amyot seemed to take little note of
who was about him ; sometimes he slept a heavy sleep,
sometimes he lay and tossed about in feverish wakefulness,
with wide-open eyes which seemed to gaze fixedly at
nothing. He moaned and rambled in his talk, so that
Jasper and Percy ran away frightened, and declared he
had lost his wits. Then he grew quieter, and, to the
relief of all, the surgeon said he would mend now ; all he
wanted was to recover his strength.

* Bet that's nae sa easy dewn as ya mun think,'
Deborah remarked to herself and to Mistress Kirkbride,
when the days passed and the coveted strength still
delayed its return; 'bet it'll coom, niver feear. lie's
beean freeatan hissel' this mornin', an' sayin' es t' young
mistress niver cooms nigh him, an' he's that weary o' his
loife, he canna put oop wi' it.'

Mistress Kirkbride said nothing in reply to this hint of
Deborah, but soon after left the room, and before long the
door was gently opened, and Primrose's bright little face
peeped in with the shy inquiry :

' Please may I come and see the poor sick boy ? '

' Like a sunbeam darting through a cloud on a rainy
day,' Deborah thought to herself as she made the child
heartily welcome ; and then, resuming her own seat by
the window, and taking up the long grey stocking which
was her constant companion, she listened with much
interest to the children's talk.

' Mother says you saved my life — I mean you and
Tory,' began the little maid. 'She says that if you had
not kept me so warm, I should have taken a bad cold, as

! ?'

hi ''

': i.

•»'

■r ^ '

Imyoi lUovgh.

you did, and then she believes I should have died ; but I
don't feel sure, beeause 1 am very strong and never do
have eolds.'

Aniyot smiled faintly by way of response, and she
went on :

' You must not talk, because you are ill, and talking will
make you cough. I am going to talk to you and amuse
you, and when you are well you shall tell me the things I
want to know — about the long time you sat holding me
while I slept, and about Mat and Joshua coming through
the wood, and Tory running ofl' to fetch them, and about
them carrying us home, and about how silly the boys
looked, and how mother sent them all to bed without any
supper. Jt was so stupiil of me to sleep all the time, and
know nothing about it. But am 1 talking too fast ?
Shall I be quiet a little while now ? '

Amyot made an effort to assure her that he wished for
no greater pleasure than to listen to her voice, but she
stopped him, laying her little hand on his mouth,
repeating, ' Sick people ought not to talk ; ' and then,
replying to her own question, ' Yes, I am talking too fast.
I think I'll talk to Tory, and then you need not listen
unless you like.'

And Tory, well pleased at this arrangement, came and
wagged his tail and seated himself at her feet.

' Yes, Tory, it was you that saved my life, so I'll love
you for ever ; because it wouldn't have been nice to die
like babes in the wood, would it ? But I never thought
of dying — did you ? And, Tory, isn't it funny to see
Lance so ashamed of himself.? Mother wished that his
father would come to life again just to horse- whip him ;
but I thought that would not have been worth while, be-
cause she might have asked somebody else's father to do it
for her ; so Lance got off. But I tease him dreadfully —
don't I, Tory ? — and tell him I won't be his wife now,
because he would leave me to die in a wood ; and he can't

A my of Hrouo;li.

say a wonl. But I don't mean it, Tory ; it's only tun,
you know.'
^% Tory thought it was very good fun, and his tail thumped

the ground approvingly.

' Oh ! you dear dog, I do love you so ; now, shall we
show your master how nicely you have learned to sing
since he has heen ill ? now, remember all I have told you ;
sing softly, except when I lift my hand, and then sing
loud, as loud as you can. N(jw, we'll begin,' and she
began a simple ilitty in as sweet a voice as a thrush's
warble, while Tory obediently whined as accompaniment,
keeping his eye on her hand, and jiromptly obeying the
signal to sing loud or soft, as she dictated,

Amyot laughed almost like himself at this performance,

and the little girl, greatly pleased to see him so well

lH amused, continued to make Tory show off various feats

which she had taught him during the quiet time of

Amyot's illness.

'Count ten, Tory,' ten barks followed. 'How many
brothers have I, Tory ? ' three barks replied, and so ad
infinitum.

And thanks to the cheering influence of Primrose's
visits, which after this became very frequent, Amyot
began rapidly to mend. Deborah returned home, telling
the boy that there was now no reason why he should
encroach on the good lady's kindness, and that in a few
days he had better come home as usual. This was by
no means welcome news to Amyot, but he had enough
right feeling to fear intruding, and his happy stay at
Blencathara came to an end.

Broughbarrow looked more dull than he had ever
thought it, as with Tory at his heels he approached his
home one afternoon in September, right weary with his
walk, and thinking that as there would be no one particular
to talk to, he would go early to bed.

But a surprise was in store for him. Mike and Deborah

« iiHj

i i

♦U J

i •'

\r,

■ V*-

Amyot Brough.

greeted him warmly, and made him rest in his father's old
arm-chair ; but both seemed to have something on their
minds, and before long out it came.

' Mappen ya^'e heeard cs we've hed letters, ay, an'
theear's yan fur ya, a reel girt an <^ew — likely it's from
Mistress Joan,' Mike began.

This was good news ; but something in Mike's tone
implied that, to him, at least, the letters did not contain
good news.

' Have you had letters, Mike ? I didn't know you ev-er
had letters.'

' Bet why sudn't I hev' letters es weel es udther fooak ?
Bet this an is aboot yasell ; it cooms from that gran'
gentleman, ytr uncle, and it tells me es plain es can beata
send ya reet aff t' him in Lon'on toon ; seems es he thinks
we heven't moinded our dooty by ya, and sae t' Lon'on
ya mun ga by t' furst coach es will tak' ya.'

Amyot listened breathless.

' It wasn't anybody's fault that I caught cold,' he said.
' Where's my letter .? perhaps Joan will tell me more ; '
and through his mind there rushed the thought, ' Home
is very dull ; perhaps, after all, it will b^ better in London
or at school.'

Joan's letter was speedily produced ; it was only the
second that Amyot had received from his sister, for letter-
writing was not an easy matter to the little giri, and
Amyot rightly guessed, as he opened the sheet, that many
hours had been spent in penning its contents, which ran
as follows :

' Westerham, Kent,

' September di/i, 1 7 3 Q .

'Mv SwKKT Bkothkr,

'' It is long since I wrote to you, and now I am
almost beside myself to think that I shall not need to
write to you on your birthday, but, all being well, I shall
have you with me then. Uncle's letter will tell you all,

.^ myot Bro ugh .

except how glad I am. My grandmother ha;; been so un-
happy about you since we heard of your iUness, and she
sent for Uncle Godfrey, and made him write that letter,
and if only I felt sure that you would not be quite heart-
sick to leave Broughbarrow, I should go wild with joy.
But you will come, I know, because we owe our grand-
mother all honour and obedience, and you will love her
dearly, as I do.

' And you will like this village, too, though you will
miss the Fells, and all the rushing streams, and you will
not understand the way the pennl- apeak, it sounds so
different from the Cumberland folk.

'And now, dear Amyot, I have a certain thing to tell
you that makes me wondrous glad. Grandmother, dear
sweet lady, says that you may bring my dear Tory with
you — she will not have him left behind on no wise. And
tell Tory, with my love, that I have found out that he
was born here ; my grandmother says she gave him,
when a tiny pup, to our dear mother, four years ago, just
before she died. And grandmother has still Tory's
mother, but she is a cross old thing, not like Tory at all.
Grandmother says she has always had a dog of that breed,
ever since she came from France, forty years ago. I wish
poor Whig could come too, but it would be a burden to
you to bring both, and he would scarce like to leave
Deborah. Dear Deborah ! give her my love, and Mike
too. I would they could both come with you ; but, as
grandmother says, it is best to wish only for that which
we are like to have. I have filled my paper, and have
writ a wondrous long letter, so no more at present from

' Your fond sister,

' Joan.'

The other letter to which Joan alluded was from Mr.
Pomfret, and was addressed to Michael Jephson, giving
full orders and directions about Ainvot's journey, which

"^i I '

111 ': ,

Atnyol Ih'oiigk.

was to be by the next coach, lest the roads shouU become
too bad for traveUing. He had written also to Captain
Brough's lawyer, to make all proper arrangements with
the master of the grammar school, who might naturally
be disturbed at such a sudden departure. Thus all was
settled, and Amyot could not deny that the prospect of a
change was entirely welcome.

Home had looked so dreary after his late sojourn at
Blencathara Ht)use, that he would have welcomed almost
any change, and Joan's loving lettc had made his heart
yearn towards her.

True, there was a little heart-ache about the friends he
was leaving, a misgiving that when far away he should
find out that he missed his boy friends and little Primrose
sadly. But these thoughts he tried to put away, and
began to look forward eagerly to the journey, and all the
wonders of London, and the new life at Wester ham.

He had but three days for his farewells, and, consider-
ing that he was scarcely .strong enough for the fatigues of
the journey, it was perhaps as well that he had not a
lengthened period of anticipation to undergo ; for, as will
easily be imagined, excitement gave him little chance of
sleeping.

How strange it seemed to find himself once more wait-
ing on the high-road for the London coach, as some
months before he had waited, with a lump in his throat
to see Joan start. Perhaps his throat was not quite free
from such inconveniences on this occasion, but it is pleas-
anter to be the traveller than the one left behind ;
pleasanter to have new circumstances to anticipate than
the dull monotony of the old life without much that
hitherto has made it happy. It was sad to see Deborah
and Mike and the farm-men's regrets ; sad to shake
hands with fiance, Jasper, and Percy; sad to see the
grave expression on little Primrose's usually bright face,
for the\ had all come to see him start ; but it was pleasant

tbc

Aniyot Jij'otti^h.

to say good-bye to the many grey days ol the past, and
dash into sometliiiig new.

Tlie knnbering coach is toiling along towards them ;
the three horsts pull up beside the little party in the
rorid, and the door is opened.

* Plenty of room, young man,' says the fat driver —
' Plenty of room,' echo six massive-looking perso is inside
— and Amyot shyly introduces his small person among
their many packages, feeling much impressed with the
idea that he is being buried alive. In consideration of his
recent illness he had been specially provided with an
inside seat ; but Lance's whispered advice ' to go outside
most part of the way' is a most welcome suggestion, and
he determines to see if he cannot act upon it before many
hours are over.

The small trunk containing his worldly all is stowed
away, Tory has made his round of farewells, and ensconced
himself between his master's knees ; the long whip is
soleHiUiy whirled round the horses' heads, and Amyot
feels that his childhood is over — the new stage in his life
is reached, he is going to start '\\\ the world afresh.

The one link with the past is this little dumb com-
panion, who, with amazing forethought, has laid in a vast
stock of patience and ft)rbearance for this new chapter in
his history. He is somewhat tearful and depressed, con-
soling himself, doubtless, vith the reflection that this
strange, lumbering machine cannot go on for ever — or, if
it does, some deliverance from it will be granted to him,
and that there is the sweet prospect before him of the
meeting with his dear little mistress. His doggish heart
will ever cherish fond remembrances of little Primrose,
but Joan's image is still firmly enthroned in his memory,
and all the sunny past, he tells himself, will return when
these three labouring horses have plodded through their
task of conveying him to her presence. Before long, he
hopes, there will be some opportunity of cheering and

» I

Amyot Brougli.

I»|l
M'

encouraging these same horses, by jumping and barking
in front ^i their noses ; but until that happy moment
comes, nought behoves Hke patience, for truly they are
very slow-going creatures, these coach-horses.

But hark, Tory ! others are more charitable than thou.

* Wonderful changes since I was the size of him,' says
one stout passenger to another, looking at Amyot. ' No
coach like this un betwixt Edinboro' and Lon'on in my
young days. We're growing a'most too comfort-seeking
I take it.'

' Well,' said his neighbour, a younger and less con-
tented mortal, ' I'd not find it amiss if they'd make the
road something better. 'Tis hard on the nags — poor
beasts.'

' But they're steady ; keep a good steady pace, slow but
sure. A man has time to think, still — though not so
much as when I was young ; but I fear me, come another
hundred years, folks will have no leisure to think out one
good thought in a lifetime. Didst ever hear, sir, that
some daft body has foretold that in these parts coaches
will run along the Fells without so much as a horse to
pull them — and all to come to pass, so the old goody
says, in the space of the next hundred years.'

' Nay ! then the horses will have an easy time on't.
'Twill be their millennium, I take it. But the nags don't
mislike their work, though maybe they would be well
content to do it without the help of the whip. But
what's taking this young man up to London ? He's a
young traveller, that he is.'

Amyot, thus addressed, told his tale from the time of
his father's death to the illness which had determined his
relations to send for him to live near them.

The company in the coach listened kindly — thankful
for anything to cheer the tedium of the way, and Tor}/
came in for a share of notice. Then there came a very
steep piece of hill, and the coachman's suggestion to his

Amyot B rough.

passengers that ' it was a fine thing to stretch a body's
legs sometimes,' fell gratefully on the ears of both Amyot
and the dog ; but two out of the six fat passengers declared
that they preferred a level road for walking, and remained
in the coach.

The day wore away very slowly ; probably both Amyot
and his dog would have agreed, had they compared notes
of their ideas, that it was the longest day in their life, and
many more such days followed, until they both grew
quite used to the coach and their companions, and it
seemed ages since they had bidden farewell to Brough-
barrow. Sometimes they sped along a smoofh road
between stone walls or hedges ; sometimes the coach
toiled painfully up a long hill ; sometimes they passed
through a town, causing much excitement to the in-
habitants, and not r little to the passengers. The changing
of horses was a welcome event to Amyot, and a great
amusement to Tory, who seemed continually buoyed up
with the hope that the new steeds would be faster, and
scamper over the ground in the way he was wont to
travel.

By the end of the week they had left hills and rocky
country behind them, and were travelling through the
flatter scenery of the Midland counties. Amyot had pretty
well abandoned his inside place, and for the most part
spent the days on the top of the coach, or by the driver's
side, asking an infinite number of questions, and hearing
tales of the wonderful adventures and hairbreadth escapes
of the coachman and guard, and longing that some such
good luck as a scuffle with highwaymen might yet fall to
his share.

' But bless your heart,' said the coachman, ' they know
better ; these gentlemen don't interfere with me and
Tom unless they've heard as I'm carrying quality with
long purses and plenty of jewels, and such like ; they
know all about my cargo — the folks at the inns tell them

I !

(

'1' h\\

•Jl

-:ti

I'f?

■1 '

Mj:

■ if

. T

I ! ■

Afiiyot Drough.

all about the northern coach and her doings. And thi:. time
I've nothing so very particular in the way of passengers.
No, I don't expect to be stopped on this journey ; though
of course, Tom has his pistols ready.'

Amyot knew that already, having seen these same
pistols ; but he was sorry to hear that there was little
ground for hoping to see them fired. It was growing
dark, and the inn where the coach was to put up for the
night was still distant. The trees on each side of the
road were high and thick ; the air was still ; strange
shadows fell across the way ; everything was weird and
ghostly in the fast-fading light. Tory had squeezed close
to him, a sure sign that he too felt somethmg of the
nameless fears that often haunt the twilight hour. It
was just the time for a desperate deed, and Amyot held
his breath and listened for stealthy steps until he could
almost believe he heard them.

The coachman's remarks to his tired horses were
growing discontented and impatient. ' Get along there,
you, Nancy, get along ; come up, Joe,' seemed to be
losing all effect. The road was heavy, and the ccach-
wheels sank deeper and deeper in the mud, till at last, in
the efforts to find a pleasanter footing, the weary beasts
made a sudden swerve, and in a moment the coach had
run off into a deep ditch, full of watery mud and slime,
where it fell over on one side, to the unutterable dismay
of some ducks who were half-asleep among the weeds
and rushes, and the no small consternation of the s^-out
passengers inside, who were also dozing away the twilight
hours.

It wis not precisely the kind of accident Amyot had
been desiring, and the furious struggling of the poor,
frightened horses as they kicked and plunged, and tried
in vain to free themselves from their awHward encum-
brance, was not a pleasant sight. He had fallen into a
very soft bed of mud, and Tory had shared his fate ;

Aniyol J ■> rough.

neither, therefore, had sustained any injury ; but the
coachman had been less fortunate, and when at length he
was extricated from the ditch, wliere he was lying half
choked with watery mud, he groaned so piteously that it
was plain he believed himself in a very bad way.

One by one the passengers scrambled out from the
overturned coach, and then, with great difficulty, the
plunging, restive horses were quieted and unharnessed.

' Likt it or not,' said Tom the guard, ' all you gen-
tlemen will have to walk on to the village — it ain't
much above a mile — and send help to me and coachman.
Send some stout lads and a horse or two, and lights — do
you hear, gentlemen ? — for it will be dirk in no time now.'
There was no help for it ; so, with much grumbling
at the untoward accident, the mud, the badness of the
times, the depravity of things in general and the weather
in particular, the passengers started in search of the
nearest inn.

' You've only to go right straight forward,' was the
guard's injunction ; but 'right straight forward ' meant
through seas of mud and pools of stagnant water, so deep
and so black, that before long Amyot was forced to carry
Tory, now no longer white, lest the brave dog should be
choked or drowned.

It was a very long mile that lay between the scene of
the upset and the wayside inn which afforded the nearest
lodging, and the darkness had become profound before
the luckless passengers reached it. Then there was much
exclaiming at their woeful plight — much wondering how
such a mischance could have befallen the London coach,
beftre any stout lads could be found who would go to the
help of the expectant guard and coachman.

' And you, my little man —why, you're little but a
mass of mud and dirt ! ' said the mistress of the inn to
Amyot, who was indeed in a piteous plight. She looked
kind and motherly, and his tired face excited her pity ;

■

Af?iyot Brou^h.

!».l

the gentlemen could be made comfortable by her husband,
she thought, but the poor child needc' a woman's
tendance, and, without more ado, she led him, nothing
loath, into her little kitchen, and making him sit down
on a low bench beside the hearth, she set herselt to pull
off his boots and stockings, which were so soaked •■ iat
they seemed glued to his feet.

'Hey! what's this?' was he^ exclamation, as Tc ry
lifted his head from his master's arms and licked her f; ce,
'you're both so much of a colour that I r^ver sav the
dog, Donr beastie. Put him down, iT!) Uc^/ie, and let
hinj , arj;i himsfif.'

?.lu*: poor Tory was loath to soil her clean hearth by
■iUi^ij down, and stood looking so miserable that a rough-
haired 1. , who was washing in an outhouse, brought a
large tub of warm water, in which, after Amyot had
soaked his numbed feet, Tory was immersed, greatly to
his own satisfaction, and, it must be said, to his beautifi-
cation. Then, a brimming porringer of bread and milk
having entirely restored both boy and dog to cheerfulness,
the kindly woman opened a folding-bed in a cup'.oard
that led out of the kitchen, and Amyot was soon in a
sound sleep, with Tory curled up on his feet. In that
dreamless sleep neither of them heard anything of the
commotion which greeted the arrival of the coach, some
two hours after, and it was broad daylight when they
were again ready for life and all that it might bring.

The coachman's injury was not so serious as it had at
first appeared : ' A severe sprain, and perhaps a broken
rib or so,' Tom, the guard, asserted ; a rest at the inn
for a few days would set him up, and the landlord of the
public-house was ready enough to take the reins in his
place.

' The coach must not be delayed, or we should lose our
character,' said Tom proudly, and accordingly, w'th fresh
horses, they were soon again on the road.

Amyol Jl rough.

And this slight catastrophe was the only adventure
worthy of the name which Amyot met with on this his
first journey ; as they drew near the capital they seemed
to trav'el more quickly, the relays of horses were apparently
more up to their work, and the amateur coachman seemed
anxious to make sure of bringing his team in at th
appointed time, and with as great a flourish as if he hiJ
been the ful' .--accredited driver.

Tom, the guard, too, blew his horn more frequently,
and r specially when the coach was passing through one of
the little towns, which, as they neared London, lay at
shorter intervals along the road ; everything bespoke
their speedy approach to the centre of life and industry.

Twenty times at least had Amyot asked, ' Is that
London ? ' before the aflirmative reply set his heart
beating and his cheeks aflame. It .ai Jt all pleasurable
excitement, for some misgivings . Mng ' with the satis-
faction he felt in knowing that h,i j Hirnty was almost at
an end.

' Oh! Tory,' he whispered, squeezing the dog close to
him as they sat together on t; 1 jp of the coach, ' that
is London over there, where you see the smoke ; and you
and I will feel terribly strange among all the fine people
there. I should like to run back all the way we have
come, but we can't, so we must try to bear ourselves like
other people ; we must be careful to make our best bows,
and we must not sit down without being bidden ; and we
must keep ourselves clean and smart. Do you understand,
Tory ? '

Understand ! of course Tory understood, but there
were difficulties in the way of this last-named duty ; and
as he licked Amyot's face, he whined plaintively as he
shook himself and looked at his dirty coat.

Amyot understood the gesture, and rejilied :

' Yes, we are a pair of beggars, and no mistake, but
when we have had a chance of washing ourselves we shall

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I'.lI hcllcT ; and (Hic ihiiij^, Torv. you imi^l icincinlx.'r
not to tear anybody's coat — do you hear ? '

Tory hung down his head for a moment, but spcecHlv
recovering himself, looked at his master and blinked his
eyes, his usual method of replying : ' I know, but it was
not at all a bad joke, though perhaps it might not be
safe to try it any more.' And then the pair were silent
again, watching the streets of houses drawing nearer, and
tinding much to amuse them e\ery few yards.
/ Perhaps\)f the two Tory was the more evidently excited
when they were really travelling down the streets ;
Amyot, looking at the crowded thorougjifares, wondered
whether it was a fair-day that so manv people were r.broad,
but the driver only laughed at this idea, and assured him
there were not more than usual ; and after this the boy
thought it lx;st to he silent, lest he should make some other
ridiculous mistake.

At lengtli, after many turnings and windings, when
numerous passengers seemed on the point of Ixjing run
over, and only to escape by a miracle, the coach rattled
up to an inn door and stood still ; and there, waiting
beside a hackney-coach from which lie had just descended,
Amyot at once spied his uncle on the look-out for him.

It was pleasant to the fatherless boy to feel that he once
more belonged to somebody, and Mr. Pomfret's greeting
was sufficiently kind and paternal to reassure him, and
make him forget his fears ; in a few minutes more they
were seated in the hackney-coach, and starting in the
direction of Rloomsbury, where Mr. Pomfret lived.
Amyot wondered if this were another town, but soon dis-
covered that it was part of London : one of the best parts
his uncle told him ; and Queen's Square, where he lived,
was almost like the country, being open and fresh and
breezy, looking over the fields right away to the village of
Hampstcad. Seeing he was interested, Mr. Pomfret went
on to tell him more about London, and pointed out to

Amy at Brouoli.

him inaiiy objects ot iiitcrcsi ; the two new churclics ot
St. (icor^c's ill the parish of Mloomsbury, and St. (ieorKc
the Martyr at the corner ot Oiieen Square, also the tine
new house calleil IVjwis House, with its Corinthian
cohnuns and splendid t'ac;ade, built at tlie expense of the
I'Vench kin^, un the site ot" the cjlcl house ot the same
name, burnt down in 1714.

'I'hus occupied and amused, the dri\e seeineil a \ery
short one, ami the hackney-coach slopi)ed l)efore a large
iiouse in (Jueen's Square, long before he had expected.
It was such a handsoine house, witii such a wide entrance
hall, and broad steps, that something of his shyness
returned as he followed his uncle u|) the >te|)s, and saw
the tall footman who stotjd within the iloor. Hut on the
staircase a lady was standing, tall and slight, and most
beautifully attired, at sight of whom Tory immediately
executed a series of his best bows, thereby reminding
Amyot of his duty, and eliciting great applause fr(jm Mr.
Pomfret, who, up to that moment, had taken no notice ot
the dirty-looking poodle.

The lady came swiftly downstairs, and drew Amyot
into her warm embrace, then, still holding his hand, she
opened a door that led from the hall, and took him into
a large parlour, the windows of which looked out into the
square. His uncle followed them, and when Mrs. Pomfret
seated herself in a large elbow-chair, he placed himself
behind her, leaning on the high back of her chair.

The colour mounted to Amyot 's forehead as he felt
himself thus examined by two keen pairs of eyes. His
aunt touched his forehead with her lips, and then looked
at her husband, and smiling, said something in French ;
the boy blushed more intensely still, for he guessed that
his own appearance and manners were the subject under
remark.

' Poor fellow,' said his aunt, noticing his confusion,
' w^hat a weary long journey he has had ; he must be tired

: I

^'Imyot /iroui^/i.

' ^L

jl..

to (Icalli. Arc you hungry, litllc nephew, or do you most
of all desire to go to your chaniher ? it is prepared and
ready, and if you like, I will send you some refreshment
upstairs.'

Of all things in the world, Amyot dccideil that to go to
bed was the most desirable at that moment ; there was a
look in his aunt's cold grey eyes which made him shrink
from her, though she still held his hand, and was stroking
it with her soft finger's. So he lifted that beautiful hand
to his lips, and bidding his uncle a respectful go(jd-night,
followed the servant to the sleeping-chamber prepared for
him. Tory was sitting on the mat at the foot of the
stairs ; and, greatly pleased to recover possession of his
master, he trotted upstairs behind him in a much more
contented mood than the boy himself. For as he closed
the door of the parlour he had heard, or fancied he heard,
a soft rippling laugh from his aunt, and the exclamation,
* Such a prodigious awkward lad, I never saw the like !'

How many flights of stairs they climbed ! He verily
believed they must be ascending to the stars ; at Brough-
barrow there was only one short flight of stairs to the
bed-chambers. What folly to build houses so high ! Why
had Joan never told him of these ridiculous London
houses, and why, oh ! why, had she never said how his
aunt stared at people, and laughed at them as soon as
their backs were turned ? Could Joan — his faithful
Joan — have grown like Aunt Aimee ?

P -». i Mf

CHAPTER VI.

WHl'.N TOKV KINDS HIS MTTI-K MISTKKSS.

Was lie glad or was he sorry ? This question Ainyot
vainly asked himself as he strolled round the Square
garden about a week after his arrival in London, and the
question had been suggested by the remark dropped by
his uncle that day at dinner, that he was so vastly
employed that he could not say when he should be able
to find a day to take his nephew down to Westerham.
His aunt liad kindly pitied him, and assured Mr. Pomfret
that he was pining for his sister ; but though he scarcely
allowed it to himself, even the prospect of meeting Joan
had been almost forgotten in the strange delight and
wonder of this new world of London.

The very bustle in the streets, the constant passing to
and fro, the street cries in the early morning, the whirl
of life and activity, had awoke in him a passion to be
doing something. He had listened to the talk of busy
politicians in his uncle's house, had been admitted to the
sight of Dr. Meade's museum of curiosities and paintings
in Great Ormond Street, and had even caught sight of
many great men whose names were in everyone's mouth.
It seemed to him that years, not days, must have
separated him from the old Cumberland life, and as he
sauntered round the vSquarc garden watching Tor3,' whose
happy spirit found easy satisfaction in chasing the brown
leaves along the garden paths, he wondered whether
even to be with Joan again would be as enchanting as
this wondrous fairyland of novelty and excitement, of

n>'

Amy at B rough.

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new thought., and new aspirations. Tory he knew well
would rejoiee to be again in the fields and country lanes.
He wa.s feeling in no small measure cheated, that he
had not )et beeii able to discover his little mistress ; but,
always light of heart, the good dog lived in hope. Well
washed and combed, he had reco\'ered his self-resj)ect,
and could find much to amuse him in the town and its
strange inhabitants. He was contented to wait. Not so
his young master ; ..hen he listened to the discourse ot
ihose who were douig great things in the world, he
fretted and fumed to think that for liim years of school
must intervene before he could command ships, Hght
battles, paint pictures, or write mighty books. His
cousin (luy, a gay captain in the (irenadiers, hoj)ing to
see some service on the Continent, rattled on in merry
guise of marches and victories, sieges and assaults, as if
his wars were over and his laurel won.

Amyot listened, and resolved he would be a soldier and
fight the French as his father and grandfather had done.
Then of a sudden the dream was changed. Gi y's half-
brother Arnold had just returned from France, where he
had been studying under the care of his stepmother's
I'Vench relatives — returned, as his father l)itterly com-
plained, more French than English, more Papist than
Protestant, but withal gentle, tender-hearted, full of lofty
aspirations and fervent longings tor the re\ival (if faith in
the land.

Amyot bowed at once to the fascination of his pure
and lofty soul, and iisteiied entranced to his tales of the
saintly Archbishop of Cambray, who had dedicated him-
self in his youth to missionary work in North America,
but had given up his heart's desire at his King's com-
mand, had then fallen under that King's displeasure,
and in his banishment from Court and Court favour
had been sought out and visited by the wise and good of
all nations ; ' \'our grandfather among others,' Arnold

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ailtlcd. 'Oh, that 1 had known him I but your ^ratul-
niothcr will tell you more about him, tor slie knew him,
and has heard him prcuch too, as well as the great Bishop
of Meaux.'

And listening to these tales of holy lives, Amyot forgot
his warlike intentions, and felt that Arnold was right
when he said the war with sin was the only war worth
Hgh.'ing. True, his aunt laughed at her eldest son's
enthusiasm, and wished he would come down from the
clouds, and dress and talk like other people ; his uncle
fumed and muttered some bitter invectives against Pojiish
plotters and hrench traitors ; but, as Arnold's spirit was
never ruOled by jests or gibes, his young cousin felt
instinctively that he must ha\e the right on his side, and
reverenced him accordingly.

It was a far greater pleasure to Amyot to linger by
Arnold's side in the Abbey of Westminster, or in the
great church of St. Paul's, listening while h:s low
musical voice related wondrous histories of martyred
saints and heroic deeds achie\'ed under the banner of the
Cross, or quivered with emotion as he spoke of the
mighty war yet to be waged, of the world sunk in in-
diflerence or vice, than to drive with his aunt in her
chariot to V'^au.xhall (iardens, where the gay world enjoyed
itself, and forgot such dismal matters.

Mrs. Pomfret thought, and not jierhaps without reason,
that a consciousness of his awkwardncNS and rustic man-
ners was the cause of this dislike oii the part of her
nephew to the society of the beau monde ; indeed, it was no
small annoyance to her to be burdened with the company
of such a raw country lad. Her stepson might l)e want-
ing in some of those elegancies of language which were
generally deemed essential to a high-bred gentleman, but
he was never }^aiu/it\ and none had ever recei\ed aught
but courteoL.v treatment at his hands ; she had never
blushed for him, though well aware that he was peculiar;

'■{'■

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Affiyot B rough.

her own son was all that her fastidious taste could desire ;
but this orphan boy was a trial, and she much feared
that he would ncxer grow into anything at all akin to a
gentleman.

To these lamentati(Mis her husband listened with his
smile of languid indifference, and replied :

' Do not distress yourself, my love ; if he turns out
quite unpresentable, we must get him service in some
foreign land where the chances of war or fever may save
us the pain of being ashamed of him. And, indeed, if my
judgment does not much deceive me, his hot temper
will endanger his neck long ere he Ix) grown to years of
discretion ; so make yourself easy ; you will not be
troubled with him long ! '

' Nay ; I wish the child no harm ; he is my sweet
sister's son, though he favours her but little. My son
Arnold tells me that he has parts and abilities, though he
has no more manners than a dog — nay, not so much as his
poodle ! Rut Arnold is ve.xed that you let him read
what he will, and says he should l)e guided in his studies.'

* Then let Arnold guide him ; but no, the captain was
loyal to King and Church, and his son should tread in iiis
steps ; but I'll not meddle with the lad — he must go to
school ; that is, when he has paid his respects to his
grandmother at VVesterham.'

Probably this conversation determined the worthy but
indolent gentleman to bring his nephew's stay in his house
to a speedy conclusion ; for the very next day he announced
that he had now sufficient leisure to ride with the lad to
Westerham, and that he had written to aimounce their
C(^ming.

' T.iking to the roails ag.iin,' thought Tor\'. 'Well,
this lime we can Inrdly fail to tind the little mi^lre.ss I'

And the little mistress's heart went forth to meet them,
though duty and propriety kept her from following the
dictates of her inclination, which would have led her far

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clown tlic London road to meet the tra\cllers when tlie
long-desired day at last dawned.

The little Kentisii town was looking its very best that
autumn evening when Amyc*: first saw it ; how often in
after-years, when discontented with his lot, with himself,
or his surroundings, or resting after a long day's march in
foreign lands, did he strive to recall that first impression
of the quiet little N'illage street, the green slopes of the
park, the changing colours of the tall trees, and the
peaceful How of the little river which ran before his grand-
mother's house. He might call Broughbarrow home,
but it was not long before Westerham was more truly
home to his heart than ever his Cumlx-'rland birthplace
had Ix'en, and Mrs. Darley's house was l;y all acknowledged
to be most entirely and altogether home-like.

And there was no denying that it was very pleasant to
be onje more possessed of Joan, and Joan so grown and
improved that Amyot could scarcely take his eyes off her.
He wondered why she had never looked so neat and well
arrayed at home, for his father, he knew, had always
wished that she should be dressed as a gentlewoman, and
had grudged no money spent on Joan's slips or hoods ,
but now she looked for all the world like a soft dove, and
no wood-pigeon had e\er cooed so sweetly as her voice
sounded in his ear. And his grandmother, in her rich,
but softly falling paduasoy, her snowy kerchief, and
delicate lace cap — whence some braids of snow-white
hair just escaped — was she not the loveliest old lady
imaginable ? Aunt Aimee's blue eyes were doubtless very
Ix'autiful — he had heard fine gentlemen tell her so a
hundred times — but Amyot had shivered at their cold
scrutinising glance, while he gazed with undisguised
admiration at the bright brown eyes that had such a
loving warmth in them, even when they twinkled with
amusement, as, indeed., they often did when they caught
sight of him.

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Aniyol Bron^li,

* I thought I should liavc been vastly afraid of my
grandmother,' Amyot confessed to his sister, after a few
days' residence at the red-brick house that faced the little
river and the rich ground of Squerries Court, where Mrs.
Darley had lived ever since her widowhood. ' I thought
she would have laughed at me as Aunt Aimee did, and I
do hate to be laughed at ! Ru*, Joan, I caimot understand
her, can you ? '

' Who, dear grandmother, or Aunt Pomfret ? '

' My grandmother. Sometimes she looks like a holy
saint in a church window, when she lays her hand on
your liead, Joan, and says. Que Ic hoii Dicu tc hcnisac
or something of the sort, for I shall never be able to speak
that silly French stuff, whatever she may say ; and then
sometimes all her face laughs, and she is as merry as my
little Primrose — my fairy queen. Say, Joan, do you
understand her ? '

' Perhaps not quite,' Joan admitted ; ' but I love her,
oh ! .so dearly ; and as for being like a saint in a church
window, if they were half as sweet as she, I think it is
quite right to put them in church windows, though Miss
Johnstone says they make the church monstrous dark,
and she believes it is wrong to have painted windows at
all.'

'Miss Johnstone is vastly queer. Why does she live
here?' asked Amyot. 'She teaches you, I know, Joan,
and she winds wool for grandmother, but she is not
related to grandmother, so why does she live with her ? '

'I never asked,' Joan replied ; perha})s it is for the
same reason as many other things t it seem strange ' — and
she lauglied her quiet laugh of de< amusement.

'What things?'

'Have you not noticed how my funny things and
creatures there are in this Iioum; ? The cat with three
legs ; the i)arrot with the bakl :ead ; the ugly old butler
with one eye ; and the cook who is stone deaf; the dag

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^hnyot Ih'OUi^/t.

who snarls when you stroke him ; the p(>iiy that stands

still every tew yards, and— and '

' The little girl who sees the worst side (•! everything
and everybody,' said a low voice from behind her. 'I'he
children started aiul turned round ; the brilliant dark
eyes of Mrs. Darley were li.xed on Joan's blushing face,
and she said, with something of rei)roach in her nuisical
voice, 'What dost thou mean, petite? Is it such a
chamber of horrors, thy poor grandmother's house, that
thou fearest to dwell in it, and art begging thy brother to
carry thee away ? '

* Indeed, no, madam ; it is the dearest home in the

world. We were only wondering why ' and she

stopped.

' Wondering why ! Ah ! that is the way of the world
now, always v.'ondering why. IJetter not, cherie ; rest
thy little brain, and be certain that there is a reason, and
a good one, for all that seems strange. Vet, if thou nmst
know this particular why, it is just simjily this: here is
an old woman good for nothing much, but able to give a
home to many whom no one neeils or loves or admires ;
they are not ugly or strange or troublesome to her, and
so she takes them in, ami loves to have them — yes,
curious little maid and all.'

'And clumsy country lad too, madam?' inquired
Amvot, with a deep tlush on his face.

'Yes, yes! child, for sure. Yet, bethink thee, the cat
makes the best of his three legs ; thou hast a goodly pair
of thine own, and a straight and comely figure, why,
then, walk as if all the ground were newly ploughed, and
hy body and legs had fallen foul of each other ? '

Amyot laughed. ' Joan had forgotten to name me,' he
said ; ' 'twill go hard with me, madam, but I'll learn to
walk as well as the cat ! My aunt was for ever ashamed
of me, but I could not bear myself so as to please her-
and. to tell the truth. I'd no great liking for her fine beaux.'

Ix'

siste

will

drui
s|)ei
true

Iniyoi Ih'OUi^li,

*'I\it, tut ! be thyself, child. Imitate ri(» one's airs, but
be thine own best self, ami let thy graiuliiiother and
sister be i)roud of thee.'

' 1 shall ever be that,' Joan replied, ' be Atnyot what lie
will ; I could not help it, madam.'

' Nay, nay, little simpleton, talk not such foolishness !
Women, j)oor silly ihiiiffs ! have a trick of loving even the
drunken sot that would fell them with his fist ; but I
speak not of love, but of pride ; if Amyot fi^row not uj) «'
true loyal-hearted gentleman, sucli a (jiie as men may

SCJt'KRRIKS COUItl.

esteem and women trust, then, Joan, thou mayest love
him in a poor weak fashion, but thou wilt despise him in
thine heart the while.'

'Nay, madam, nay ; I never could,' was Joan's response,
as she lifted her steadfast blue eyes to Amyot's face,
which none could deny looked honest and true and
straightforward ; but the old lady repeated :

' Thou art wrong, petite, I know thee better ; thou
wilt never reverence aught but worth : look to it, Amvot.

i •

..r^rt;

h/iyo/ Ih-ouoJi.

that thy sister may ever liolcl thee as meet to be honoured
as now slie dotli.'

'I'hc old laily left llu'iii with the quiet step and easy
motion that had ever distinguished lier. and the children
fallowed her with eyes full of admiration, Amyot
murmuring :

' She is the sweetest, loveliest old lady I ever saw ! I
will be all she will have me, but, oh I Joan, tell me how I
Think you I vex her, as I did Aunt Aimee ?'

' Dear grandmother is never vexed except by such
things as you, Amyot, will never do, I trust. She would
have you lx;ar yourself more like a gentleman, and she
looks for more dulifiU language towards herself ; but
when Miss Johnstone hmented bitterly that you walked
into the parlour withoui so much as lifting your hat, and
that you neglected to (>pen the door for her, and said
your voice was so rough it made her feel quite nervous,
grandinolher said, "He is a gentleman's son, and the
sense of wliat is fitting is there ; 'tis but the training he
lacks." '

'Any lad would make Miss Johnstone feel ner\'ous ;
even you, Joan, forced her to seek her scent-bottle to
cure her fainting, when you let the door shut suddenly
this morning.'

* She sulTers mucli frojn the \apours.' Joan rejilied.
'Amyot, we should not laugh at her.'

' Xo, indeed ; the vaj)ours nnist Ix' dolorous things
indeed, to judge by her countenance; but tell me, Joan,
do you know the lad that would not terrify her ? '

' Yes, indeed ; there are brave young gentlemen li\ing
yonder at Squerries Court, who are wondrc us favourite
with her ; and Master Kdwartl Wolte, ot whom 1 have
spoken many a time, anil iiis brother James; they are
ever minilful of her whims, as you call them, and treat
her with true gent'e courtesy. It was but yesterday she
wished that you resembled Master Kdward Wolfe.'

yet|
wn

thi

thti

V-

\\ *

hfiyot Brouirh.

* And you, Joan, do you wish I resembled lliis paragon
ul a youth ?'

* I would liave you your own self, like none else ; but
yet 1 know that when you see him, you will like iiim
well.'

* When I see him ! is that likely ? you have shown me
the house where these lads live, but you said, Joan, that
they had gone to school, and that their parents were about
to leave Wester ham.'

' Yes, so I did ; but grandmother proposes to send you
to the same school with them. She spoke to Uncle
Pomfret about it when he was here, and they said that by
the new year you would be well and stroiig and fit for
school again.'

'I am well and strong now.'

' Nay, my grandmother said after the new year ; and
she said more that 1 do not mean to tell you.'

'I know,' said Amyot gloomily; 'that until I was a
little less of a savage, I had best not mingle with these
Hue gentlemen, lest they should laugh me to scorn.
Well, and if they did, I have a pair of hard fists to defend
myself, and I know how to use them.'

' But we want you to keep your strength to ser\'e your
country,' was Joan's soothing rcsj)()nse. 'Now tell me
again about little Primrose, and I.ance, and dear old
Broughbarrow. I womler shall we ever see it again ?'

'To be sure;' and then, nothing loath, Amyot
suffered himself to be led into long, rambling stori«;s
about his olil friends and old life — interesting enough to
little Joan, but scarcely worth relating.

Meanwhile, in her wainscoted parlour, the windows
of which looked out on the smooth sunny river, Mrs.
Darley was sittitig in her elbow-chair, lost in thought.
In spite of Joan's flattering assurances, Amyot did not
unfrequently contrive to vex the placid old lady ; and
when she had parted from the children, after her brief

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conversation with them, it was to be met by her ancient
butler and still more ancient cook, both full of complaints
of the noisy, unruly ways of her grandson.

She had heard them with her usual patience and
quiet dignity, and had quelled the angry storm of their
excited feelings by the earnest aj)peal :

* The child is fatherless and motherless, and orphans
are God's special care ; not in haste will I meddle with
His training. The world will deal him the rude blows
which are the Almighty's rod. As for me, 1 will try to
do the cosseting and comforting that the poor lamb as
surely needs, though you, Hannah, and you, Doddridge,
think nothing but stripes can benefit him, and would
have him horsewhipped without mercy.'

' Nay, madam, out if you knew -'

'If 1 did, where would it profit me? I have resolved,
and your complaints will not change me. We liave been,
perhaps, too quiet here ; and a little noise will make a
change.'

And so she dismissed them, with tht reflection that
small trials are goo(' for all, old servants not excepted.

And for herself too, no doubt. The ^niall tumults
were a trial, though, of cour>e, only in a wholesome
degree ; they made her thoughtful, not sad. Sad ! Who
had ever seen Mrs. Darley sad ? Possibly they suggested
some regrets that she had not sooner insisted upon having
the charge of her orphan grandson, and some uneasiness
lest the six months during which he had been his own
master should have made him too ungovernable for her
quiet rule. Well, he must Soon go to school ; and in the
meantime she haii little doubt that she could so arouse his
chivalrous feelings that for her sake he would curb the
haughty spirit that had so .e.xed the old domestics.

' Jf I can't manage a boy of ten, I'll take to my bed and
order my coffin,' was the characteristic conclusion of the
valiant old lady's reflections.

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CHAPTER VII.

}•• I \ DING HIS L K y K L.

' A WHIMSICAL world this is, a restless, tvcr-changing,
never-resting kind of place ; and the race of beings who
proudly call it their own, grow every year more fidgety
and given to rushing about.' Such was Tory's soliloquy,
when, before he had well settled down in his new home,
he found his young master carried off, and himself left
behind with his little mistress. Well, it could not be
denied that Amyot and the new home did not exactly
suit one another, and Tory hoped that in his next experi-
ence his young master would find some comrades more
congenial than Doddridge and Hannah.

Whether such was the case the good dog might have
been puzzled to decide, had he been able to follow his
master and judge for himself ; possibly, for his peace of
mind, it was well that a sense of duty restrained him from
gratifying his curiosity, and kept him in the quiet home
at Westerham, and the safe companionship of Queen Joan.

And where was Amyot ? School had begun for him in
sober earnest, and in the good town of Greenwich, among
boys who for the most part were south-country lads, the
northern boy was trying, and not \-ery successfully, to
hold his own.

See him one Sunday afternoon, early in the year, sitting
lonely at one end of the large schoolroom ; the others are
talking merrily in groups, the room rings with their
laughter, but no one talks to him ; his face wears a scowl
which is anything but inviting, his very worst look, as

Amyot BroiigJu

Joan would call it ; and the peaceable boys have already
learned to keep their distance when young Brough is in
the sulks ; and as good luck would have it, some time
elapsed before the spirit of evil impels any of the warlike
souls to interfere with him.

But it is not in boy nature to refrain from tormenting
when such a ready \'ictim is at hand. Some one passing
inquires * What ails Mr. GrufT? ' and the smouldering tire
burst forth at once. Then follow many witticisms con-
cerning the giant's castle in the mountains, the skulls and

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bones that are to be seen there, sure proofs of Giant
Gruff's ferocity, and the room is soon in an uproar. The
elder lads look on amused, till one, a slender boy with
blue eyes, turning to his brother close beside him
whispers, ' Ned, there's a good fellow, get him away from
them and take him for a walk. Mr. Swinden will give
leave, I know. 'Tis like baiting a bear, and cowards'
work at the best.'

The younger lad obeyed, and though it was no easy
work to drag Amyot from the crowd of his tormentors,
he succeeded in his attempt, and before many minutes

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were past, the pair were free from the schoolliouse and on
their way to Greenwich Park.

More than once had Ned glanced at his companion
before either of them spoke ; the cloud was not yet entirely
cleared from Amyot's brow, when the silence was broken
at length by the very simple remark, ' I'm a fool to get so
chafed by them. Don't you despise me, Ned ? '

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' We had best forget them,' was the very prudent reply
of his companion ; ' here's the church ; I love Wester-
ham church better than this ; what say you, Brough ? '

' I like goinf to this church very well,' Amyot replied.
' Till I left Broughbarrow, I did not go much to church
— my father did not take us often ; but here I like the
organ and the singing, and some other things also. What

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was that Mr. Swindcn said this morning about a certain
psahii tune, and a great man who made it up, whose body
Hes buried in the church — did you understand what he said?'
' Understand ! yes, right well ; I have heard the story
many a time, and in former days his tomb bore a quaint
inscription — can I remember it, I wonder ? let me see, it
ran thus : I have seen it written in an old book :

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' " Enterred here doth ly a worthy wight

Who for long time in music bore the bell ;
His name to shew was Thomas Tallys hyght,

In honest vertuous life he did exccll;
He served long tyme in chappell with grete prayse —

Fower sovereigns' reygnes (a thing not often seen) :
I mean Kyng Henry and Prynce Edward's daycs,

Quene Mary and Ehzabeth our Queue ;
He maryed was, though children he had none,

And lyved in love full three and thirty yeres
Wyth loyal spouse, whose name yclept was Jone,

Who here entombed him conipany now bears :
A s he did lyve, so also did he dy,

In myld and quiet sort (O, happy man !)
To God ful oft for mercy did he cry,

Wherefore he lyves, let Death do what he can." '

' Tallys, yes, that was the name. I was wondering
whether his spirit stays in the church sometimes to hear
those tunes sung ; but I suppose he has made hundreds
more since then, and perhaps he does not care much
about his old tunes now.'

' They're grand though, so people say who understand,
and I think, as James often says, it would be a splendid
thing to have done something which will help people
hundreds of years after one's dead and buried.'

Amyot thought so too, but the church being left behind,
his thoughts turned to less solemn matters ; the green
slopes of the park were before them, and the great domes
of the hospital, and beyond the smooth river with its
many barges, their gay colours making the scene bright
and pleasant.

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Boy-like, they talked of ships and sailors, great com-
manders and naval victories, wondered whether it would
be their lot to travel far from old England, and hoped
they might have a chance of a brush with Spain. Amyot
related to his companion many of the witty sayings and
quaint expressions in a book which he had seen, when

I Mr

SCI

GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

Staying with his uncle in Queen Square, entitled 'The
History of John Bull ;' and the sentiments of John Bull
and Nick Frog, with regard to the greed of Lewis Baboon,
drew forth much applause from both the lads.

* Young Spitfire,' as he was familiarly called by his
schoolfellows, had quite recovered his equanimity under

I '

Amyot Jirouqh,

the judicious treatment of Edward Wolfe before they
returned to the schoolhouse, and submitted very tamely
to a short lecture administered by that sage young man
before they plunged again into the noisy crowd of boys.

' How many fights have you had since you've been at
school, Brough ? '

' Can't say ; a dozen or so.'

' More than your share, Brough : you give no one else
a chance. Try and stint yourself a bit. I've a score or
two to wipe out; but one can't fight a fellow who has two
black eyes to start with.'

Amyot laughed. 'They were all older than I,' he said.
' 1 don't fight the little ones.'

' Doubt if they were bigger — you're a young giant,
Brough, and your fists were cut out of your own moun-
tains ; keep them to fight the Baboons.'

' Oh ! they'll serve for Britons as well. But I don't
want to quarrel, if they'd let me alone.'

' Why should they let you alone ? You make fine sport
for them, by being so ready with your sting. If I
were you, Brough, I wouldn't condescend to notice all
their gibes. It isn't a good thing to get the name of
being such a hot-headed dog that no one can speak
to you.'

To this advice Amyot made no reply, but, as young
Wolfe told a friend afterwards, ' At any rate, he didn't
bite ; ' which was as much as could be expected of him.

From this time forth school life grew brighter to our
hero. He ceased to look upon his comrades as his deter-
mined foes, and before long his friendships were as many
and violent as his enmities had once been. Moderation
was a virtue he despised — everything was done with
vehemence which he deemed worth doing at all ; and
consequently trifling quarrels, insignificant breaches of
rules, seldom had any attraction for him, while outrageous
acts of insubordination, persistent fits of idleness, often

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followed by desperate bursts of remorse were the charac-
teristic marks of Amyot Brough during this period jf
his life.

'Brough, tell me,' began a merry-faced lad, one aay,
' have you any notion what ails Ned Wolfe ?'

' What ails him ' Is ihe sick ? — he looks well enough ? '

' Not sick, that I know of ; but has he got the vapours,
or has he been flogged, think you, that he looks so down-
cast, and has not a word to say for himself ? '

' How can I tell ? Ask himself, if you must know.'

' Well, if you put it in that way, I can't say that I am
specially set upon knowing, but being a compassionate
kind of a being, I own I feel queerish when a fellow-crea-
ture puts on airs that makes one think of churchyards
and suicides and such doleful things, and so I made bold
to ask your worship if you knew the cause of the poor
youth's sad countenance ; but I'll beg your pardon if I've
done amiss, so y^u need not knock me down.'

Amyot laughed.

' You're such a droll chap, West ; but how should I
know ? Ned doesn't tell me his secrets.'

' Doesn't he ? — you're often together ; but what ap-
peared to me so mighty strange is that James Wolfe is just
as mad with joy as his brother is mad with grief, and for
the most part, the two seem to have but one soul, and
for ever think alike.'

' Truly you are right, there, West ; it is mighty strange
now I think on't.'

' And at the end of the half, too, holidays coming in
less than no time, what can it import ? Some quarrel
between the loving brothers ? — well, that would be mar-
vellous, truly.'

' Small chance of that,' Amyot averred. * James
Wolfe is hasty, and doesn't always pick his words ; but
that they should quarrel — no, never ; I won't believe it.'

' Then I'll give up guessing ; but see, Brough, there

A in) 'ot Bro ugh .

they go : did you ever see big Wolfe so mighty well
pleased, or the little one so sunk in woe ? '

* James Wolfe is tolling some piece of tidings ; look how
the lads are staring at him ; let's run and hear. What is
it, what is it, Wolfe ? Ned, tell us what your brother was
sayitig but now,'

' Nay, don't ask me,' half sobbed the lad ; ' if only I
could go too ! but my father will have but one, and I'm
too young.'

' Your father. Colonel Wolfe ? Why, is James to go
with hiin — a lad of thirteen to go to the wars ? Well,
who ever heard such luck ! '

* Aye, but my mother thinks him too young, and I
always deemed that we should go together,' and Ned
turned away to hide his grief.

His brother's bright eyes were dimmed for a moment
as he gazed after him, but murmuring to himself, ' We
couldn't both leave my mother,' he shook off the passing
regret, and plunged again into an animated discussion of
his future prospects. All envied him, as a few months
before all had longed that Fate had given them a share in
Admiral Vernon's triumphs at Portobello, and many were
the mutterings and lamentations that such good fortune
should befall only one.

' Such good luck, to have a colonel for your father ! '
cried one.

' I'd give my ears to serve under Vernon ! ' cried another.

' To have to stay here moping over these senseless
books ! ' added a third, little given to either moping or
books.

* Well, you won't have to do that,' remarked Wolfe
good-humouredly ; ' the holidays are coming ; hurrah
for home, sweet home ! '

' And you're going never to return, Wolfe,' said a
S2ntim2ntal lad much addicted to writing verses ; ' never
to return ! '

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' We'll lia\x' a real j^ood supj)cr on the last evening;/
rcniarkcii a more matter-of-fact youth. 'A monstrous
fine alTair we'll have this iialf; see to it, lads, that you
^et ready your best son^s.'

And, like true ]3ritons, they applauded this su^jrcs-
tion ; and the last night of the half-year, ah\ ays rather
a tumultuous occasion, was doubly noisy this midsummer,
the masters being conveniently deaf, the feasting, sIkhU-
ing, and singing were kept up till late. Again and again
the cry arose for one more song, one more toast ; but at
length a silence fell on the noisy crew, and after much
pressing the most noted singer rose to attempt the song of
the evening, bowing low to the honourable company, and
asking their kind indulgence if his voice (which, alas ! was
about to undergo that change which the vulgar call
'breaking') should prove unequal to the merits of the
song. He thus began :

III

JIosii'.K's Ghost.

' As near Port.M)cllo lying.

On the yentle swclliu}; flood,
At midnight, with streamers Hying,

Our triumphant navy rode;
Where, while Vernon, late all glorious.

From the Spaniard's dire defeat.
And his crew with shouts victorious

Drank success to England's fleet.

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ;
Then, each heart with fear confounding.

A sad trooj) of ghosts appeared —
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And with looks by sorrow clouded,

Frowning on that hostile shore,

' On then gleamed the moon's wan lustre.

When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave.

^Imyoi J)rouo/i.

O'er tlic j;lininicriiiR wave he liicil him.

Where llic " Hurford" reared her >;»il.
W'ilh three thousand ghosts beside him.

And in };roans did Vernon liail :

' " I Iced, oh. heed my fatal story,

I am I losier's injured ^host
You, who now have i)urchased K'lory

At this i)lace where I am lost,
Tliouj^h in I'ortohello's. ruin

You now triumph, free from fears —
When you think of our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

' " .See these mournful spectres wccjnng,

Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
"\7hose wan cheeks arc stained with weeping.

These were English captains brave.
Mark those numbers pale and horriil,

Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead

While his dismal fate is told.

* •' I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this .Spanish town all'right.
Nothing thcni ts wealth defended

But my orders not lo light.
Oh, that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obeyc ' my heart's warm motion

To reduce the pride of Spain !

' " For resistance I could fear none,

But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Hast achieved with six alone.
Then the Bastimento's never

Had our foul dishonour seen.
Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

' '• Thus like thee, proud Spain dismaying.

And her galleons leading home.
Though condemned for disobeying

I had met a traitor's doom.
To have fallen, my coimtry crying,

' He has played an English part,'
Had been better far then dying

Of a grieved-and broken hcait-

■ I

III

Iniyot BrouQ/i,

UUi:

••' UnrcpiniriR at thy glory

Thy successful arms wc hail,
But remember the sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
After this proud foe sul)duin{{,

When your patriot frien<ls you sc,
Think on vengeance for my ruin.l

And for England shamed in me.'"

The bravos were loud and long ; the singer bowed his
acknowledgmcntf) to right and left, and then resumed his
seat ; the provisions had long before disappeared, the
candles were dying down in their sockets, one or two
of the younger lads had fallen asleep, in spite of the
deafening din around them, and, as the cheers died away,
a strange and most unusual silence fell on the group
of lads.

' Speak, do somebody ! ' whispered a pale-faced boy
with large awe-struck eyes. ' I don't like to think of that
night at sea, and the hosts of ghosts rising through the
waters — three thousand of them, groaning and shivering
in the moonlight ! I say, it makes me feel all cold and
shaky ! '

' Does it ? Would three thousand be worse than
one ? '

' I don't know. Have you ever seen one ? '

' Oh, scores of times ! Stray ghosts are as common as
daisies in our parts ; but I fancy it isn't usual for them to
go in troops, and I've a notion thai the man who made
that song has put things a little too strong. What say
you. West ?'

' Like things strong,' said West. ' Detest your prim
folks, who stick to the exact literal truth ; 'tis a good
stirring song, and never a ghost too many in it.'

' Pity they stay there ; if I were old Hosier, or his
ghost, I'd take a trip to old England and plague the
life out of those who sent me on such a fool's errand.
' What's the use of moping and fretting about on the
sea ?'

ylmyol Bronc;h.

' Little good crying over spilt milk,' remarked Amyot.
' It seems to me that Hosier had but himself to thank for
his troubles.'

' You're right there, Rrough ;' it was James Wolfe
who spoke. ' 'Twould have been easy enough to have
dropped his orders into the sea, or read them t'other way
about !'

'Bravo ! that's it ! just so !' echoed the lads. ' Teach
the land-lubbers to mind their own business ; put the
Ministers to bed, and bid them hide their heads under the
bedclothes, if the sound of a gun frightens them. Why
is Spain to keep all the good things in America to her-
self, and go prying into our ships to see what we have
been at ? England's got ships enow, and brave men
enow, to conquer the world, if she might but serve her-
self of them I'

' Ay, ay ! that she has.'

' And some day she will.*

' Some day she'll turn the tables on Spain, and make
the French mounseers quake in their shoes.'

' Ay, ay ; she will.'

' " And she shall flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all." '

■ So she shall — so she shall !'

' •* Still more majestic shall she rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke." '

' If she only gets a chance of one.'

* I tell ye, lads,' broke in James Wolfe, ' that she
shall ! '

' Whist ! whist ! Some one's coming.'

* Gentlemen, having settled the affairs of the nation,
and had a merry evening, I now commend you to your
beds. Dream of glory as much as ye will, I'll never
hinder ye !'

It was the head-master who spoke, a smile of amusement

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■•o displeasure on his face, and the lads dispersed at

A few days afterwards Aniyot found himself again at
Westerham — Joan mightily pleased to have him,but quietly
content, as was her wont ; Tory uproariously delighted,
as also was his wont.

At first, while holiday-time was a novelty, and the
change was pleasing, everyone — even the old servants —
pronounced him wonderfully improved. He would sit
for hours together, holding a fishing-rod, by the side of
the little river, waiting with most marvellous patience for
the rare excitement of a bite, till Doddridge said he was a
changed boy, and he shouldn't wonder now if he turned
out quite a credit to the family — doubtless he had been
well chastised at schoool ; for Doddridge was a firm
believer in the efficacy of pain, and could see no other
method by which such a wild young colt could have been
broken in.

Hannah, too, privately informed her mistress that she
had never thought to like a boy so well : Master Amyot
was nearly as manageable as Miss Joan, and very neai as
sensible as the dog Tory. But Mrs. Darlcy smiled, and
being a far-sighted person, she was not greatly surprised
Avhen, after a week had passed away, some of the old
complaints began to recur.

The fishing was wearied of, the fish being stupid and
perverse, and much given to an infatuated fondness for
life ; Joan and Miss Johnstone were so delicate that they
could not walk if it was hot. or wet ; and Westerham was
quite out of the world : there was nothing to do. Cock-
fights were rare, and Mrs. Darley had a dislike to such
amusements ; so it came to pass one fine day that Amyot
discovered that he was a most unfortunate individual, and

the same conviction, by a

strange

coincidence, forced

itself upon the minds of most of those with whom he came
in contact.

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I •

Just at this period, and, to use Miss Johnstone's expres-
sion, as if he had been specially commissioned to avert
some certainly impending calamity, there arrived at Mrs.
Barley's house a most welcome visitor in the form of
Arnold Pomfret.

' That dreadful boy entirely deprives me of my self-
possession, dear madam,' the poor lady had observed.
'It is most providential that we should be protected by
the presence of a gentleman just at this unhappy moment.
I shall sleep in peace once more.'

' 'Tis well,' the old lady replied ; ' sleep is a blessed
thing, but my grandson shall never disturb my rest ; and
glad as I am to see my daughter Pomfret's stepson, for I
like him, I need no protection from him — nor, I trust,
from anyone. And, good Johnstone, I pray you, disturb
not yourself for the humours of my grandson : 'tis a lad
that lacks occupation ; we must find him work to do,
and he will be well enough, and all this turmoil will cease.'

Prompted by this desire, the old lady was not long
before she suggested to Arnold that, as he had a horse
with him, and there was a sturdy old pony in her stable,
he would be doing Amyot a kindness if he would take
him out riding each day of his stay.

' The boy wants exercise,' she said ; adding, in a lower
voice, ' and plenty of it ; provided thou dost not break
any bones for him, I care not how long or how hard thou
makest him ride ; tire him out for us, good Arnold, and
we poor women folk will thank thee ; and if thou carest
not to ride thy horse to death, take him for a walk, and
stride as if for a wager, till he is fain to beg for mercy.'

* Nay, madam ; what has the poor lad done to be so
served ?'

* Nought, nought, friend Arnold ; the lad is well
enough, only I would fain save him from a fit of the gout,
and my good Johnstone from a fit of another sort. But
enough of that : thou wilt see for thyself how matters

Amyot B rough.

stand ; and now to other points : how hast decided thine
own affairs ? for sure it is high time they should be
decided.'

' But too true — it is high time ; and, yet, dear madam,
though I blush to say it, my' mind is no more made up
than when last I saw you. My father still presses me to
study law, says he has much interest, and hopes he shall
see me a judge one day ; but though I am loath to go
against his wishes, as I have often told you, the law has
no charms for me.'

' And thine own wishes, Arnold Pomfret ?'

* The young man hesitated ; then, looking full into the
kindly face that was turned towards his, and the dark
bright eyes that gazed through their long silver lashes at
his troubled countenance, he said, with an effort :

* They have not changed, madam ; but the questioning
and the doubt remain.'

' The doubt how best to serve thy generation ; whether
to hide from thy sight all the evils that make thee miser-
able, and go and shut thyself up among those thou
deemest pure and holy, and spend thy life in prayer ; or
whether to plunge into the sea of misery and wickedness
and do what thou mayest to check the stream ? Are
these thy doubts, Arnold Pomfret ?'

' You have read me truly, dear madam, as indeed you
ever do ; and now, what say you ?'

' Thou hast seen the monastery of La Trappe, thou
enviest the good monks there ; thou hadst always a
hankering after the Church of my ancestors, good Arnold,
but yet thou callest thyself a Protestant ?'

Arnold hesitated.

' I scarce know what I am, save, I hope, something like
a Christian. I have thought little, too little, I fear, of
dogma ; 'tis vice and cruelty and misery I want to
combat — only tell me how.'

The old lady's eyes glistened.

;;;i:

( '!

;|il

I- ■ *

■',%

lOO

Amyot B rough.

I ^

ir' Ii

'My son, I'll tell thcc one thing: soldiers fight hest
^\•hcn they see the foe, and I need scarce tell thee which of
tiiy two plans is likcst to thy captain's. Art astonished
at me, Arnold ? Didst think I would like to see thee a
monk ! Nay, nay, my son, I'm inclined to think I'm a
jnignacious old woman, for I dearly love a hand-to-hand
fight;

Arnold smiled.

' It would be well if all had your courage,' he said.
' To tell the truth, I believe it is lack of courage that
makes me long for La Trappe. I'll put the thought away,
and try to face the other alternative.'

' And, Arnold, one more word.'

'The more the better, madam. I am happy to be
accepted as your scholar.'

' Nay, nay ; my daughter Pomfret hath made thee
more civil than honest ; who cares what an old woman
says? But, nevertheless, I will speak my mind. Thou
hast most surely the weapon of zeal and good- will ; and
though thou speakest of cowardice, I believe thee brave to
thy heart's core. Still, there are other weapons : and ere
thou enterest the combat, I would have thee well
equipped. See to it, then, that all thine armour is forged
in the right armoury, and think not to fight till thou hast
well proved thy weapons.'

' I believe I take your meaning, madam ; and in this,
as in all else, I am your loving pupil.'

' Nay, not mine, Arnold ; take counsel with thine own
spirit, and with those fitted to instruct, not of an old
woman who barely knows enough to serve her own pur-
pose, and maybe instruct a child. But I must to my
housekeeping cares ; we will talk more another time,'
and the old lady bustled away, while her young com-
panion took his hat, and calling Amyot to accompany
him, started for a stroll by the river-siae.

i; ',.1

CHAPTER VTII.

WHKRKIN AMVOT HKOUCIH IJKTAKKS HIMSKI.K TO THF

NOHTH.

Small apology, it seems to me, is needed for passing over
with but brief notice the school career of Amyot Brough ;
rather, perhaps, shoidd I apologise for bringing such an
unworthy mortal before the world at all. My reasons
for so doing, kind reader, may be hard to guess ; yet 1
would pray your patience, and mayhap, if your long-
suffering carry you through my tale, you may find some-
what to love, even in my rough and rugged hero.

We find him, then, once more in the little town of
Westerham. It is again the summer holidays — the
summer of 1745. Since a certain review on Blackheath
the year before, when his old comrade, James Wolfe,
appeared in the uniform of an ensign, his military ardour
has grown fiercer rather than diminished. The king
who won glory for England at Dettingen, made himself
by that act worthy of all honour in Amyot's eyes ; while
the failure of the Duke of Cumberland at Fontenoy was,
he was sure, no fault of the duke's or his troops, but all
to be laid at the door of the cowardly Dutch.

All the boy's talk was of sieges and battles. War he
must see. He would run away and enlist if his uncle
Avould not use his influence to get him a commission.
School ? He had had enough of school. Many lads were
officers before they were as old as he ; fifteen was a fair
age, and none could say he was not tall for his age and
broad in proportion.

Such were his sentiments, and Joan, who was the con-

lOi

Amyot Brotigh.

stant and patient recipient of all his grievances, grew pale
and anxious as she listened ; but there came a day when
matters arrived at a climax.

Mrs. Darley was away on a visit to her old friend, Mrs.
Wolfe, in London. It was a long-promised visit, and
should have been made nearly a year before, when Mrs.
Wolfe was thrown into great grief by the loss of her
younger son, who had sickened and died while away on
the Continent. Mrs. Darley had longed to go and con-
sole the bereaved mother, but her own health had been
delicate, and the visit had been postponed. But at last
she had gone.

Amyot had his sister to himself, for Miss Johnstone
suffered m.uch from * the nerves ' when he was at home,
and seldom left her bed-chamber, and Joan was well con-
tent with his company. But it happened one morning,
as she was sitting in Miss Johnstone's chamber reading
to her, as was her daily custom, her ear, keenly alert for
mysterious sounds, heard much opening of cupboards and
shutting of box-lids in the chamber overhead — none other
than her brother's.

' My poor head ! ' sighed Miss Johnstone. * Joan, my
love, do you think you have influence enough with your
brother to prevail on him to forbear making that horrid
noise in his chamber. Perchance if you could devise an
err ..nd to the village, he might be induced to undertake
it. Do not tell him he troubles me, for that I well know
is the very purpose of all this din.'

Joan rose quietly, and ran lightly upstairs. Tory,
sitting at Amyot's door, greeted her appearance with a
whine, which said plainly enough : ' Yes, there's some-
thing wrong going on ; see Avhat you can do to prevent
it,' and followed her into the room, where her brother, on
his knees before a bureau, was pulling out and examining
a quantity of clothing, while a travelling-bag, half packed,
lay on the floor beside him.

B <

'I r

Amyot B rough.

10.

' Amyot, brother !' Joan exclaimed.

Amyot, startled, sprang to his feet ; then seeing her
look of consternation, his face softened, he put his arms
round her, and said fondly :

* Sister mine, be not vexed with me. I thought it
was a good moment, and that I would not lose the
chance.'

' Lose what chance ?'

* Now you are growing pale, and putting on that
miserable countenance which I hate to see. Joan, sister,
it must be so — I cannot be a boy any longer ; look at me
— I must be a man, and do a man's work.'

* A man should be patient and loyal-hearted, and bide
his time ; but what will you do — where are you going ?'

' Listen, Joan, you have heard, as I, of the preparations
making in France, and how men say the Pretender will
shortly land in the North, and that there must the
quarrel be fought out. Is not our home on the borders,
is it not my place to go and see to our property there ?
and who knows but I may find a chance of earning that
commission which no one will seek for me. I say it is a
lucky moment, and go I will ; my grandmother being
away makes it all the easier.'

' Oh ! Amyot, wait but till she returns, and ask her
permission ; she will be at home, if all be well, to-
morrow.'

' Then will I be gone to-day !'

Joan wrung her small white hands.

' It will grieve her sorely,' she said.

Amyot uttered an impatient imprecation ; then,
checking himself, he said, taking Joan's hands in his :

' Sister, I cannot help it, I must go ; my heart is set
upon it, and it is surely better to go, my grandmother not
knowing, than to resist her will, when once it is spoken.'

* I know not that,' Joan replied ; ' and, moreover, I am
not sure that grandmother would forbid your wish.'

: ^: '^

•l •■?

■h

•\r\

!t'...

.(1

104

•' '\\l

■1

I, i '.i.

Amyot Broti^Q;h.

' Ay, but I am sure of it ; she will not believe but that
I am still a child. Nay, Joan, you must make the best of
it ; win her to forgive me if you can — if not, you, at least,
will not cease to love me.'

' If I could, methinks, I would,' Joan began more
passionately than Amyot thought was possible for her ;
then, choking back some tears, she continued indignantly :
' Amyot, brother, you are a coward ; Cousin Arnold
would tell you so, I know.'

' Cousin Arnold and I do not always think alike,'
Amyot replied, growing cooler as she grew warmer ; 'but,
yes, Joan, if you will have it, I am a coward. I like not
to vex you, and I do fear to see my grandmother, lest she
too should be grieved.'

' It is a poor spirit that will give pain, but cannot bear
to see it,' Joan responded ; ' but, Amyot, nought that I
say changes your mind in the least ; it is of no use then to
talk and vex each other. When are you going, and
how ?'

' I shall walk to Lo/don, and take the mail — get some
lifts on the way, perchance — but I have not too much
brass, and must save it. Then we part in peace, Joan ?
I knew we two could never, never quarrel.'

' It would be of small avail,' she replied sadly.
' Amyot, I know you dread even to seem to be guided by

me, yet this once There your lips curl at the bare

thought of it.'

■ Nay, nay, Joan, you fancy ; you have guided me oft,
and shall do it oft again, but in this '

' In this I may say nothing. Well,' she stopped, then
added : ' if only grandmother would come home.'

The thought lent a fresh impetus to Amyot's activity,
and when the old lady did alight at her own door, her
grandson was already many miles away. Mrs. Darley
was tired, and anxious to rest, and his absence was for
some time unnoticed ; if she thought at all about it, she

Afnyot Broitgh,

probably imagined he was out fishing, his favourite
amusement. She had much to tell of her visit, of the
news she had gathered during her absence, and it wis not
till she was in the middle of an account of the illness and
death of her young favourite, Mrs. Wolfe's son Edward,
that she noticed Joan's woe-begone face, and spied some
tears ready to fall.

' What, love, didst tb'^u so much care for thy play-
fellow ? But it is sad to think that the dear lad should
have been far away from all he loved, when death came
to him.'

It was not of Edward Wolfe that Joan was thinking,
or rather, it was far less of him, than of one nearer and
dearer ; yet she was sufficiently interested in the old
lady's tale to say :

' Was he then all alone, madam ? I thought for
certain his brother would have been with him, so loving
as they always were.'

' And I too, Joan, had always thought that the poor
lad must have died happy in his brother's arms ; but,
from what their mother tells me, it seems that James
knew not how ill he was, and, moreover, his duty kept
him at a distance. He grieved sore, his mother said, and
has wrote her a very feeling letter, in which he tells her
for her comfort — and it is the best comfort a mother can
have — how all spoke well of poor Ned, and bore testimony
how he had ever done his duty ; and, indeed, they were

sons to be proud of, both of them, so dutiful But,

how is it, sweet one ? what ails the child ? '

' Nothing, grandmother ; I was but troubled to think
of Amyot.'

' Of Amyot ! What of him, where is he — out fishing,
or rat-hunting, or gone to see those fighting-cocks again ? '

' Dear grandmother, he grieved to seem undutiful, but he
has gone away.'

' Gone away ! and whither ? — to see your cousin,

■■:^l

, .....

.,1.!;:

io6

4myot B rough.

» .t'

Arnold PotnfrcL ? It will do the boy no harm ; nay, do
not cry, Joan, it would hav^c Ix^cn more civil had he
stayed till my return, and asked my leave, but as my
daughter Pomfrct says, he has never a very clear sense of
what is fitting.'

* But, madam, he has not gone to my cousin's ; he has
started for the North — for our home at Broughbarrow.
I prayed him to wait and ask your leave, but '

' To Broughbarrow ! The lad is mighty strange ;
what thinks he to do there ? '

' He is mad to go a-soldicring, madam, and he thinks
that if all we hear is true about the coming of the Pre-
tender, there may be some fighting in Scotland, and he
will make his way thither.'

The old lady's pale face flushed with some displeasure
as she listened to Joan's tale ; but seeing the young girl's
distress, she smiled, and patting her cheek fondly, said
' How is it, little one, that thou hast such good sense and
discretion, and thy brother none ? Tell me, when did
this most valiant youth start on his journey, and how did
he mean to travel ? '

Joan told all she knew, and the old lady paused to
consider. At last she spoke. ' Joan, love, thy grand-
mother is getting old, and makes many mistakes, and she
scarce knows what to do for the best ; but she thinks it
may be well to let the lad be. Thy uncle shall write to
the lawyer who has control of the property, and from him
we may learn what the boy is doing, and then I will
write to the lad himself. And now to thy bed, child, and
fret not too much about thy wayward brother ; thy aunt
would tell thee that crying makes bright eyes dim, and
that for no brother in the world shouldst thou spoil thy
beauty. I'm of another mind, and think that for no
brother in the world shouldst thou mar thy peace, so long
as thou hast one Elder Brother to bear thy burdens
for thee.'

Amyot lif'ongh.

107

Rut though slic spoke thus cheerily, and dismissed Joan
to bed with a smile as serene as usual, and bade Tory not
look so dismal, he would see his young master again,
Mrs. Darleydid not go to bed herself until she had written
the letter which the next morning she despatched to
London by a safe hand, to inform Mr. Pomfret what had
happened.

'As the boy's guardian, I feel that you ought to know
at once,' she -.vrote ; adding, however, her own opinion
that it might Ix; well to let the boy have his will, and
since he was bent on a military life, steps should be taken
to obtain a commission for him.

This letter was brought to Mr. Pomfret as he sat with
his wife the next evening, telling her some of the many
astounding pieces of news which he had heard during the
day. ' The French are certainly getting ready for an
invasion, nobody doubts that, my love ; it is a well-known
fact. Marshal Belleisle says that if his government will
give him but five thousand men, he will engage to con-
quer England in a week.'

' Mercy on us ! what impudence ! ' ejaculated his wife.

* And the King's abroad, and nearly all the troops ;
true, the Ministers are coming to London, but what can
they do ? There's a rumour, but whether there's any
truth in it I really can't say, that the Pretender has
already landed in Scotland, and that he is publishing
manifestoes, and that sort of thing, setting a price on his
Majesty's head.'

' Better take care of his own,' observed Mrs. Pomfret ;
* but what was that letter they brought you just now,
Mr. Pomfret ? '

' I have not read it ; it is from your mother — one of
her pleasant little letters, no doubt, but nothing of great
importance, I imagine.' He opened and read it, and
uttered an exclamation of annoyance, adding ' That boy
is a plague !'

•1 ■■)

io8

Imyot Jh'oii^i^/i.

«1,
.i

' What hoy — our iici)hc\v ! what is it, now ? has he
K'^uji to make love to thu milkmaids, or goi marricil at
the Fleet ? — he is so tall, I bc^in to tear all maimer ot
evil doings.'

Her hushaiul read the letter, and foUled it up with the
observation, ' Your mother is riglit, as she always is ; it
will be less trouble to humour than to thwart him ; tor
your father's sake many at headquarters will be disposed
to favour the lad — a commission will not be hard to
obtain ; but for the present Amyot must take care of him-

.'If. I

seit. I am not gomg into those bleak northern regions
again in search of him, but I'll write to the lawyer, as
your mother suggests.'

'The boy will come to a bad end; such self-will and
undutifulness cannot prosper,' Mrs. Pomfret exclaimed.
' Well, I hope it will be but a bullet on an honourable
tield of battle, but my mind misgives me it is more likely
to be a gibbet by the roadside. Poor little Joan !'

Unmindful of the high destiny thus predicted for him,
but yet not altogether easy in his mind, Amyot reached
his journey's end.

The coach deposited him before the well-known sign of
the GritTin Inn in Penrith town, where all looked much as
it had done tive years before ; in fact, so familiar was every
house and shop-front, so unchanged were the faces which
gazed at him as he alighted, that he could scarcely believe
that he himself was so altered as to be quite unrecognis-
able.

' Lilc Amyot Brough, t' cap'n's lad ; nay thou'lt nivcr
be he ?'

' What, Amyot Brough, o' Broughbarrow ? Wull, I
niver ! Thoo's growed a ter'ble girt fella. Hast cum to
see t' land an' farm, an' sich ? They'll bee verra pleased
ta see ya ; go awa' heeam as fast as ya can — Mike he's to
heeam an' t' woife tew.'

And his heart warming at the sound of the familiar

jlffiyot Jh'OHo/i.

109

bropuc, Aniyot quickciictl liis stcjis out of the town *.o-
warcls tlic old familiar road tliat led to liis home. On llic
l(jp of the hill he turned and looked back over the town ;
yes, it was all just as he rememlx-red it— the hill in the
distance, with tlie beacon tower against the sky, the
church tower down below, and around it the roofs of the
town, lie almost wislied that he had turned the opposite
way, and paid his first visit to Blencathara Ilousf Rut
then he remembered with shame how ill he had kept his

/■ , •'■

' (

promise of writing to his old friends there ; perhaps they
\vould have forgotten him, and not wish to rene^v' the
acquaintance ; and for a moment the thought flashed
through his mind that he had been rather reckless of his
friends' feelings of late, and there might come a day
when they would prove equally indifferent to his.

But such unpleasant thoughts took to themselves wings
as he stooped his head to pass in at the back-door of his
own farm-house. (How strangely low that doorway had

•:irt'i

^1'

I 'h

I JO

Amyot Brought

become since last he passed beneath it !) Could such
misgivings prevail amid the tumult of wonder and
kindly rapture that greeted his appearance ? It was long
since he had felt so truly at home, and listening to the
undisguised admiration which his growth and general
improvement excited, receiving the rough but deferential
service of his childhood's friends, Amyot's spirits rose,
and he went to rest that night in the best bed-chamber
in the house, in a state of perfect intoxication of self-
sufficiency and self-satisfaction.

'<
'^:.:-\

-f

CHAPTER IX.

REBEL OR NO ?

'And my old schoolfellows — Lance, Jasper, and Percy
all are gone ? Truly, I thought the house was strangely
quiet when I entered, but I little dreamed of this.'

It was Amyot who spoke, standing in the parlour at
Blencathara House, the mistress of which was busy with
a bowl of water washing some choice china, which never
passed through a maid-servant's hands. She had greeted
her visitor with some ceremony, which recalled to his mind
the misgivings which had troubled it the night before.
He thought she was reproaching him for forgetful ness and
neglect ; and conscious that he was far from guiltless, he
felt abashed in her presence. For once, too, he regretted
that he had grown so tall, and wished that Mrs. Kirkbride
would treat him like a boy once more. Her lack of
friendliness made him feel so awkward, while he could not
but wish to look his best to the laughing girl who, while
helping mother, was watching his every movement, and
finding much sport in his awkwardness.

' Yes ; they are away on business, I may say,' Mrs.
Kirkbride replied, with some appearance of mystery, and
again devoted all her attention to a delicate cup, which
she handled with the tips of her fingers.

'Away, not dead,' Primrose added. 'Master Brough
spoke in such a grievous tone, that he appeared to think
they were dead and gone. They are well — at least the}'
were a week agone.'

[.' \

I I

I my of />ro!ii'/t.

' Ami V(Mi, Miss I'riintoso, ati' voii woll, loo ? Voii arc
marxcUoiislv i;ro\vn, il scvins lo w\c ! '

' Nav ! Vxouy such a luMglit as yours I marvel you cau
siv luo. 1 must o'ou luouut upou a ciiair il I am to pay

you anv complimtMit;

And she laufTJu'd the silvery

laugh that Auiyot rememlxMCil to have heard when he

was ill so manv vcars

Ivl

ore

' Priu\rose ! your tongue runs ONer-fast, child. Carry
icsc cups to the press, ami place them carehdly on the
tojtmosl sheir.and then go ami help Maggie with her seam.'

■1 oh

It b

lie girl (Mx'vcii wit II no sign ot annoyance at ix'ing
thus summarily tlismisscd, and Amyot was left alone with
the somewhat stern old laily, who, laying down the cloth
she held, placed herscli in a high-Kicked chair, ami with
some ceremony Ix^gged him also to ix^ sealcil, remark-
ing. ' 1 have a thing to say lo you.'

He bowed — a bow that would have made Mrs. Pomlret
shriek, but which he imagined was a triuiujih of elegance.

Mrs. Kirkbride was too much absotlxxl in her own
thoughts {o notice it. ami, having turned to ascertain that
the iloor was shut, bcg.in to sjicak in an uiulcrtone.

' Vo\i wish lo kmnv where my sons are at the present

time ? '

' X.i\-, madam ; 1 would not be s(^ curious.'
Perhaps not. it is not your will to be curious, yet in
this matter ymi are. I see it in your face, and I blame
viHi not — youth is ever inquisitive. Now, as 1 do not wish
I \at my matters should Iv talked about, and that Amyol
trough, ox any other jterson. should go ab()ut the town
saying, ' Mrs. Kirkbride 's sons have sudilenly left the
plice.* T am mimlcd io give you myconfulence ; believing
that you. Amyol Brough. have enough honesty to hold
that sacred which is told you in trust.'
' Indeed, madam, you may rely upon me.'
' Il is well. Then, Amyol, in brief, my sons have gone
to serve their King.'

In/yo/ Ihv 1(0/1.

' 1.^

' ioiiu'd Ihf army, y<Hi incati, Mrs. Kirkhridc. I rnvv
lluin tlicir huk ! ll isjnsi wlial I woiiM In- dnin^r, hui 1
catinot SCI" my way.'

' V'oii have bill liall read my iiK-aiiin^. riity have ^otic
to the North to seek the F^rince and oiler him three loyal
hearts, and any serviee he may comtnaiid ol them.'

The 1

rmee. madam

how,

tlie I

rmee f)

f W

d(^s IS not

in the North, and his Majesty is abroad and not yel re-
turned ; al k-ast, so I l)eHeve.'

'The 1*1 inee landed in the- Highlands on tlu; twenty-
filth ol last month. When you lelt London it is possible
tlu" news may not ha\e been known. Ila ! In- will steal
a maieh upon them, and who knows but he will be in
London belore that (ierinan I'Jector has heard ol his
eomint;.'

' Madam, you ama/e me,' was all that Amyot could say.
' Ho I ? Well, take time to breathe, my poor boy ! H
you want si-rx'iee, and the hMeelor m-eds you not. Prince
Charlie will lind you work and kindly smiles, and riches
and honour, il (lod prosper his cause, whiih I doubt not
He will, seeinjr i| is the cause ol truth and ri}j;ht.'
\\\\{ Amyot only ^asjied.

'I'here was a lon^ silence. At list Mrs. Kirkhridc spoke
attain, and this time on indilTerent subjects : asked cjues-
tions concerning his journey, his sister and his school
lile, to all ol which /\myot answered as it" in a dream.
Then, suddenly rememberinjjj some domestic duty, his
hostess hurried away, and a lew mitiutes alterwards the:
door was gently oj)ened, and I'rinnose came: in.

* My mother hopes you will take your dinner with us,'
she said. Then, without wailing tor a reply, she con-
tiiuied hurriedly, ' 1 know what she has said to you.
Master Amyot Hrou^h, 1 pray you tell me wliat you ha\'c
re])lied to lier. Slie says there will be fi^htinjr, and I like
not to think of y.;u on the wrong side. It is hard to
think that you and your old friends may cross swords, or,

• lis'

.•i

114

I nn'of /h'oifo/i.

wnrsr, 1)1. i\- dii' b\- ckIi other's hands. Il i^ loohsh of nu'
to la- v\ that such tilings nia\- happen I l^ul I suppose
they haxf in this quiet land ere now.'

seaive think there is like to Ik- nuieh lighting.'

.niyot rej)

\\vk\.

A tew d.ays helore hi" h.ul aspired to no greater happi-
ness than to liml himself on a hattletield ; hut the eon-
versation ol the l.isl hall-hour had ehangiul his \iews, and
his mind w.as such a turmoil ot eonllieting ide.is that he
scarcely knew what he was s.iving.

' Arulyel '- Prinnose said douhttullv--' a great kingdom
can scarce Ix.' won without much hloodsheil ; mdess — oh !
1 pray that il mav he so- the hearts ol the peojile return

to tl

KMr righttul l\ing

I can ne\er call him King whose lather ahamloneil his

crown without slrikinu <>n

e utxH

1 1)1

ow lor it, aiu

1 wl

siiowed him.selt near as lainthearled wIumi he came o\ei'
thirty years ago. Such men were never mi-ant to Ik*
Kings ol iMigland, Miss I'rinnose. ^'ou cannot thiid<
t he\" were.'

' Xay. it you look so lierce and sjieak so disil.iinridU- 1
sliall run aw.i\-. I tear \'ou, now you ;ue grown so mar-
vellous tall, and wear such a line cut coal. lUil you will
eat your dinner with us. and gi\e me lime lo hear about
my dear tVientl Tory and all V()ur lra\cls. N.iv, do not
hesitate —we will not jiois )n you ; at least, not until we

e quite sure that \o\\ may not be won lo the rightful

cause

He cpiile sure ol that. Miss Prinnose. 1 am King

George's true man. ami will serx'c none else

;iy. nay

sue s

lOJ)]

led her ears

--' I

am c

leal. I

wil

lear no treason.

go to IcU my mother that a tat

duck and green ]icas may make a loyal man ol you yet.
Contradict me it you dare.'

And she danced away, singing ' The King shall enjoy his
own again." leaylng Amyot in great dismay and perplexity.

luiyot Hroui^/i,

• '5

II was ratluT a silcnl im-al llial r<ill<»\vc(l, and Aiiiyot
was ^lail wiu'ii it was o\ci , anil lie could cscajic to tliiid<
()\fr what In- liad luard. 'X\\v I'lctcndtr liad really
landcil. Rmnouis (tl sui h an cM-nl had reached him on
his jouiney, hut this was the lirst certain inlorniation he
had had. lie W4)ndered tnueh whether any eonsiilerahle
number ol men had joined his standard, and especially
whether others beside the Kirkbrides had ^one from
Penrith.

He determined to ste|) into the (irillin and other imis ot
the town on his way back, and pick up all the inlorniation
that he could, and jud^e tor himselt whether the leelin^
ol the townspeojile inclined in any decree to the Jacobite
cause. This he diil, and loutul that il he wanted news he
coulil lia\e enough and to spare, but as abundance is often
more embarrassiu}; than scarcity, so he was soon forced to
admit Ko Idmself that he should \l^^ home little wiser than
when he sot out, except in the one important fact which
he hail learned from Mrs. Kirkbride.

' Ya wants ta knaa what's (raan on ; what's dewan awa
to Noarth,' said the landlord of the (iriniii. ' Wull I
lx;ant sewer whedther theears any feytin theear as yet ;
bet I've heeard tell as theears no bitten aboot in t' sea, it's
that full o' shi))s a brinj^in' lorran sodoers frae t' Continent.'

' Neea doot,' added a bystander, ' thae idle fellars hoop
t' git sumat t' dew, or leastways t'git ))aid fur dewing nowt.'

' I heeard tell,' said another, ' as ta rebels wur coomin
reet doon ower to Fells a-burnin' ivvcrything an' a-mur-
derin' all that coom in t' roaad. Thousan's an' thousan's
on 'em.'

' Na, iia ; thae'll be reet awa in .Scotland yet. Mappen
it'll be a gae bit afoor thau cross t' boorder. Penrith
toon will be true ta King (xeoarge, I rakkan.'

' I's none sae sewer aboot that -wha knaa's bet theear
rebels amoong us ? '

The speaker looked round suspiciously, and valiantly

t i

1 1()

.hf/vo/ Ihouch.

.•>

;'•.

challenged anvono ^vho was not satislii'd with King
lic(Mgo lo I'dine K>\\\ ami liglil out the ijiicslion in the
baekvard ; hut no one stirred.

' Tlicear i)e a bodderin' Uiml o' ehaj) as thae eall
Mounsccr Saxe, a chap o' niiekU* prate, wha ses as he's
cooniin' ta dew niigiUv girl things, he an' ten thousan'
niedillin' lorraneer.s. Has l' heeanl whedlher he's loike
t' be cooniin' this roaad ? '

' Na, na ; 1 rakkan thae lorraneers w»dl na lash
tlieersells aboot us ; hawixer, thae lie alus rr.Uehin'
anioong theersells. Alappen thae've na i|uite fergittin l'
aald Dook o' Marlboro' an t' lesson he gi\-' 'em.'

' Av, av. }Mty he's deed an' gaan.'

;\nd thus thev iliseoursed up and ilown the town, till
Anu'ot, tired of listening, went home to talk to Mike ami
Ocborah, and to sit iii his lather's oUl elbow-chair, and
wonder what he had best ilo.

And this wondering continued lor many ilays, until he
could not helji admitting to himself that he wished
himself back again under guardianshii) and tutelage,
since to live an idle life at 13roughbarrow hul been no
part of his dream when he left Westerham ; yet how to
find work to di>, or whether now to w ish for service, he
could scarce ilecide.

The northern towns, lying among their mountains, and
hidden away, as it were, from the world's bustle and
notice, were ncH very bustling places in those days, what-
ever peojile may think of them now. The people who
lived in Penrith and its neighbourhooil were addicted to
much consideration before they took any inijiortant step.

and Amvot soon fell into their ways agai

and

the davs drifted on, and no decision was made. His
dream of fighting the rebels side by side with his old
friends and schoolfellows had been rudely disturbed, and
it was not easy to reconcile himself to the idea of fighting
against them.

. !///]'!>/ Ih oiii^/i .

I I

Mike ,111(1 I )i'l)(i| ,i|i ( (iiild iinl |(»l('i;U(' llic lUtlinii nf liis
j^oin^ sdldicrin^ ; wli.il ( .ill hud lie to ^o ;ind ^'ct killed
l"ti aiiv Mian, he lie (.died (icot^c ^^\■ [.iincs ? [| made
little dillereiiee, in their opinion, which was Kin^^, and
icrtaiidy their yoiin^ master had nought to d(» with any
man's (jnarreis. Thev entirely approvi'd ol his eomiii^
home, and had no doiiht at all that he mtist hav(^ found
'them southern ((dk ' iiKtst feckless and ill to do with ;
hut now ihat he had (<»nie home, what hetter could ho do
tlian hide there? To ^o farther northwards would Ix- a
senseless ino\e, since ini-rytdu' knew that across the
liorder lived a set of people little hetter than savages,
with hare lej^s and a most muommon kind ofdress, not
to mention a hat harous style of lan^ua^e, and a'mi^^lity
line o|)inion of tiu-mseK-es. Michael had seen one of
tlicsc sa\a^es come ridinj; into I'enrith on the top of
the coach, and could ne\er forj^^et his huge stature and
horrid dress.

So it was of little use to consult him, and the days
slij)pe(l by, one after -inotiier, wiled by continual (juest of
news, and discussion as to the turn that events were likely
to take. AujTust had passed away, September was far
advanced, and still Amyot was living idly at Broughbarrow,
when, sauntering down the hill, by the ruins of Penrith
Castle, one early morning, he noticed an unusual stir
in the quiet little town. Old people who had not left
their doors for many years were making what speed they
could to follow their more active neighbours to the
market-place, bare-legged children were running and
shouting, men looked eager and excited, women awe-
struck and alarmed.

' What is it ? ' Amyot eagerly inquired, his heart ready
to hail any news with delight, so tired wa.s he of waiting
for the something to happen which was to decide his fate.

' A great victory, nay, I mean a great defeat,' was the
reply of a young man, who had just dismounted from a

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III || .!■ ,(ihI I Im\ r I ' piiH 111,111 \' ,1 w I .11 V mill , ,11 M I I ,( ,111 (•
k III i\\ w li.il I ,1 \, w lull III , |i< K ii III, 1. 1, ,i,iiii |',ii(i\\, li'iw

Mr i'\liii,ilii| liiiii ill iiMiti lln iiiiiji, \\liii|i W.I. I.I I
I III In ill) I', 1 1 III nil III III, .mil 1 1 |ii .il 111)1 ; ' A k V''"'!' ' I' li'ivv m

I lir I III I I i.il ,' 1 1'' I III mil III , lim .r' , III .III ilnwii .1 Ir/ 1 1 « < I ,
.mil, w.ilkiii); li\' llii |iiiiii liimMiiii' Im.i.I, ,'iii|>lii ,\ |i ,,

II njllrlllril |i,ii| ii( ||ir luwii, lullnwiil Ity li"lii' lull ,\myiil,
wliM Willi Miiir mill. Inn I iimIiiiii <iI i i i himiiI i'iii, .'iiik
Ijii.ilmi; iilr.i 111 li.i\iii|; .ii ii lln m.iii lnl'.ii, h ,'»I'vmI I'»
kr('|i limi III i)',lil , .mil .11' wliil III I III w.i , I'/'iii)/.

Si I .liMvl\' (Ik! I III' w I .11 V li"i '■ I'Mii • ■'■<!, I li-il il w -i • in/i
r.i'.y III ji iiln iii I lir i i.ii , .mil Ik |( ii r ludji, I lii m.iii iiini 'I

III li.i\r .III imi'.r.y i mi ,i imi mm , lli.ii In- w.i . In iii^'
w.ih IhiI, .mil .illri I'l.iiM 111)1 liiilivf ly i>vii In . .Ii'hiI'I' t .ii
lir, |)iii Mill, linnnl .Ii,ii|ily inninl .iiul ,iii| .

' I jti.iy yon, yniili)', m.m, li.ivr ymi ,my \>\\.\\\v::: vvilli
iiir, lli.il \iin llin . iln)' my loot . lip. .•' il yon li.iv<:, .))<■, ik
oiil , .mil |i.l . . nil ' '

lie loiikrd lull ,il Amyol ;i , lir .pokr. /\ m yol ritiirn''!
llic si. lie, l»nl, .il llir ,.mii' inoinrnl, i (•( o('iii Mil tli': w'-.n y
I l.l\cll('l il . lionr ollici IImii III, o|i| .( Iioolfcllow, I-iUKi;
K il kill idc. riic I (•( o)iiiil ion w.is imiln;il.

' ,\iiiyo| I'iiiii/.;li ! l,;iii(c, K ir k 1m idi; I ' \y,[..>A llicir li[)-,
;it I lie siiliU' iiioiiiciil ; jiikI llicii I Im; I wo yoiuij^Miicn .tood
still iind looked hard into eiu li ollier's f;Kx;s.

' You here, I»ion).;li ?' said LaiKe, after a few minute-,'
silence; 'who would have thoii{.dit of thi,? VV'liat
hioiif^ht yon to the North aj^aiii i '

' Never mind me what's the news ? I , it a victory or
a deleal ? '

' IJoth,' and Lance smiled triumphantly.

* Vou don't mean to say,' Amyot i;xclairr)ed in ama/e-

1^1

H
i I

I, A

120

.ln/\ot Ih'ouc'h'

it I'

inont, 'that the I'rclciulcr lias fought and won the
(lay ? •

' I sail! nothinp; of tlie sort ; but so it is — tlu' Klcetor's
troops fled without striking a blow. Old Cope, who
coniniandcd thcni, is 1)0", I know not and I care not
whither. \\'hat, Brough, art going to swoon ? — is it joy
or foar .^ '

' Where was the light ? '

' Not \ery far from I^dinburgh, at I'restonpans ; the
Prinee took (ieneral Cope entirely by surprise, and the
worlil too, T faney. Did you expect such news ? — not if
your face tells nie the truth ! '

I never was more surprised in my life,' Amvot con-
fessed ; 'but you, J<ance- have you left the rebels, that
you are here just when fighting is in fashion ? '

' Have me hanged for a rebel if I have ! ' Lance replied ;
' but have a care how you talk, Brough ; keep a civil
tongue in your head, or I may be minded to rid his
Highness of one disloyal subject, though he were a friend
of my own in days gone by.'

' Perhaj)s it were well to part ere we come to blows,'
Amyot replied, ' for neither of us will brook the name of
rebel — no, not even if spoken in jest.'

' Then we'll agree to drop it from our conversation ;
neither of us being on duty here, we may bear each other
company and do no harm. Come with me to see my
mother — it is with her I have business, a matter of a cer-
tain sum of money, and then I do but stay to rest my
poor beast, and be gone. Come with me, and drink one
glass to bonnie Prince Charlie ; none will be the wiser,
and none the worse.'

' I'll have none of your Prince Charlie,' Amyot replied
doggedlv ; but he walked bv his old friend's side notwith-
standing, and e\en let him talk of the vict.ory without
giving vent to the rage and disappointment that were
choking him.

. I niyol Ih'o/ti^/i.

I 21

' I li.ul iK'ttrr not j;n any farther,' lie ^aid, as tlicy
reached Hleiicathara House; 'their exiiUalion will put
me heside myselt.'

' Nonsense, don't he a fool -are we not old hiends; why
should a change of kings divide us? Ah I there's Prim-
rose— my hoimie hride that's to Ix; — and the old lady
peeping hetwecn the curtains to see who's coming. It's
a rohher, mother mine, to steal thy hoarded gold, hut well
I know thou'It give it with a glad heart for thy King.'

it was with much reluctance, and a most downcast
mien, that Amyot suffered liimself to Ix; drawn into the
rejoicing grouj), where he stood scowling and muttering :
' Kool that I was to come — fool that I am to stay! — why
don't I go? ' and yet he lingered. In fact, he was unwill-
ing to miss the chance of hearing any j)art of Lance's tale,
though each sentence made him more savage than the
last. Confident assurance that all would go well, that
\ictory would follow victory, that clan after clan would
come to tender homage, that the nobles woidd flock to
the victorious Prince, that a post or two would bring the
news of King(ieorge's flight, so that when Christmas came
the toasts would all be for the restored King James — this
was the strain poured forth by the jubilant household,
while thebringerofgood tidings was feasted and made much
of, as if the victory had been won by his unaided arm.

Primrose's bright eyes danced with glee as she listened
to Lance's tale, then, glancing to the dejected and sullen
face of their guest, as he stood leaning, with half-averted
face, against the window frame, listening in gloomy silence
to the never-ceasing flow of question and answer, but
taking no part in the talk, she observed roguishly :

' iMaster Brough has grown as grave as he is tall ; they
have overloaded liim with learning at his Greenwich
school ; it terrifies me much, to be in his company.
Brother Lance, I pray you contrive some grave and
thoughtful speech, or he will despise us one and all.

(

Itf/Vt'f nroiii^/t.

'.\in\.'| IliiMirJ) I' .1 fV""' ^»'ll"'\^ v "" li.iH noi m;ilvr
spot! <>l liim U'rinrmU't , l'nmn»sr. ln'W \iiii niuc ..iiil
lu' ''.n ( il \ ( Mil lilc '

' Am". .imiI >.< tliil \iMi, Imi'IIki I .iiur, |iii( M.i-lt'i
HtiMirJj, I I>rj> \i>\i, liMiMl \iMii \\ ( M . , wild know l)ii! we
sh.ill Ih' \ .miiui'lit'il |i>in«>ii(iw Irl'. d.niM .iiul iiii',
w liilr we m.i\ '

' W nil ,lll in\ lit'. Ill, ntll\ .)sk Il\f not Id jdill \d||

' \\t', ImiI I lid; llimU \dii ili.il \dm Kmi'., wt«illi\
\\\.\\\ .1'^ lie tn.i\ \>c lot .nii',lil \v»' Inih'W, Ix.ii- -mil a utic
1h\im>i\(' l.hf ,1. \d\i.' i'liiilx \i|> Ndin (diii.ij^H', Mallei
Hioiivji. Id) .itlci .ill, 'ir- llir (Midtl v.iu.c lli.il li.is i dii
iHMMrd. .itul \ dii V .m'l linn ii '

' llu^li ! hih>li. l*iiiiiidM' I tli'iiN II lie 1.111 ,111(1 will, .iiiil

I ]MtMllls('»| Wr WdllM lldl IdltM'l WC WCIC dM Illl'Uds.
M*^tluM, I ll.»\ I' hM^lcd like.! killC,; f.dW |d| ■^dllK • 1 1 isi dll I M'.

Wh.U I .\m\t'l, will iH'mMic .' Well. in.i\Iu' 'lis lu-si ;
wt'"ll uu'i'l .1^.1111 in U">s liiMiMdiis linu'^.'

riu'N' shook li.uuN, .Hill .\in\di Irll llu- Jidiisc .iiid
\\.ilki\l v|iiii kl\ .iw.u. (idim; lidiiic. Iir IumhI m.iii\
x.ui.uitMi^ dl his liiciui's l.ilr. hiil llu' siihsl.nui' was
ahv.iN s ihr ^^.mir. Thr I'n'UMuIti h.u! iiiadr ,i siujdcn
.Kt.ivk on (icMUM.il Tdju^'s .iiiiiv, his ili.»^o(Mis hail llrd
ahui^^l withtnii sirikiiii; a Mow, ilu* \iiltM\' had Ih-cii
com]ili'U\ riu' I'li'li'iuliM \v.is i|ii.nkMrd in l''.diiilnii j;h,
and _iir»n\in^ i'\orv ila\' niori> pojnilar ihnw

' \\c\\ bo in Mncl.uul in .i low liaN^-.' ho said lo hiinsolt' ;
'in 1 .oniliMi in .iboul .i t<Mtnii;h'. . \\'i,.u will ho iho oiul ol
il all ; M\ iinolo, aunl, Joan, niv graiulniothor ; wiial
will ilirv all <\o • '

( IIAni'.K X

( < »\( I K'\l\<, Mil' /MI'AII" (>)■ MIII'iS liriliM'

' N AS , Mike, uliv "^'l I 'II I Id V'lil ( (III II' :' I )rlt'»r;ili, krr|» liitii
at III mil ; I Ik '.r ( hM ihiys m;ikc his i In imh.iI i< s worsr, and
il I (aii'l irsi ,il lioiiic thai i, no Ka.'in why li'" should
tiol hide in his dhow ( hair alter t lir day'' uoik i. over.'

' II ya wild hide ya'scll, Mia|i|>rn r, hcd diw t' s( ;itii,'
was ,dl I )(Ikii ah' < i(|»l\'.

iiiil the old tnan shook hi. he. id, and with nun h
lament iii^ loiutMiiin^ these hothersotne rehel,, he per
sisted ill dra^^iii^ his st ill liiiihs aloiij.r the road and oyer
the lields, s\ liere\'ei it plea cd his yoiin^ master to roam.

' I would really he easier i| yoii would ^o home, Mike,'
Ainyol ui'Ki'd more than oik e. I'lil the laithliil old
lellow was ohstiiiate, and only ri^plic^d :

' I wnd loiki; ta sec cs weel es ya ; het , hawiyer, thae
wars inei'ak a teihle ^iit hodderat ion, an' looak meeak
miekk' prate ahoot tliinj.;s cs thae knaa nowt ahoot.
Wliat dusta think it matters wiicdthcr t' Kitiff h(- c acd
(Jcor^c or Jeamcs 'tis a' t' sceam ta mc'

This, a tjucstioii whici) liad already been discussed until
Amyot was (|uilu weary of it, failed tf) excite him to any
reply, and, with his car strained to catch every (Ustant
sound, lie continued to trudge alon<^ in silence, until Van-
wath Hall was close at hand ; and there he stood still to
listen and allow IVIike, wdu; walked very tccbly, trj over-
take him.

' 'I'he roads arc awhd and the.sun is scttincr Ask leave

'^'f

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]' t

Aniyoi BroiiQ/i.

125

to rest in the kitchen until I come back, Mike ; I will but
go as far as Clifton Bridge, and then return.'

' Nay, nay ; I's gaan wi' ya. Bet tell ma, what dusta
think es ta'll see ? '

' Who can tell ? — most likely nothing. Nevertheless,
as all say the Pretender is retreating and the Duke is
close behind, and neither army can be far from here,
there's no doubt but I may see or hear something.'

' Weel, ga an ; I canna keep pace wi' ya, bet I'll folia
an' keep an eye an ya.'

Glad to be in some degree free, Amyot quickened his
pace ; but he had not gone very far when he stopped
suddenly, and, otooping down, laid his ear close to the
ground to listen. What was it ? Only the moaning of
the winter wind in the leafless trees, or maybe the com-
plaining of some forlorn ghost, wandering over the moor,
or the water rushing over the rocks in the river below ?
All these suggestions occurred to him, but his^ iinagina-
tion — keenly awake to explain the sounds as his boyish
love of adventure desired — ascribed it to far different
causes. It was, he felt convinced, the tramp of feet, the
movement of a vast body of men — and that near at hand.
Was it the rebel army, or that of the royal Duke ?

Looking back, Amyot saw that the sounds which he
had heard, had also reached the comparatively dull ear of
old Mike, who, while earnestly signalling to him to go no
farther, was making great efforts to overtake him.

It would have been too cruel to disappoint him, so,
rather reluctantly, the lad turned back, and in a few
minutes the two stood together consulting what they had
best do.

' Ya'U be fer feightin' wi' oor fists, I rakkan,' Mike
said ; ' but mine are good fer nowt, an soal perpose es we
lig a lile bit amang these yer bits o' brushwood an' listen
ta 'em es they ga alang. If it sud be that Pertender
chap, I'm no fer sayin' bet ya might heave a bit o' a

\- \i

ill

1
%

■i.

126

.Imvol B rough.

stccaii at liis hecad. I's varra sartan we'd dew jist es
w'eel widout un.'

Aniyot lauglied, and prefeninp; to stay with liis old
friend, made no objection to concealing himself among
the low bushes by the river-side, and there they remained
for more than half-an-hour before any of the advancing
liost made their appearance. Travel-worn, bespattered
with mud, weary and dejected, appeared most of the men,
and the officers looked even more dispirited. It needed
no great discernment to discover that hope and many of
these brave fellows had parted company, while on many
a brow hung the cloud of bitter resentment and savage
despair.

The main part of the army were on foot, and as troop
after troop passed, struggling through the mud, keeping
but poor order, cursing the cold, the wet, and their
leaders. Alike whispered to his young master :

' They bea a daft lot a chaps. What fer cuddont they
bide at heeiim ? Rakkan they'll ha' had theear fill o'
travellin', an sarve 'em reet. Better 've beean mindin'
theear ploughs. Hoo many think 3'a ther beii ? '

But Amyot had no idea, and the old man rambled on :

' When I teeaks to feightin' I'll bea an officier an' ride
ma nag, not ga trampin' throo t' mood. Bet look ya.
Master Amyot ! 1 rakkan that 'un bea t' chap es had
thowt to meeak his fooartan, that yalla-haired yoongster
wi' t' heead a hangin' doon a'most es if he wer gaan ta be
hanget.'

Amyot looked, and wonelered if Mike was right ; but
the Pretender, if this were he, was already past, and still
the stream of men continued their weary, toilsome march
towards Penrith.

At length there was a pause, .\myot had heard a
soldier say, as he passed, that the artillery was still far
behind, and that the Prince would halt in Penrith until
such time as Lord George Murray, in command of it,

' ll

A))ixol JirouoJi.

J 2

should overtake him. In Penrith, therefore, they would
lodge, and perhaj)s in tlie neighbourliood ; and lull of
this thought, and fearing that in their absence Deborah
might be alarmed by a party claiming shelter at Brough-
barrow, Amyot and Mike lost no time in scrambling
forth from tlieir hiding-place, and making their way by
short cuts Viomewards.

All was, however, peaceful at Broughbarrow ; and to
the question asked by Deborah and the maids — what
should they do if the soldiers came ? — Amyot and Mike
replied :

' We'll all go right off iu bed, and if anyone knocks
we'll take no notice — no, not unless they set the house on
fire;

' Which mappcn they wull,' Deborah replied.

But, as ,;he had no better suggestion to ofifer, she was
compelled to adopt that already made, and in spite of her
misgivings the household was left in peace until the
morning.

There was much sighing and lamenting on the part of
the worthy couple, Mike and Deborah, over the restless-
ness of their young master : off to the town he must be
as soon as he had got his porridge, though sure it must
be a most unsafe place, with all those soldiers about,
^.■hosc guns might go off any minute ; not to speak of
their w'icked ways, which everyone knew were too awful
to be named by honest folk. But he was not to be con-
trolled : he would see and know c\'erything, and the
morning was passed bv him loitering about the market-

place and Dockwrciy Hall, watching the rebel officers as
they paced the town, and went in and out, for Amyot
hoped to have another sight of the Prince, whose adven-
tures had made it quite allowable even for those who
cared nothing for him to stare at him.

Amyot half-expected and half-feared lest he should meet
Primrose Kirkbride. She could not now triumph o^'er

A m

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Antyot Broito/i.

I 29

liim, or speak with sure coiihclence of the good cause
which must succeed ; the retreat from Derby would have
taught her not to be too confident, and remembering this,
Amyot thought it might be more possible to feel at case
with her than when last they had met ; but, notwith-
standing all that had passed, Amyot knew well that she
would hope on to the very end, and that her disappoint-
ment would be very painful to witness.

But he did not meet her ; and as the dav wore on, he
bethought him that in all probability other regiments
would be coming in, convoying the artillery, and once
more he betook himself to the high-road and the adjacent
fields, for the paraphernalia of war was growing more and
more attractive to him, and the quiet of home more and
more distasteful.

As he sauntered along and drew near Clifton Moor, he
found that a body of the rebel troops, under the command
of a French officer, was waiting there the arrival of Lord
(jeorge Murray, in order to be in readiness to render aid
if necessary.

The sun was setting when the first lines of the looked-
for regiments appeared on the dark edge of the moor ; the
red glow in the sky lit up the scene, but a thick cloud of
dust surrounded them, and to the inexperienced eye of
Amyot all seemed in confusion.

Suddenly, from another quarter of the moor, appeared
another host, and these were plainly cavalry in rapid
motion, dashing at full speed towards the bridge, with
evident intent to take possession of it ; while the High-
land regiment, which had been awaiting the coming of
their artillery, advanced to meet Lord George's force —
and thus united, the rebel army came on to dispute the
pa>hage of the bridge.

There was a brisk discharge of musketry, then a
hand-to-hand encounter with swords and bayonets, and
Amyot, from his post of observation among some furze-

. ">

I .sO

. hz/yo/ /)/v/ii^//.

Iiuslics, rcjoicoil lo (liink tiial 1)\ jmxkI hn k hi' li;!il tliaiucd
to ho s|)cvlat()r ol a rc.il haltli'.

That tho lUisl ami siiutkc j^icatly hiiuK-U'd his \ il•^•.■ he
laivil hut little : he louKl see tho tiinuilt. iniild hear ihr
thn and hattk'-tries, the JMi^Iish kettle diiims and
tiuni])ets, the pihroeh's shrill si reeeh. eould kel his he.nt
tlunn]) against his lihs a-- now the iliuhlandeis, and then
the Koyalists, and now a^ain the llii^hl.inders, seenieil
to j>re\ail.

Bnt the niivht was fast elosin^ in, the darkness eoniinj;
on a ])aee, and with the shades of ni|L;ht eanie disorder
and eonlusion ; the r^n^lish dragoons turned and took to
flioht aeross the ojkmi moor : their opjjonents held the
hridi;e.

Suddenly the moon shone out, and the diseonilited
draj^^oons perceivinj; how small was the nuniher ;*! theii
assailants, rallied, and he'ii<; reinioreed hy two tresh
squadrons, tried to reeo\er their lost j;roinul ; hut a^ain
the lii;ht tailed them ; the tide of hattle slaekened, and
though for some time longer .\myot could hear the sound
of strife, the rush of Hying horses, the cries of the
woinuled, the words of conuuand, the leaders cheering on
their men, hefore long the tumult lessened, the darkness
settled dt)wn on the moor, and Amyot discovered that it
was bitterly cold, and that he had best seek his home.

As far as he could guess, the Highlanders had returned
to Penrith, the Royal troops had retreated to the edge of
the moor, falling back on their main body ; but as he crept
along under the hedges, lie was again and again jnissed
by rushing borsemen, or forced to hold himself still and
quiet, while troops of straggling foot-soldiers marched by.
Once be stumbled over a motionless body, lying with white
face upturned to the skies; a moonbeam lit it up, and Amyot
shuddered as he gazed. The soul had parted in agony,
and the pale countenance was still convulsed, the hands
were clenched. Then he heard a horse struggling and

131

writliin«f in pain, snoitinn and kirUinn, and tuiiiin^ aside,
lost the animal's Icil sliduld striisc him, he heard another
sound, this time a human \oiee, whieh was <;i\in^ \enl to
a crv ol |)ain.

' One ol those Highlanders,' \\v thought. ' I'-iiL!,li-^hinen
don't ery liUc wonu-n ; hut V\v heard that those
saviiji;es eamiot i)ear pain : well, I su|)pose they'll send
somebody to look alter their wounded -at least, I can do
nothing.'

A\\(\ as, in truth, the wounded horse's struj^^les, and
the wounded soldier's moan, were causing his heart to
swell im|)leasaiitly, he was hasteniii}^ to f^et away from
the place, when a voice cried :

' Mere, tor the love of lieaven, stop a moment ! '

(ilancinij; fearfully at the dead soldier's face, v\myot did
stop, hopinjr that the wouniled man, wherever he mij^ht
he, would not, at least, look like him. 'I'hen he ^roj)ed
ahout in the dark, oxer mounds of earth and stunted
bushes, until he tancied he could discern something like
an arm w hich beckoned to him. I'ickin^ his way care-
fully, he was soon beside the woimded man, who, conscious
of his ajijjroach, said :

' StraiijL^er, will you ^ivc me a hand to recover my
footinj^ .-^ I am sore hurt ; yet, maybe, if once on my
feet, 1 mifjfht be able to find my way to some inn ; for to
lie here in the cold will certainly make an end of me before

mormiifjf.

'Where are vou hurt?' Amyot inquired, stooj)ing
down, and trying to pass his arm under him to help him
to rise.

' I scarce know. A sword cut liere, a l)idlet there, and
my arm broken in falling from my liorse, yet my legs, I
think, are sound, if once I could struggle to my feet ;
nay, not so,' as Amyot used some force. ' I cannot bear
that ; it must be slowly. 1 feel strangely numb and
stiff.' He groaned heavily, and his voice was choked and

•>l

II ■

i-(

\i\\

ii- . ■

IB^

132

Amyo/ J trough.

thick as he said : * Maybe 'tis of no use — I am worse than

I thought.'
.' I am very strong,' Amyot replied ; ' let me try to

raise you slowly and gradually ; place your uninjured arm

around mv neck.'

The sufferer obeyed, murmuring to himself :

' I've done it before now ; ' but to this remark Amyot

paid no heetl, being wholly engrossed with the effort he

was making.

It succeeded ; the wounded man recovered his feet, but
leaned heavily on Amyot, who said kindly :

' I fear you can never walk as far as the inn, and I could
not quite carry you ; if you could make shift to walk a
short distance, I could leave you sitting under the hedge,
and run to' my house, and fetch some strong lads to carry
you there.'

'No, no.' said the other hurriedly ; 'that must never
be — rather ^vouId I die here ! '

' Rut why ? ' Amyot inquired wonderingly. ' Count
my house an inn, if so you will ; I did but name it
because it is nearer by a mile than the nearest inn where
you could be tended as you need.'

' But you are rash,' the poor fellow replied while he
moaned with pain. ' I am one of the Prince's men, and
to cut the matter short, you, Amyot Brough, will never
house a rebel.'

Amyot started back, and had almost let the wounded
man fall in his astonishment ; then, remembering himself,
he said :

' If that rebel is Lance Kirkbride, I cannot leave him
here unaided ; and, indeed, Lance, for one night there
can be little risk. Come, say no more : try to walk, and
let it be as I have said.'

' It were better to leave me here,' Lance replied ; but
he did not resist further. With many a heavy groan and
exrlamation of pain, he struggled on stumbling in the

Afnyot B rough.

^ZZ

darkness, tripping over roots of trees, clinging to Amyot
in desperation, until the latter was tain almost to carry
him, so slow was their progress.

There was much shaking of heads in the kitchen of the
farm that night, and some subdued grumbling. The
young master's doings were enough to break the hearts
of all quiet folk, who liked to have things go on in their
ordinary course, and hated being mixed up with battles,
wounded men, and such-like. Was this all the good he
had done by running up and down the country all day,
to go for to pick up a dirty, muddy, quarrelsome fellow
of a soldier, and bring him home and put him into the
best bed in the house ? Folks should reap as they sowed ;
doubtless this fellow had done his best to break other
folks' arms — it was but right he should be served the
same ; so Mike said, and so Deborah thought. But, hap-
pily for poor Lance, before an hour had ])assed, her
woman's heart had 'softened towards him, and she had
helped Obed, the old shepherd, to set his broken arm with
as tender and motherly a touch, as if he had been Amyot
himself, and even condescended to say that he had
behaved under the operation almost like a Christian, and
very nearly as well as a dog.

It was not until the morning that she discovered that
the injured man was one of Mistress Kirkbride's sons,
who had turned rebel, and then her consternation was
e.Ktreme.

' Master Amyot, what wasta thinkin' of, ta ga an' fetch
van girt rebel heeam ? Whaariver sail we put un if any
o' t' King's fooak come nigh t' place ? He's ower big ta
hide, an' if they light on un, they'll be fer larnin' un t'
mind hes aan wark, an' let other fooak's aleean.'

' Perhaps the King's folk won't come nigh the place,'
Amyot replied ; but though he put a bold face on it, the
same difficulty was pressing sore upon him, and he could
see no way out of it.

ill

»:>4

.Inixot /iroiii^/i.

LaiKi". too, had lli<»iii;ht ol it, ami was ur^ctit to Ix'
allourd to ni( u|) and dipart ; but , imu li as ^lir diiMtU'd
t 111' (. onMijiu'iKis o| Iii^ |tii siin i- in tlu' liou^i, old |)cl)or.ili
«.(udd not hut si'c that \\v \\.\^v\v\\ k'>s iil to ino\c ih.in
thi' nii;ht hrlon- : his iIkcIns win- huriiiu}; with U\«.t, his
wduuds wi'ic paiulul in thi- ixtnuu'.

' Nay, nay, hide ijuirt.' she r(.'|)hc'd to all his cnlrcalii's ;
't' hoosi' is \\(v\ oot o' t" road, an' it smuinun rooms
|H'ii in' about \\i''ll nu'.ak oop xtnu' tair t ' ail un ; hide
ijuirt, an' dunua Int t' h'11 ;' and i|uic'lin<; him, s!k' }j,R'\v
ijuitc luTH'ir.

Not so Amyot : lu' roamul ai)()ul like an uneasy i;host ;
and it was not till the alternoon that Ik- hr,L!,an to Icel
sccui'e a,t;ainst unpleasant intrusicm, ami ai)le to lau<;h aL
i.anee'> k-ars.

'I'hen, as all seemeil cpiiet, and no tiavelleis t.()uld Ik-
seen on the hi^h-road. he ventured to le.i\e the house, and
walk into I\mith to };ive Mrs. Kiikhritle news ot her son.
Deborah haile him not he absent lon<;, and enjoint'il
iiim to tell the l;o(h1 lady that she need not eoine to
l?rouj;hbarrow. since one rebel was as many as she could
do with-niore would perchance brint; the rool about
their ears. This erraml Amyot ]K'rlornietl witii all the
spcetl he mi_i;ht, but ilarkness liail set in before he reached
luune ai;ain. It .seemed to him, as lie approached the
tlie iarm on his return, that Mike and Deborah must he
niakinu, more merry than was their wont. Through the
kitchen wintlow he caught sight of a roaring fire blazing
in the hearth, and as he drew near he heard a hoarse
voice trolling forth an ale-house song. ' Lance in delirium,
(^r Mike got drinik,' was his first thought — his second, one
of much more real alarm, which made liim hasten liis
steps, and hrought him to the door with rapid strides.
He lifted the latch hastilv, aiul found his fears most fully
realised ; a lively scene w is before him : half a dozen
soldiers of the Koyal army Avere seated round the tire,

7/17^:

/ /

^roiii

0.-)

llu'ir arll1^ .uid (;i|>- oii tlu- llum, wliili- Dcbntali with lui
liviiin-|);iii. .111(1 Mike wit li a ^\(\v ol biiinii, wi-ic hii^ilv
t'ii^a<4i'il ill prcpariiij; lluir siijipcr. 'I'lif p.ii liMn-ildor
^tootl ajar, hiil that it w.m .iUd (x (. ii|)i(,(I, .\iii\'>| -,a\\ ..t a
^lai

I liici' tall ollictrs were loiinninn .umiukI tlu' Inc.
vvliicli tlu'V'liail eaiiH'd to he liolilcil, whik- <»ik' ol llir
lassi's was hiisv sprcadiiij; the t.il)lc Im tlu'ir ii'pa^t.

' T' \<toiin iiiaistcr,' Mike obscrsi'd, a> .\m\nt I'litcicd
and stond silent with aina/iiiuiit , <;a/in<^ ;it the Mtiic
hcfdii' him ; the soKHcrs looked at him < airlc~^-i\', htit one
ol the olliccrs, |)ci\i'i\inn him liom tin- iniut" room, tame
lorward, and >aid conrtf>nslv tnon^h :

' W't" ha\c' taken leave in \-our altM-ncc, vonn<; <^c'nt k-
nian, to >ec'k lod^in;^^ lu're, lor one: ni<^lil only ; you are,
I hear, a lo\al suhjeel ol his Majesty's, and will, we hope,
esteem it an honour to lodjve his soldier^.'

Am\dl bowed : ' Sir, my house is at your si.:r\iee. bui
I tear the lodfi;in<; is searee suHicient.'

'( )h! tor that matter, the men are well enou<;h where they
are: your housekeejier has found us exeellent t|uarter^ ;
\\<i shall l)e lodf^ed far better than most of our eomrades.'

Amyot bowed a<^ain, feeling too uneasy to enter into
much conversation, and was sitting; down wearily, when
Deborah, contriving; to pass near hii.i, whisjjcred :

' Moot, tiien, all's reet aboot yan cbaj), we've sided un
OOJ1 ;' aildinj; aloud, ' T' bacon an' e<r^s is jest ready ; <:'i
in an' tak yer meeal wi' t' gentlemen in t' parlour an' lei
un see es ya niaister an' nowt else.'

It was not easy for Amyot to stifle his anxiety and
curiosity sutficiently to do the lionours of his house with
[lerlect ease and equanimity ; nevertheless, as there wa>
some passable wine still remainin<jf in the house, laid up
there in 'ij captain's tin; j, his quests expressed them-
selves entirely satisfieil with their entertainment, and
<;ave their host much information as to the progress of
the rebellion, their rapid march iti pursuit of the Pre-

j -i

136

4-1 myo/ IhoKi^h.

Iciulcr's army, anil tluir c'.\jurlali«):;s of siviii^ a speedy
iiul t(» the whole allair. All uoulil j;<) well imw the
DuUe JKul taken the eommaiul tlu- men woiiM li^ht lor
liiin ; there woiiKI he no more hlundi-rin^;, no more
I're.stonpans nnuKlles ; the Seoteh woulil Ik- lauj;ht
loyally at the swonl's j)oint. Carlisle, loo, must learn
u lesson —ami nuah niore lo the same elleet.

Amyot would have heen in hij;h spirits had not
anxiety lor I ,anee heen the most |)ressin^ suhjeet on hi-,
mintl, atul when he found that Mike was actually leading;
the oHicers lo the \ery room where, in the alternoon, he
lunl left his hiend in hed, his wonderment eouUI scarcely
he eoncealeil. On pretenci- ol seeinj; to the wellare ol an
ailino horse, he calleil Mike to come with him to tlu;
stahle, and when fairly out of all possihility ol hein^ over-
lieard, heeaiverly inijuireil what they had done with Lance.

' Na, then, Dehorah, she telt ma niver t' let ya knaa.
Them es knaas nowt can tell nowl, ses she, an' I'm t'
seeani way o' thinkin' masell.'

' Hut, Mike, vou nm^; tell me. I camiot rest without
knowin,u; ; hesides, I want to see him. 1 told his mother
he should he well cared lor ; therefore I nnisL see that
he's well anil com fort ahle.'

' Dehorah '11 see l' un her aan sell ; lie's all reel, I tell
ya ; bel ya'll no see un till we're clear of them cattle,'
pi^inting" with his thmnb to the kitchen, where the
soldiers were already sounil asleej). ' Please (lod, thear
Dock wull sui'e want 'em, fer it's wliat we dussent.
They've almost itten oop a side o' beacon an' e^trs an'
butter an' sich, an' what fer ? — jest t' meeak their.sells
meear crabbt an' cankert, an' boddersome than ivver.
Sich mak o' fooak dunna foot ma noways.'

And as Aymot could wring nothing more from him,
lie was forced to go to bed in utter ignorance of his
friend's whereabouts, though pretty well convinced that
his hiding-place was not far distant.

.IP

CIIAITKK XI.

oi'' I'.vi'ATs AKn-ik ( i;i.i,()i)i:\.

t ii

I I

Tniv (lark ir)l(l days of that cold u'iiitcr were coniiriR' to

an end ; tlic j^rass was ^rowiiij^ greener, the dafTodils were

anaiii hiij^rhtciiiu^^ the earth, and tlie primroses he^innini;

lo peep forth, and with reliirnitin; spring youn^ hearts

nuisL perlorce wake to new lile and happiness. Il had

heen a very lon^ dark winter at Hlencathara House.

I'rinnose eoidd never reineinlnjr any winter when every-

thinj; had seemed so gloviiny, and many was the day

when she had accu.sed herself ot having' Ixien cross and

troul)lesome, sine, had this not Ik^cii the case, mother

would surely not have spoken so shari)ly to her.

l*rinn-ose did not know how ollen suspense and anxiety

makes the voice peevish, anil the brow contract into a

h'own, or she would have comprehended wiiy she found

mother so hard to please, when week after week passed,

and no news came to her troni the north. True, there

had l)ecn some bri<rht days in January, after woril iiad

come of Prince Charlie's victory over (xeneral iiawley at

Falkirk; but that had lx;en the last ^leam of sunshine,

and each day the widowed mother ^rew graver and nu^re

silent. She would sit watching the fast-falling snow with

eyes that told of a vast anxiety, and i-*rimro.se had a

strong suspicion that many a night she never took her

cUjthes off, but paced the rcjom through the long hours of

darkness, finding it more possible thus to bear her load of

misery.

But spring was at hand : the birds knew it, the young

< I

jl::

.4))iyot Jh'ouoh.

''r

la.nbs In tlic fields knew it, the flowcis felt it, and
Prinn-ose's licart rebelled that she too nii<;hL not bound
and skip and sinjjj with joy. Why shouU' sncii terrible
news come just when all nature bade her be glad, and
when she had every mind to obey the call ? It was hard,
it was cruel, she said, as she stood beneath her favourite
old yew-tree in the garden, and looked with loving eyes
at the snowdrops that grew around its roots.

' They are so sweet, so jiure, so heavenly ; but no one
notices them now Lance is not here, the boys are away,
and the mother's heart is breaking ; and 1 am selfish —
I do not fret as she does ; I have such a ^^■ay of thinking
things will come right, 1 can never be as sorry as I
ouglit,' and even as if to verify her words, the girl's lips
parted in a merry smile as she saw that her solitude was
invaded by her tall boy-friend Amyot, who had passed
through the liouse and sought her in the garden, directed
thither by the maid who had ad rutted him.

'Your mother is too sad at heart to see me,' he said,
' but you. Miss Prinn^ose, can still smile, 1 am glad to see.'

' It is my way to smile when I would fain weep,' she
said ; ' laughing is but a foolish trick with me— it means
notliing — at least, if I know myself; but, Master Amyot,
liavc you come to laugh at our woes ? If so, I think you
would have done well to stay away.'

' Indeed, I am ni no laughing mood, though glad to
think the war must end now. I rame to know if by
chance you had any tidings of my old friends. Nay, no
news ! then must we hope th j best.'

' Yes, so say I ; but mother can do nought but sit
silent in her elbow-chair and listen, and ;f you, Master
Amyot, had but knocked at the parlour-door, she would
have started as if she had been shot ; so great have been
her fears for all these terrible months, that her brain
seems on fire, and her eyes have a look as if they had not
closed for years.'

\t)iyot Brough.

* Tt is sail,' .VmyoL said ; ' then nuist voii ttK) rejoice
that the war is ox-er, and her rest has come.'

* Ah, hut we know notiiino-. Anil rejoice, say you I -
how can I reji.ice that oiu" horniie Prince is a tu<;itive,
S'one we know not whither -a jirice set on his head, and
that harharous Duke hun(i^erin<j[ for his hte ? '

' Tlie r)id<e is not all his enemies paint him ; his
soldiers adore hiiU, and your honnie Prince, mayhe, has
liis failinijrs too ; hut do not let us talk of them and
quarrel, as we always do ; rather, tell me more ahout
your brothers — when did you hear last from them ? '

' From Lance, a month a^ro, soon after he had rejoined
the arm\^ ; he was nearly himself a^ain, thanks to
Mistress Deborah. .Mother wjH love her for ever for her
care of him, and I most of all for hidincr him in the hay-
rick, for it has given ne many a merry laun;h since the
day when Lance told me about it ; and, oh I it does one
good to laugh in these sad times.'

' But your mother would ill bear the lecture old Deborah
gave her about training uj) her sons to be rebels, and
making them quarrelsome and the like ; I tried hard to
stop her, but she said she had it on her mind and it must
out.'

' Mother would bear anything from her for her care of
Lance ; and I think she was mo'<.* diverted than oflended
at Mistress Deborah's urgency. She laughed when she
told me : poor mother, I ha\ e not heard her laugh since.'

' Ay, well ; when they are home again safe and sound,
and the Pretender has got his deserts and peace is restored
to old PvUgland again, we will all laugh and be merry as
in the good old times. But, how now, Miss Primrose,
why so solemn ? '

' Can the old times ever be again ? Mother said there
would be executions and confiscations, and what not ;
and it is well known how all her saviiigs have gone to
help the Prince.'

1 jr

••[

140

Amyot B rough.

' The mean villain ! ' Amyot exclaimed ; but Primrose
added, ' And willingly ; she has given all willingly, and
with little thought of recompense, though Lance did say
it was putting the money out at good interest.'

' Not a penny will she ever *■ je ! ' Amyot exclaimed.

' But herself, will she be safe ? The Penrith people are
so wondrous loyal to King George, that those few who
have come boldly forward to support the right will scarce
be forgotten by them, I fear.'

' Does your mother fear ill-usage from them ? Then
surely it were best that she should leave the town for
a while.'

' But that she will not do, since here only will she hear
tidings of her sons. But I trust none will molest her in
this house ; she will not stir abroad, and none of our
i'. ■■''.ds come near us ; it is but through the maids that we
hear any news. You are our only visitor, Master Amyot ;
how long will it be ere you grow tired of our company,
or fear to be acquainted with such desperate rebels, I
wonder ? '

' Long, I trust,' was Amyot's fervent response.

And then Primrose changed the subject, and would
hear all he had to tell of his sister an., grandmother, and
the contents of the last letters he had received from
Wester ham.

' It sounds so pleasant and peaceful,' she said. ' Why
did you come away from them all into this turbulent
North?'

' I hoped to take service in the army, and it seemed to
me that I had best go where work, was to be done, but I
doubt whether I had not better have stayed ; my uncle,
it seems, is making interest for a conmiission for me, and
Joan tells me that he has good hopes he will succeed —
Joan tells me it is more than I deserve.'

' Then do you think of returning to them ? '

Primrose's face grew a shade more anxious.

■" I S3"'

Awyot B rough.

141

' My uncle bids me stay where I am, since, if he
succeeds in my behalf, I may be ordered to join one of
the reginicnts now in Scotland, so I wait, you see.'

' I am glad ; and when you come again, if no bad news
comes, I will ask mother to see you ; but not to-day —
she is too cast down, and I must not stay idling here ; I
nuist go to her : it is bad for her to be quite alone.'

' Then I will go ; but should any news come, will you
send me word ? When Sammy brings you the milk, you
could send me word if you hav^e heard aught, or if J
could be of any use. Do not laugh, Miss Primrose ; who
knows ? — I might be of use, if only to journey with your
mother from this place, should she choose to move.'

' If so, I will let you know,' Primrose promised as they
parted, ' but I have no thought that we shall need your
help.'

Amyot secretly hoped that she might, but he had no
suspicion how soon his aid would be requested. Only
two days had passed when the cow-boy, returning in the
evening from his visit to the town, sought his young
master, and delivered to him a small note, which ran as
follows :

\ 1

: i

'<ri

< 1

' Am I wrong, dear friend, to take you at your word ?
My mother says, *' Torment no one with our woes," and
if they were only mine, 1 would say so too ; am I writing
nonsense ? I fear I am ; well, then, if this falls into any
hands but yours, I hope it will not be comprehended.
But if your lad says truth, and he will be able to give you
this, none perceiving it, I would make bold to ask whether
yoj are likely to have business in the neighbourhood of
Appleby to-morrow, and could give a lift to two poor
beggar-women who are constrained to journey thither,
and who will be on the road by the time the sun is up.
One is but feeble, and I would be glad to think her feet
need not bear her all the way. The travellers we looked

!l!

142

A;)iyot B rough.

Vr^

tor have passed through the town, but made no long stay.
It seems to me an idle waste of time to put my name to
this, as it concerns none but you, who know it well.'

' Oop t' soom mischief agean,' was Mike's comment
when his young master drove off in the small waggon well
loaded with hay and straw the next morning. ' He waan't
tell ma wheear he's gaen wi' all that stoof — arter soom o'
these bodderin' rebels agean. Waal, they mud sow theer
wild oats, fooak say.'

Meanwhile, Amyot, well pleased with his errand, was
jolting nlong the rough roads at a very leisurely rate, for
the double reason that the nature of the road permitted
no better pace, and that he was well convinced that he
had started earlier than was necessary. It was a sweet-
smelling morning ; the hedges were still only just
touched here and there with green, and a slight frost had
left its bright spangles on the twigs : but the birds were
twittering their new loves, and the world was waking to
new^ life and hope.

' She said two beggar-women ; could she have meant
herself and Mrs. Kirkbride, or one of the servant-maids with
the old lady ? — surely Primrose would never call herself
a woman ; she is nothing but a child — not so old as Joan ;
and grandmother does not call her a woman yet. And
where they can be going, I can't imagine, that they should
start by this road ; but it's all one to me. I am glad
Primrose asked me to help them. And this road is
wondrous quiet at this hour ; even Primrose will see
nought but fays and pixies.'

Half-an-hour passed in these musings, while the stout
farm-horses moved slowly along, only occasionally quicken-
ing their pace when they came to a slope in the road, or a
few yards of tolerably smooth ground. One or two work-
men had passed on their way to their daily labour with a
' Good day ta yer,' and a grin which Amyot shrewdly
divined to mean, ' That young fellow don't know much

4niyot BroiigJi.

about his business.' But as \o\\% as they a>ked no ques-
tions, he told no Hes, and prudently refrained from
entering into conversation with anyone.

Many a glance had he cast behind him, many a fixed
gaze into wood and meadow as he jogged along, but still
no female figure could his eyes discover.

'* Primrose loves a joke ; and sometimes it seems to me
she dearly likes to make a fool of we. Could she have
sent me on such a fool's errand as this seems like to be?
No — never ! ' Amyot said, the hot blood mounting to his
cheek at the thought. ' But they may have been hin-
dered ; Mrs. Kirkbride may have fallen sick, as Primrose
feared she would. But what may that be — is it a trunk
of a tree or a brown cloak — -by the roadside? Gee-up,
Fanny, and let's see.'

The brown object remained very still and motionless as
the cart drew nearer ; and Amyot, keeping his eyes
intently fixed on it, had almost decided that it was nothing
but a stump of a tree, when another brown object emerged
from the shelter of the hedge, and approached the cart,
while a plaintive voice said :

' For the love of heaven, master, give a poor body a lift
to the town. My baby is a sore burden, and my old
mother is sick and feeble, and I am broken-hearted.'

A sob seemed to end the speech ; but the bright eyes
that peeped shyly at Amyot's face from under the faded
brown hood were full of laughter ; and the baby, so ten-
derly pressed and fondly regarded, was no stranger tc)
Amyot, since years before he had seen it in Primrose's
arms, and very roughly handled by Lance and his
brothers.

Poor Mrs. Kirkbride was sitting a few yards off, so
weary, so heart-sick, so indifferent to all that concerned
her, that she could not sunmion even the ghost of a smile,
as she let herself be hoisted into the waggon, and laid in
as easy a posture as possible among the bundles of hay ;

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1?uyot Jh'0?to/i.

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yet she tried to thank Aniyot, wlio eould scarcely hear to
look at her, so sorely had the sorrows and anxieties of the
})ast few months a^ed and wasted her.

But I^rinirose's spirits rose a^ain instantly.

' Never mother hated child as I hate you,' she said,
addressiiifT her old doll. Oh ! the weary weij^ht you have
made yourself this dreary morn ! Master Amyot, will
you think me a hrute if I leave the creature to end her days
in a ditch, for I am much inclined to flinj; her from me.
AVith those hundles to carry, I have no need of dolls.
Why did 1 hrin<5 her, say you ? Oh, to touch your heart,
to be sure. It was a last thought ; for J have not handled
her for many a lonpj day, not since the boys went to the
wars : but taking a last look at the old toys I spied her,
and I thought — what did I think ? — oh ! never mind — of
course I thought you could not refuse to take pity on a
child ; but give me leave, and I will fling her into the
ditch.'

' I can do without her, Miss Primrose.'

' Are you sure ? I doubt you. What, dear mother,
art comfortable ? does the waggon jolt too much ? '

' Nay, I am well enough, but tell him — tell Amyot
about the boys.'

' Yes, dear mother,' and the girl grew sad and sober

while telling Amyot that two days before Lance had sud-
denly appeared among their little household ; he had
relieved their worst fears by bringing the news that, with-
out ?ny harm except a few wounds of a trifling nature, all
three brothers had escaped from the battle near Inverness,
and would live to fight another day. ' But oh ! Lance
was in a terrible state,' Primrose said, ' he made me tremble
all over by his rage, and the fearful things he said. I
wish I could forget it, but I can't, and poor mother, she
was glad to see him safe, but his words made her grow
white as ashes — wars are dreadful things.'

' Was he so angry that the battle had gone against the

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145

Prince ? I ihought ihcy had alinosL lost hope before
then.'

' Lance never had. and he said tliat had tliey nuu1<: Ijul
a fair fight, it would not have seemed so shameful ; but
Lance is brave, and so are the other boys, let people say
what they will.'

* And where are they now ? '

' Ah, how do I know ? — fleeing for their lives ! for Lance
said they had vr»ved they would not become prisoners, as
many were — hundreds, 1 believe. They mean to go abroad ,
if they can find a passage in some French vessel ; but
how can we tell : — it will be long before we hear of them,
and mother says we must not expect to see them again
for years ; she feels as if she had lost them entirely.'

'And why are you and she leaving Penrith, and why
are you going to Appleby ? '

* Lance thought we had better go away for a time at
least, because you know the Penrith people are so very
loyal, and besides, we are nearly beggars : Lance thinks
Blencathara House will be confiscated, and he said we had
better go right away and hide ourselves somewhere.
Mother has an old cousin at Appleby, and we thought it
would be best to go there for awhile, until things are
quieter, and then perchance we shall go to London, and
find some quiet hole to hide our heads. Don't look so
dismal. Master Brough. I am gloomy now, but I shall
soon be happy again ; I can't be dismal long. I've tried,
and I don't succeed.'

Amyot looked at the bright eyes which shone even
through the girl's tears, and wondered much ; and then
he looked at the haggard face that lay back on the hay in
the cart, noticing the deep lines and wrinkles, and the
tightly compressed lips which told of bitter suffering long
borne in silence, and then he wondered more ; but he said
nothing for some time.

At last he spoke. ' Shall you like to be at Appleby ? '

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A/fiyot J)roitg/i.

' Oh, yes ! I am p;lad to ha\c mother right away from
Penrith, though I fear it nearly broke her lieart to go;
but it seems to me she will best bear all she has to bear
if she is in a new place. How far shall you be able to take
us, Master .Vmyot ? '

' As far as you wish to go.'

' Nay, my mother said I was not to be troublesome ;
you slittli take us just as far as you will, and then the two
beggar-women will go on the tramp again.'

' Mrs. Kirkbride cannot walk.'

' Yes, she can ; she walked stoutly enough when wc
started, though I own she was getting tired when you
overtook us. You little thought to have found us so far
on the road, I recl.on. Muster Amyot,'

* That 1 did not, indeed. I was beginning to think you
had sent me on a fool's errand, Miss Prinlro-^e.'

'\ou thought so ill of me as that?' the girl replied,
colouring. 'Nay, I mar\cl nc, for I am sadly silly, I
know full well.'

And while diey talked thus, the good horses plodded
on their way, not unseldom finding their burde/i stuck
fast in a rut. which required all their efforts, and all
Amyot's energy to master.

Once or twice to\v'ards the middle of the day, Amyot
let them rest for awhile, while they took their food; but
Mrs. Kirkbride looked uneasy at those delays, and at last,
when towards evening Amyot said he thought they were
not far from the town, no persuasions would induce her to
remain in the waggon ; she wished to walk — she »vas
determined ; and Primrose, seeing her mother resolute,
became again the timid child, and agreed without objection.
The old lady thauKed Arnyot with agitated vehemence,
and lading herself with her bundle, set iorward at a fceule,
but rapid pace tovv-ards t!ie town. Primro:je lingered but
to say farewell, adding, ' We will never forget your kind-
ness — some day, perhaps, we jaay meet ; but who can

A?nyoi Brotig/u

147

say where ? I shall know you again, Master Amyot, and
if you meet my brothers, be kind to them.'

' Stay,' Amyot said ; ' I must rest the night in the
town. I shall wait awhile here to breathe the horses, and
then eome slowly on ; it" your mother is weary, urge her
to wait for me.'

Ah, you do not know her I — but good-bye,' and
Primrose darted away.

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CHAITKR XII,

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III

H I

WHKRKIN TWO M^TTl-iUS .\RI<: KI'ICKIXI-:!).

Mrs, Daki.kv sal by the uiiulow of her j)arl()ur, wliicli
Aviiulow was open to lei in llie pleasanl sceiil of flowers,
and that she nii^iit exehan^e a word or two if she wished
il with Joan and Miss Jolinstone, wlio sal sewinj; in the
{garden outside. 'J'he old lady was sittinj; at rest, her
hands lying idly in her lap — even her knitting had been
laid aside ; but two letters lay on a little table before her,
Avhieh she had just laid down, and her sj)eetaeles lay by
the side of them.

She had read these letters several limes, and each time
laid them down with a lialf-smiie on her face, which had
matle Joan long much to know their contents, but no
hint had as yet been dropped by the old lady.

The d{H)r opened, and Mrs. Pomfrel, then on a visit
to her mother, entered the room, and sank into a
lounging chair with the languid grace which, well or ill,
she never lacked. She carried a tiny dog in her arms, at
sight of which, Tory, who was crouched at Mrs. Darley's
feet '11 an attitude of adoration, uttered a low groan of
disapprobation. Tory had his own opinion about dogs
that lived in ladies' laps, ^nd that opinion was not a
favourable one.

' How sweet and balmy the air is ! ' Mrs. Pomfrel mur-
mured ; ' if this house, madam, were but larger, and more
suited to your rank, I should say I held you much to be
envied.'

' 'Tis well it i> but small, then,' Mrs. Darley replied,

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149

willi lur (jiiitk ri.i)arlc'u ; ' I never desireil to excite any-
one's envy, least ol all my children's.'

' Dear mother, you entirely mistake me ; \ do but
venture to tiiink you mijrjit keej) a little im^re state.'

The old laily laughed ^ood-humouredly. ' lia\e a care,
.Ainice, or we shall Tail out. I have lived so loii^ alone
that 1 cannot hear dictation ; no, not a word.'

' Madam, dear mother — dictation ! — and from me ! '

'\Vell, well, never mind ; tell me in what the house is
lackinj^.'

'Truly, it lacks nothing that wouKI make lor comfort ;
it is but style, and, your pardon, madam, but the serving
might be more attended to. Doddridge is scarce fit to be
seen, and your own woman might pass for Noah's wife
straight from the ark.'

' (jood ; does she lo(;k so venerable ? '

'Indeed she does ; and your own attire, niadatn, is, to
say the least, not as becoming as it might be.'

' Va^ 7v/, ma filU\ ccst asscz^ 11 vn par/'tiis plus. What,
must I not speak French ? — is it high treason ? Well, in
j)lain English, then — ^and P^nglish sounds very ugly some-
times — we will each go our own way : you love rich
colours, ct ni()i\ fainic Ic ^t'is; and for the house, be
content to breathe the fresh air, and put up with the old
barn. Art thou not glad to be away from London, and
all the fearful doings there ? '

' Yes, indeed ; my husband wrote me word of the
gaping crowds staring at the heads on Temple Bar, and
people letting out spy-glasses at a halfpenny a look ; and
he tells me that he is thought wondrous queer that he
went not to see the beheading the other day. Truly I
hope he will not be reckoned a Jacobite, but he had an
old kindness for Lord Balmerino, and could not bring
himself to face the sight, though it seems to me it was a
pity. Such things do not happen every day, and it i^
well to be able to say one was there.'

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Aniyoi Jyroiio/i.

' Tlicn it was a pity you quitted lowii, my daughter.'

' I ! Oh ! I could never have stood the sj^ht ; l)esides,
lor ine it would ha\e heeii unseendy, but .\h'. I'ondVet
goes everywiiere. I marwl he stayed away ; hut, of
course, lie will hear all particulars, and 1 doubt not will
jj[ive me lull details when we meet.'

' 1 have a letter from your husband here, daughter
Aimee.'

'From Mr. Pomfret, madam? Vou terrify me! Is
aught amiss? Oh! where is my jierfume ? — my poor
nerves, they are all on the flutter ! '

' Aimee,' said the old lady, ))utting on her spectacles,
and looking sternly over them at her daughter, ' Thou
lovest English, so I will tell thee my mind in that very
uncivil tongue — thou art a goose.'

' Ah, you never suffered from nerves, and know nothing
of the misery they cause ; but tell me, why has my
husband written to you and not to me ? '

'Because, i'laybe, he had no stomach to write about
scaffolds and falling heads, and knew that I could content
myself without such details, while thou, Aimee, wouldst
feel thyself defrauded if he told thee not the ghastly tale.
Mais ciifiit, he wrote to me on business, being, as I am,
much concerned in my grandson Amyot, though the lad
concerns himself but little about me.'

'Ungrateful young viper !'

' Nay, it is but a wilful slip. Your good husband
writes to tell me that he has at last gained a commission
for the boy, and has wrote to bid him comt; to town
forthwith, for that it is likely his regiment will shortly go
abroad.'

' Well, I am glad, and I hope he will fall into the
hands of severe officers, who will teach him his place ; for
if ever lad needed discipline, it is Amyot Brough. And
what does Joan say ?'

' I have not yet told her ; the child comes to me at

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151

nii(l-(lay to read nic the lessons, aiul llieii wo have some
tliscourse ; I will tell Ikt the news then. I helieve she
wi'l he j;"lail, iur Joan has sense heyoiul lier years, and
knows what will he tor her hrother's pood. I have
another letter too, and that is from thy stepson, Arnold
Poinlrel ; hut that I puess thou wilt scaree care to see.'

' Arnold's letters are e\er the same — j)rodi<;ious wise
antl saintly ; he is fast losing; his wits. I olten wonder
whether his mother was quite in her ri^ht minil when
she died, hut I like not to ask Mr. Pomfret— he has never
named her to me.'

Mrs, Darley smiled, the same tender, half-sad smile
which had passed over her face as she reail the letter ; hut
she did not olTer to show it, and merely said :

' Arnold is 'right enough ahout the hrains ; it is hut an
old head on youn<; shoulders, and a mind full of sympathy
with the troubles in the world, hut hard j)erplexed to fnul
a cure.'

' Then why not let it alone ?' said Mrs. Pomfret
impatiently.

The old lady's smile had gone by this time, but she
gazed with a sweet, tender expression at her beautiful but
fretful daughter, and replied in a slow and musical
voice :

' La charite de Christ nous pressc, etant persuades, que
si un est mort pour tons, tons done sent morts.'

' Oh, yes ; the love of Christ ! — fanatics always talk of
that ; but my belief is God meant us to be comfortable,
and Arnold makes himself vastly uncomfortable and
dolorous ; his parish must be a prodigious doleful place ;
he has asked his father and me to go and visit him, but
Mr. Pomfret seemed not over-desirous, and T feel certain
it would be the death of me, with my poor spirits and
palpitations '

' Worse than the spectacle of the beheading ? ' Mrs.
Darley suggested ; but Mrs. Pomfret made no reply, and

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Amyot Brovglu

[!»

the subject of her stepson's eccentricities was dropped
for the time being, Mrs. Pomfret soon after leaving the
room.

It was a very pretty girlish figure which Joan presented
wh 3n she came as wont to read to her grandmother at
noon. Mrs. Darley liked soft colours, and dressed the girl
almost like a Quaker, but as she had a clear skin, and a
bright colour, no depth of hue was needed, and the pale
blue slip, and white muslin apron and bib, with the little
muslin cap restraining her fair hair, made her as elegant
a maiden as even Mrs. Pomfret could desire. To her
grandmother's eyes she was all that a modest girl should
be, and Mrs. Darley was not a fond, easy-to-please grand-
mother. Joan had learnt to be careful that her curtsey
should express all due reverence, to be mindful to be free
with neither words nor looks in her elders' presence, not
to forget that her person being comely was a choice gift to
be guarded, and her clothes, being costly, must be car»ifully
handled and discreetly put on. A careless curtsey, an
awkward carriage, an apron awry, a thoughtless stare, i.
hesitating or too forward answer, were offences which
Mrs. Darley never passed unnoticed, and Joan, though
not by nature awkward or rebellious, had learned her
lesson at the cost of some tears, and many hours of painful
reflection in her own little chamber.

' I love not to be for ever saying the same thing ; it is
weary work to me, and to all who hear me,' Mrs. Darley
had been wont to say ; 'therefore, Joan, thou must learn
to remember ; and to strengthen thy memory, I will have
thee spend this forenoon in thine own chamber, and com-
mup'; with thine own spirit awhile, asking thyself is it
fitting that a yoimg girl come into her grandmother's
presence with a rent in her slip, and ink on her fingers,
and with a reverence that testifieth neither honour nor
affiiccion. What sayest thou ? it was Tory that tore thy
slip ? Nay, then, I asked not who tore it ; it needed not

11.
IP

\% '

Aniyot BrougJi,

15.

that thou shouldcst cast blame on thy dof^, poor boast ;
thou hast other sHps, so that excuse will ill suit thy pur-
pose. And since I must e'en set thee matter for thy
meditation, I will add one other question for thy self-
examination. Is it meet that a young girl answer when
she is reproved } And now go, and I pray thee give me
rest from fault-finding for a season ; it takes away my
aj)pet'te, and sets my voice in the minor key, ay, and no
doubt adds a dozen wrinkles to my withered old face.'

Such had been Mrs. Darley's system, and, whatever
may be thought of it, in Joan's case it had answered well.
The thoughtful child of Broughbarrow Farm had grown
up a marvellously sweet and unselfish maiden. While
her grandmother's eye rested on her as she stood before
her with the sacred book in her hands, prepared to read
the lessons for the day, she said to herself, ' It is not
strange that others should be attracted by her win-
someness.'

The reading over, Joan heard the contents of her
uncle's letter with unfeigned delight, and prettily
expressed gratitude.

'Then Amyot will soon be in London,' she said, 'and
you, madam, will you permit him to come hither after
the ungracious maimer in which he left you last year ?'

' If he has time, and is not at once despatched to join
his regiment ; but he will have to beg my pardon, tall
man and commissioned officer as he is. It is long since
you heard from him, Joan ?'

* Two months and more,' Joan replied. ' It was some
weeks after the battle, and his friends, the Kirkbrides, had
left Penrith, and he was feeling very lonesome. Oh,
Amyot will be glad to hear the news, and to have his
matters settled.'

Thy Uncle Pomfret is coming this afternoon to
conduct his wife home : he may have more to tell us. I
trust Amyot's is not the same regiment in which his

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154

Amyot B rough.

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cousin Guy is captain. Guy would be but a bad guide to
Aiiiyot, and yet the lad niight perchance be taken by his
merry tongue.'

* Amyot likes Mr. Arnold Pomfret best,' Joan replied,
whereu})on the old lady turned round quickly, saying :

' Ah ! does he ? and thou, petite, dost thou like his
reverence Arnold Pomfret, whom some think half
mad ?'

' Oh ! yes ; we both like him ; he is so ^rand-
mother, I cannot think of the word I need — so real, so
honest. I never can think of him as a clergyman,
because they are not what they seem to be, are they ? '

' Fie, for shame, child, what heresy !' the old lady
stopped her ears, but her dark bright eyes laughed, as she
said to herself, ' We both like him ; that will do for the
present. Now, child, you may go.'

Mr. Pomfret arrived in time for dinner, and brought
Joan the enchanting news that her brother had come to
London, and was staying at his house In Queen's Square ;
he had received orders to join his regiment almost
immediately, but he hoped to be able to pay his respects
to his grandmother before doing so. The regiment would
probably be ordered abroad before long, but how soon
was quite uncertain.

' Now that the Pretender is disposed of, we shall be
able to teach our neighbours a lesson,' Mr. Pomfret said.
' The French think the world was made for them. I see
no reason why we should not think it was made for us.
We taught them to respect us at Blenheim and Ramillies ;
they agreed to give us what we claimed in America.
Nova Scotia and Newfoundland are ours, but they can't
get over it ; they are jealous. Thev would shut us up in
this little island, and bid us be content with it. Why
should we ? We have better fleets than Holland or
I^^'ance, our trade mu: i grow ; why should not England
assort herself, and take the place that is plainly hers ? '

A myot Brouo^Ji .

^55

* I am sure I hope slie will, if it will make things
cheaper,' said his wife ; ' tea is such a frii^htful jirice.'

'I ha\e a ,u;reat respect for EnoLuul, my adopted
country, and the Kntvlish, my dear hushand's nation/ said
ATrs. Darley ; ' hut I liave ever thouoht they were quite
too fond of asserting themselves ; and though my colonel
fought at Blenheim, I should have liked him quite as well
it he had heen defeated instead of victorious, and I think
that, angel though he was, a little less of victory would
have improved his character.'

' But you are entirely English now, my dear madam,'
Mr. Pomfret rejilied gallantly. ' You will rejoice to see
the power of our great nation felt, and her dominion
grow and increase, so that when the j)opulalion of our
great cities becomes too dense, there may be homes for
them elsewhere, in lands where they may still feel them-
selves Englishmen and Englishwomen.'

' Yes, yes, if ive are in danger of being crowded, it is
well that new lands should be found for those who may
need them. 1 detest a crowd — not that we ladies can be
squeezed to death, so long as our hoops continue the
mode ; but fashions change every day, and you poor
gentlemen have no such defence. Tory, my good dog, I
pray you sit not so close to my feet. You or I must go
to America.'

Mr. Pomfret laughed.

' You cannot, I see, my dear madam, believe in either
the numbers or the wealth of our nation. Your French
blood makes you despise us, whether you will or no.'

' Despise you, mais ;/o//, but I feel f(jr my poor people,
whom you have robbed of Acadie, and \vhom you mean
to spoil of much more of their possessions. There is only
one thing I do not grudge vou, which you got by your
peace of Utrecht — it is a thing I ne\ cr ilesired, and you
English mav have it and welcome.'

'That is an old >ubject of di>pute, dear madam, but I

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Auiyot Brouo/i.

hold that, be it pleasing tO our ideas or not, still, if others
trade in negroes, it is but fair that we should have our
share, and being great in commerce, it is but natural that
we should make good profit by that trade as by others.'

' Money, money, nought but money,' sighed the old
lady.

' Well, mother, we can't live without money, though I
own that down in this quiet place you seem to have but
little need of it ; but come to live in London, and you
will find your purse soon grow light.'

' And take to gambling, as my grandson Guy doth
when he likes not to trouble his father ; how much has
he lost in the last month, I wonder ? '

There was an awkward silence after this remark. Afrs.
Pomfret rustled her fan, Mr. Pomfret took snuff re-
peatedly ; at last he resumed :

' But we are not to be allowed to extend our commerce
unmolested ; both French and Dutch are crying out that
we are clainn'ng a despotism of the sea, and mean to
destroy the trade of other nations ; we must be crushed,
say they, our Ministers nuist be cured of their " delire
ambuious," as if they have not as great a right to be
ambitious as other Ministers.'

' Well, well, Mr. Pomfret, do not weary us with politics ;
have you nothing more entertaining to relate ? Every-
one has left town now, I suspect ? Truly, I cannot stay
there L'-ng if this heat continues.'

* Nothing much has been spoken of, save the executions
and the flight of the Pretender ; no one doubts now that
he has got safe to France, and we hope he has learned his
lesson, and will not return.'

' Poor young man I ' sighed the old lady ; ' I am glad
he has got safe away, though, indeed, he has cost his
country much sorrow, and many lives. Did Amyot tell
you aught of his rebel friends in the North ? here is Joan
dying to hear.'

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4inyol B rough.

157

' He said there had been some hanging; and confiscaLing
in Penrith and Carlisle, and that his friends were like tu
be beggars, their house being confiscated, as indeed was to
be expected ; they themselves, I think he said, had all
escaped further mischief. The lad seems to have a kindly
heart, and spoke with real pity of the troubles he had
witnessed.'

Joan blushed and dimpled at hearing this praise of her
brother — it was long since she had heard aught but blame
of him ; she had always believed in him, but it was delight-
ful to hear that others did not think him hopelessly bad,
and her heart .sang within her.

Before she retired to rest that night, Mrs. Darley wrote
a letter, on which she bestowed some anxious, and not a
few merry thoughts. Hav ing no secrets from our readers,
we give it entire :

' It being plainly evident to me, my dear young friend,
that you are in marvellous great haste for a reply to your
letter, 1 proceed to put my thoughts on paper without
loss of time, albeit I know not when an opportunity will
present itself of despatching; the epistle to that far-olT
wilderness wherein you pitch your tent. Well, if so, you
must summon patience to your aid, as methinks you will
need to do in a weightier matter than the mere answering
of your letter,

' And this leads me to the subject-matter that you
suggested ior my meditations, with regard to which I
would strongly commend to you the need of being in no
haste. And tnis the more, because, when last we com-
muned of the life to which you have de\'oted yourself, you
were entirely determined that the service of the Church
would permit no earthly affections ; and if I did not
wholly mistake your meaning, you were then minded to
forswear for Christ's sake all tender ties and earthly loves.
You will remember that I smiled, and thonjdit but lightly
of your stern decision ; nevertheless, I honoured you for

. t

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4niyol B rough.

IlilOi

ill'
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Urn

the thought, and I had Httle notion that even then the
love which you now confess, liad taken root in your
breast. How now, my son ? did you so ill understand
your own heart, that \'oin" words could so belie your
thouohts ? You will say, " Chide me not, since T own
that 1 had thought ne\er to be married, save to my flock,
and do now confess my weakness." Yes, but I do chide
thee : he that chup.;j;es once may change again, and fickle-
ness is my abhorrence. So 1 say to you, " Wait ; give
yourself to your work, and try yourself — whether it be
not a passing whim, such as oft besets your brother Guy,
who, butterfly-like, is ever caught by the last bright
flower that he chances to light upon, and had even once
thought to have honoured your fair one with his hand,
and what he calls his heart, had I not warned him olT
with a voice like a screech-owl : I am ever diverted whe i
I think of that day."

' But for you I have not 3uch a fixed aversion, as you
know perhaps too well. I could like you passably, were I
but sure of you ; and that will I be, ere you have my child.
May you come to visit her, you ask. Nay, that you may
not; but if your cure of souls permit it, you may come to
visit mc^ and I will put you through as strict a catechism
as ever did spiritual director ; so, if you arc minded to
come hither, see that your confession be well prepared
and honest, for I will have no evading of my questions ;
you know me of old, I think, and will testify that I am
wont to have my will.

* And now that you have heard my mind, and are
doubtless much chafed and v^exed with me, let me tell you
that it affords me great diversion to think that you have
so soon descended to the level of ordinary weak mortals,
and are even half persuaded that you cannot live if the
good thing you desire be not granted. My good young
gentleman, you are too impetuous ; bethink you, ere you
thus set your mind on earthly happiness. Not livj with

Aniyot B rough.

159

out her ! fie, for shame ! you are indeed fallen from the
pinnacle of lofty iniagininojs on which I last beheld you,
and I must indulge myself a space with gazing at your
humiliation.

' Yet it is unseemly and unchristian to laugh at others'
woes, and well do I percei\e that tlie fall hath grievously
damaged you in your own esteem ; for that I am not
disturbed. You will seek for new steeps to climb again
ere long, ay, and I like to see you climb — the falls are no
matter, they grieve me not. But my sermon hath been
marvellous long and tedious, wrote, like too many a
discourse, when the eyes are heavy with sleep; ay, and it
might all have been wrote in four letters — " wait ; " and
to stimulate you to this mighty effort, I would remind
you that the child is but a child, and will be naught else
for some while to come; therefore, say 1 again, there is no
call to haste. And now, lest the cocks should crow ere I
be laid on my pillow, I will bid you farewell, commending
you to much deep study of your own heart, and to some
gentle discipline of your unruly will.
'I am, most truly,

' Your sincere though severe friend,

' Paulink D.arlkv.'

;

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,. I ,■ A

CHAPTER XIII.

h i

; •'; \

CON'CKK\IN(; A CHKIST^iAS KOi:T.

' And where did you say tlie Christmastide is to he p.ihjed,
witli you: moth I at Wester) lam, o^' with Arnold in his
tup.blodc ... ..M.ory, or in our own home, my dear
Aimee ?'

' My mothc. has n^ niised to come to visit us, and she
will bring Miss Johnstone, my niece Joan, and her own
women ; Arnold, I trust, will also bear us company. So
we shall be a nierr}'' household ; my nephew Amyot must
enjoy himself as much as in him lies, seeing that in
January he will go to the wars, and learn what hardships
really are.'

' Nay, they have a pretty time of it, many of these
young ofTicers,' Mr. Pomfret replied ; ' good rations,
plenty of cards — and the Dutch and German maidens are
not uncomely. Guy leads a merry life, by all accounts.'

' Poor Guy, would that he could be at home,' sighed
his mother ; but she glanced at her husband, whose brow
had contracted with a frown, and said no more. Deep
play had brought Captain Guy into difficulties, and his
father spoke his name with unusual bitterness. An easy-
going father, allowing his sons much licence, and seldom
interfering with their tastes and pleasures, and that
partly from indolence, partly . from indifference, Mr
Pomfret had at last bjcn roused to something like ster
language towards his youngest son ; he had paid his
debts many times, but he vowed he had now done it for
the last time, and Mrs. Pomfret had written and told

.1.1..

A )nyot Broiio/i ,

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Is
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her son that she much feared his father meant what he
said.

Merry Captain Guy said it was ' very hard, too
desperate hard;' and then he joined a hvely band of
brother ot^cers, who were whiling away a long evening at
cards, and the stakes being inconveniently high, he lost
another ^500 befor^ going to bed, and not being quite
tipsy enough to be unconscious of his awkward predica-
ment, had serious thoughts of shooting himself for one
^a'^ -lour ; but on second thoughts remembered that he
had an elder brother who had mrire than once befriended
him in his schoolboy scrapes, and might do so again.
Therefore, the shooting was delayed for the present,
Captain Guy having a faint notion that si' ; 1 perform-
ance was rather a cowardly way of gett'i">g -: :X of the
difficulty, and determined to write withi . ^ ;g.-,i of time
to Arnold, who was one of those lucky J.k . s possessed
of independent means, having inherited pro^jrty from his
mother.

It was the receipt of this letter whicli liad determined
the Rev. Arnold to obey his father's request that he
would pay them a visit at Christmastide. An old penni-
less tutor of his would gladly supply his place at Swyn-
ford, and set him at liberty to see his mother, and talk
over with her the state of Guy's affairs.

Arnold was a little ashamed of the pleasure he felt in
the prospect of this visit to London, ^fter more than a
year's absence from civilised society. It was impossible
to conceal from himself that his stepmother's conversation,
which, with all his high respect for her, he had been apt
to find wearisome, would now be most pleasantly refined
and elegant ; his father he had always honoured as a
man of cultivated taste and extensive reading, but now, as
compared wath the boorish country-folk among whom he
had been passing his days, Mr. Pomfret appeared to his
son a being belonging to another world, to associate with

: :

l62

^Imyol Ih'ono^h.

' i

whom would h^ a kind of intollcctiial jiarailise— anil as he
thought over the iianics of old friends to be visited during
this short stay in London, Arnold instinctively began to
count the days till Christinas, as when he had been a
schoolboy going home for tlie holidays.

Mr. Pomfrct had spoken of his son's home as a tumble-
down rectory ; but at that time he liad never seen it,
and only thought of it as Arnold had described it. an old
rambling liouse in desperate need of rejiair. Had lie
seen it, his fastidious taste would ha\e pronounced it
utterly uninhabitable, since, in many of the chambers, the
flooring had entirely decayed, and nearly half the roof
had been blown away in a storm.

But the Rev. Arnold Pomfret, having a strong desire
to fit himself to understand the sufferings and hardships
of his flock by personal experience, had felt a great sense
of exultation when he fust examined his vicarage, and
noted its many weak jioints and manifest sources of dis-
comfort. Nor was it until a pig had jnished a frail door
off its hinges, climbed up the stair, and taken up its abode
close beside him during the night, and geese and ducks,
and many other kinds of flying fowl had roosted in all the
various chambers where the window-frames were glassless.
and owls and jackdaws had built in e\erv chinniev, that
lie had reluctantly confessed to himself that a house in
ruins did not necessarily incline the soul to soar abo\ e the
world of time and sense.

An easy bed might doubtless lead to too much folding
of the hands to sleep, but a night, disturbed by the
scampering of rats and hooting of owls, had also its dis-
advantages, and revealed to Arnold the painful and
humiliating fact that if a man cannot sleep at night, he
will perchance doze by day ; while a roof full of holes,
implying much dripping of rain on the floors in wet
weather, and doors that have so shrunk that no bolts will
hold them shut, and other such small inconveniences,

instead of alTordiiiff tlic soul room to soar heavciiw .ird. as
ini^ht be expected, seem but to keeji it more earlhbouiul
tlian ever.

How difTerently liad Aniolil Pomlret foiuHv dreanucl ;
but, alas I for bis tbeories, to become skilled in tbe art of
sympatby, be soon found tbat b».' needeil initiation into
tbe pains of rbeumatism, sore tbruats and a^ue fits—
good tbings in tbeir way. but not quite tbe kitul of
suffering be bad jirescribed for bimself, and entailing tbe
awkward consequence tbat wbile lie was lying in bis
comfortless beil, watcbing tbe smoke wreatbs tbat filled
tbe room, counting tbe rats tbat gambolled over bis
pillows, and setting bimself diligently to learn tbis grand
lesson of sympatby, tbe bungry flock found tliemselves
unfed, untended, unsbej)erded.

It was bumiliating, but not tbe less comforting, to
acquiesce in tbe old parisb clerk's dictum :

' You bees too delicate a gentleman to live in tbis
way ; we'll fetcb along sum bits of glass and mend tbem
winders, and we'll patcb up tbe roof and make it water-
tigbt, and tbe rats — well, I know a dog as will make an
end of tbey, and next time you come across tbe bisbop
you sbould tell bim as yer bouse is coming down about
yer ears, and bid bim see to ber.'

But tbe bisbop did not often come to Swynford, and
Arnold bad contented bimself witb tbese sligbt improve-
ments, and witb planning otbers in tbe future, wben be
went to spend bis Cbristmas in London. How luxurious
did tlie Queen's Square bouse look on tbe nigbt of bis
arrival I ' Surely it was wrong to live in sucb comfort,'
was bis first tbougbt, instantly cbecked, liowever, as tbe
remembrance of bis bardly learned lesson came back to
bim ; and be sbuddered at tbe tbougbt of tbe bouse be
liad left, and wondered if be bad done rigbt to leave bis
old balf-paralysed tutor in sucb a place.

Ik. was Cbristmas Kve, and tbe late four o'clock dinner

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164

Ifjiyoi B rough.

was going forward when he arrived. Mrs. Pomfret, ele-
gantly attired, at the head of the table ; Mrs. Darley, in
her soft grey brocade and plain white muslin kerchief
and cap, beside his father ; the elderly spinster, Miss
Johnstone, on his left hand ; Amyot and a young brothcr-
ofiiccr to the right and left of his mother ; and opposite
the vacant place which had been left for himself sat Joan,
in the seat she loved best, bctwec!i her grandmother and
her brother. How homelike it seemed I The heart of a
traveller from the arctic regions could not have bounded
more joyously at his home-coming, than did Arnold's
as he responded to the merry greetings which welcomed
him.

' Half-frozen and entirely starved,' said Mrs. Pomfret ;
'sit there, son Arnold, and eat and warm yourself:
between the Christmas log and your cousin's bright eyes
you must needs thaw presently.'

And amid this merry buzz of voices the country priest
was soon conscious that not only was his outward man
thawing, but the cold, cheerless wall of restraint and
endurance which had been growing round his heart was
giving way, and social enjoyment was warming his whole
being. Was he ashamed to own it to himself ? Blame
him not, reader ; he had looked so much and so often on
the dark places of this earth, and on the sad lives of those
less fortunate than himself, that he could scarce tell
whether he had any right to forget them for a moment
and be happy.

'Give us some traveller's talc, cousin,' said Amyot;
' the last from a journey has ever some adventure to re-
late. Did you meet with no mishaps as you came
hither ? '

'Nothing worse than a terrible snow-storm, through
which the horses struggled knee-deep, and we were near
blinded by the snow which beat in our faces ; but that is
a mischance scarce worth naming.'

A»iyot Broui^h.

1 65

' I love much a \critablc Icmpc^l oi >n()W and liail,'
>aicl Atnyot's friend, Lieutenant lohn James Pownal, a
young man of Canadian orijrin, lately arrived in iMigland ;
' but in your England the tempests are a bagatelle — I
mock at them.'

' Why say in your England ? — you are English, too,
lieutenant,' said Mrs. Pomfret. 'You told us that your
father is English, though your mother is French, and
that though your English is not quite perfect, you wished
to be considered an Englishman and nothing else.'

* Ah, it is true ; but .see you, madam, my ICngland is
across the sea, and your climate iiere — but it is abomin-
able ; there is nothing one can see of worse — how you
can suffer it ? — that astonishes me ; but you are a
wonderful people — more 1 see, more I admire.'

' But you have not seen much. Jack,' Amyot broke in ;
' the parks, Vauxhall, Ranelagh, Bagnigge Wells, Mary-
le-bonc, that's about all, isn't it ? You scarce know Eon-
don ; and as for the country, why, you've not set foot in
it since you arrived.'

' I am a soldier — I am to my king ; I go where he will,
be it to the end of the world, be it nowheres. I am all to
him, my dear Brough.'

' Well, King George has a mind to send us to Flanders,
I hear ; how will that suit you ? ' asked Amyot. ' Cousin
Arnold, do you not envy us our luck? — real war at
last ! '

Arnold Pomfret smiled. ' I had ne\er a taste for blood-
shed,' he replied. Then, turning to his father, ' Have you
had late news from my brother, sir ? '

' Late enough,' was the answer ; and the family having
by this time quitted the parlour and retired to the draw-
ing oom, Mr. Pomfret drew his son aside, and related at
full hi.> ve.xation concerning Captain Guy.

WluM they rejoined the ladies the card-table had been
set out, and the tw(» ladies, together witii Amycl and

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1 66

-hnyol jyroiio/i.

I iculcnant John Pownal, wero jcciipicd with cards, while
Joan, on a low stool by ?\Irs. Darlcy's side, was disentang-
ling a skein of fine wool for her grandmother's knitting,
and watching her brother with eyes which seemed full of
pensive anxiety.

i\Tr. Pomfret quitted the room, and Arnold drew near
to Joan, saying ;

' We ha\e scarce greeted each other, cousin, and 1 have
had it in my mind ever since I arrived to congratulate
you on yom* brother's good fortune. He seems wondrous
content and merry '

' It is what he has long coveted,' Joan replied ; and lam
glad for him ; but for myself — yet that matters nothing.'

' For yourself there is much anxiety in store,' Arnold
responded ; and as she met his glance of sympathy, the
}'0ung girl's eyes filled, and she cast them upon her work.

* Hey now, what's this ? ' said her grandmother, turn-
ing round suddenly ; ' my sport is spoiled. I'll play no
more, daughter Pomfret ; here's a parson come amouf;
us, bringing the vapours and the dismals, and I Know not
what mischief beside. I thought gentlemen of your robe
werj called ministers of consolation, sir. Perchance you
maXc '\t your practice to bruise that you may ha\e some-
what to bind up ; if so, I take it you are a quack, and no-
thing better.'

' Nay, madam,' said Joan, dashing away the tears. ' My
cousin said naught amiss — he did but wish me joy of
Amyot's success.'

The old lady shook her fist at Arnold.

■ He has but a melancholy mien,' she said. ' I mistrust
him wholly. Joan is a soldier's grand-daughter, a sailor's
daughter, and a soldier's sister ; >he shall send her hero
to the wars with songs, not tears. Fie upon you, Arnold,
1 know you were at the bottom of the mischief; I tell
you I see it in your face.'

' Sister,' whispered Amyot, as Joan, confinrnded at

4f>i\'of Jyrouo/i.

^ IT

167

liaxing attracted so much notice, slirank away into the
shelter of the deep window, and stood half concealed
among the rich hangings, ' you do not truly grieve that 1
have attained my heart's wish ! you were ever so un-
selfish, Joan, and mo brave withal.'

'And so am I now, at least, for the most part ; it was
but the thought that came to me, how happy we all are
to-night, and j)erha|)s we may never al! Ix; thu.^ merry to-
gether again ; yet I am not truly sad — it i> but fnr a
moment.'

' We shall all he together again many a time in the
next fifteen days, I hope ; and on PViday, Joan, my aunt
tells me she means to take you to the great rout given at
her old friend's, whose name I ever forget, in (ireat
Ormond Street. Jack and I, too, will be there, so we
shall see you dance, which is what I love, and hear you
praised, which, too, I love amazingly.'

' You are so silly, Amyot, Joan said, blushing. 'You
do not truly believe all the fooleries men talk ? '

' Do I not ! When they talk of you, sweet sister, I
believe all they say ; an.l if vou will but wear your pale
blue dress, which you tliink so fine, I shall win my bet
with Jack for certain.'

' Amyot I that a man should bet about his sister's
dress. You are so monstrous silly.'

' Xay, it is not your dress which our bet concerns — it is
your fair face, sweet sister.*

'Then I trust you will lo.sc your bet, aiul gain more
wisdom,' Joan said, with her old dignity as she withdrew
herself friim his embrace, and quietlv returned to her seat
by Mrs. Darley, wh.o, scanning her tenderly, said :

' It is all well w th thee now, little one. I mar\el not
that long stern face ga\e thee a fright — like a death's-
lieail on a tombs;<)ne. \\c must teach him to smile
again ; he has quite forgot the secret, in that terrible lano
of ghosts and hobgoblins where he dwells.'

!|'l

Al. -!&.- .'1,

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Amyot Brougu.

169

The roiil referred to by Ainyol was destined to be long
reineinbercd by more tlian one of the family from Oucen's
Square, and by Amyot and his sister, perhaps, most
of all.

It was (.he first assembly of the kind at which Joan had
appeared, both Mrs. Darley and Mrs. Pomfret having up
to that time considered lier too young for any but small
entertainments ; but now that she might be called a
woman, mc case was different. ' It was time she should
be seen,' Mrs. Pomfret said, and Mrs. Parley added :
' 'I'ime, too, thfit she should see for herself what the world
was like.'

The world put on a very dazzling appearance to the
young girl that night, for the rout was gi\en partly to
honour the oHkers of a certain regiment about to ileparl
for rianders, and the ballroom was fdled with gay uni-
forms, and the lights and decoration.s were sjilenilid.

Joan's wi^h bad been to see, and not be seen ; but thi^
was not to be. One after another of Amyot's frientU
begged to be favoured with the honour of her hand for
one dance, and Mrs. Pomfret was so well jilca>eil at her
niece's pojudarity, and so well contented to Ik- free from
the charge of her, and able to betake her.^^elf to the card-
table, that Joan soon lost sight of her altogether

At length, growing somewhat tired, .^he was al'jout lo
lx;g her partner. Lieutenant Pownal, to discover where
her aunt was, and to lead her to her, when her ear wa>
caught by the sound of her brother's voice in hot dispute
from a small room close by. Lieutenant Pownal ^aw her
cheek grow jiale. and guessed the cau^e.

'It is nothing,' he said reassuringly; 'your gnoil
brother, mailani, he is a little e.xcitable, he cannot suller
that one contradict him, ami all the world cannot (.oni
))rchend his cliaracter — thete is all. 1 |ir.iy y<»u be not
disturbed for so little.'

' It can scarcely be a little ihing to mo\c Amyot >o tu

170

.hffyot Brono/i,

\ ,

forget himself,' Joan said ; ' can you speak to him, sir, and
tell him that his sister needs his company ?'

' Without doubt I might do your commands/ said the
young man, with some hesitation ; ' but shall I not rather
have the felicity to lead you to your aunt ? I can scarce
leave you standing here, while I plunge into that crowd
and seek out your brother.'

' Yet I might put an end to such an unseemly dispute,'
Joan said timidly, ' if so be you could persuade Amyot to
come to me.'

' It will be an uneasy matter, madam, but your com-
mands do me great honour— behold a seat ; I fly to
execute your orders.'

He disappeared, and to Joan's anxious heart he seemed
to have been absent nearly half-an-hour, when the loud
altercati(jn gradually subsided, and she saw her brother
making his way towards her, his brow contracted, a
flush on his face, and his whole bearing sullen and angry.

' What is it, sister ; where is my aunt ? Could not
Jack have taken you to her, instead of tormenting me
with his importunities that my sister needed me, my sister
was ill, in distress — a thousand other follies?'

' Take me to her ; I know nothing of the ways of this
house, and cannot walk through all these rooms b}'
myself,' Joan replied evasively ; then, as he drew back,
saying, ' Jack will take care of you,' she persisted : ' Nay :
nay, brother, I need you ; come with me but a few yards,'
and as he unwillingly complied, she went on hurriedly,
' What has befallen, Amyot ? why such brawling and
angry words in a gay company such as this, and in
another person's house too ? — surely you have forgot
yourself — do not go back to that room.'

' Not go back I — forget myself! — Joan, you are a child ;
there are things no man may endure, and the man you
heard n\c talking with is an ill-bred rascal as ever
breathed.'

hfiyot J-irouo-li.

«7i

Then have naught to do with him,' Joan was saving,
when her brother broke forth again as his eyes followed a
figure which passed them hastily, and went dowi; the
stairs. ' Ha, has he got away, thinks he ; not so fast, you
old rogue, I'll keep an eye on you, and pay you yet. Now,
Joan, to the whist-tables to find my aunt.'

He hurried her along, paying no heed to her entreaties
that he would stay with her and forget his wrath at least for
one night. * I pray you, brotlier, spoil not all my pleasure
thus,' fell on deaf ears, and he had no sooner discovered
where his aunt was seated, than having found Joan a seat
beside her, he mingled with the gay crowd around and
disappeared.

Joan tried hard to stifle her uneasiness : her brother in
this mood of stormy passion had ever been terrible to her,
and as she pressed her hand to her head, and felt the
throbbing of her temples, she wondered whether he had
any just cause for his resentment, or whether his griev-
ance was now, as it had often been before, purely
imaginary. Mrs. Pomfret was too much engrossed with
her game to notice her disturbance. She had asked her
if she was over-fatigued, but being reassured on that
point, had said no more, and Joan, engrossed with her
own thoughts, watched the motions of those around her
as if in a dream.

Suddenly she was awakened. Her uncle had brought
his wife and niece to the rout, and left them after awhile,
promising to return and escort them 1 me : Joan now
saw him making his way through the mpany, guided
by the lady of the house to the table w jre his wife sat ;
she had been wondering how soon he would come, and a
glad thrill passed through her as she lied him, for tlie
gay scene had become intolerable to he since Amyot had
so abruptly departed, leaving her ii loubt and fe£.r. and
she fervently longed to be at home. But her gladness
was but momentary — what was that >-ti ange look on her

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■hfiyot Jh'ouo/i.

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111

uncle's face ? Joan nc\cr rcnicmbcrcd lo have >ecn it
before ; had he been gambWng and lost all that he pos-
sessed ? His niece knew that such things had happened
before v nv to richer men than he ; but then she had
heard her aunt say Mr. Pomfret did not lose money at
cards. Had he been drinking ? That, too, she believed,
was not his habit, though many gentlemen of fashion went
drunk to bed every night, and if others, why not he ?'

* Dear aunt,' she said timidly, ' here is my uncle.'

' Well, child, what then ? are you in haste to go ; why.
mercy on us, Mr. Pomfret, what ail> you ? — have the
French landed ?'

' Mr. Pomfret, madam, i> the bearer of ill-news.' said
her friend, the mistress of the house, 'but I grieve to say
it is private sorrow, wh.ich, though we may all share it,
falls chiefly on himself and you.'

' On us ! for pity's sake speak. Mr. Pomfret I Is it my
mother ? — tell me — I shall swoon away !' and she grew so
l)ale that Joan sprang forward to support her.

' Nay, do not be alarmed, all may yet be well,' said Mr.
Pomfret soothingly ; ' It is briefly this : Arnold has met
with an accident, being knocked down by some drunken
fellow in the street, close outside this house, whither he
had come to hand you into your chair and walk beside
you home as he promised. The chairmen tell me that he
had been standing there some minutes talking cheerfully
to them, when some drunken young officers rushed out of
the iiouse, and one of them snatched a torch from a link-
boy, and struck him a violent blow on the heail. felling
him to the ground, and the other sei/ed his friend by tiie
arm and ilragged him away, so that we have no clue to
the perpetrator of this \ile outrage.'
.\nd our son Arn:)M. what of him ? '

'He was lifted nitcj a ihair and carrieil home, and
there iu^ lies, still unconscious ; but the surgeon say> he
thinks he may recover.'

Iniyol BroitQ;li.

' He may recover ? — when they talk in that fashion,
they know there is no hope. Ah me, that I had never
come abroad this night ! '

' My love, do not reproach yourself for this mischance ;
rather, let me take you to the chair, which is in waiting,
that we may the sooner be with our poor son. Our kind
friend here will permit your sudden departure, and
excuse the discourtesy.'

'Indeed, sir, I grieve at the cause most truly; but I
would not detain you an instant. Most glad am I that
you have but a short distance to traverse. Your charming
niece will accompany you, doubtless. I must come and
see you both well cloaked and hooded, that )ou may take
no chill in leaving this hot room.'

A few minutes after, the anxious parents were at their
own door, and Joan, burdened with a new fear, which she
dared not to name, could scarce bear to look at her uncle,
so sad an expression did his usually cheerful face now wear.

'I must rest awhile ere I see him,' Mrs. Pomfret said,
sitting down on a couch in the parlour, where two wax
candles, giving but a faint light in ln<' spacious apartment,
yet served to make her pale face Ic' iv ^ven paler than it
really was. '(Jo to him, if you wish, Mr. Pomfret, I will
follow shortly. Joan, love, do you fear to look upon
wounds and suffering ? — if you knew how I dread it ! '

' Can I do aught for you. madam ? Fetch you a glass
of water, or my grandmother's bottle of strong essences ? —
you look ready l<> faint.'

*1 can scarce kee{) myself from sinking, Joan, yet your
uncle. I know, desires my presence in his son's chamber ;
but oh, if he shouKl be dving I Did you ever see death,
child ? '

' Once — long ago ' — Joan's thoughts had travelled back
to the dark evening, seven years before, when her father's
lifeless body had been brought to his home ; ' it n-as not
fearful, madam.'

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' You speak truly ? Joan, you are a blessed child ;
<;ive nie your arm to mount the stairs.'

' Nav, stav a minute.' It was Mrs. Darley's voice, and
the old lady entered brisk and li\ely as in her merriest
mood. ' We want no sighing and moping upstairs, and
you are such a poor creature, Aimte, that I have told
your luuband 1 shall send you to bed, and nurse your son

mys

If.

You, mother ? — an old lady of your age turning sick

inrse ? Nav, that i

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may never

be.

be, and that shall be. .It

n* gran(

snail ne. Joan, do;
mother's bidding ; lake your aunt to her room, and
leave her not till she is laid comfortably to sleep ; then
take your pale cheeks to bed. It hath been an ill rout for
us to-night.'

' Ikit, mother, tell me, liow is my son ? '

* Your son hath been in ugly company, as I shall tell
him, if ever lie finds his wits again ; but I have hopes he
will live to mend his ways. The suro^on has bled him,
and that was a sight you like not, so it was well you did
not come straight to his room.

i\lrs. Pomfret uttered a little shriek, whereupon the
old lady stamped her foot impatiently, and said :

' Come, come, you would make a poor nurse. Go to
rest now, and to-morrow, if God wills, vou shall have a
sigli' of your son in better case than he is at present.
But i must return ; there is none with him but his
father, and that sill)- old housekeeper, who is sure he will
die, and who knows but she may smother him, to make
her words true, if 1 do not keep watch ; ' and she trotted
away.

It was not an easv task to prevail on Mrs. Pomfret to
go to rest. She would lie down on the couch, and so be
ready if neeiled. She must see poor dear Arnold ; she
loved him as well— nay, better than her own son.
Again, she dared not see him - he might be dying, and

ulniyot Jh'ougli.

>!iL' could pol look on ilcatli. Joan was rcadv to sink
with fatigue ere she had succeeded in inducing her aunl
to go to her chamber, and allow her woman to undress
her ; and when at last that was done, and, true to her
custom of exact obedience, she also had followed Mrs.
Darley's direction, and sought her own room, ami had
crept cold and mi^erablc into bed, sleep seemed further
from her eyes than ever in her life before.

Would her cousin Arnolil live ? Joan wondered
'vhether her grandmother had really the hope she seemed
to have, or whether the old housekeeper, wlio had known
Arnold all his life, would prove the truer prophet.
Could he be even now dying? Could tiiat strange power,
called Death, be even now entering the silent hou>L', and
claiming a \ictim, while none perceived his approach ?
Joan held her breath and listeind. The wind sighed
in the chinmey — a hollow moaning sound — the stairs
creaked, a door swung to with a heavy thud ; no other
sound reached her ear>, except the call of tlie watchman
from hour to hour, and the voices of some link-bovs, as
they ran by the side of the chairmen, or lighted foot-
passengers on their way. vSoon all revellers had gone
home, the quiet and silence grew more intense, and Joan
wondered whv she did not sleej).

' If I only knew, if I only felt sure it was not Amyot, I
could sleep,' she moaned ; ' for death is not a terrible
thing, and Cousin Arnold, I am sure, fears it not. But
then his poor father — and if il was Amyot, 1 could never
bear it, I could never look at them again Oh. brother, il
you only knew how miserable you bnve made me ! '

Thus she murmured to herself, tossing on her bed, till,
no answer coming to her anxious questionings, she fell
into a fitful slumber, starting and waking, and sleeping
again ; and thus the long hours of the night passed away,
and the late winter morning came at last.

V '

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CHAPTER XI\'

lir.MII.IATIUN.

' WiiiTMi'.K away so fust, Jack ? '

* To cluircli. Will it astonisii you .so much to hear
that I liavc the habit utlc ot assisting at one service every
Suiulay ? -but truly 1 know not where to ^o. One has
told nie there is a hai.'.ls(Kiie new church calleil St. Giles-
in-tlu'-FieUls, but I cloui)l il I can liud the road there.
Where do you go, good Aniyot ? '

' Well, 1 had halt" thought of going to the church near
my uncle's house — St. (ieorge the .\larlyr, they call it —
because there, perchance, 1 may meet my sister. Give me
your company, J.ick.'

' Willingly. A sight of your fair sister will much
augment the fervour of my devotions ; and truly, the
parsons do little to aiil us to — what do you call it in
English ? — raise our souls to God ? Is that well said —
com>ft(' il fiiut ( '

' It is most entirely .jnimc il Jaut — your Kngli>h is
most elegant. Jack ; but y(^a are starting in the wrong
direction. Let me guide you.'

The service hail begun when the two young men
entered. '1 lie cluirch was new, and the congregation
most fashionable — far too fashionable to concern itself
much with the prayers, doubtless considering that us the
parson was paid to repeat them, he could of course per-
form his task unaided.

Amyot and his friend were led to a pew not far from
the reading-desk. Many plumed hats turned as they

v.)

Amyol Broui^/i.

^77

parsed up the aislo, and more than one pair of glasses was
raised to inspect tliem ; but neither of the youn^ men
eouKl distiiijj;uisli anioiij; the elegant laiUes, the faee and
form of which they were in search.

' Siran<;e that none of tlie family sliould be in eluirch ! '
whi>pered Amyot to liis eomj)anion. 'Tiiey mu>t have
over>le])l themselves.'

Rut his friend shook his liead, firmly convinced that
such an explanation was inadmissible.

It was not till near the close of a very elocjuent dis-
course upon the necessity of layinj^ up such a fund of j^ood
works as must secure popularity in this worKl, and also
make an entrance into heaven certain, that Jack Pownal
twitched his friend's sleeve ;uul whispcretl :

' Mv eves are better than yours : beside the pillar near
the door I see an anj^el form. Let us lose no time, wlu;n
he shul> his b(X)k, in makin<; our way to tiie door '

Anil Amyot, lookin<;' ea,u,vrlv towards the sj)()t indicated,
(lisc()\-ercd his sister, atteiuled by her aunt's woman, and
iialf hiililcn beiiind the pillar.

The sermon eiuled just at hat moment, aiul they were
soon outside, waitiuij for Joan. She had a preoccupied
air as she came towards them, and started violently as lier
brother a|)proaciicd sayinj^ :

'Sweet sister, have you no eyes for me, ami are you
walkint;; for a waj^er .-* '

' Amvot — Lieutenant Pownal — I beuj yonr |)arilon — I
did not j)erceive you. liut.oh ! biolher, 1 am «j,l;ul ut have
met : now you can clear up mv doubts. Come with me a
few steps from all this croud, so that we ma\' ^peak treely.'

' Speak freely ? — aye, to be sure. What's ami>s, loan ?
— \-ou look womlrous ,s?rim.'

'Then y^u know nolhini,'? Oli I am so relieved — so
thankful !'

' Know nothinjT of what ? '

' Of my cousin Arnold's accident : how he was thrown

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down on Friday night, as he was standing waiting for my
aunt to come from the card-party, and struck on the head
and grievously b'lrt, so that we know not whether he will
recover. My aunt is ill with grief, and my uncle is sad
beyond description.'

' But how did it happen ? ' Amyot inquired, a look of
some uneasiness passing over his face ; while Lieutenant
Pownal seemed inclined to speak, but checked himself.

' It happened only a few minutes after you parted from
me so hastily. The chairmen who saw the mischance
said some drunken officers, leaving the ballroom, attacked
him savagely, with no provocation, and then, having done
the deed, fled like cowards as they were ! '

Joan's eyes flashed as she fixed them on her brother,
and then waited breathless for his reply.

The colour rushed to his brow ; he uttered a half
exclamation as he met her indignant gaze ; then his eyes
fell, he dropped her hand, and, turning towards his friend,
he said :

'Then you were right, Jack ; and it luas all a horrid,
villainous mistake ! '

' I fear so, indeed,' Jack Pownal said. ' I told you you
had missed your man.'

There was a dead silence.

Joan looked from one to the other in despair.

' Tell me,' she said, at length. ' I cannot understand
what you mean, brother. Was it you that struck that
coward blow, and all unprovoked ? '

But Amyot did not speak ; his brow was bent, his eyes
fixed on the ground, his lips compressed ; the red flush
had passed away, and an ashy paleness had succeeded.
Thus he stood, silent and motionless, until anguish drew
from Joan the passionate exclamation :

' You did it, you did it, in a fit of vile passion i Oh, I
am glad, so glad that father and mother are dead, and no
one left but me.'

4myot Brough.

179

'liH'li^i!

Then he lifted his head, and, with white Hps, said :
' Tell her all, Jack, for God knows it was a mistake,
and, what is more, that I never meant to take anyone's
life.'

' Miss Brough,' said the kindly lieutenant, ' might we
not make a tour round the Square garden, and then I
wall recount to you the affair as it arrived ; your brother
is not altogether the veritable rascal you believe him, and
God is good, so be not too miserable. This is how the
thing has arrived. There is a certain parson, a quite
other man from monsieur your cousin, a beggar, "a sot, a
veritable demon, and he is for ever and always on the
heels of your brother — he gi\es him no peace. Now,
Amyot is not prudent — I sjieak it to his face- he has
played with this demon, and the demon has cheated him,
and he wants his money, and Amyot, you see, will not
pay. He says he will fight, but no, the little parson fears
to be killed — he is in no hurry to go to see his friends in
the other world, although I do believe they must love him
right well ; but no, he w'ill not fight, and he will have his
money, and I say to Amyot, " Pay him, and deliver your-
self from him ; '' but no, Amyot will not, and they quarrel,
quarrel, as you, madam, did hear the othe^ night. But
you are unquiet, and I relate the affair in a manner s'o
tiresome. Enfin, this is what did arrive. The parson
ran out ; your brother conducted you to your aunt, and
ran after him. I followed to see the mischief, and I saw
Amyot seize a torch from a boy and strike a parson on
the head ; truly, he meant but to frizzle up his perruque
for him, and scorch him a trifle. But the parson was so
exceedingly astonished that he started back and stumbled,
and fell on the stone steps, and lay there as if dead ; I was
affrighted : I seize Amyot's arm and drag him away, but
I did say to him that very night that the parson was not
the man at all, but larger — taller, I mean, by the head, at
least. This is all my history, and I grieve exceedingly at

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the calamity ; truly, I am in desolation for you, madam,
and for my friend.'

'You are very good,' Joan said sadly, 'I thank you
much, sir, for your explanation. It is something better
than I feared, yet it is plain that my brother's passion is
the cause of all our sorrow, nor can it be denied that he
meditated harm to some one, though not to mv cousin.'

' \n verity, it cannot be denied,' Jack replied ; ' when in
a passion, the good Amyot should be sent to Bethlehem.'

At last Amyot spoke :

' And now, sister, that you know all, what would you
have me do ? It is an evil mischance, but I see no way to
mend it. Is my cousin truly so much hurt ? ' For Joan
was weeping, and tears were so seldom her resource, that
Amyot's worst fears were aroused by the sight.

' I scarce know ; my grandmother is hopeful, but my
uncle's face is Avoeful to behold. Amyot, I know not what
to counsel you.'

' Oh, for that matter, the counsel I need is soon spoken.
I am not going to hide this deed of mine ; my uncle shall
know all about it, soon ." or later ; all I need to know is,
whether to go to him now and tell him, or wait till his
grief be something lessened, and it may not cause him so
mu:h vexation to hear that I am such a ruflian. Tell me
which will be best for him, Joan ; trouble not yourself for
me. My aunt said once she feared she should li\e to see
me hanged in chains, and, if I go on at this rate she is like
to see her words come true. Nay, Joan, don't sob in that
fashion ; truly, I meant to take no one's life.'

' It is so miserable,' Joan said ; * not that I fear that
uncle will not credit your story, but should my cousin die,
how can they ever bear to look at you again ? '

' But we are not sure that he will die,' broke in Jack
Pownal ; ' let us hope. Hope is a beautiful thing, and at
this instant, we cannot dispense with her ; therefore let us
say to ourselves, "The good parson will recover his health,

A my at B rough.

i8i

and all will be well." But for the moment, while all the
world is so miserable, what shall the man do who was so
unlucky as to break his head ? Madam, I pray you,
decide the question.'

Joan hesitated ; then she sajd :

* I dare not tell Amyot to go now to my uncle, he is so
miserable ; go away now, Amyot, and come here to-
morrow, if you can ; and to-day, if I can, I will tell my
grandmother, and what she says, that you must do. She
will know what is best.'

' That is most prudent,' said Jack Pownal ; * you shall
be obeyed, Miss Brough. I will charge myself with him,
this great villain ; he shall break no more heads before to-
morrow, and after that — well, his uncle must speak to the
colonel, and have him taught discipline. Come away, you
great rogue, you rascal, you murdering wretch, you '

' Stop,' said Amyot ; ' hold your tongue. Jack ; I want
a word with my sister. Joan, could you not go home
now, and find out how Arnold is, and give us some signal
from the window of your chamber ? We will watch at
the corner of the Square.'

Joan agreed.

' If he is worse, or no better, I will wave this black
ribbon from the window ; if better I will show this white
handkerchief for a minute or two.'

She curtsied to Jack Pownal, and hastened towards
home. The young men lingered, anxiously watching until,
in a few minutes, the black ribbon floated from the
window, and then they turned and walked silently away.

The short winter afternoon was closing in, and the
darkness rapidly coming on, before Joan had any chance
of seeking counsel from her grandmother, and by that
time her misery had so increased by brooding on it, that
she had well-nigh persuaded herself that the very worst
consequences must ensue if Amyot told his uncle ; and
had almost resolved to say nothing to Mrs. Darley about

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the matter. Almost, but not entirely, for Joan's alTectioii
for her grandmother was deep, her eonfulenee in her so
sincere, that it was almost impossible for her to keej)
anything secret from the old lady.

Sitting on a low stool by the parlour fire, she had been
debating the question with herself for three long hours,
and with no certain result, when the door opened, and
Mrs. Darley came in. Joan started to her feet with a
smothered exclamation of delight, and hastened to seat
the old lady, jmle and exhausted with her long watch, in
the high-backed chair beside the hearth. Then she
brought a footstool for her feet, and a pillow for her head,
with the gentle touch so pleasing to the old lady, who
murmured :

' Bless thee, my child, art glad the wicked priest is
better ? '

' Truly better — is my cousin truly better ? Oh, madam,
I am so glad ! — I think I never knew what gladness was
before. And will he surely recover, do you think ? '

* Did I not say he would last night ? But why so
monstrous glad, Joan ? He is naught but thy cousin — nay,
not a true cousin either.'

'Nay, I know, but I count' him cousin. I love him as
such ; but that is not all, dear grandmother. May I tell
you a dreadful story ? — and then you will marvel no more
that I rejoice that my cousin is like to live.'

' Ay, tell me,' said the old lady w^earily. ' 'Tis the old
story, I suppose.'

' What old story, madam ? '

' Nay, never mind — tell me thine. Yes, sit down at my
feet, and lay thy head on my knee. I am a silly old
woman to-day, and like to have it so ; and now, what is
it?'

'It is about Amyot,' Joan began.

' Oh, Amyot ! I thought it had concerned thy cousin.
Well, Amyot, what of him ? '

Amyot Brongh.

183

Slowly, and with some incolicrcncy, Joan told her talc,
to which the old lady listened with more than one exclam-
ation of horror, and with a stifled si^h or two. When
she ceased speaking, there was a silence for some minutes ;
then Mrs, Darley said :

' I fear that Aimee is right, and that the lad was
not duly whipj^ed when young. Such ungoverned
tempers must prove something wrong ; yet Mr. Swinden
was no fond fool to spare the rod. Well, sweet one,
and to this weighty question, when shall Amyot
tell his uncle, I scarce know what to say ; I will con-
sider, Joan. I would I knew in what fashion the hoy
will tell it ; much depends on that. Mr. Pomfret is not
always the pleasant gentleman that thou hast seen him.'
Joan's lips quivered in the glow of the firelight ; her
grandmother perceived it, and stroked her fair hair, 'Thy
brother is a sore pain to thee, child,' she said. ' How say
you, shall I see him to-morrow, and school him how to
address his uncle, and shall I tell Mr. Pomfret the tale he
has to hear, and so prepare his mind beforehand ! '

' Oh, grandmother, if you would be so good ! '

* Ay, it Avill be better so ; and now that I can assure
thy uncle that his son will live, perchance he will hear it
with less anger ; but he is sitting beside the patient now,
and may not be disturbed ; and thou, Joan, shouldst be
with thy aunt. Leave me, child ; I am weary, and intend
to take some rest.'

* And, grandmother, may I know what my uncle says ?'

* Thou wilt know all that it concerns thee to know ;
and now go. If the lad is to be hanged, I w^ill not fail to
tell thee.'

The sight of that black ribbon, and the night of
anxious doubt that had followed it, had wrought in
Amyot a marvellous degree of self-reproach and contri-
tion ; and when he appeared in his grandmother's
presence, it was with no thought of defending himself or

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Ainyot Jlroui^k,

explaining away his fault. His passion fairly over,
Amyot was ever apt rather to exa<;^erate than make
light of its disastrous elTects, and to declare that he was,
without exception, the most desperate character in the
universe. In just such a mood did he now stanil before
Mrs. Darley, and the old '.idy could scarce conceal a smile
at the sight of her tall, strongly built grandson, over-
whelmed with shame and confusion, listeniiig jiatiently to
her rejiroof, and entirely accpiiescing in its justice.

' What's to be done with thee ? ' she said, gazing at his
blushing face over the top of her spectacles. 'Truly, I
think you English people a most stubborn set of beings.
It is the roast beef and the strong ale. Thou needest to
be kept on bread and water , nought else will exorcise
the e\'il spirits which rule over thee. What ! a poor
starving wretch wants some money that thou owest him,
and thou art so enraged that thou wouldst break his
head ; and so blind doc thy passion make thee, that thou
dost not even know the man who has offended thee !
Wher.cc got you this mad temper, grandson Amyot, I
pray thee ? '

' Truly, madam, I know not. Glad would I be to be
quit of it.'

' Like enough, like enough ; when the mischief is done
thou art mighty sorry ! But hearken, thou young
villain — wouldst have been as grieved had thy iron fist
broken thy enemy's skull instead of thy cousin's ? Tell
me that, and then shall I know how much thy repentance
means.'

' Dear madam, I have not considered that matter.
My cousin's danger has put all other thoughts out of
my head.'

* I thought no less. It is a poor brain thine, Amyot.
Well, I set thee this lesson. Wilt thou study it ? Yes,
thou sayest. I doubt it. Once out of this scrape, thou
wilt forget all thy sorrow and repentance, and plunge

illl

Amyot Brotio^h.

185

strai<^dit into another. Nay, make no promises. I know
thee. It hath been ever tlius.'

'I am in no mood to hope well of myself, madam,'
Amyot replietl .n'loomily. ' When j)assion seizes me, I
own I am possessed, and know not what I do.'

'Then I tell thee, grandson, that thou must learn to
root out tlie demon that possesses tliee, or we must seek
a lodf^ing lor thee in Bedlam ; but it I hear thee speak
more in this loolish fashion, I will add another to the
many ill-names 1 ^ivc thee in my mind, and eall
thee coward. Yjs, Amyot Brouj^h, if thou canst not war
af^ainst thyself, 1 call thee coward. What ! thou canst
look at me now ! '

' (irandmother, it is not I. When I am in a passion, I
don't biiow what I am doing.'

' Talk not such silly stuff to me. Thou hadst full
knowledge of all tiiine actions on Friday night ; thou
wait not escape me thus. And now what dost thou pro-
pose to say to thine uncle ? '

'Nothing but that 1 grieve from my heart. There is
nothing else for me to say.'

' Well, doubtless thou wilt be glad to hear that Mr.
Pomfret has no wish to sec thee. So lie bade me tell
thee. I told him the ugly story last night, and found
that he had guessed the whole. Art astonished ? Well,
so was 1. This was how it came about. Thy cousin
revived much yesterday, towards evening, was quite
himself, and talked cheerfully ; and his father — men will
be fools — asked him about his accident — whether he
knew who had struck the blow. Arnold was loath to
speak, but at length confessed that he did. He was sure,
he said, that some mistake was the cause, and he prayed
his father not to urge him further, saying that it was
one known to both, and much discomfort might arise if
the thing were known. Your uncle had marked your
sister's disconsolate state, and had little difficulty in

i86

Aniyot B rough.

guessinff who was in fault. To content Arnold he pro-
mised to keep the secret from thy aunt ; but lie i)ade me
tell thee he had no wish to see thee for the jiresent.'
' And my cousin — did he say anythin<jj of me ? '
' What should he say of thee ? vSend thee his respects
and thanks for thy courtesy, maybe ! Nay, he named
thee not. It is likely that even as thou preferrest to think
thyself mad, so he chooses to think thee drunk. And
now thou hadst best seek thy sister, and bid her farewell ;
and when thou art far away, and thinkest of thy cross old
grandmother, remember that she is ready enough to
be proud of thee if thou wilt let her.'

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CHAPTER XV.

YKA OK NAY?

Mks. Dari.kv's confident assurances were verified, and iu
three weeks Arnold was himself a<i;ain, and ready to
return to his work. T3y common consent the cause of his
iUness was seldom mentioned. 'It has a vulvar sound to
have been wounded in a drunken frolic,' Mrs. Pomfret
said, and her stepson smiled and cordially agreed, the
more readily that such remarks were wont to bring
painful blushes to Joan's face and a gloomy scowl to his
father's. The former was oppressed with a constant and
ever-recurring burden of self-reproach, in that she had
failed again and again to induce her cousin to listen to
her timidly expressed regrets that one belonging to her
should have done him harm. Arnold always turned the
subject whenever she attempted to allude to his illness,
though whenever Amyot's name was mentioned by her
or anyone else, he was as much interested and as full of
kindly sympathy as he had ever been. It seemed to Joan
that he was more interested in the one letter she had
received from Amyot since his departure for Flanders
than anyone else in the house. More than once she
asked herself if it was not possible that his memory had
been impaired by his illness, though that she knew could
scarcely be, since he had told his father all particulars of
the accident with perfect clearness.

The day before that fixed for his return to Swynford,
he came into the parlour where Joan was engaged in
writing a letter. So intent was she on her employment,

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thai she did not look up wlu-ii hu entered the room. For
some time he occupied himsell uilli a book ; and after a
while a lively conversation hej^^an betu'een himselt" and
Mrs. Parley, who was knittinj; near the wintlow ; and
Joan, amused, laid down her jien and listened.

This her ^rantlmolher soon perceived.

'Joan, thou idle chiKl, finish thy letter and ^et thy
seam. Thou hast been lon<;" enou<^di busy over that long
letter to thy ,<;ood-lbr- nothing brother ! I would have
thee better employed,'

Joan's fair lace (lushed ; she looked up suddenly, and
her eyes met Arnold's, mIio said :

' Have you space, Cousin Joan, for a message from me ?
It is of no great matter if the paper is full ; if not, will
you give him his cousin Arnold's loving wishes, and tell
him I l(X)k to see him at my house when he returns from
the wars ? '

Joan's i)en faithfully recorded the words ; then, having
sealed her letter, she rose hastily to fetch her sewing ; and
as she passed Arnold's chair, she said in a low voice :

' Cousin, I thank you with all my heart ; and so, I
know, will Amyot.'

' Nay, the invitation is scarce worth thanks,' said Arnold
lightly, as he opened the door for her ; 'if you had seen
my house, you would wonder that I should dare to give
it.'

' Arnold, you are a ba.se schemer, and I will liave none
of your evil doings. You are winning the child's heart,
and you dare to do it before my face ! '

' I dare not do it behind your back, madam ; but, to
tell the truth, I had not dreamed that as yet she cared for
me. Do you truly mean what you say ? '

' Arnold, we had best look into this matter. Tell mc
what are your own thoughts, and I will tell you mine.'

' Then mine arc quickly told : I love my cousin Joan —
yes, more than ever I had thought to love anyone — and

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189

every time I see her, T ani more and mf)resct upon winniiijT
her to l)c! my wife. Those are my tl)ou<:;lits, dear madam —
l)hmlly told, hut the truth, and iiothiuf; hut the trutli ;
and iu)\v will you tell me your mind, mueh ihouj^h I fear
to hear it.'

' My o-ood Arnold, I will l)e tender of y^'r feelinjj^s ;
and, to he<;in, I will not scrujde to say that I like you
moderately well. You will not, I think, ili-u^e my ehild ;
you will not heat her, swear at her, or starve her. N'ay,
lau^h me not to scorn, hut hear me furtlier. I am not
questioning that you love the ehild, hut yet there is such
a thinsi,' as a selfish love ; anil \ ha\e no mind that my
chilli shall he your wife merely hecause you want some
one to make your home hri^ht, look after your scrxants,
and mend your linen : there are many homely wenches
who can do all that, and are oood c'nouu,h lor j)arsons'
wix'es. r listened to your description of your house the
other nio'ht, and I said to mvsell, " 'IMie child shall not
live there;" so now your re\erence has my mind -hut
nay, not altoj^cther ; I mav have more to say hy-and-hy.'

Arnold Pomfret was silent for a minute, hut only for a
minute.

' T am considerinjT,' he said, 'liow hest to jirove to you
that my love for my cousin is t)f a hetter kind than you
deem. Yet I thou«]fht you knew me hetter than to judoe
me likely to marry merely to improve my hodily comfort.
Yet I would not have you think that I had purj)osed to
take her to my house as now it is, and as you heard me
describe it. Much must be done to the old rectory before
it would be fit for a lady's presence ; and as soon as my
church is somewhat more fit to be called by such a name,
then I mean to set about the repair of the house.'

' Ai d why not repair both at once .'' '

Arnold hesitated, and began to pace the room with his
eyes fixed on the carpet. At length he said :

' You will always have a full confession, dear madam ;

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A^nyot B rough.

and indeed, were it only my own business, I would conceal
Jiothin m you : but this much must I say, that of the
money w!iich I had destined for the repair of both church
and rectory I have been forced to use a part ; and so I must
defer the rebuilding of m^^ own house for six months at
least. Therefore, madam, you see that my cousin will
not be hurried into matrimony, if she be pleased to favour
my suit.'

' And this monc}^ ? You have wasted it, Arnold
Pomfret — 1 know you have ! Do you think a careless
spendthrift shall have my child ? What call can a young
priest have to spend such a sum of money, unless it be
sinful waste ? Ha ! I hav^e it ! — This money has gone
to pay (juy's gaming debts — I know it ! My daughter
Pomfret told me that his father would pay no more, and
she lamented her son's hard lot^ — not so hard, it seems,
since he has a soft simpleton of a brother who will come
to his aid. Nay, nay, I doubt much whether you are fit
to wed my child.'

' Since you but doubt, I must take leave to hope,
madam. May I not approach the subject with my cousin
herself ? I leave London to-morrow in the early
morning.'

* You are a bold man to talk thus to me. I tell you my
mind is not made up. What says your father of this
whim of yours ?'

' He is well satisfied with my purpose, and bade me
hold fast by it ; not, I trust, that he judged me likely to
change, but that he foresaw some difficulties in the way.
Vou, madam, he said, could ill spare your granddaughter.'

' He said that ! ' said the old lady, bridling. ' Men
judge all others by the measure of their own selfishness.
And your mother — what did her wisdom put forth ? '

' I have not spoken to her of the matter, but am well
convinced that she loves my cousin well, and will be right
pleased to call her daughter.'

A7nyoi Bro2igh,

191

' w

* Of course, of course. Well, Arnold Pomfret, listen to
me. This forenoon I go a-driving with my daughter
Pomfret ; Joan will be at home ; she has writing to do for
me, and so you do not take up all her time, I care not if
you have some conversation with her. The child has
sense, and will not ascribe too much meaning to your
words ; and if my good Johnstone should chance to be of
your company, it need not inconvenience you, since she
has lost her hearing, and seldom comprehends except it
be most specially ill-convenient. Nay, don't thank me ;
the maiden has not said " Ay " yet, and neither have I.'

* A terrible tedious drive, child, and a fog came up
from the river before we reached home. I verily thought
the man would lose his way ; but the oil-lamps were
lighted and the link-boys out as if it was night. But it's
over now and no harm done, but that I am wearied of
your aunt's shrieks and the jolting of the chariot. But I
have good news for thee, Joan. I called to see Mrs.
Wolfe in Old Burlington Street, and she has had tidings
from her son James, who is with the army in Flanders ;
and he speaks of having met his old schoolfellow, Amyot
Brough — " a likely young fellow,'' he calls him, and that
from James Wolfe is high praise, as thou very well
knowest. But how now, Joan ; thou art not attending
to my words. Art deaf to the praises of thy beloved
Amyot ? '

' Grandmother — madam, something has ha^-'pened in
your absence. I am almost afraid to tell it, lest you
should think me to blame ; yet I do not know what else 1
could have done.'

' What hast thou done, child ? torn thy slip, or
dropped ink on thy new apron, or quarrelled with thy
cousin ? '

' Grandmother, would you have me quarrel with him ?
Sometimes I think you would.'

' And so thou hast done it just to pleasure me. Thou

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Amyot Brouo^Ji.

art a most dutiful grandcliild. But wliat was the matter
of thy quarrel, and who bewail it ?'

Joan dropped her eyes, and tracinjr Avith her slender
foot the i)attern of the earpet, said, while a smile played
about her mouth :

'It has not yet bec^un, madam ; yet it seems to me that
■we are like to quarrel all our lives loni;, and that for a
most silly purpose. Can you i^uess my riddle, dear
grandmother ? '

The old lady sat down, and takino- the oirl's two hands
in hers, said :

' Thy eousin Arnold has asked thee to be his wife,
chiUl — that mueh I guess ; but if thou wilt have nought
to do with such a purpose, it had been better that thou
hadst left the matter in my hands. A voung girl should
not be in haste to wound an honest man.'

' Dear grandmother, I did not wound him. \\^hat I
said I cannot jirecisely tell ; but he was not \c.\ed. How
could he be ? Surelv, he knew that what he wished and
you wished, I would gladly do.'

' Then how about the quarrel ?'

* Dear grandmother, I was but joking. My cousin
would have me believe that he holds me most singularly
dear. It is his kindly heart that makes him ever think
others so monstrous excellent. I was too abashed to chide
him for his fDolishness, but I told myself that since I, too,
held him good and great beyond all other, we should for
ever quarrel which should love the other most.'

* Thou silly child, art sure thou lovest that tall, grave-
visaged priest ? What canst thou find in him to like, I
ask thee ?'

But Joan's eloquence had exhausted itself.

' Indeed, madam, I cannot tell ; yet I do know this : he
is quite unlike all others that I have seen.'

' You have seen but few, perhaps scarce enough to be
sure that thou knowest thine own mind. One day I

Amyot BrougJi,

193

thought thou hadst a hkinj; for thy brother's merry
friend, Lieutenant Jack Pownal.'

* Oh, madam, to speak of him beside my cousin
Arnold ! '

' Well, well, is it so ? But listen, child ; there shall be
no talk of marriage until I give thee leave. Thy cousin
has a house not fit to lodge a pig. He has much to do
before he thinks of wedlock.'

' Grandmother, did you think I should be in haste to
leave you ?'

^ NUmportc. I must seek out another stray child, but
this time she shall be ill-favoured enough to stay with
me. Naught that is pleasant to gaze on will rest satisfied
with my company, and I love not changes.'

Yet as the evening passed, it seemed strange to Joan that
what had made so great a change to her personally, had
wrought so little outward difference. Her grandmother
and aunt talked of their drive, their visits, the fog, and
other trivial matters ; her uncle discussed politics with his
son, and she, as was her wont, sat silent and listened ; and
yet it was Arnold's last evening, and to-morrow they
would be miles asunder. Was it all a dream ? Had she
wholly understood his meaning ? Joan shuddered at the
thought. Surely, when that long dinner was over, they
would have more of the converse which had been so sweet
in the afternoon. What was that her uncle was saying ?

' Come with me to the play to-night, Arnold. Your
mother fears the fog, and will not venture abroad. You
care not for the play, I know, but you might bear me
company this last night of your stay in town.'

' Rather, Mr. Pomfret,' said his wife fretfully, * should
you stay with us, and not deprive me of my son's society,
since I csnnot go abroad.'

' That would I gladly, since I, too, detest the fog, and
have no great esteem for this particular play ; but I have
promised to meet some friends there, and I choose to abide by

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194

A my of JhvHo/i.

mv word. But stay with your mother, Arnold, if you
will.'

' it you will allow mo, sir, 1 will drixo with you to the
theatre, ami return al onee ; I start early to-morrow, and
ha\e still some preparations to make.'

And thus it was settled, and .h)an hreathed iVeely aj^ain.

' My son .Arnold is a true gentleman,' said Mrs.
Pomiret, when the two gentlemen hail departed ; 'yet he
has an awkward mode of speeeh — why did he not pay me
the compliment which in his heart he intemled, instead of
speaking as if all his thoughts were set on his haggage ?'

' I, too, feel aggrieyeti,' Mrs. Darley said, her hright eyes
full of !nerriment. ' I looked for a neatly turneil phrase
of j>oliteness, and lo, I am forgotten entirely ! Joan, how
ihitikest thou ? — is not thy cousin a barbarian ?'

'Poor Joan !' remarked Mrs. I^)mfret ; 'if she looks for
courtesy from her cousin, she must haye been monstrously
disappointeil throughout her sojoiu'n here. In his eyes it
is yerily a crime tor a laily to be yomig ; he is a mighty
strange person. 1 should haye warned you, Joan, oi his
uncouth manners, and that you must not look for pretty
speeches from him.'

' Dear aunt, he is always kind to me,' was Joan's reply,
while her fair face and neck flushed rosy red, whereupon
Mrs. Pomfret exclaimed impatiently :

' Kind, of course ; but you do not take my meaning,
child. Arnold has a fine presence and figure, but he lacks
those elegancies in word and pleasant turns of speech
which mark a man of good-breeding. Motlier, your fair
doye is but a wood-pigeon still.'

' Joan, while we poor women arc left to entertain
oursclyes, thou hadst best amuse us by reading aloud.
Fetch that book of yerse thy uncle commended to thee,
and giye us something wise for our meditations. Thy
aunt will soon improye upon them in her ^.reams. She
loycs a short sleep after dinner.'

:ks
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Amyot Broiis^h,

195

Joan obeyed, and wliile Mrs. Potnfret, reclininjij on her
coueli, soon fell into a do/e, her more alert mother sat
ereet, well j)lease(l to listen to the musieal voice that {rave
fortli the pleasant lines with such correct modulations,
and to feast her eyes on the graceful figure and fair face
before her.

'That will do, child ; it is pleasant verse enough, but
thy aunt is in the land of dreams, and here is thy cousin
returned to j)ack his effects ; j)erhaps lie has need of our
help — are tliere any small concerns to be set in order
before your return to your wilderness, reverend sir ? We
are well persuaded that nouj^jht but the care of your
worldly affairs brought you home from the play to-night.'

' I will not contradict you, madam, since my worldly
afiairs comprise other matters besides my clothes and
books ;' then, glancing from lier to his mother, and
perceiving that she had lu^t been aroused by his entrance,
he added in a lower tone, as he stooped over the old
lady's chair : ' My cousin did not say me nay ; she has
been very good to me, but I am not yet entirely content,
and thinking over all I said to her, I fear I led her into the
error of sui)j)osing that the scheme I had so much at
heart, was wholly to your liking, therefore I pray you,
madam, absolve me from the sin of this small deception,
and say that you are well content.'

' I never was in all my life — it is not my nature to be
contented ; I am ever hoping for something better to
befall, or striving hard to think well of things as they
are. Therefore, Arnold Pomfret, it is useless to seek for
such professions from me ; you must make yourself happy
with having gained your end, which should be enough
for any man.'

' But it is not enough for me,' he pleaded earnestly,
' nor for my cousin either, I see it in her face.'

' Then what will you both do ? Do you imagine I
shall shower blessings on you just for the sake of adding

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196

A?)iyot Brough.

to your bliss, which seems to me as perfect as needs be.
No, I shall hold to my right to grumble, and you must
put up with it.'

Arnold withdrew his arm from the back of the resolute
old lady's chair, and, looking sorely perplexed, placed
himself at the opposite side of the hearth, leaning against
the chinmey-piece, and gazing at Joan's downcast face, in
which the colour came and went, as she listened to this
conversation.

At last she looked up suddenly as she felt his eyes
fixed on her, and said timidly : ' Cousin, you do not
know my grandmother, or you would be well satisfied to
leave the matter thus,'

' Should I ? Then enlighten me, sweet cousin, for I
feel myself defeated in this combat, and scarcely know
whether you are truly mine or not.'

' Then my grandmother has gained her object, and is
triumphing over you. She delights to puzzle people, and
now, I know, she is much elated. Dear madam ' — Joan was
now kneeling at her feet, stroking the white wrinkled
hands — ' you force me to let out your secrets : when you
thought for one minute that I was unwilling to do what
my cousin wishes, you were angry with me, and blamed
me that I had wounded him ; yes. Cousin Arnold, that is
the truth, so now you know that she is well content. No,
grandmother, do not pull your hand away ! I want it,
and Aunt Pomfret's dog has carried off your knitting.'

' Get up, Joan, and cease thy falsehoods, child ; thy
aunt is Waking, and will be curious to know what all
this turmoil is about. Arnold, we will make the best of
this bad business ; who knows but you may get your
head broken in right earnest before the wedding day ?
Your roof is like to tumble in, I hear, and the staircase
will scarce bear your weight. We will keep up our
spirits, there is hope for us yet !'

% M

se
ir

CHAPTER XVI.

CAPTAIN GUY.

' I no not love changes,' Mrs. Darley had said in prospect
of Joan's betrothal, and as if to prove the sincerity of her
words, the months that succeeded that event were passed
by her and Joan in the most unbroken regularity and
monotony at Westerham.

Returned there, the old lady lost no time in discover-
ing that her grandchild's education was by no means
perfect. ' What have I been about ?' she said. ' Why,
I have been bringing her up to be a fine lady, and she is
going to become a parson's drudge, to mend and make,
bake and brew, cure and cook, for a parish. We must
begin all over again. Dear me ! it would have saved a
world of trouble if I had settled about the husband before
I began the training of the child.'

And to repair her many deficiencies, Joan was set to
study the art of housekeeping, and to learn by practice
the many duties which would fall to her share as a poor
man's wife ; for ' though he has an ample income, Arnold
Pomfret will always be a poor man,' Mrs. Darley averred
and Joan agreed that it was highly probable.

And while the spring and summer of 1747 were passing
away thus monotonously in the quiet Kentish village,
Amyot was growing used to his military duties in Flan-
ders, and, not a little to his surprise, discovering that
even in time of war it was possible for one day's duties to
be much like another, and for events and excitements to
be rare.

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yhfiyoi J) rough.

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Fortune diil not smile on the British arms in tliis
camp:iii;n, and much iHscontent was the consequence.
Amyot, who had scarcely eyer lhou<;ht ol the possibility
of defeat, was much siuprised that the I^'rench armies did
not yanish Hive smoke before the allies, and nuich inclined
to think somebody ou,i;ht to be shot or superseiled.

'We sjXMul such heajis of time doin^ nothinjj;,' he
complainetl, as with his connade. Jack I'ownal, he
saimtered listlessly alonj]; the streets of Maestricht one
autunni eyeninp; ; they were quartered in the town, and
spent much of their time together. 'There's that place
they make such a fuss about, Bergen-oj)-Zoom. Why
can't they send us there ? — it will surrender in no time
to those beggarly Frenchmen, you see if it doesn't !'

' Yes, all the world knows that ; but, do \'ou see, mon
cher, we are not in their confidence. They haye their
reasons, our generals, and no doubt they are \ery good.'

' No doubt they are yery bad, I should say. It is the
Prince of Orange and the Dutch who keep us doing
nothing. It is a bad plan, tl is partnershij) business ; our
Duke is braye enough, and cleyer enough — if he had his
own way, things would go differently ; but these Dutch
a. J lazy — they're neyer to the fore >vhen they are
\yanted.'

' Well, my dear Brough, it may be as you say ; but
after our one combat at I.affelt, I am not entirely con-
yinced that it is quite impossible that we shall be beaten.
Experie.xe learns us many things, and you know the
proyerb, " The child that burns himself fears the fire." '

' Then, having been beaten once, are we neyer to fight
again ?'

' Softly, mon cher ; but assuredly we will fight again —
" He that fights and runs himself aAvay, will liye and will
fight on another day." That is a fine sentiment, truly.'

' You are a braye fellow, Jack — you are more than half
a Frenchman yourself!'

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ylmyol B rough.

IQ9

' Rut no, my brave fellow, il was not tlie French that
saved themselves at f.afTelt.'

' Neither was it tlie Kn^rjish ! '

*()h no, neither the one nor the otlier.'

* Well, for my part, \ wish I had taken uj) my father's
trade ; they can (i^ht like Hritons at sea.'

'They haven't okl Miiuriee to fi^ht against — lie would
outwit them if they had.'

' Jack, you make me mad. No Frenchman could beat
us if we hail but fair play.'

' There you are wrong, altogether and quite entirely
wrong. What did your friend James Wolfe tell you the
other day, that a soldier Muist, before all things, be
modest ? You do not follow his advice. And yet am I
much obliged to Messieurs the Admirals Anson and
Hawke ; if they had not made an end of the French
fleets, we should be too entirely ashamed of ourselves.'

Amyot was silent ; then, as if desirous of changing the
subject, remarked :

' Have you heard that Wolfe has received a wound ? —
nof- a very serious one, yet they say it is likely he will
return to P^ngland before winter. Some say the Duke
goes soon, and that peace will shortly be concluded. We
shall not carry much glory home with us.'

' Nay, our shoulders might support a trifle more ; but
we being nobodies, that will be no great matter. And,
for the Duke, everyone can see it is no want of courage.
A somebody, I know not precisely who, has said that he
has not the talents for to make a great general.'

' Somebodies without names generally talk prodigious
folly,' Amyot replied irreverently. ' But hovv like you
the idea of a peace, and nothing to do. Jack ? '

' It is not precisely to my taste ; but, in fine, that will
not endure.'

' Jack, you must go to school and learn English. Some-
times you talk like a native, and then again there is no
sense in what you say.'

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Ajfiyot B rough.

* So, then will I try to improve. I will marry an
English wife, and she shall chastise me.'

' No, truly, she shall correct you, you mean.'

* Correct, chastise, it is all the same thing, no clifTerence
at all. And you, Amyot, you shall learn French ; you
have greatly neglected all your good occasions — tictisf it
is abominahle, shameful to reflect, that you have a friend
who speaks the French like a native, and a grandmother
who was lifted up at St. Cyr, and who is Parisienne to
the ends of her fingers, and your accent is truly bar-
barous.'

* Because I hate French — I am a Briton.'

* You are half French, you big John Bull. Allons!
you shall learn the French, and speak him like a native,
too.'

* Stop, Jack ; do you see that long fellow coming down
the street ? '

' What, the Captain Guy Pomfret ? I save myself ! he
puts always his hand into other men's pockets, and mine
is inconvenient empty,' and Jack darted off like a shot,
while Guy Pomfret, perceiving Amyot, crossed the street,
and accosted him with the familiarity of a relative and
old friend.

* Charmed to meet — haven't seen you for ever so long
— thought you must have fallen at Laffelt. No ! what
luck — anything to do ? Come along and spend the even-
ing at my quarters — some capital fellows coming. Cards
— oh yes ; don't play if not convenient, but give us your
company.' And Amyot, not quite willingly, agreed.

Jack, from a safe distance, had watched the proceeding,
and ejaculating, ' Very content you are not my cousin,
Monsieur le Capitaine ! ' departed in an opposite direc-
tion.

Three officers were lounging in Captain Guy's quarters

when he and Amyot arrived. All were strangers to

Amyot, and eyed him somewhat suspiciously, until the

Amyot Brotto/i.

20I

words * My cousin' from their host exphiincd his appear-
ance ; then their manner entirely chanj^ed— they greeted
liim witii rapture, courteously begj^ed lie would take a
hand, while (Jruy pressed him to make himself at home,
and play or not, just as he liked.

' Any news from the old people, Rrou<;h ? ' asked the
merry captain, as Amyot seated himself at the table ;
' they never write to me — have droj)ped my acquaintance
altos;ether ; shall drop theirs when I go home.'

'Close-fisted, aren't they?' said one of the company ;
' younger sons are apt to be counted troublesome.'

'Just so,' said Guy ; 'ought to be a law again.st a man
having two sons.'

' Your cousin's an only son, I've heard you say.'

'Yes ; with a prodigious handsome sister though, going
to marry my brother.'

' What, the parson ? — mad, isn't he, Pomfret ? '

' Not too mad to manage his own affairs, I am sorry to
say. What's the matter, Rrough ? '

' I — I don't understand you,' said Amyot, reddening.
' Is your brother mad ? '

' Oh, not what the doctors call mad, only a trifle strange
here,' and he touched his forehead.

' Madder than you ? ' asked Amyot, whereupon the
others laughed, and said that was not so bad a hit.

' Oh, we're all mad,' said Guy indifferently, ' but the
disease takes different forms — go on, Amyot, fire away.'

The game proceeded more silently, and very much in
earnest, and Amyot was beginning to think of the letter
he should have to compose to his old lawyer at Penrith,
when a heavy step was heard on the stair, which creaked
and shook, as a hand fumbled at the door, and a private
soldier put in his head with : ' By your leave, gentlemen ;
I was sent hither to search for a certain Lieutenant
Brough — do you know such a name ? '

' That's he ; what do you want, man ? *

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Afuyoi Ih'ough.

' I was to ^ive him tliis here/ said the solilier, ' and to
say as I have a horse helow.'

Amyot opened tlie Ibliled paj)er, .muI read :

' I am startinj^ for Eii^hind in a day or two. Can you
come and see me for an hour? 1 am iletained in my
quarters hy a trifle of a wound, hut wouid he ^lad to he
the hearer of any messages for your friends.

'J. w;

Captain (xuy read the hillet over his shoulder and
scowled. ' How did he know where you were ? ' he
asked.

' I cannot guess ; but it is good-natured of him to
make this offer. I pray you, excuse me, Guy, and you,
gentlemen.'

' Nay, stay and finish this rubber — you must ; hulloa
there, you fellow, walk the horse about that he may not
catch cold ! Sit down for five minutes, Brough.'

The five minutes had grown to thirty before Amyot
made his escape, uncomfortably conscious that his diver-
sion had cost him more than was any way convenient,
and inexpressibly glad of the excuse which had enabled
him to leave his merry friends so soon. And as he started
off in the direction pointed out to him by the soldier who
had brought the letter, and felt the cool evening breeze
blow on his face, he asked himself, how he could have
been such a fool as to have been drawn into play with
such sharp hands as were always to be found at his
cousin's quarters,

' 1 am an idiot, and nothing less, always doing what
I've vowed I won't ; but how could Wolfe know where I
was, I wonder ? '

This question was easily answered wl.en he reached his
destination ; as he entered the house, the sound of voices
reached his ear, and in a moment he found himself

A}fiyot Broui^h.

203

pounced upon by his li\cly friciul Jack, wlio cxcl.iiniccl :
' Arrived our trick lias then succeeded ! Were they
\ery ferocious, your cousin aiul his tVieiuls ?' -while
Wolfe, raising himself from a half-reclininj; attitude,
joined in the lau^h, and addetl : ' 1 warrant you've left a
small fortune hehiml you ; how are you, Hrou^h ? Will
you forjjjivc mc for enticing you away from your amiable
friends ? '

' I was glad enough to come,' Amyot replied ; ' but diil
Jack tell you where I was, since your messenger said he
had no dilliculty in tracing me out ? '

' Jack came here a while since, much concerned for
you. I railed at him for deserting you in such a fai'.t-
hearted fashion ; but he alleg'id that Captain Pomfret
being your cousin, he had scruples about interfering
between you ; but 1 was less delicate, ycju see. Hut now,
I pray you be seated. This is but a mean kind of room,
and we have neither wine nor cards for vour enterta'ri-
ment ; but Jack is a merry fello./, and the best of
company when he chooses.'

' And when are you going home, captain ? ' inquired
Amyot ; ' and how came you by your wound ? '

'At Laffelt, 1 have but just come here. When am I
going home ? In a few days, I expect ; your regiment
may remain here through the wintc. , or he speedily sent
to England ; but I shall certainly start before you. What
commissions have you for me ? I shall make it my
business to see your uncle and aunt ; and before long I
shall hope to go to Westerham, to sec my own friends,
and yours too.'

Amyot charged him with some few messages, which
Wolfe noted down and promised to deliver faithfully,
while Jack Pownal paced the room, humming martial
airs. At last, impatient at having no share in the con-
versation, he broke in, exclaiming :

' If you see the good Amyot's fair sister, you may bear

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Amyot Brough.

her a message from me, captain ; tell her that he does
not conduct himself entirely to my taste, that he still
loves play, that he still has pleasure in quarrels, and in
fine, he is not always bon gargon. She should write
to him and reproach him, for truly there are the moments
when he gives me much of pain.'

' I will not forget,' said Wolfe gravely. ' And you,
Amyot, have you no defence to make ? '

' My sister knows Jack,' was the reply ; ' but he is
wrong when he says I love play. I care very little about
it, but I can't always refuse. And as for quarrels — I am
the most peaceable fellow in the world when I am not
put out.'

' Hear him ! hear him ! ' cried Jack. ' The most peace-
able fellow in the world when he is not put out ! But
touch him with the end of your little finger, and he will
have your heart's blood ; that is what you call peaceable,
do you ? Oh, you are a vain dog, and there is no
mistake ! '

' But, Brough, pardon my curiosity,' said Wolfe, when
Jack stopped for breath. ' But will your estate bear the
pull you are making on it ? For I know that it is
impossible to be much in Captain Pomfret's company
without suffering for it. His friends, too, are hard
gamblers.'

' I know,' said Amyot, in a melancholy tone ; ' but I
don't want to quarrel with my cousin.'

* Listen ! listen ! ' cried Jack. ' He not desire to
quarrel. Why, it is what he loves best in the world.
But, you see, he will only quarrel for a nothing.'

' But need there be any question of quarrelling ? ' laid
Wolfe.

' It would be difficult to avoid it — terrible difficult,'
Jack said, shaking his head. ' The captain has a fashion
of talking quite extraordinary. I save myself, that is
what I do.'

Aviyot B rough.

205

' Run away, you mean — talk English, Jack. Well,
Brough, if you can't fight, let me counsel you to do the
same.'

' ril keep out of his way whenever I can ; but running
away, or refusing his invitations altogether — I cannot well
do that.'

' You had better do so — it would be your wisest plan,'
Wolfe began, when an unusual bustle outside attracted
his attention, and Jack exclaimed :

' What is happening there below ? Shall I go to see ? '

' Some drunken row,' Wolfe remarked. But at that
moment a heavy thud was heard outside the door, which
was speedily burst open, and Captain Guy and two of his
companions rushed into the room. One of them,
stumbling on the uneven floor, made a headlong plunge,
and lost his footing altogether. The other two, not being
altogether steady on their legs, seated themselves without
ceremony — one on the table, the other on the bedstead — •
and burst into a loud roar at the sight of their companion's
prostrate figure. Then they looked round the room, and
stared at the three friends as if uncertain who they were.

Amyot was the first to speak,

'What do you want, Guy? The captain here is ill;
you might have used a little more ceremony if you wished
to see him.'

' Wished to see him ? oh, who ? I forget who we
want ; my memory is bad. Who was it, Solmes ! '

* The young blade who owes us money. Don't know
who he is — nor care either — but you should know;
you brought him in, and let him run off" in that mean
fashion — one of your brood, no doubt ; they're all a
mean lot.'

' Don't know what you're talking about,' said Captain
Guy, whose intellect was not of the clearest ; ' why
doesn't that fool get up ; somebody put him on his legs,
will you ? '

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Amyo^ D rough.

* Look here, Guy,' broke out Amyot hotly, ' if he touch
him, I'll pitch him out of window, and you after him ;
get off that table, and take yourself off. If you want me,
I'll come with you.'

' No, you won't,' said Wolfe in a low voice ; ' Captain
Pomfret, my friends and I are eni^aged, particularly
engaged, as the man ouside should have told you ; but
perhaps you did not ask him.'

' Can't understand ; don't know who you are, or what
you want. This table is precious unsteady ; have you
never a chair to offer a gentleman ? '

* Not one,' said Jack. ' Your friend there seems
drowsy, captain,' for the other officer had sunk back on
the low bedstead in a heavy drunken sleep, ' and your
other friend is in still worse case — he has fallen quite flat
on his nose, and smashed him.'

' No ; has he ? Well he came to get some money.
Now it'll go to fee the surgeon, and he owes it to me.
Who owed him the money ? Can't make out ; somebody
here, I s'pose.'

' Captain Pomfret, allow me a few words in private,'
said Jack, approaching with a deferential air ; 'just a
little word in the street outside, where these gentlemen
shall hear nothing ; I assure you it is vastly important,
and much to your advantage.'

* To my advantage? Then I am your man, to follow
you to the ends of the earth,' and Guy rose with such
alacrity that, his sight being not of the clearest, he had
nearly measured his length over his prostrate friend,
when Jack seized him by the arm, and with some
difficulty piloted him safely to the door.

There were some loud words, and something like a
scuffle in the street below, but in five minutes the young
lieutenant returned triumphant, saying :

* I have done his affair : now to be rid of these two
insensibles ; they are entirely at our mercy. What shall

Amyot Broitgh.

207

we make of them ? — a bonfire ? — or pitch them out of the
window, as said Amyot ? '

' Get rid of them,' said Wolfe, wearily, ' especially that
fellow who is settled where I greatly desire to be. Can't
you two take them up tenderly, so as not to disturb their
slumbers, and put them out into the street, where they
can wake at their leisure ? Don't rouse that fellow
Solmes — he is apt to be dangerous when in that
condition.'

' Come along, Brough ; gently, my dear fellow — let him
think the mother's arms are still around him, and that
he is again an innocent. " Hush, my babe, lie still and
slumber " — so, so, my pretty ; never lift the little head ;
but plague you, you are made of lead ! Amyot, you
boast of your great strength — exert it, I pray you, or I
shall fall with fatigue.'

' You ought to be greatly obliged to us, Wolfe,' re-
marked Jack, when this task was accomplished, ' for
having rid you of so much lumber, for verily my arms do
ache, and Brough is in still worse case, giant though
he is.'

' Rather,' said Amyot, ' ought I to be beholden to you
both for having endured so much annoyance on my
behalf. I wish you had let me kick Guy out.'

' Ever the same ; he will make himself be hanged one
of these days,' groaned Jack ; while Wolfe added
cheerily :

' Don't think of that, Amyot ; it was my doing, seeing
I sent for you from their company. But we are well rid of
them ; how can we hope to beat the French with such
men as they ? Let me pray you to forswear their company,
for the honour of old England, if for no other reason.'

' I will,' said Amyot ; ' that is, when I have discharged
my debt to them ; and now, captain, we'll relieve you of
our company, of which I bnould say you must be heartily
tired ; but, in truth, I never thought those noisy fellow

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208

Amyot B rough.

would follow me, and I am sincerely sorry to have been
the cause of ''uch vexation to you.'

' Thanks to Jack here, they didn't trouble us long,'
said Wolfe good-humouredly, as they took their departure ;
Jack remarking :

* Do not deceive yourself, captain ; he'll be scampering
after these rogues again in a day or two, and I, what shall I
do ? ' and he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.

Amyot laughed.

' Why should you trouble yourself about me. Jack ? '
he said, when they were again in the dark street, groping
their way to their own quarters. ' Why not let me go to
the bad, if you think I am .so set upon it ? '

'I did never say that, never ; on the contrary, I think you
are a hr^.vQ gargon^ real good fellow— like you much, love
you with all my heart, but find you big fool, all the same.'

' Strangely contradictory,' said Amyot ; ' explain
yourself. Jack.'

' No, that is what I never am able to do ; why, say
you ? Because I am an unreasonable being. Why do I
like you ? In verity, I cannot say, but all the world
likes you, so I am in the fashion, only all the world does
not tell you frankly you are a big fool.'

' Are you sure it is the case, then ? '

* Sure ! but yes ; I can prove it to you so evidently
that you will say, " Jack, my friend, I am a fool — you are
right." And see you, this is why : First, you have
not more money than you find convenient — you have
confessed to me that you wish to spare it for a certain
purpose, which purpose is one reason why I love you with
ail my heart ; yet when that unlucky captain comes in
your road, you go with him quite amiably, like a lamb,
though you know quite vv'ell he will put his hand in your
pocket ; say, are you not a fool ? Then you listen like a
good child when that wise Wolfe talks to you like a
grandfather ; you will do all that he says, you will be

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Aniyot B rough.

209

good officer, good gentleman, good Christian ; then you
meet a man who is no good oflicer, no gentleman, and
very bad Christian ; and you too are a vaiwicu^ a pagan,
an idle dog ; but I tell you truly, that you are my friend,
and I love you with all my heart.'

' You arc a queer kind of friend. Jack, if I may make
bold to say so.'

' Do we not say all what we will to each other ? is it
not thing understood? Perhaps it is also true, that when
I say these unpleasantnesses, I walk a little farther off,
because I like not black eyes, nor bumps, nor bruises ;
but I am prudent, I — and when you make yourself
hanged, which assuredly you will some day, I do not
think it will be my head that you will have broken, so
am I quite cont.ent.'

' Whose will it be, think you?'

* Nay, how can I tell? — that rascal captain will have
blown his brains out before long, so I do not think it will
be his. N'^importc ? there are always heads fit only to be
broken, provided you fall on one of these.'

Amyot was silent : a softened mood was on him. Jack's
raillery often wrought this effect, and he listened humbly.
At last his friend spoke again :

' And now will I tell you why you are brave garani^
and I love you dc toittmon coeiir.'

' No, Jack, you need not tell me that.'

' Yes, but I will. It is because a man can tell you the
truth, all short, aim straight, and fire right in the face,
and you will bear it.'

' For the simple reason that you aim so straight you
shoot me dead — I have never a word to say,' Amyot
replied; 'but enough of that. Stick to me. Jack, if
you can.'

' Stick to you ? without doubt ! You are out of heart
to-night, my boy, because of this unlucky money, but
we'll find a way out of that scrape — never despair ! '

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CHAPTER XVII.

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CONCKKMNX; A COrXTKV WEnDING.

MoRK than a year pa;'Sed before Mrs. Dai ley would
admit that Joan was at all fit to be the wife of ' that
poor parson,' as she always persisted in calling Arnold
Ponifret.

* I meant her to be a lady — a useful lady, but still a
lady ; and now that I perceive she is to become a parish
drudge, I feel that I have failed, and must needs begin all
over again.'

It was in vain that the Rev. Arnold urged that he had
no thoughc of taking Joan out of the sphere in which she
had been born, in vain he pleaded that he needed a
companion, not a slave ; the old lady would listen to none
of these arguments. She knew what would be the end
of it all. The money — of which she admitted there
was plenty — would all go to feed beggars and build
churches, till the parson and his wife had not a crust
to eat nor rag to cover them. Joan must become such
a notable housewife that she could make clothes out
of nothing, and wholesome food out of the coarsest
materials.

And, primed with these arguments, more than a year
had passed before she allowed the marriage-day to be
mentioned ; then new reasons for delay suggested them-
selves. Amyot would certainly return from the Conti-
nent in the spring, and, good-for-nothing though he was,
it was scarce decent for Joan to be wedded while her one
and only brother was absent.

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' All the world will say they have quarrelled, and
quarrels are not in my way,' she remarked.

So again Arnold was silenced, and Joan, quite uncer-
tain what she most wished, agreed that she could not
dispense with her brother's presence at her wedding.

The spring brought Amyot, and again Arnold claimed
his bride. But no ; the child had been working too
hard ; she must have rest ere she entered on that new
life in which she would never know what rest meant.
Arnold urged that his house was now completely
restored, the garden was perfect ; only the mistress was
lacking.

' The house completely rebuilt ! Then must it have
been done in too great haste. Pull it down and build it

agam.

' Dear madam.' Joan entreated, ' you are too severe.
Were it not better that I told my cousin that you cannot
spare me, and that, since he is in sore need of a wife, I
pray him to think no more of me '

' I cannot spare thee ! Who put that notion in thy
silly head ? But this is ever the manner of young-
maidens nowadays. May they not have their wills, they
fanry their elders are much beholden to them, and
cannot do without them. Hearken to me, Joan, and
answer not again. I, and none else, will fix thy marriage-
day ; and as for that unruly priest, thou mavst write
and ask him, how does he preach submission to his flock,
being so self-willed himself ? '

And Joan, being well trained, did not answer again.
Nay, more — she delivered Mrs. Barley's message to her
expectant bridegroom, with some little note and comment,
Avhich drew from Arnold the dutiful reply that he was
much enraptured that Mrs. Darley had at last consented
to fix the day, and that it would be a real kindness if she
would shortly acquaint him with her intentions, that he
might make arrangements accordingly.

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' He shall know in due time,' was the old lady's reply.
' Thou hast yet a set of aprons to complete, child.'

' Grandmother, I have enough garments to clothe a
parish. In truth, I am ashamed that v\\y cousin should
find me so overstocked with apparel. He must needs
think me much set on dress.'

' Well do I know what will befall when thou arrivest at
thy new home. There will be much laughter concerning
the silly old woman who provided the things. Then
there will be great arrangements for clothing the naked,
and by the time I sec thee again, thou wilt be in rags
thyself.'

Joan's face grew sad.

' Grandmother, you do not think it. Could I be so
undutiful — could Arnold be so ungrateful, as to mock at
you ? '

' Nay, silly child ; I was but joking. Well, to make
amends, I will write to Arnold, and tell him when he may
come to fetch thee. Being a dismal sort of person, he
will best like the month of November and a good thick
fog ; but, being silly and frivolous, I shall fix the month
of roses, for the reason that I like sunshine, and care not
to wet my feet.'

' June, dear madam ! I shall be loath to leave Wester-
ham then ; it is so lovely here.'

' There, nothing will please them ! We'll stop it
altogether. Write and tell Arnold that you will not be
wedded after all. In truth, it is time the matter was
settled.'

And now I find myself approaching that most awful
time in a maiden's life, when she decks herself in virgin
white and goes forth to meet her bridegroom ; and, good
reader, pardon me, my heart fails me, my pen well-nigh
drops from my hand. For, woe is me ! I know not how
she was apparelled. Was it silk r satin, cambric or
gauze ? Truly, I cannot say. Whatever it was, it

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213

became her well, as Mrs. Pomfret testified, and she was
no mean judge ; and Captain Guv, who had returned
from the wars, and had not yet fulfilled the destiny fore-
told for him by Jack Pownal, swore with many newly-
acquired oaths that it was a shame t'^.at such a «;irl should
be a parson's wife.

' Hush, hush, Guy ! ' murmured his mother. ' He is
yoiiv brother, which makes all the difference. And I am
well pleased to have such a sweet daughter, though I do
agree with you that she should have been a soldier's
rather than a parson's bride ;' and she glanced at him
with a look which he well understood, and which drew
from him more scowls and muttered imprecations.

The war had not improved his temper, his mother
thought. He had been cut off from female society, and
had grown more rough than she had ever fancied possible
to him. Did others notice the change as much as she?
Certainly, his grandmother looked coldly on him, and
even that rough-mannered Amyot now dared treat him
with small respect.

Looking round on the company grouped around the
altar — for these remarks had been exchanged during the
marriage ceremony — Mrs. Pomfret said to herself that
surely Guy's was the handsomest face and figure there.
His elder brother's was a fine face, but so grave, almost
sad ; Amyot's dark eyes and heavy brow were apt to
wear a sullen look, unless lighted up by keen interest
or amusement, while Guy's face was ever expressive of his
merry temper, except when, as on this occasion, some
vexation had banished the smiles. And this vexation,
what was it ? What did he mean by the muttered
exclamation, ' Arnold always said he should never marry
— a parson should not have a wife.'

But little recked the newly-wedded pair of the angry
face that watched their bridal. The sun shone down on
them, roses strewed their path from the church porch, and

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Amyot B rough.

kind smiles greeted them. Old people gazed at the bride's
shy, but happy face, and prayed ' (xod bless the sweet child.'
vStrong men looked at the parson, whose arm had often
interposed to stop a deed of cruelty, but whose lips had as
often spoken words of kindness and sympathy, and hoped
that ' a long life would be his, a cheery home, and boys
and girls to tread in his steps.' The children shouted,
and hoped that more ladies would be married very soon,
since feasts and comfits and holidays were the consequence.
And what Guy thought was of little matter.

' Dear grandmother, how can I thank you ?' said the
young bride, as the old lady folded her in her arms when
the moment of parting came. She had been her lively,
bantering self until that minute, but at last her composure
threatened to give way, and her lip trembled. ' It has
been such a happy home ; and, oh ! it is hard to go.'

Something like a sob escaped Mrs. Darley ; then she
raised her head, and turning to the bridegroom said :

' There, take her and use her well. 1 like not scenes,
and the child is overwrought, so we will not make gloomy
farewells. See, the dog is like to break his heart,' for
Tory, decorated with blue bows for the wedding, was
watching his young mistress, as she took her leave of her
home and fn'ends, with evident sympathy, expressed in
low whines and doggish remarks.

' Why, Tory,' said Joan, as Amyot took her hand to
lead her to the chaise, ' how foolish of you ! We are not
going to part — I told you so long ago. He is going with
us, brother, my husband has consented,' and as the new
title passed her lips, she turned with glowing face to
Arnold, who replied with earnestness :

' Yes, indeed ; my wife's old friend cannot be left
behind.'

' She is forced to leave many old friends — myself among
the number,' Amyot replied ruefully. ' We bear you a
grudge, cousin. What did you say, sweet sister } I am

2 I

to drop thai title? Well, in due lime jjerhaps at the
present inonient 1 tee! more bitter towards liiiii than I
can well express. Come, parson, lake your seat and be
gone, ere I cry " To the rescue," and this morning's work
be all undone.'

And thus Joan dej)arted, amid smiles and tears, and the
company consoled themseUes as friends are wont to do on
such dismal occasions.

Mrs. Darley was the first to recover her cheerfulness, and
as was her habit, relieved her feelings by rallying those
around her.

' Amyot, thou makest a mighty lamentation about
what concerns thee but little. vSeeing thou art bent
about wars — which, I thank God, for the most part the
English are wont to carry on in other folks' lands — it
cannot much matter to thee in what quarter of this small
island thy sister dwelleth. Captain Cniy Pomfret, when I
invited you to my grand-daughter's wedding, I fondly
imagined that you would bring a cheerful countenance to
grace the occasion — but behold, a face of gloom and ill-
humour, the like I am not wont to tolerate in my house.
I pray you find some physic for your woes, whatever they
may be, lest my guests imagine that you envy your
brother his winsome bride, and see in you another Cain.
My daughter Pomfret, what ails your son, that he should
thus spoil our feast ? In former days we called him
" the merry captain." Sure he is much changed for the
worse.'

' The climate of Holland, madam, I am told, is not
favourable to the spirits,' Mrs. Pomfret replied ; while
her husband, eyeing his younger son with little favour,
observed :

' Years, madam, bring experience of varied kinds ; my
son's has not been of a cheerful nature. My nephew, I
rejoice to hear from his superiors, has found his true
vocation in the army.'

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'Ay, ay,' said the old lady; 'tho^c wlio arc born to
fi^IU, should jj;o uIktc fi<;htinj; is the ta^hion. 'riierc is
^•ood sense in tiiat, and my old IVienil Mar>hal Sa\e has
taught my youn,n Hriton a lesson ol humility. It is very
well, Amyot. 'i'here is an old saying' written in a certain
Hook which ever speaks the truth: " He lore honour is
humililN'," therelore be ^lad that thou hast had a lesson
set thee which may perchance lead on to that which will
better suit thy likino. 1 would I hail an excuse to write
to Marshal vSa.xe, then would 1 let him know what ^ood
service he has done us. iUil he has loni; lor^otton me,
anil it is not an acquaintance ol which I am altojj^ether
proud. W^hat — <;ranilson .Amyot ! hast not forgot thy old
trick ol blushinfT ? — six feet anil some inches hi;;h, and thou
blushest like tliy sister !'

From the above conversation, it will have been dis-
covered that thus far in his military career our hero had
acquitted himself to the satisfaction of his commanding
ofl'icer, and had by so doing reinstated himself in the
favour of his imcle and grandmother ; but lie was not
altogether convinced in his own mind that he had found
his right jilace in choosing the army for his profession.

'As long as there is any war stirring, I shall like it well
enough,' he remarked to his friend Jack Pownal, as they
sauntered with no definite object in view along the
Strand, soon after their return from the Continent ; ' but
if wc are quartered long near London, with nothing but
drill and exercises to do and think of, it will l , dull work
at the best.'

'Never contented!' Jack exclaimed. 'In Flanders it
was always tin; same — why could we not fight, take
towns, do something, perform some great action ? You
are a most uneasy person, good vVmyot, but I have always
a response for you : find occupation for yourself, learn
French, study mathematics ; then, when we have a town
to take, you will know something about it.'

217

Hut Ainyot shruj^pcd his .shoulders.

' I am too oUl to ^o to school in that fa>hioii, hut
all the satni', I want occujiation ; thi> is an idle lilc, at
the hest.'

' Well, fit) baek anil be a farmer then — plough the
fields, put in the seed, ami then put the hand.> in the
pockets, and wait for the things to ^mow ; lameiU one ilay
because it will not rain, wrin^' the hands tiie next because
it pours ilowii cats and dojjjs. (Jo to the market and try
to cheat your brother farmers, come home and cry
out how abominably you ha\e ben cheated your own
self; there is a life for you, how full of oceujiation, of
excitement ! No, my frienil ; if you want em|)loyment,
you must open wide your eyes and look for it ; you are
not still a child, with schoolmasters to set you your tasks,
but an unlucky younj; man with enough of money tt) be
idle if you will, and since you are not obligated to work to
earn your life, you cry out and lament that there is
nothing for you to do. There is yt)ur hard case — it is
that you have .some money.'

' If you knew how the old lawyer ^rund^les when I
want some, you would not talk much about my money ;
but. Jack, stay a minute — I have had a glimpse of a face
that reminds me of an oUl friend, and I would wait in
hopes of seeing" it again.'

They had turned into Drury Lane, and Amyot's eyes,
ever on the look-out for something new, had been ex-
amining certain old hou.ses on the opposite side of the
street.

' Your friend, if it be your friend, would live as near the
stars as possible,' Jack remarked, as he saw that his com-
panion's look was fixed on the topmost story ; but Amyot
had not heard him ; with a sudden stride lie crossed the
street, and the next minute was making eager inquiries at
the door of the house. Jack was evidently quite forgotten,
and accordingly he waited but to see that his friend had

,M,

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IN DRUKY LANE.

-:!ij|

A my of Broito/i.

219

gained admittance, and turning about, went in quest of
other friends or other employment.

It was evening before they met again, and then, with
very little difficulty. Jack drew from his truant companion
a full account of what had passed in the interval. At
first he had assumed an air of reserve and mystery, but
this Jack soon dispelled by his jokes and raillery, and
then, with his usual impetuosity, Amyot broke forth :

' Jack, I'm in a bad way.'

' That's no new thing. What is it now ? What has
arrived ? Has the famous captain caught you again ?
Had I in the least suspected that it was his physiognomy
that so moved you, j. would have strangled you before
I would have permitted you to enter his den ; but he is
altogether like to a spider — one is cau,2^ht before one
knows as he is near.'

' But one has not been caught this time.'

' Not at all ? — then am I very glad, altogether content ;
whatsoe\'er misadventure has arrixed to you, if that
captain is not in it, I will deliver you, you will see.'

' Jack, you cannot. I am done for, for ever and for
ever.'

' Nay, but tell me, are you to be hanged so soon ? I
always said it must arrive some day, but so soon ! — truly,
it is a pity ! '

'A great pity, but hanging is not my fate — at least,
not yet.'

' Then what for do you make such a commotion ? Tell
me ! I swear I will deliver you ! — you do not know all
that I can do.

' This much I do know, that you cannot deliver me
now, for I won't be delivered ; so now. Jack, to my tale.'

Yes, to the narration ; but I am not quite certain yet
that I will not deliver you, whether you like it or no —
ccia depend^ inon chcr^

' Yes, and it may depend. Rut listen : when I rushed

til

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hnyot Jyrono/i.

away from you, aiul addressed myself to that stout
old woman who stood in the doorway — you saw her,
Jack, did you not ? — I asked her wliether a Mrs.
Kirkbride lodp;ed with her. Now, my boy, are you not
surprised ? '

' Your old friend from Penrith, the loss of whom, and a
certain charminn; child you have often bewailed to me ?
Yes, I sec. Well, what said she? '

' That a Mrs. Kirk lodged in her top story. That was

igh for

T said I becjred to be admitted, was an

cnouj,

old friend, etc., whereupon she said, *' Youncf sir, you
speak untruths most boldly. Okl you are not, and as for
friends, Mrs. Kirk has none." Whereupon I begged to
be allowed to correct myself, and explained that it was
three years since I had seen the lady, but that her friend
I was, and no mistake. She looked at me somewhat sus-
piciously, but she bade me follow her, and up we wciit.
Jack, I have been wont to think that the farther we
mount from the earth, the nearer we are to all things
light and cheerful ; but the staircase we ascended led us
into many dark places, and finally into a little room most
singularly dark and dreary.'

' And had you no hindrances to surmount, no explana-
tiot.s to offer, ere you were admitted ? '

' None. I followed so closely on my guide's footsteps
that I entered the room almost as soon as she. You will
tell me that such a proceeding was ill-mannered, and I
question it not ; but, to tell the truth, I was much afraid
that my old friend would not admit me, if, as I much sus-
pected, she was in hiding. I heard some movement, and
a low voice say, " We see no visitors ; " but I was before
them, and they could not tu^'n me out.'

' Them ! You spoke of an old lady. But perhaps the
child, your old playfellow, was there too.'

* Jack, I will knock you down. The child, forsooth I
Say, rather, the most lovely maiden that ever saw the

Aniyot Broiio/i.

2 2 1

liffht. It was licr face and form T Well, M'hat ails

thee, Jack ? '

' I will deliver you ! I will deliver vou ! Truly, this
is worse than the captain ; but I will find a way out of
it ; ' and Jack strode up and down the small .chamber,
stoppin<T at each turn to shake his fist in Amyot's face
and reiterate, ' T will deliver you ! Better be hanged than
in love at nineteen. It is ruin and destruction. But I
will not permit it ; it shall never be ! '

Amyot gazed at his friend's excited face in bewilder-
ment. Then, seeing he was much in earnest, he laughed
uneasily, and said :

' Well, Jack, to proceed. But have you heard
enough ? '

' Na}', tell me all ; then shall I best know how to
mancEuvre.'

He sat down and eyed Amyot steridy, and the latter
went on :

' Mrs. Kirkbride is sorely changed : thin and old and
wrinkled — almost heart-broken, I should say — and her
sorrows ha\e made her bitter ; and Primrose — sweet
angel ! — must have a hard time with her. I tried to draw
from them the tale of their life since I left them, so long
ago, on the Appleby road ; but Mrs. Kirkbride coldly
said there was nought to tell, and Primrose, while she
looked as if to her there was much, dared not contradict
her. Then I inquired after the three brother^, and heard
— what think you. Jack ? — that the eldest, Lance, of
whom I have often spoken to you, had escaped to
France, and is now servii^g in the French army ; that he
fought at Laffeldt. Think of that ! My old schoolfellow
in the enemy's ranks. How little I ever dreamed of such
a thing ! Primrose uttered a little cry when she heard
that I was in that battle ; but the old lady said, " Ay, to
be sure, what else could be expected ? " The second son
has gone to India, and they have heard nought of him

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222

A »iyot Ih'oiigh.

ii '.

I' i.

for a long while, and the youngest they know nothing
about at all.'

' A fine brood of young vipers ! And you think to
renew your friendship with such people ? What are
they doing in London, I pray?'

' That 1 did not ask ; but both the old lady and the
young one were doing some marvellous fine needlework,
such as they would never wear in that place ; and when
I ventured to ask Primrose about their means of sub-
sistence, she said, colouring, that they were something
straightened, but that their wants were few, and they
had enough. I verily believe that she scarce spake the
truth in so saying. But, Jack, tear your hair as you
will, rage and storm at me to your heart's content,
it avails nothing. One thing have 1 sworn to myself,
and that is, that Primrose, and none but she, shall be
my wife.'

' And yet, if I do not much deceive mygelf, when you
told me the child's story long ago, you made me to
comprehend that she was the destined bride of that
young traitor. Lance. How will you make these two
plans conform themselves ? '

' Lance is a traitor ; he shall never wed Primrose.'

' And she, too, is a rebel ; and so I say you, Amyot
Brough, shall never wed her.'

' Jack, we shall quarrel yet.'

* No, we shall not quarrel. I quarrel with no man
except my country's foes ; nor is there need of us to talk
more about it. I do not have the pleasure of the young
lady's acquaintance, and therefore I do not say she is not
fit for you ; but I know that you shall not marry for a long
time yet. You are ruined if yf^u do, and so I say it must
not be. What good is a soldier who is married ? You
must wait, my boy, you must wait ; and in the meantime
these two young rebels will marry themsei v.s, and will
quarrel like the most part of married people do ; and when

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Amyot B rough.

223

you are a general you may begin to look round you for a
wife, but not till then.'

* Thanks for your advice, Jack ; but as we are not to
quarrel we will say no more about it.'

And the two friends parted to go to their several
quarters, feeling more out of humour with each other than
they had ever done during the whole course of their
friendship, Amyot remarking to himself, ' I will not pro-
voke him by talking about Primrose ; but now I have
found her out, I shall not care so much about having
nothing on earth to do ;' and Jack reproached himself
for having lost his temper, saying, ' Yes, but he shall talk
about it ; it will be better for him ; and if I hear all, I
shall better know how to manage him.'

^;ll.

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III!

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CHAPTER XVIII.

OF A CKRTAIN' HOUSK IN DKITRV LANE.

1^.'

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Amvot had told his friend that the room where he had
seen Mrs. Kirkbride and Primrose was a very dismal one.
Coming in suddenly from t!ie full sunlight outside, it
might certainly seem so, but Mrs. Kirkbride was apt to say
that she found it far too light. ' Her spirit dwelt in darkness,'
she would say, ' and the sunshine was hateful to her eyes.'
And if ever the sun showed a disposition to send his
reviving, life-giving rays fully into the interior of the
room, she would pull the old curtain over it, and essay to
shut out every glimmer of brightness.

But there were certain short intervals when the sun
was permitted to light up every corner of that dark
abode — when he was courted and entreated to enter in,
the little casement being thrown wide open, and the
curtain drawn closely back. At such times Primrose had
the room to herself ; Mrs. Kirkbride was abroad, making
their few purchases for the day's provision, and loitering
about wherever news might be picked up, in her ever
hungry desire to gather some tidings of her absent ones.

These brief intervals in the monotony of their day
were amazingly enjoyable to both. Primrose would
dance about their small chamber, sweeping and dusting,
stopping ever and anon to peep forth into the fresh air and
take in full draughts of wind or sunshine —ofttimes sing-
insf at her work with as bird-like a voice as when she had
watched the fairies on the Beacon Hill, or sat and nursed
her doll under the old cedar in the garden at home.

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Amyot B rough.

225

Did she think much of those days? No ; true to her
principle of making believe that life was always bright,
she had shrunk from looking back much, until Amyot's
unexpected visit had revived the old memories, and set
her unconsciously singing the old songs of her childish
days ; and then — must it be confessed ? — Primrose's
bright eyes would swim in tears, and the song would die
away in a low sob.

Did she therefore wish that this visit, which had proved
such a marvellous break in their dull lives, had never
occurred, or did she endeavour to discourage her old play-
fellow when he reappeared again and again, until the
stern landlady ceased to question him as he passed up
and down the narrow stairs, perhaps thinking it no
business of hers, or, more likely, considering that ' miss '
liad found an admirer in the tall young officer, who
always inquired so politely if Mrs. Kirk was within ?

But it was not long before Amyot discovered that there
was a specially convenient hour for these visits, for he, too,
liked the sunshine, and was happiest in that room when
the window was open, and the sounds could be heard from
the street below. I'here were many advantages to be
derived from thus timing his calls, which almost com-
pensated him for the disappointment of not seeing Mrs.
Kirkbride. The landlady, too, was often absent at that
hour, the sole guardian of the house being her deaf old
husband, who, if he asked questions, seldom heard the
answers. Primrose, too, was more at leisure, being more
free to converse when moving lightly about at her house-
hold labours, than when seated at the fine embroidery
which often seemed to engross her thoughts as well as her
fingers ; she could also speak more freely in her mother's
absence ; and for these reasons, among others, Amyot,
w^ho was much set on pleasing himself at this particular
period of his history, continued to choose these morning
hours for his visits, quite undisturbed by any remarks

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Amyot Broitgh
Pownal migh

which Lieutenant Pownal might volunteer on the subject.
What did it signify that his friend should growl and
grumble, so long as Primrose smiled to see him ?

But there came 2 day when the old man, seated in the
doorway, attempted to interfere with his pleasure.

' The old lady be gone out, and the young miss is much
engaged, and she bade me say she could not see you.
Nay, young sir, it is true ! I make 710 mistake,' he added,
as Amyot, muttering it was all a mistake, was endea-
vouring to pass him.

' Then go upstairs, and say I will not detain her for a
minute, but I must see her to-day. Go, I say.'

' It will be of no use,' the old man answered, but he
went, Amyot, as at his first visit, following close
upon his heels, and entering the rooom before the old
man knew he was there.

Primrose stood still, startled at sight of him, a
cloth in her hand, with which she had been wiping the
cups they had been using at their breakfast, a look on her
face half of pleasure and half of alarm, as she faltered
forth :

* I bade him say I would not see you.'

' And I did say so ; but these young blades will have
no guide but their own will.' And the old man stumped
down the steep stairs again, grumbling as he went.

' What did he mean, Miss Primrose ? Why did you
deny yourself to me ? What has happened since
yesterday, that you should refuse to see me ?'

' I do not know whether I should answer that question.
I know little of London fashions, but I think it is not
strange that I should sometimes find it inconvenient to
show myself to guests so early in the day. I beg you,
Lieutenant Brough, to accept this excuse, and if you find
any occasion to visit us, let it be later in the day.'

' But why ?' persisted Amyot. ' Later in the day you
are always closely occupied ; now you are more at leisure

Amyot B rough.'

227

to talk with me. Tell me, Primrose, is it not because
your mother wills it, that you ask me thus to come when
she will be at home ?'

* You are curious, sir. Well, and if it be true that my
mother desires your company, can you find anything to
displease you in that ?'

' I should find much to flatter my conceit,' Amyot
replied ; ' yet it seemed to me that when I called and she
was within, my coming only vexed her.'

Primrose's lips parted as if to reply, but she checked
herself, and turned with redoubled energy to her cups
and plates. At last she looked up with something very
like distress on her face, and said :

' For old friendship's sake. Lieutenant Brough, humour
me this once and ask no questions, but do not come here
at this hour. And leave me now before my mother
returns — she has enough to vex her, poor thing !'

' And I would be the last to cause her vexation,' Amyot
replied warmly ; ' yet, seeing that we were playfellows as
children, it seems unreasonable to set such limits to our
meeting with each other. Yes, I will go. Primrose, in
one minute,' for the young girl made a gesture of
impatience ; * but just tell me this : is my coming here a
trouble to you, and does it vex your mother ?'

* Everything is a trouble to her, yet I would not have
you concern yourself for that, since it does her good in
spite of herself to see new faces, and hear some more lively
talk than mine ; but you must not bring us any more
gifts of fruit or flowers — that is what she will not brook —
fancying that you take notice of our poverty, and pity us.'

' And for yourself. Primrose — nay, do not snatch your
hand away — is my coming here unpleasing to you ?'

* I have already told you, sir, that it is most unpleasant
to me to see you at this untimely hour, when the room is
in disorder, and I am busy ; for the rest, when my mother
is at home you will be kindly welcome.'

'III

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Amyot Broiigh.

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' And that is all you will say ?'

' All ! what more would you have ? Do you look for
me to bcjT aiid pray you not to desert us, never to forget
us? Truly, I think that we are likely to do you so little
good that you had better to forget us. But must I again
be so uncourteous as to beg you to go ?'

' No ; but this one thing I must say. There is a report
that my regiment will shortly be ordered to vScotland ; I
do not know whether it is true, but if I should not be able
to come again, you will not think — '

' I will think no harm of you, rest satisfied of that ; you
have been a good friend to us, Amyot Rrough, and but —
good-bye, you are going.'

And Amyot found himself, much against his will,
descending the steep stairs just as Mrs. Kirkbride appeared
at the bottom. She stepped back on seeing him, and
scarcely noticing his courteous greeting, followed him to
the door, saying :

' I wish for a word with you, Amyot Brough ; we will
walk a few steps together. Nay, do not interrupt me — I
know what you would say. Primrose has given you my
message ; you meant no harm — of course not — but young
men are thoughtless, and, I fear, selfish. I think too well
of you to deem you guilty of anything worse than
thoughtlessness. What were you saying — nay, let me
not hear that : you are but a boy, and she is the betrothed
of my son Lance.'

' But, madam '

' Nay, I must go no farther ; but you will know best
whether you should come to visit us again. You are a
gentleman, Amyot Brough, and will take no mean
advantage, though my son is a rebel.'

She turned, and hurried feebly back to the house, while
Amyot walked on and on, turning over in his mind her
last words, and asking himself how much they meant.
More than once he stopped, half resolved to go back, ask

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229

to see the slern old lady apjain, and ascertain whether
anythinjr beyond the childish talk of olden days had
passed bet wee 1 Lance and the younj; j^irl ; then again he
checked himself, feelinj;" by no means certain that he
should get anything like a definite answer to such a
question, and nmch preferring not to have his newly-born
hopes entirely dashed to the ground.

' You are but a boy,' Mrs. Kirkbride had said, and
Amyot could not quite forgive her f(jr those words. Lance,
he knew, was several years his senior, and Amyot dreaded
to have this, his rival's undeniably stronger qualification
for matrimony, brought up, and, as it were, flung in
his teeth.

It was in a very unsettled and dissatisfied mood that he
returned to the barracks, to be greeted by the news that
the 20th was ordered to Scotland, and would depart
almost immediately. He fancied he could discover a look
of triumph in Jack Pownal's eyes, as they discussed the
coming change at the mess-table. Jack, who had some
mysterious device for getting into everyone's secrets, must
surely have discovered his state of miserable uncertainty,
and be rejoicing that he should be extricated from the
awkward position in which he found himself. To Amyot,
this move of the regiment seemed the knell of all his
hopes, for in spite of Mrs. Kirkbride's reminder that as a
gentleman he would certainly take no mean advantage of
Lance's absence, he had been consoling himself with the
notion that during this long absence of her affianced
husband, Primrose might transfer her affections, if indeed
they had ever been given, to another and more worthy
object — that other, need we say ? being himself.

While, therefore, he sat in gloomy silence, listening to
the lively talk at the mess-tabl , many wild plans were
passing through his brain. At one moment he was half
resolved to ignore all his promises, see Primrose again
the next morning, and discover for himself whether she

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Atfivoi Ihouph

could ever love him, and for his sake refuse to hold herself
pled^eil to Lance. To Ainyot's mind it was of course
jK'rfectiy clear that nothini; heyoiul a brother and sister's
afleetion cimUiI exist hetwivn these two, so lon^ se|iarated.
At another moment such a plan was discarded as the
height of folly and madness. I'rinnose had certainly at
present no notion of his feelinj;s tcnvards her. She would
be startled and horrified at such a sudden revelation, and
his cause would be lost. Then another iilea occurred : he
would sell out, abandon his profession, linger near her,
ami by slow degrees win her to listen to his suit, and then
together they would all seek a home in Jack Pownal's
native country, that boundless land of which he so often
spoke, where all the troidiles of the Kirkbrides would
be forgotten, and even Mrs. Kirkbride would begin life
afresh.

How much of these conflicting emotions and distracting
thoughts might be read in his face, Amyot cared not to
consider ; but when the party dispersed, ami he found
his arm taken by Jack Pownal, with the remark, 'Come
for a stroll by the river before \f grows dark,' he began to
wonder whether the latter had any idea of what he had
been thinking about.

During tlie last few weeks — nay, I should rather say
months, for I forget how time speeds away— some
restraint had existed between these two attached friends.
They had lounged about the streets together, together
they had frequented theatres and other public resorts,
they had spent hours in each other's companv, but both
were conscious of a barrier to the free and open con-
fidence which hitherto had existed between them. ' 'Tis
all his mad fancy,' thought Jack, and ' 'Tis all his obstinate
prejudice,' said Amyot to himself ; and thus the silence
and estrangement had gone on and grown deejier.

But there was something of the old aflfectionate ring
in Jack's voice as he uttered thi? invitation, and Amyot^

/Itfiyot Ih'ouQ/i.

231

very sore at heart and ^lootny in spirit, warmed towards
him as of old. Tlic two sauntered alonj.^ by tlie river-
side, watchin;^^ the sunset over tlie water, aiul anuisinj^
themselves witii tlie talk amon^ the watermen, who were
counting their K'l'"^) •^"'1 ^rumblin}.; like true Kn^lishmen
over the badness of the limes and the number of idle
soldiers which this j)eace lately made at Aix-la-Chaj)elle
would turn loose on the country.

'True enouj^h that,' Jack remarked ; 'and idle sokliers
arc vi-rilable devils, as they say. These fellows have a
plenty of j^ood sense.'

' I've half a mind to flinj; scddierin^ to the winds,'
Amyot replied in a moody tone ; which remark brought
Jack to a standstill.

Whirling round sudileidy, he faced his friend with the
question :

' And why, I pray you ? '

' Oh, that is not so easy to say. But if soldiers are
such devils as you say, had one not better quit their
comoany ? '

' That may depend ipon many things. Suppose you
are a devil too, then they are best compatiy for you.
Sujipose you are angel, you may make an effort to reclaim
them. Sujiposc you middling good fellow, there is no
reason why you should not rest good fellow to the end of
the chapter.'

' Nay, I think there are plenty of reasons why [ should
not, whatever you may do. But never mind that. 1 tell
you, Jack, this move North is not at all to my taste.
Scotland is a vile place — dulness and dreariness beyond
description, so I have heard. I hate the idea of being
quartered there — for years perhaps.'

' Do you ? Well, having much envy to see all I can
see, I am quite content to go to Scotland ; but if not, I
should say to myself, " Jack, you are under orders to go,
and go you must." Therefore, even if it is necessary to sit

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232

Amyot B rough.

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on the summit of an iceberg, or, worse still, to put myself
to bed ill a swamp — even if I must regale niyselv with
nothing better than black bread, or pass my time among
naked savages, I will still say, " Jack, you are a soldier.
Go wherever one sends you. Make no grumble, like the
most part of the English ; it is their most villain defect." '

Amyot laughed.

' Well, you are scarcely likely to find icebergs or naked
savages in Scotland, Jack. The two things will hardly
go together. But men may be savages without being
naked, and the manntns over the Border are brutal
enough, I verily believe.'

* They have an ugly habitude of wearing petticoats, one
has told me. Never mind, I like to study the customs of
nations.'

' That's a custom you will come too late to study. The
Duke set himself to care them of that trick after the
rebellion. Now they are punished if they dress them-
sches in kilts. He thought it made rroels of them. I
don't see why, but he had his reasons, no doubt.'

' Well, iCimportc! I shall find some diversion, without
doubt. But you, Amyot, you come from the North —
almost from Scotland. I astonish myself that you are
not full of joy at returning thither.'

' I have gruwn used to London, and like it".'

Jack looked hard at him

'And yet when you came into the barrack-yard this
morning, before one had told you about thib march to
the Norih, you had an air the most desolate in the
world. One would have said that you found London the
most gloomy city in the universe.'

' I suppose I may be vexed sometimes without disliking
London on that account ? '

' And why were you vexed ? Tell me what had
arrived. Come, I know whither you walk every morning,
and wherefore you go so early ; and I tell you frankly I

Amyot B rough.

233

do not admire you for it, Amyot. Nevertheless, I woidd
know what has arrived. Has the old ^ady returned
suddenly and put her nails into your face, as arrived once
to a friend of mine ? '

'Indeed, no ; nothing of the kind.'

'Truly? Did she take the broom and sweep you down
the stairs, and tell you to absent yourself fo. ever and for
always ? '

' The old lady was quite civil to me.'

' But she returned. Ila ! I know she returned. And
she said, " Mr. Lieutenant, if you have anything to say to
my daughter, say it in my presence ; " or perhaps worse,
" don't say it at all." Ha ! I have guessed right. I read
it in your face ! '

' Jack, you are a plague.'

' Only a plague ? Ah, tlien, I congratulate you, I
tear open ycmr wounds with a merciless hand ; but you
neither break my head nor burst forth into oaths and
curses. You will recover, my boy — you will recover.'

' Recover from what? '

' From your senseless passion for this beauty who
belongs to another. Amyot, listen to me : to fall in love
at nineteen is bad — very bad ; for a soldier, it is mad —
quite mad ; and therefore you must cure yourself, so am
I truly glad that the mother returned.'

' But if I say I will not cure myself ? '

' Then do I say still you must ; but the circumstances
will cure you, you will see. We go to Scotland ; you
will not see your beauty for months, her betrothed will
return, and all will go well. But I am sorry for you,
Amyot. You are an unlucky dog — always in the
miseries ! '

' But what if I don't go to Scotland ? '

' Ah ! there you have no choice. You are your King's,
must do his orders : and they are very lucky orders for
you, as I believe.'

V \

Hi'

III!

1:::!

t i

234

\it)yot IhoNo/i.

%^.

13^

!• * '

' Hill il I givo I']- soIdiiM int; ? '

' TluMi .issuiihIIn' will all y«»ir IriiMuls j;iv<' ywu iij).

Hill \ini t.ilU \\\c nunsmsr. Listen, I will Icll y<>u yonr

st»M\ \(>iir own ami you will lau^li .it \(>in own si'll.

W'luMi I iit>t know yon, tlu-io i^ now two \rats or more,

\ou We'll' mail to obtain a loiniiiissior ; not liiiig flso would

.M"r\i' \'ou li.ulit you wouM, aiul lij^Iil v<>n must. IVuly,

I lia\r iii'MM M'cn muIi a ia,i;i" lot anytliini; as 1 Ih'Iu'UI in

\oii. Will, hrliold, you lia\i' your di'siii' brliold you

an ollirrr in llis Maji'stx's ,'oth Ki\L»iiiirnt ; \'ou arc

i]uitr riulianti'd, .ill t;<u's wril tlirrc is liglitini; to do.

Moiisii'iii tlio l.ioutoiiant uocs to tlio wars; truly llis

(toniMals .11 1> not \im \- disiii-rl, llir\- do not win so many

b.ittlrs .is 111- thinks tlu'\- oui;lit - it is <.'\ rn said tlir\' lose

• Ml',' .ind .lie drlr.ilrd rntiirK' ; but about tliat uioiisii'iir is

not yrr\ suro ; ho doi's not i|uito bolioxo th.it an .iriny

in whii' i'o tous;ht oould bo bo.it on ; but ///////")/ A/ —

iho w .11 is ooiuploto : |hmio is m.ido a yoi\- sill\' poaoo.

Hut wb.kt will \o\\ b.i\o ? (lonor.ils and Kings arc

n.itui.i!lv sill\- it is tMiI\- lioutonants who aro w iso, aiul

nobody would tako our lioutiMi.ml's ad\ioo. Hohold him,

thorolmo. .ig.iin in London no ligbtini; to do. W'lial

inisoiN" I Truly ho might ijuarn-l with his liii-nds : but

his frionds aro sill\- loo thoy will not iju.uiol. What

lo (\o} Ho will tumblo into loyo- jilimgo himsoll into

it up to his mvk - n.i\-, what *\o \o\\ sa\' ? mor his I'ars

and tbo summit ol his hoad ; ho is quito drownod, soakod,

s.itur.itod with loyo : bo runs tho stroots by tho suuriso to

ga/o at bis mistross ; lo, hor ho is wanting to do his

iluty.l.ito at ]>.u ado, no\or whoro bo ought to lind himself.

His ooloi,i>l soiu'.s tor him, ho o.mnot bo found ; the

otVioors swoar. and tboro is a yoritablo toni]iost ; but,

n'linp'iitc! bo has woll annisod himsolf— his bo.iuty has

smik\l on him. l^ut bohold all oh.ingod : the sun grows

dark, tho st irs aro falling, blaok olonds cm'or tlio sky, a

harmloss old woman btvomos a dragon, and Monsieur the

^ll

Uf/yot a rollick.

235

F,icii(i'ria?it is clias(Ml (i(»?ii the ^ati; o( I'aradisc. A^ain,
'.vli.il Miisci\! lie will ai)aii(l(m all liis piolcssioii, liis
IriiMuls, liis j)i is|)C( Is (il (Ji.liiK t ion and he will ^(» seal
iiiniscll (»n a dodi .icp in lai(- ol a trilain lioiisi" in Drury
Lane, (lie head in llic hands, nntil llir sini doc^ oiuc
nioii- shine, (II I he diaj;<Mi dies. I'diold yom-^cll, Aniyot :
is il not a |)i( I inc u| yon ? '

' Yon an; !' cxtdainicd Aniyot , slru^f^linfj; to repress

a lan/^li.

' Well, what am I ? '

* Yoii are the most plaguy lellow I cvi;r kni;w ! Whal
is the use o| | he.e endless jokes ? '

'Hill, niv ^\v\\\ lellow, yoti diieeivi" yoin:-ell. I am nol
jokinj^. l>iil not at all. it is very solemn and serious
that I am. hoi assuredly the ease is solemn enough.
Mere is my hieii'l, whom I love with all my heart, ready
to d<» llu: ino>l foolish thinj^ that one (an imagine, and lor
what ? I'oi an idea — and the mo:^l ^illy idea in all th«j
world.'

'ThcMe we tliller, Jaek.'

' No, \\v do not (liller. If anyone else fiad conceived
this jnost si'iiseless idea, yon won'ld a^ree with me. See
here, \'on have not the least reason in the world to think
that the yoiin^ lady cares lor you.'

' No ; hut I will make lier care lor me.'

' Hah ! hy di'sc^rtinj; your duty and daiifflin^ ahout her
door. Il she likes you the hetter lor that, she must be a
poor-spirited fj;irl. A prtxious pair you woul.l he.'

'Jack, yon know nothing about the matter : you have
never been in lo\'e.'

^ Dicii mm i f ii'ni. Once, like you, I thought I was
gone, but I staggered on to my legs again, and am none
the worse. Shake yourself, my boy, and ffjllow my good
example.'

' .^\nd go to Scotland ? ' said Amyot with a disriial face.
' Then if she is ill, or in trouble, how shall I know? — she
will never write to me.'

i !

iii

236

Amyot Brous^h,

' Oh I (Iiat's rasilv iii:ina,frcd. A I it lie money, a few soft
words, and the landlady will let v..u know if she is in any
tnnihle. And. who catu say ? we may maivh South as
.suddeidy as we are S()iii,i; North ; and then '

' Knoufvh, Jaek. Til sec them a^ain hefore I decide .
say no more now.'

'As you will ; only let me not leave mv friend sitting
desolate on a doorstep in Drury Lane. I should be too
much ashamed of him.'

II. I

fi'f.

CHAPTER XIX.

ACROSS THK HOKDEK.

'And yet, if I'd known, if I could have divined how ailo-
gcther mad he would go,' lamented Jack I'ownal, ' he
might have stayed in London, turned t?ilor or tinker iov
aught I cared, have made love to the lady of Drury Lane,
and s[)end his days and nights dangling after her, and I'd
have left him to his fate. But who could have guessed
it ? But he is a veritahle fool ; it is imp(jssible to call him
by any other name.'

Thus saying, and making lively demonstrations of
tearing his hair, the kind-hearted fellow stood ruefully
watching his friend as he mingled with a noisy rout of
hard-drink' ng, turbulent spirits, himself the wildest of
them all.

For these were dark days with Amyot. The colder the
climate, the hotter grew his blood, some averred. Certain
it is, he was to be curbed and restrained by none. Jack
Pownal's raillery, which had hitherto often availed to
bring him to his senses, now fell on deaf ears, or, if listened
to, was met oidy by haughty answers and requests to be let
alone. At times, it is true, another mood prevaded :
desperate fits of gloom and self-reproach would seize upon
him, generally succeeded by even wilder bursts of frantic
folly and outrageous licence, and it was in the midst of
one of these that Jack, gazing at him with perfect
amazement, uttered the above lamentation.

And yet, perchance even Jack could not entirely read
the truth. Amyot, as he went swaggering along the

i ■

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238

Amyot D rough.

'' I

lifi

,»

IMI'I.'

Streets of Stirling, his head thrown back, bold reck-
lessness in his gait and bearing, had yet a certain con-
sciousness that men despised him, and with right ; and
that women, if they did not fear him, at least held him in
small esteem. Yes, he might not have all his senses about
him — the whisky at the tavern near the Castle was strong ;
but he had wits enough left to be aware that at a certain
turn in the road there might chance to lie in wait a tall,
rough-tongued, but strong-armed young countryman, who
had a wrong, not his alone, to avenge. It had been easy
work so far to win a young maiden's heart, ..s to rouse
the wrath of her true but rustic lover. It was an old
story, and Amyot could not boast of any great prowess
or originality in the device : it had amused an idle hour in
his life, as in that of many otners, and the notion of
some impending danger from the anger of the offended
swain, had also its charms. Jack Pownal was not far
wrong when he said quarrelling was of all things what
Amyot loved best in the world. Such small excitements
gave a zest to life ; without them, Stirling would be un-
bearable, the army the dullest of professions ! And
with the whisky in his braia, the fiend in his nature
awoke. What hi-d been a thoughtless prank at first, now
gave him a cruel pleasure. He revelled in the thought of
that rough fellow's pain, looked right and left to see if by
chance he was in waiting to complain of his ill-treatment,
and meditated the words of cool disdain by which he
would make him feel the abyss that separated him from a
gentleman, and teach him to account himself honoured in
that he, an officer in His Majesty's army, had deigned to
notice his fair one. ' The clod of a fellow might bluster,
it would but add to the sport : Jack was a fool that he
could see no fun in such pastimes.'

Some such thoughts, not very lucid or brilliant, passed
through Amyot's heated brain as he strode along a back
street in Stirling one autumn evening. He was whistling

! 1

lit

Amyot B rough.

239

or humming a lively ditty, and thought himself in a very
lively mood, but his ideas had a tendency to become
misty, and before long he ceased to look out for the
approach of the injured lover, whose threats had suggested
the possibility of an attack, and whom he fancied he had
a great desire to encounter. He had just fallen in with a
brother officer of kindred spirit, who, like himself, had
come out to while away a tedious evening, and was hungry
for something stirring — a row of some sort, it mattered
little what. They sauntered on, talking in noisy fashion,
blustering and jostliiig the passers-by, who, as it seemed,
had not the manners to yield obsequiously to the military
gentlemen, as they of 'bourse expected. There was some
murmuring, some whispering : " No better than we — ay,
may be a trifle worse, for all their airs. Have at them,
Jock ! What, Sandy, man, haven't ye a hammer all handy
like ! A crack over the head would take the conceit out of
them, and do Lhem a trifle of service ; " and the brave
defenders of their country were beginning to find their
misconduct somewhat roughly copied, when the gather-
ing crowd was suddenly broken in upon, and as it were
driven back by a tall, powerfully-built young smith, who,
elbowing his way towards Amyot, seized him violently
by the collar, and howling forth furious imprecations
and threats, strove, with desperate energy, to fling him
on his back in the mud.

Taken by surprise, and not perfectly sober, even
Amyot's stalward form could scarce stand such a pre-
cipitate onslaught. He staggered, fell against his
companion, who, well content at these symptons of coming
disturbance, only flung him off, and sent him reeling
against a door post, while his assailant, still clinging to his
throat with one hand, dealt furious blows at him with the
other which for a moment almost stunned him and
deprived him of sight and sense. But it was but for
a moment. Rallying his tremendous strength, hs wrenched

iji !

il!

■lis

L jj

'Pi

240

Amyot B rough.

' ». I.

; r 1

himself free, and recovering his firm footin^j, he
grasped the young smith with both hiuids, dragged him a
httle apart from the crowd, and /lung him with all his
force on the pavement at his feet. The young fellow fell
with a frightful crash, and lay still as a stone. The crowd
cried ' shame,' but Amyot, mad with rage, and blind
with passion, ready to meet all who came, was by no
means inclined to listen to his comi)anion's whispered
hint that the r^'ible, if they wished to fight, had best have
the field to themselves. ' Rabble or not, they should lay
nf) hands on him,' he shouted ; and the other's entreaty,
* Nay, but, Brough,' fell on utterly unattending ears.'

The early evening had closed in by this fnie, the dirty
street had become dark — it was but dimly lighted here
and there bv liickering oil luntcrns, which cast an
uncertain and sickl}' light on the angry, poverty-stricken
crowd in tha unsavoury district — men fresh froui rheir
work, hungr>: and discontented, for tijnes were hard ;
womeii with dishev/elled hair ; children \ "th rags m j)Iace
of clothes, all pinched with want, and ready enough to
rise up against one better dressed and better Sc^\ than
themselves. And from the midst of them came a low,
wailing cry, as from a low hovel of a cottage crept forth
a feeble old man, bent with age, groping his way with
bo'^h hands and piteously calling for " Jamie, my son, my
son ;" while at the doorway stood a poor woman, scarcely
less infirm, vainly seeking by the flickering light of
a candle to discover what was passing in the road outside.
It was from this house that the young smith had rushed
to wreak his revenge on the young ofTicer, and at the
tumult that succeeded, the fears of the poor old couple had
been excited, md they had crawled out to find their
son.

* Come away,' urged Amyot's compa'iion as tli-' crowd
drew back to let the old man pa. s, crying, ' Kh, Robin,
have a look at him ; there stands the wretch who

A?fiyof Jh'ouj^/i.

241

killed him — your one son, and all yc liavc to look to in
your old a^c'

' Conic away, or it will be the worse lor you,' j)ersisted
the oflicer ; ' they're busy with the old man now ; in a
minute they'll be at you again. Nay, Brough, I tind no
fault with you: the fellow attaeked you first; but these
low rows are apt to be troublesome. And sec who comes
here — two of our fellows, if I mistake not. Whew ! it is
plaouey dark, but 1 swear it's the new major, l^rough, I
say, let's get out of this.' And as Amyot stood unmoved
while the crowd surged around him, he contrived U) push
his way through the midst of it, and regaining the more
open thoroughfare, slij)ped away, having had his fill of
excitement for that time at least.

Meanwhile two ollicers on horseback were endeavouring
to make their way along the blocked-up street. It was not
easy : the horse of one became restive, frightened by the
dim and uncertain gleams of light: it reared and plunged and
dashed among the crowd, and was with difficulty subdued
by its rider, while the other, drawing rein where the crowd
was thickest, just beside the prostrate form of the young
smith, over which the old man was bending in grief too
deep for words, asked in quick, eager tones what had
happened. There was no lack of response, the bystanders
being one and all anxious to tell the tale; and while they
vied with each other in their zeal to give the gentleman
the information he requested, undercover of the confusion,
and screened by the compassionate darkness, Amyot found
it convenient to make his escape. He wis not pursued,
reached his quarters safely, and meeting his com-
panion, who had also returned, was congratulated by
him on his good luck.

' I thought verily they'd have hung you to the nearest
lamp-post in their rage,' he said. ' Did the major spy
you out V '

' Not he,' was Amyot's reply ; carelessly given, then

Ifj; f
''X* ' '

I ".Si

w
■A:

242

Amyot B rough.

»'

It;;'

siuklcnly betliinkin^ himself, lie asked, * Did you say it
was the new man? they were expecting him to-day. Have
you heard who it is?'

' Major James Wolfe,' answered the other; ' and there
are tales' — he shrugged his shoulders — 'which sound not
altonether j)leasant for such as you and I.'

' Major Wolfe ! ' said Amyot, a sudden animation in his
tone, which made his friend ask, ' What, do you know
aujrht of him? They say he is little known in these parts —
a strantjjer, in fact, to most of us.'

' r knew liim in Flanders — yes, and before that,' Amyot
replied, and then he turned away, and in very sober
fashion went to his room. A sudden desire to be alone,
not very usual with him, had all at once seized upon him,
but he was not to be gratified, for seated in his chair,
entirely at his ease, as was his wont, was Jack PowMial.

He sprang up as Amyot entered, exclaiming, 'Have
you heard the news ? Wolfe's here ! ' Then as Amyot
nodded, but without echoing his tone of gladness, he
exclaimed, ' What, does not that content you ? Rut it is
altogether most lucky. What will you ? There is no
contenting your savage temper.'

' Hold your tongue, Jack ! I'm in no mood for your
foolery. Major Wolfe and I are scarce likely to be
friends.'

' That depends,' said Jack, seriously. ' Yes, that depends
on a few little things — bagatelles — but not altogether of
no consequence. Well, we shall see; ' and finding his
presence not altogether welcome, he went off whistling.

And Amyot sat down and thought. Yes, it was not
his habit to indulge in much reflection at this period
of his career, but for a few miiuites he thought, soberly,
regretfully, almost bitterly, cf the past.

A few days passed away, and the scuffle in the town
had been discussed and almost forgotten, Amyot and his
companion having maintained a discreet silence, the

Affiyot Brouo/t.

243
and

yoiiiif^ townsman having, il was said, recovered,
Major Wolfe not earing; to make strict invest it;alio!i con-
cerning; disorderly conduct at tlie very moment of his
arri\'al, and i)ossibly perplexed by the accoiuits I'.e had
heard. 'I'he dull round of t^arrison duly continu' 'tl with
little variation. Amyot and many others <j;rumbled at
some symptoms of a stricter system of discipline, but the
bright spirit and genial temper of the new maj(jr early
won him popularity, and these comi)laints were little
heeded.

Wolfe had greeted him as an old friend, and essayed to
resume the acquaintance where it had been droi)i)ed when
last they parted, but Amyot was cold and surly, and
evinced no ^reat desire for intimacy ; and thus it came
about that a coldness arose, which at one moment
threatened to put an end to all friendship and concord
between them.

The colonel was absent in London, which he doubtless
found more enticing than Stirling in winter time, the
lieutenant-colonel had just been appointed governor of
Nova Scotia, the young major was commanding ofTicer,
when the garrison of the Castle was startled by a sudden
tragedy which must needs find a place in this history
since Amyot Rrough was not a little concerned in it.
This was nothing less than the suicide of a y(jung ensign,
who had but shortly before joined the regiment. It had
been noted by many at the mess-table one day that
between him and Lieutenant Brough there had passed
much anxious and somewhat angry converse into the
nature of which few deemed it necessary to inquire, seeing
that much hard play had passed between them, and it was
commonly believed that the boy-ensign held himself
unfairly used. He had few friends in the regiment,
having, as before mentioned, but recently joined it, and
having from the first attached himself almost exclusively
to Amyot ; and so, as it fell out, none knew much of his

It
ill

^44

ttnyof Ih'oiio/i,

i«

W'i

^'-:jl

«,;,

concerns, or of the j)articul.'ir grievance which drove him
to dcspcriUion. 'He lunl,' to use hick I^)^v'na^s words,
'a most obstinate and lamentable incUnation to j^oto ruin,
and the society of all better fellows was distasteful to
him.' Jack had always been sorry for him, but */7//r'//,
if a man will go to ruin, what will you have ! ' and Jack
had shrugged his shoulders, and abandoned his case as
iiopeless. Others had done the same : the young major,
had he come earlier ujKjn the field, might have been more
persistent and successful ; but, alas ! he knew little more
than the young ensign's name, win- 1 the whole regiment
was startled by the news that the report which had rung
through the barracks late one dark evening meant that
the poor lad had thought to settle the dilliculties that
were di-tracting him by putting a pistol to his heatl, and
was now lying in a pool of blood in his own room.

There had been the usual inquiries and formalities.
None doubted the manner or the cause of the lad's
untimely end. Such things were common enough ;
nevertheless since tie lad was so young, and might have
had such a difierent fate, there were not a few who looked
askance at the man who had led him on to ruin ; nay,
perhaps had goaded him to that dark deed by his cruel
words and threats.

And as for Amyot, though in justice we are bound to
say that when he first stood amid the crowd of officers
and men that had rushed to the young ensign's room, and
stood awstruck at the horrid spectacle there, his whole
being had quivered beneath the shock of horror and
remorse ; yet no sooner was the first keen pang of self-
reproach passed and over, than the consciousness that
others held him blameworthy, and were inclined so to
treat him, restored all his habitual pride and haughtiness.
He would endure no hint of censure, manifest no special
regret for the dead youth ; nay, more, when others seemed
saddened and sobered, he would be, or at least put on the

?;"

Amyot Ih'OHgh,

245

appearance of beiii^, in even more than his wonted spirits.
Men stared, Jack Pownal railed at hitn, hut with no elTect.
Rut on the second day after the catastrophe, Jack sudilenly
strode into his room, and witli a countenance indicative
of strong emotion, bepfan :

' V.\\ bien, Amyot, has anyone told you what has
arrived ?'

Amyot shook his head, and Jack, walking to the window ,
continued speaking with his back towards his frietid. 'Oh,
well, without doubt it will make no difTerence to you, but
I come from a si^ht most truly piteous, heartrending : it
breaks the lieart only to think of it. Oh, not yours, my
dear fellow : I know well that you have not the pain of
such a disagreeable possession, but cufin, I have not
told you. It is the mother that has arrived : the poor lad's
mother ; and as it seems she has no other son, no other
child, and no husband — no anybody, as it would appear; and
she is so foolish as to think this little affair a most terrible
calamity : very silly, no doubt, but — do you see? — it is her
notion, and as I said, my heart breaks when I think of her.

' Truly, you were always tender hearted, Jack ; but what
is this to me? '

' Oh, nothing of course, nothing in the world. But as
I said, I was there, at the major's quarters, when the poor
lady arrived, and I saw it all. She would see him, her
son. Yes, but she would. The major talked and talked,
and I talked, but ii'iinportc I she had her way, and in
verity, if she did not get her death blow then, my name is
not Jack Pownal. May I never see such a sight again
Well, but you are impatient : much business to attend to,
no doubt, and I detain you. One minute, my good fellow.
The poor lady has heard of a certain friend of her poor
son's : truly I know not what she has heard of him, but
him too she will see ; and it is to seek him that I am
come. Lieutenai.. Brough, you will find her at the
major's quarters.'

1 (

^ 1

ft i

ttii

;■•!

246

Amyot B rough.

' Jack, this is some of your foolery. What can the old
lady want with me ? I detest scenes. I'll not go,'

' Your pardon, Lieutenant Brough. The major requests
your attendance.'

' Major Wolfe wants me to entertain his guests ? Let
him do it himself.'

Jack wheeled round suddenly. * And that is your
response? Oh, well, I can report it if you will.'

Amyot was silent, with folded arms and knit brows,
pondering the unwelcome summons. Jack grew im-
patient. ' It is all the same to me,' he said. ' I bring a
message, I take back the response ; but I like to be
preci.se. Your answer then, short and sharp ; I have wasted
enough of precious time.'

* You need waste no more. I have heard your message,
and since one cannot well deny a lady, 1 will go presently.
Happily 1 am not so soft hearted as you.'

And Jack glared at him and departed, muttering,
' One can't deny a lady ! Oh, no, friend Amyot, I know
thee better. 'Tis not to content the poor mother thou art
going ; no, nothing of the sort. And yet who could refuse
such a request. To see her son's dear friend ! Does
Wolfe know all ? But assuredly he must ; few have spoken
well of Amyot since this affair.'

It Avas, as Jack had said, a piteous thing to see the poor,
bereaved mother, and Amyot's cold-blooded indifference
was not proof against her anguish. Her repeated en-
treaty, 'Oh, sir, tell me why he did it,' might be met at
first with pcliie expression'^ of concern and regret, but
such attempts to avoid replying could not be persisted in
when her agony burst forth with passionate vehemence
* You must know, since you alone were with him the
evening before, and you, they tell me, were his friend.'
Amyot cursed his folly in having allowed himself to be
drawn into such a scene, and was even meditating a
precipitate retreat, when the major interposed, soothing

Amyot B rough.

247

the agitated mother. ' Lieutenant Brough will, I assure you.
madam, tell you all in his power. The subject is so painful,
and he is doubtless fearful to increase your sufferings.'

' Thr.t cannot be,' she broke forth, while Wolfe,
addressing Amyot, desired him to speak, ' or I,' said he
' will do it for you ; and seeing that I must needs speak
from hearsay, may scarce do you justice. But in any case
the lady must be satisfied, and to spare her feelings, I may
well be indifferent of yours.'

Then seeing there remained no escape, Amyot, still
somewhat sullenly, told the tale. She listened breathlessly,
but the exclamations, ' A gamester ! My son -x gaiuester ! '
interrupted him more than once ; and when the words,
' He took his losses much to heart, and maybe also some
words that I spoke carelessly and with heat — which, believe
me, madam, I much regret ' — ended the dismal story, she
wrung her hands in bitterness of soul, saying, ' 'Tis plain
enough he lost, and knew well that I had no means to pay
his debts ; but this I ask you : sir, who made my boy a
gamester ? '

Amyot made no reply, and she went on vehemently,
' He was a good lad when he left home — weak, maybe, but
nothing worse. Ah, me, that ever I let him go ! ' Tears
drowned her voice, but she lifted her head once more to
say,' I cannot think — my brain is on fire ; but it seems to
me that my son has had no friend, but an enemy. Yes,
sir, a most bitter enemy. Major Wolfe, forgive me : I care
not for longer converse with this gentleman ; ' and she
rose hurriedly, and left the room.

There was a long silence when she had gone,
Amyot rose to depart, but Wolfe stopped him.
must,' he said, ' be some few words between us on this
most miserable affair. The present is as good a time as
any. Lieutenant Brough, I have heard your story, and that
of others, and am bound to say that I hold you much to
blame.'

At last
' There

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248

Amyot Brough.

'T blame myself told the lady so,' Amyot replied;
' but nevertheless no one can say that this fellow's
mad act is to be laid at my door. I said nothing to drive
him to it.'

Wolfe shook his head ; then seeing that Amyot was
about to break forth angrily and roughly in self-defence,
he stayed him with a peremptory gesture, and sternly,
and vehemently upbraided him with treachery to his
friend, wanton cruelty, and selfish frivolity. He spoke
rapidly and severely, leaving no time for interruption or
excuse, and Amyot quailed beneath his fiery indignation.
At last he stopped suddenly, asking, ' What can you say
to this? How is it possible to view the affair in any
other light ? ' and Amyot answered nothing.

Then the major changed his tone. ' A year or two ago,
if I remember clearly, a certain evening at Maestricht, you
had not so entirely devoted yourself to this detestable
habit of gaming. What has so changed you, Amyot ? '

'I care little for cards,' said Amyot, sullenly; 'but
one must have :jomething to do in this hateful place.'

' A pitiful reason,' replied Wolfe, bitterly,

Amyot glanced at him from under his heavy brows.
Those clear blue eyes looked straight at him ; there was
kindliness in their gaze, and something, Amyot thought,
of pitying contempt ; but at that mom<;nt he was humble
enough and miserable enough to welcome the look that
seemed to offer friendship, and to accept as his due the
touch of contempt.

' Look here, Amyot,' said Wolfe, after a minute's pause ;
' let there be an end of this.'

' Of what — cards ? I'm tired of them, and many things
besides ; ' and having made this confession Amyot folded
his arms upon the chimney-piece, and laid his forehead
upon them, perhaps to avoid the major's gaze, perhaps to
conceal his own confusion.

Then for a few minutes Wolfe spoke of other things,

ji"

Amyot Broui^h.

249

changing the subject so abruptly as to astonish Amyot,
until the latter, havinfr resumed his former attitude, and
forgotten his emotion, the major as suddenly recurred to
it, saying, 'Then it is d 'cided : you forswear this
detestable habit of yours, a ul will find y(jurself other
amusements. But I was near forgetting : let not these
other amusements lead to the brea.king of heads among
the townspeople, else may I have other pledges to demand
from you,' and Amyot, not a little disconcerted at this
allusion, murmured some hesitating promise, and took
his leave.

if,''

's:

r,i 1

CHAPTER XX.

LKAVK OF AHSKNCE.

;^.'

Having by no means ^ fixed belief in tbc notion tbat
a sudden restoration to the paths of honour and re-
speetabihty can be perfect and entire, I do not think it
necessary to exj)lain that the blemishes which I have been
at some pains to describe in my hero's character were not
wiped out so sjxiedily and thoroughly as some sanguine
souls may have hoped and expected. Nor, inasmuch as I
hold it certain that my readers can well imagine the
difficulties that beset his path, do I feel bound to describe
at length the varying scenes of this portion of his career,
or to spend much time in lamenting his failures or
glorying in his triumphs. Years afterwards when his
admiration for Wolfe had become one of the most
vehement emotions of his passionate nature, and the name
of the hero was only spoken by them with lowered voice
and saddened countenance. Jack Pownal said to him,
' That was the most lucky thing that ever befell you,
Amyot, Wolfe's coming to Stirling. Are you not grateful
to me for having dragged you away from London ? Then
we all went to school again, and you learned to leave
off saying you had nothing to do.'

And at such reminder Amyot's thoughts would go back
to the day when he had let fall this expression in the
presence of Wolfe : he could never forget the sudden
glance of the keen blue eyes turned upon him with a
scrutinising gaze, and the promptness of the remark :

Amyot B rough.

251

* Lieutenant Brough, if you are heavily burdened with
your time, will you oblige me with your company this
evening to supper? — we have met but little as yet, and
we will have a talk over old times.'

The talk thus begun had not been confined to things of
the past. Wolfe radied him about his complaint of
having nothing to do, laughingly reminding him how
such remarks had been characteristic of him in their
schooldays, and then had burst out into a vehement
remonstrance, beneath which Amyot had felt strangely
subdued and unable to reply. Officers were for the most
part, Wolfe averred, the most ill-educated of human
beings ; among them, a man who read anything was
noticed and remarked upon as a most singular being-
Even their military duties were too often treated by them
as something of slight importance, to be omitted if
possible — at any rate, to be performed with utter
indifference. ' And this being the case, even while not
doing the work ready to their hands, some,' continued the
young major, stopping in his walk up and down the room,
' talk of having nothing to do.'

' But, major,' Amyot replied, reddening much under
the implied rebuke, ' there are soine who, Ayith the best
intentions, have not wits enough to set themselves to
work.'

' Is it so ? I doubt it — rather, I should say, dili-
gence enough ; but I will accept your explanation, and
then I ask you, will they — or why not say plainly, you —
let yourself be set to work ? '

' Gladly, major ; there is nothing I desire better than
some work to while away the time in this dreary
place.'

' Work done to while away time, I scarcely understand ;
but if you really want some hints, I am ready enough to
give them, presuming, of course, that having given
yourself to the profession of arms, you wish to excel in it,

!
4

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252

A7nyot Brojigh.

and do youi* country some service. And first, 1 have had
it on my mind for some days past to attempt something
in tlie way of a lecture concerning your various miUtarv
duties, and the easy way in which you perform them.'
He then proceeded to detail the points in which he had
observed negligence, and after a moment's pause resumed :
' But those matters leave you abundant leisure, even
when performed to the very utmost of your ability, and
ivhat you desire is emplovment for these vacant hours.
Now. it seems absurd to observe, that to understand your
business you must study, since that is clear enough ; but
you think, I perceive, that the art of war should be learnt
simply from the practice of it, whereas much and most
important knowledge can be gained from the records of
past exploits.'

' From books ? ' said Amyot. ' Well, major, I've read a
few.'

* I can tell you of many that probably you have
never seen. You know French and Latin, I suppose?'

* My Latin is nothing to boast of, and my French
something less.'

'Then you have much to do. Study French, by all
means. Our friend. Jack Pownal, will help you. And as
for books, let me propose a few. To study the order and
economy of the lower branches of an army, nothing can
be better than the King of Prussia's " Regulations for his
Horse and Foot." Then there are the " Memoires of the
Marquis de Santa Cruz ; '' " Les Memoires de Goulon ; ''
" L'Attaque and la Defense des Places," par le Marechal
de Vauban ; Folard's *' Commentaries on Polybius " ; and
of the ancients, you must read C:csar, Thucydides,
Xenophon's " Life of Cyrus," and '* Retreat of the Ten
Thousand." '

' Major, you take my breath away.'

' I am not surprised. But stay, you may find it more
diverting to read the lives of Gustavus Adolphus and

had

Amyot B rough.

253

Charles XIT. of Sweden, and of Zisca the Bolieniian.
Much military knowledge can be picked out of them.
There is, moreover, a new book, called " L'Art de la

hich I believe is g(Jod, antl a small

(xuerre Prat

ique.

book, which will be useful and

ily

d, calleil "Traite

easii
en you have read those 1 will

de la Petite (iuerre."
tell you of some more.'

He smileil as lie ( onclude<.l this list, sayinj; :

' That will give \()u something to do.'

'Not a little,' said Amyot, who had begun by noting
down the titles of the books, but had soon stoppeil
in dismay, as one after another was rapidly poured
forth.

Wolfe, however, after a minute's pause, resumed.

'What do you know of mathematics? While in
Scotland I intend to improve my knowledge in that
direction, since, without some knowledge of mathematics,
a man can never thoroughly understand one considerable
branch of our profession — the construction of fortificatiijns
and attack and defence of j)laces.'

' i ever hat'xl mathematics,' sighed Amyot.

Wolfe eyed him with some amusement.

'I seem to you a severe taskmaster,' he said. 'You
have led a more easy, comfortable life than I. I was bred
to work. My father has been a diligent man all his life,
and I, his son, should be ashamed to show my face in his
presence did 1 not love work ; while you have been ycnir
own master {i)X many years. But now, having enough
considered how we may improve ourselves, let us talk of
somewhat else.'

And then the conversation wandered in various
directions —to ihe late war in Germany, to the peace, to
the prospect of fresh troubles ; and Wolfe asked his young
companion what news he had to give of his cousin,
Captain (juv Pomfret, ' whom,' he remarked, ' 1 have n(jt
met since that evening last year in Flanders.'

i I

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254

Amyoi Brouoh.

Amyot told of his meeting' witli his cousin at hi.i sister's
wedding, and then Wolfe observed :

' You are a lucky fellow to have a si>ter. Do you
remember my one brother, Brouoh, in theold schoolhouse
at Greenwich ? '

' That I do. He was my first friend there, when I felt
homesick, and tniserable, and hated all the lads because
they laufvhed at me.'

' He was a "ood lad. How long atjfo that seems ! Let
his brother be your friend now, Amyot ; not such as he
would have proved— so true, so loving — but the best that
in him lies. I would it were better.'

And with .-ucb vor^l . -• ti^ese, Jnines V'olfe secured
that firm hv 1(1 on ..Vf!\ot''= allegiance which lasted until
death, an allegiinc. 'IH. lUsiastic as it was humble,
pleasant to the one, most ./;olesome and saving to
the other. For in the bracing, stimulating atmosphere
of Wolfe's presence, Amyot, and many besides him,
became suddenly conscious of a strange new power at
work. His eye seemed everywhere : its clear, straight-
forward glance checked idleness, and saw through
pretence of every kind ; his constant energy shamed
indolence and indifference ; his voice, stern and ringing
when raised in denunciation of vice and frivolity, would
yet soften into tones of hopeful encouragement when his
aid was sought, his counsel asked, or sympathy needed.
To be sought out, his friendship solicited by a man so
deservedly popular, served to recall Amyot to his better
self, checked him in his frenzied jjursuit of {)leasure, and
suggested new and higher aspirations. He had hitherto
found no difficulty in avoiding censure from his superiors.
Jack's jesting attacks he had laughed off or disregarded,
but beneath the flashing severity of Wolfe's anger, he
fairly quailed and trembled.

' Ha, ha ! ' laughed Jack Pownal one day, when he met
his friend coming out of the major's quarters ; ' you were

Afiiyot B rough.

255

late last iiipht, and he would know the reason, and it was
not alt;)j;ether and entirely a tiling to be admired, and
enfin, nion cher, he has told you in very fine lanjruajjje
what he thinks of you. I see it all — the whole scene; and 1
hear it too, and I feel ' — Jack laid his hand on his heart — ' I
!"eel how terrible it is not to be such an officer as Major
Wolfe i pity VOL., my friend, for I comprehend entirely
how huniiaated you are, and how you are not sure
whether it is on the head »> the feet you are standin/j,.'

' Nonsense, Jack ; he inay say what he likes to me : there
is always sense in what he says/

' liUi without doubt, mon cher, and very j^lad \ am that
you hr?ve the wits to coni])reheiul it. It is I that must
always be jjjrateful to Major Wolfe, since he has fouiul a
muz/le to lit you : 'tis what I could ne\-er contrive to do.'

* You are rij^ht there. Jack; I can take thatfrr-n hini
that I would bear from no one else — not cw. .\ : >ni
you.'

' I am well content,' Jack replied ; ' and as l- i.-. like 10
be commandinf;" officer here for some time, we '^I'l all
have to take what he chooses to ^ive ; and ^ we are not
the most orderly, moral regiment that ever .-.known,
it will not be Major Wolfe's fault. Have you heard the
last new thini^ he has ordered ? No.'' Then where have
you bestowed your eyes and ears? It is tluts directed
by our most .sagacious major : " OOicers to visit the
soldiers' quarters frequently ; they are not to trust the
sergeants' rcjiorts. They must also watch the looks of
privates, and note if they are pale. A'id the major begs
that young subalterns will not inclire to think they do
too much." Truly, if it be not sin to say such thing, I
find that un pen tr<>p fort. Why should not the
sergeants be taught to do their duty ? Instead of which,
it appears that it is necessary we do it for them. And as
to privates looking pale, that is no afiaii of mine.'

' Hold your tongue, Jack ! The major knows what he is

. h

256

A})iyol Broiio/i.

r<M:

iitv

about, and if he says it is your business you will find it
best to make it so. I marvel ulietber he toutul me
lookinjf pale, tor I have leave for a few clavs to visit my
old home, though I had not thoufjjht to ask for it.'

* Vou pale ! You have the colour of a full-blown
peony. You are not about to die of love, Lieutenant
Brough. Is the old sore healed quite and entirely? The
sighs have grown less heartrending of late. Ah ! fickle
young man, have you found a Scotch beauty, or i^ your
worshij) wholly at the shrine of Major Wolfe ?'

' My j)urpose is not changed, Jack ; but you are right,
and I must wait.'

' Wise young man ! and to console you, let me tell you
that men say that the major — long mav he live I — is in like
plight with you. That he too tumbleil into love of late.
Truly, it is profane to speak thus of such a man, but so
do men s< y. It is much to be desired that he may have had
more sense than you, and have set his lo\'e on some fair
one not yet betrothed ; but who can say? The wise man
himself was monstrous silly concerning women ; at least,
so said that Scotch divine last Sabbath. But what did
you say about this leave of yours — when go you, and
when return ?'

' I have leave for ten days ; I go to morrow. Much of
the time will be spent on the road, but it will be a
pleasure to see the old place.'

A greater pleasure than he had at first imagined.
Each step that brought him nearer to that old home
brought back some pleasant memories — well remembered
spots around Penrith, familiar faces gazing from the shop
windows, made his heart beat fast, and brought the
bright glow of expectation to his face. On this occasion
he was more speedily recognised than on his last visit ;
and the young officer met with far more consideration
than the lanky boy with his bag over his shoulder, who had
alighted from the coach at the GrifTm five years before

I nivoi Ih'ouoli,

257

Loitering sonic tiiiK' in the town, visiting his old lawyer,
and another old friend of hi> father's who dwelt in «)nc
of the oldest houses in Penrith, lie gathered much
information concerninj; the events immediately following

— ^- (

ffil

01. n IIOUSK IN I'KNKirH CHrRCnYARD.

the rebellion ; the names of tliose who had suffered for
their share in that disastrous affair, who had been hanged,
and whose property hatl been confiscated. This and much

h ■

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more he Icanicil while ^ittin); in the w iiulow of hi> old
friciui'> hou^e, looking out on to the cluircliyard, towards
the spot where his tatlier hiy huried. ' Of the family that
used to live at Blencathara House,' his friend said, 'we
have heard littU* or nothing, 'i'ho sons were all in tlu«
ribel army, and may have been killed ; the old lady and
ilaupjhter left the town suddenly, and no one knows
whither they went. You, Lieutenant Brough, knew
them well, and will be sorry to hear sueh news.'

Yes, he was sorry, but hoped they were well.
Doubtless the ruin of the cause to which they were so
much attached was very painful to them, and they judged
it best to leave. Then Lieutenant Brough asked after
other friends, and shortly took his leave.

So long had he lingered in the town, that the news of
his approach had reached Brougjibarrow ere he made his
appearance, and old Mike was standing on the threshold
looking out for him. When he arrived, the greeting of
the old man and Deborah was heartv, but somewhat more
embarrassed by shyness than on the former occasion.
The lad had turiied into a fine-grown man, no chance now
of his sitting down in the kitchen ; he would expect his
meals in the parlour, and to be served and waited on like
the gentleman he was ; and this conviction was a little
too great a burden for Deborah, who had grown old and
stiff, and whose helpers were awkward lasses that could
not make themselves fit to appear in a gentleman's
presence, and who, as likely as not, would do nought but
stare if so be he spoke to them.

Full of these ojipressive fancies, it was 1 ird to be as genial
in her welcome as she meant anil wished to be, and
Amvot had little idea what a weight he lifted off her
mind when, seating himself by the chinmey-corner, and
shaking his head as Mike threw open the parlour-door, he
said, ' No, indeed, my visit is to you and Deborah ; I am
at home here. That room would drive me wild with
melancholy. Are you sure it is not haunted ?'

Amyoi Ih'oiii^/i.

259

' Na, na ! Dcborali has straii nowt uncanny : it bcca'
jest cs ya left it, a trifle dampish niebbe.'

' Well, I don't want to ftct rheumatism, so here I stay ;
and now tell me all that's hapjUMied.'

All was not much ; but before lonjr, with many
mysterious looks and sij^ns, the worthy couple proceeded
to inform their young master that they had led but an
uneasy life for some time past : so that when they had
heard that day of his arrival in the town, they had felt it
a real relief, and only wished that he could stay a longer
time with them. The reason for their uneasiness was
simply this : there was in the neighbourhood, though
Mike could not exactly say where they had their dwelling
place, a gang of most desperate robber>. Of their
numbers, also, he had no certain kncnvledge. Some said
there were a hundred, others said but three or four.
Probably some figure between the two would best tell the
truth ; but whatever their numbers, or whence they came,
was of little matter. Their deeds were right awful, and
the women folk, as Mike assured Amyot, had not hail a
quiet night for many a week, so greatly were they in
dread of these same robbers.

' And what do you suppose I can do ?' Amyot inquired
when he had heard. ' If you do not know where thev
hide, I can do nothing ; indeed, single-handed, it would
be ridiculous to interfere with a band of desperate men.'

' Ay, sewer anufT, we wud hae yer tak ceear o' yersell,
bet I hasna telt ye a.' Fooaks has beean tellin' me es
these robber creatures hae an eye t' oor hoo>e. Neea doot
they think ta thersells es nowt bet yan auld man an' auld
woman leeve heear, they'll easy dew es they moind ; bet
whiles yer t' heeam, yer maister heear, an' soa I shall
sleeap easv sa lang as yer in t' hoose.'

' But w lat are they likely to do— these terrible villains
— when do they come ? Is murdering their fashion, or
robbery, or ;; little of both ? '

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liiiyoi /irojfo/i.

' I lia> li'.'c'ard iiowt Icr si-wlt abtx t imirdcMin'. It i^ t'
st.K'k I's tht'v tiiiii artor -l' slicop an' t' jii-'s, t' cows an
hos.M's, an' sich. Is hccaul cs t!uv 'lacked a farm tutlicr
nccl, an' carried t' Nounj; vlucks an' l' jj;c/zclins, six or seven
^irl swine, in t' fanner's ane carl, an' tlrir,' awa' six cows
and lour ^ood naj;s, an' nowt has been seean o' 'em
since.'

'Well, tifal sounds pleasaiU. I w- !i lliev'd fix llie dav
f'.r llu'ir coming here, ami I'd Iry and }j;ive them a
welct .ne. Do the farmers let ihem carry oH their slock
in that fashion without aiu' resistance?'

' i\a, na ; theear's a ^ey lot o' sculllin' an' outcry, bet
ta roi;ues tie fooak's lunuis ahiiiil ther backs, and let 'em
scju.dl ; sum wha wuililenl bea quiet n()\\a\-, has beean
mickle yurl.'

' It will not suit me at all to ha\em\- hands tied behitul
m\- back, and watch them carr\in^ ofl my j^oods,' said
Anu'ot. ' If thev don't come to-nii;hl, I'll see what can
be done before to-morrow e\enin<j;, antl as il isn't loo late
to-ni};hl to ilo somethinju, vou, Mike, should (jo to all the
cottages wlu-re the men li\e who work for us, and bid
them conu- here for the ni^ht : tell them I'xe conic home,
and want to see them. Hid them to >ui>|)er.'

' Hut, n aister,' >aid Deborah, ' twa on 'em lee\e .'>.wa' on
l' fell.^ Mike can ni\\er j;a sa fur.'

'Well. no. I did not think ofth.it ; I'll ^o out my.self,
and M'c if ! can find thri'e or four stout fellow> who will
come and >ta\' the ni^ht here, ami mount ^uanl by turns.
I> oil! 'r<imin\- b'ell still fit for work'.''

' .\\-. aw e> heart \' a> i\i'r. an' lu'il like a scratch wi' t'
robbers : lhe\' stole he^ pi*^ tut her neet.'

' li \\\ onl\' a do/en of our men bom (Jlas^ow, I'd like
it, lod," >aiil Am\-ot, as he >allied forth; 'but if they
shouKl come a hundreil strong, I lun a ^ooil chance of
bavin*; to look on with my hands tieil behind my back.
vSiill it is scarcely likelv thev wouUl come in any number

nivi

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261

to pliiiulcf a tann-liousc kept by an old follow like

Ike.

I^ncoiiraj;c'cl by ibis idea, Aniyot puiMied bis walk, and
as so siicccssbd in bis cjuesi, tbat wbcii tbc cscniiijj;
closal ill, five strong labr)iireis ami a vouii^^ farmer from a
sbort distance bad assembleil round ibe beartii, ready

anc

1 ea<;er to 1

ia\e a fmbt witb I be robber.^. Stories

ere t(tlil of tbeir iles|)erate doinj;s, but wben Am\'ot in-
ijuired wbetber tbe magistrates look no bvid to ibe
matter, no one seemed able lo <^\\\: \\\\\\ any information,
tbe younj; farmer alone aj)pearinff to tbink tbere was any
reason to expect magistrates to trouble tbeir beads about
sucb |)eople ; yet be, too, was of tbe same o|)inion as one
of tbe men, w bo declaied tbat unless tiie wbole ^an^ i ould
be cauf^bt at once it would be uncommon dangerous for tbe
ma<'istrates to molest tbem, as tbey lunlalwa\s made a point
of re\enffin;; any insult or injury to oneof tbeir number.

''{'ben some ba\e sufTered for tbeir pranks : w bo were
tbey, and bow were tbey taken?' asked Amycjt, but
aj^ain no one could answei' tbe cjuestion.

' Wbat makes you feel so sure, .Mike, tbat tbey are
tbiukinj; of coming to ]b()U^bi)arro\\ ? ' ba\e )ou liad
speecli of an\- of tbe ro<.;ues?' was bis ne.xt question, at
wbicb Micbael fired up

icli Alicnael tned up.
Mea ken ibae \illains ; 1

m\er seeat eyes on etn es

knaa ! Wbya does I tbmk es tbeear cunmiin' beear ?
cos fooaks ses soa, an' tooaks cb maistly reet. Ses Jemmy

Stokes t' mea laast weeak,

'I'

is \er turn sewer I v

Mik(

an' l)cl)orab siie's beeard all maiuiei' »»" noises ler maii\' a
neet pa-^t .'

'No iloubt,' said Amyot, smiling; 'tbere ne\er was
sucb a bouse as tbis for queer noises : I remember tbem
wben 1 was a cbild.'

'1" maister ilusseiit 1 elieye us,' saitl Mike, looking
mucb ofTended ; 'tell bin >um o' tbese fooaks dewens,
Mr. Wilson ; mebbe be'll gi\ ' luead t' ye.'

262

h;/vo/ Ih'ouoli.

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Xothiii}; loatli, llic voimjj; tunnor rt-latal all thai he
had heard ol the various rohhcrio that luul hccii >ct
down h\- the ncijjjlibourhooil to the account ol this nuich-
lained gaii^^ ot thie\e> ; and the others addetl their con-
tributions from time to time, until tlie liour ^rew late,
and most ol the i)arlies settled tliemselves to sleep.

Amyot was \cr\' weary with hi> journe\', but he felt it
incumbent on him to keej) j;uard. since he could not let
his friends be more attenli\e to his interests than he was
himself ; but little used as any of the party were to much

mj^dit watchui};, the j^roup around the hre soon became a
very drowsy one, while Mike and Deborah, feeling more sate
than thev had done for many nii^hts i)a>l, retired to their
chamber, anil >le|H j)r(jioundly. in the kitchen the talk
j^radually lla^^ed, then ceased entirel\-, anil a jirofound
silence rei<;ned in the hou>e, and Amyot, keeping him>elf
awake with some tlitlicultv, soon |K'rcei\ed that all around
him were sound asleej). The hour> dra^7.!;ed slowly b\'.
the tire dieil down in the hearth, the book which he had
taken to while away the time <;rew mar\'ellously un-
edifyinp;, and before lon^' he was forced to walk about to
keep himself awake. The tall clock struck two. Amyot
shi\ereil, and wished he had not allowed the lire to ^o
out ; the ni^ht was unjjleasantly [cold, and a reil loj;
ouKl ha\e been a cheerful siolu, ami most j.;ratelul to

the weary watcher. Tireil of |)acin<;' the ^mall room
amon^ the tiouro of his sleejnn^' companion^, he at la>t
letched a ru^, anil \\ra|)j)in^ it round him, >eated him>elf
once more in the i himne\-corner, and before he had had
time to ili>co\er that sleej) had o\ertaken him. he >\as
snoring as loud as an\- of hi^ conijianions.

He was roused by a m\steriou> \\hi>per, and a touch on
hi> shoulder ; and starting; up with a mighty jump, he
almost overturned Deborah, who stood beside him, saying :
' Whisht : dew ye no heear it ? '
'Hear what? No, Deborah, I hear nothing.'

))i\ol I ho It

-//.

' \();t, iKto, li-uii I r>c hccaril il ou*.! ami owcr
a^cii.'

' What i> it like?'

* A ^cralchin' an' a tuinblin' in t' >liippcn ; likely tlicear
alter t' naff>.'

'I luiNeii't w j^^mkI ear- a> you, Dehnah; but if you
teel so sure, I'd l)e>t j^o and ^ee.'

' Na, ua ; \e imm tak' Mr. W^ilxm ui' ver, an' yer j;un,
an' bea saarlan ver -^Imoi un deead. H ver >ee un, u,iv' un

neta tune t t

hit et

\e.

' Xo. in). |)itv to wake him ;' bill Deborah wa> not to
be eontradieted.

She >te))i)etl aeros> to the vounj.^ farmer, anil with s(Mnc
didieuity roused him ; ami assuring him that the robbers
were in the baekvard, ur^^ed him to ^o out with the
youns master, and >ei' if it wa> not so.

The younj.^ man wa> bra\'e, .ind m.ule no diOkulty ;

and i

n a few minutes the two were >tandin<' in the dark

out.^ide, li>tenin<;, while Deborah, hoUlinj; the iloor a
craek open, watehed what would befall, reailv to <iive the
alarm, and rouse the other inmates of the kitehen.

' 'I'urn t' lantern toward> t' >hippen,' suff<.festcd Wilson,
in a low \'oiee.

Amvot (jbeyeil. All there wa^ ipiiel, and n()thin/;f was
to be seen. \ restless eoek, ili^lurbetl in his dream>.
ima<i;ined the ilav was breaking, aiul attempted a >leepy
erow ; a >illy v<>un<; one followed hi^ e.\ample, but no
other >ound broke the intense stillne» of the ni^ht. The
moon wa^ ju>l about to set, a!ul threw but little li^ht
upon the farm buildinj^s.

' W'liat could >he mean?' Aiu\-ot e.xelaimed, in an
uiulerione ; ' nothing; eould be more ipiiet. Shall we
walk rounil the house in order to rea>««ure her, and look
into the stable ? '

W'iUon ax^eiued. The ^haj^j;)' eolIe\' lanie ami rubbed
\\\> iM)>j a<4ain>t .\m\(tt'^ lei-t , and having ])a'd hi--

kl )

264

Iff/vot liroiic/i.

hotn.mc, ri'tunicil to his u^ual pest. 'I'lu-y stood lor a
nioniciU in trout ot llu' Iioum", and looked o\cr tlic
stivamk't to llic l'\'lls, risinj; against llic -^ky, hard and
coUL I'licn tlii'V turiK'il to\\ards the hk'-".1ows, whirc
the Iaiid)s and sheep wi-re sleepiiii;, or ino\iii^ sleepily
ahoiit, no one niolestinj; iheni ; thenee towards the pig-
sties, where the lal ereatures lav stretehetl anioi;j; their
straw sale and souiul, and linallv to the stahle, where the
stout farm horses were st.nulinf; motionless siile hy siile,
while the horse which Amyot had riilden, ieelin^ un-
settleil in its new home, and not altoj^ether satislieil with
its ijiiarters or eomp.mions, liil^i'ied and shook the halter
that seeureil him, and scraped the wall with his lore-leet.

Von beast has ijoon the mischiel.

\-oinii:

nson

reinarkeil. 'See how he kicks and si rapes. N'our old
woman's window looks this way that is the noise she has
lieartl. Steady, my boy, steaily ; what ails thee?'

Phat's it, anil no mistake,

ilson, we may j^o

napping again. Poor oUl thing, she is easily ilismayed.
Tell me now, is there any truth in these stories about
liie robbers? 1 hate to be befooled.'

'They're true enough as far as 1 know,' said the young
man r.ither sulkil\- ; 'but I reckon we'll ilo no fighling the
night ; it will be light before long.'

And thus conyinceil, they returned to the house, re-
assured Deborah, ami after talking awhile, allowed them-
sehes to ilo/e i)eacefully until sunrise.

The next day, being tuUy resoKed not to be made a
fool of, Amyot walkeil into the town, saw the par.son,
and other trustworthy persons, ami askeil their opinion
of the tales which had so much ilisturbeil him the niglu
before. The clergyman charitably assured him that most
jieople were less wickeil than their neighbours represented,
and that he ilid not belie\e these robbers meant any
great harm. Another worthy gentleman had never seen
any of these same robbers, ami declineil to e.\j)ress any

. Iniyot I

irono

//.

2(y

opinion conccniinj; tliciii ; tlicy liacl not robbed bini, and
!u' fancied tbey wcii- not a bad sort of people after all. A
tliird said tbat as lon^ as tbey only robbed ibe larniers,
lie sliould not trouble hinisell ai)oul tbein ; if they
meddled with the ,i;i'ntrv, the ease would become serious.

.^Vmyot reddened at this inviduous ilistinction, and was
on'e more inclined to listen to the worst tliat could be >aid
concermiiM them ; l)ul, eonsultinj; the lanillord at the
(Jrillin, he was assured with many strong; expressions that
they were a merry lot,seIdonj did much harm, and always
j)aid for their \iituals and drink as well, or better, than
the j^entlefolk. h'eelin<; but little the wiser for all iiis
trouble, Amyot returned honu;, debating with himself
whether or not he should secure a <;uard, as on the pre-
\ious ni^ht, and much inclined to think no more of the
matter, if oidy he could |)ersuade Mike and Deborah to
do the same.

.Alas ! for all his wise precaution.^ and sundry consulta-

tions

e reac

Ivjd I

lome to fnu

I Del

loraii wrm^ni^ fie'

)()or w(jman

wiia

liaiuls, and the lasses crouchini; underneath the bedsteads
while Mike was nowhere to be seen, the stable-door widt
open, and the liorses ^one.

'Oh, Maister Amyot ! ' sobbed the i
wud hae thowt it ? 'I'a cmn in broard dayleet — sich
imperence — bet I'll ni\yer ^it ower it. It'll be my
death, I knaa.'

'Where's Mike?' was all Amyot could say when his
sj)eech returned to him. Not hurt, I hope?

le poor colley was \\\\\^ t

dead ,

or sense

less I

1' )re

th(

barn-door, and Amyot's thoughts had alreaily iijured

up a terrible j)icture of the faithful old man ying or

dead. Rut, at the name of Mike, somethinj^ li a gleam

of satisfaction, or reyenge, lighted up the ol ' woman's
face.

'He's theear,' she said, pointing to a .^rk passage

which leil to yarious out-buildings. ' Na, he'> no hurt,

fit

• . t
ill J

i i

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'!■

!.••!

.1 ■'.

'■ >

266

^ hiiyol Jh'oiii^/i.

bet lie's suinmal la lak' tcuar 011. Will I Ull yei ?
These nuirilerin' \illains all macle off, 1 knaa net whya—
they heearil a noise or sunnnal, an' ufT they ran. an' yan
tuk ta uron^ rixjad, anil roon cloon theear. He knaacl
nowt about t' Irap-dooar into cellar, an tuinnielt reel in.
Mappen he's brok' he's neck, bet he's beean makin' a

' t '

I UK (;i<Il I IN INN, I'l.NKI 1 II.

" n

terblc ^irt uproar ; bet .Mike an' I we ses, " Ve bide
thenar, sir I " and we fetched jjjirt steeans an' heaped 'etn
on trap-dooar. Mike's a scttin' on 'em, an' I tell him la
bide theear till yer cum heeam.'
'And the others?' asketl Amvot.

Imvo/ Jh'ouo/i.

267

'They're >;aaii reel awa', an' taken a' l' naj;> \\\ cm.
an' a Nlictp (tr twa slun^ across l' horses' backs. 'I'liev
inij;hl a chine ineear ill. Mai>ter Ainvol. het it'> bad
cnoot.'

' And what nnisl we do willi tlie prisoner ?' askeil
Ain\()t.

' Whya, I ihowt when ver eunieil lieeam es ye'il >ho(>t
liini for saartan. Rein' a sodger, it wiul cum natrall l.i
yer ; bet, it ver plaze, Mike an' me '11 j^^aa ool <»' t' road.
Shootin' a man beeanl quite so coomiortable es slickin' a
jMj;. though I can't see whya— pigs bein' harmless enough,
an' thiN un beean a terble girt sinner.'

Amyot hiughed.

' \'ou neec.n't go out on tlie roail, Deborah. .Shooting
luen in cold blood isn't mv trade. We must send tor a
constable.'

'Oh, sewer then, Mike '11 be sittin' theear till he's thin
es a bacca pipe. They constables nivei meddle wi' sich es
this un ; \e'll net git em ta cmii.'

' Xay, but I must trv'

'And Mike?'

An.yot went ofT down tlie dark passu, n i.> the ^poi
where Mike, looking the picture ol despair, was silling on
the trap-door.

'Oh. Maister -Vniyot ' was all he could say.

Hut Amyot stopped all lamentations bv saving :

'Never mind, Mike; things might ha\e been w(ir'>e.
Hut can't we make that tellow secure, and set \<)U tree ?
Here we'll heave a tew more weights on the trap-door,
and leave him to reflect.'

* He's reel ilown miserable. Mebbe he'> \urt hisselt,'
said Mike. ' Het he's beean crying an' sobbin' loike a
child — villain though he bea, 1 cud scarce bear to
heear un.'

Amyot stood in much perple.xit'*.

'We must send lor a constable,' he ^aid ; 'but, as

it
ii '

.ir

!fi

2 6<S

Aniyof /hvuo/i.

Dclxjiali says, it may l)c hours before one comes. It )ie is
!iuieh hurt, it seems hard to let him He liere unaiiled,
and yet '

' "Pis his aan fault.' said Mike ruefully.

' Dili you see him ? What sort of a fellow is he ?'

' Xothin' in any ways pertieler.' saiil Mike. 'Hark to
un, maister.'

The moaning and sohhinj; were truly |)iteous. Sudilenly
it ceased, and a choking voice from the de|)ths below
slruj;t>led to make itself heard.

' Is thai Amyot Hrouj;h ?' it said. ' Old man. take the
lid of my prison away and let me speak to him.'

' Na, na. Loike es net he's gotten a pistol anil wull
shoot yer, maister.'

' Scarcely,' said Amyot. ' (iet uj), .Mike, I must speak
to him. I seem to know his voice, but .vho can he be ?'

!i!(

CHAI'l'KR XXI,

01;KKV : A I'OOI. OK' NOT.

* Was I a fool, Jack ?' iiiquircil Amyot, when, a few days
later, he related the whole story to his friend on his return
to (rlasjjrow.

''IVuly, I do not know. You have a marvellous tender
heart. I^'or such a blui")berinj;, weeping rascal, I believe I
shouKl have had small pity. Had he wounded himself
•severelv by his fall ?'

' He had jnit his shoukler out of joint — that we soon
righted for him.'

' Ami was that all the reason for the sighs and tears
that so moved your kind heart and the heart of your old
man ? I warrant I should have had a wish to give him
more to cry about.'

' I believe lie tliought he shoukl be liangeil, and could
not relish the notion of Mich an end.'

' In that I might ha\e some symjiathy. It has always
seemeil to n\e a precious uncomfortable way of ending
one's life. But your North countrvnien are called long
iieadeil ; why had he not well considered the end of the
road before he started on such a course.-' '

'Ay, -lack, you speak like a parson. That cpiestioii I
didn't think to ask him ; but this I ask you, was I wrong
in not giving the rogue uj) to justice?'

'The w<>rl(l wouKl l>e bi-tter without >uch canaiUc\ but
I know not. What did the major say wiien you told him
your tale ? '

:(;i

270

-liiiyot Broiii:li.

' Ho lauglit'd iinni(Hlerately at luc for leaving my
possessions uiuIcIcikIccI while I went to seek tor help, but
he saiil nothing of my lettinjr the rogiie go.'

' Did you tell him tiie reason — that he called himself
the brother of the beauty in Drury Lane, and pleaded that
he was your old schoolfellow ?'
Amyot nodded.
' And Wolfe said nothing ?'

' N\)thing, but that the rebellion had r.^ade many
honest men rogues.'

' But tell me, Brough, when you had extricated your
prisoner from his dungeon and eased him from his pain,
was he as Hlled with gratitude as you expected, or diil he
attempt any ruffian tricks such as the old man had
feared ?'

' N(A a bit of it. He is a mean rascal — offered to
betrav all his comrades, turn King's evidence, swear
anything I liked.'

'And you listened to him? I detest that species of
rogue.'

' And 1 tcK), Jack. Okl Mike being broken-hearted
about his horses, questioned him as to what was like to
become of them, anil found that they would be sold at a
certain market ; so we gave the constables tiie task of
attending there, and Mike and some other fellows were
going t(» identify the beasts. My old lawyer will see to
the business, and it is no* unlikely some of the rogues
may come to the gallows. 1 had to return here, as \()u
know.'

' And your prisoner, he has saved himself to America ;
and you, for love (jf the fair Prinuo.se, found him the
money to transj)ort his worthless j)erson thither. In
truth, there are some people wIkj do not know what to do
with their money. When ditl you arrange this jirecious
design ? '

'The day before I started to return. This rascal Percy

.huyoi Ihoui^h.

27 I

Kirkhriclc claral not conic again into tlic town, and 1
had to take liini tlic money I liad promised. He uas
weak, too, and coukl not promise to walk far ; so J went
to seek him in his haunts under Helvellvn, on tlie shores
of the lake. A marveUous lonelv place these ropjues had
chosen ; but when I looked at those great silent moun-
tains, so little trodden, I did not wonder that no one had
tracked them, nor do I pretend to know whereat < aits they
had their hiding-place.'

.li

■^^^r-

,((' -

s| VHAKKOW ( KAC.

. it

'' j

'And yf)U roameil about, j)laving hide-anil-seek on
these mountains, looking for y<'iir frienti ? Truly, the
fair Primrose )Uglu to know it. Had he gi\'en you no
aildic>> in the wiklernos, t<>lil \iai of no ro'lv wheie \du
might depoMl it the treasure yen brought hiin ?'

' Yes ; he named a certain crag overhanging the lake,
antl there 1 found him. He was miserab' ■ enough, poor
fellow ! — cursed the IVetender. iiis brothers, who had leil
him to join the rebels, his mother, and all belonging to
him ; wished 1 h.ul sliot him that dav, as Deborah >ug-

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT^3)

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I.I

1.25

|50 ™'^

1.8

U III 1.6

Sciences
Corporation

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WEBSTER, N.Y. )45nO

(716) 872-4503

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272

A uiyot BrouQ;Ii .

gestcd, and much more foolery of the same description.
He was always a despicable fellow — a bully and a sneak ;
but I thought of his mother, and I didn't grudp;e the
money.'

' He'll never go to America ; he'll be hanged in England
yet. See you, Amyot, he will let himself be persuaded by
the next rogue he meets, and your money might as well
have been flung into the lake.'i

' I think not. He seemed really glad to go, and vowed
that as soon as ever he could get to the coast, he would
try to find a vessel to carry him to Nova Scotia. He is
afraid to go near his old gang, lest they should discover
how much of their plans he had betrayed, and he said
bitterly he hadn't a friend in the world.'

' Well, you will see. For me, I have no great trust in
such men's promises, they do not know themselves what
they want ; and as for holding to their word, they do not
know what that means. Well, you have had a busy time
for your holiday, and, as is ever your way when I have
you not under my eye, you have dispensed much money.
But I am content to see you again. Yesterday, all day
long, I feared you would fail to return within your leave,
and then, my boy, I would not have rejoiced to be in
your case. The major has been hard on such offenders
lately.'

And then Percy Kirkbride and his affairs were forgotten,
and the conversation turned to the garrison gossip, and to
the news conveyed by letters from London, which Amyot
had found waiting for him on his return.

It would be long to tell, and wearisome to read, did I
enter fullv into the yerrs which Amyot spent in garrison-
towns in Scotland — years never forgotten nor altogether
regretted by him, but filled up with a monotonous round
of military exercise irksome to detail. They brought with
them but one regret, the absence of all tidings of Primrose
and her mother. Once he had ventured to write to her,

El. ' . '1

Aniyoi B rough.

273

! «l

'OSC

ler,

but the concise little note with which she reph'ed to his
inquiries was but small temptation to write attain, and the
regiment remained quartered in Scotland for nearly five
years. From time to time during that period Amyot
reflected that when they did meet again, Mrs. Kirkbride
would not be able to call him a bov ; but if e\-er he made
this remark aloud to his friend Jack, the latter treated
with scorn the notion that his love was still unwedded,
and assured him th it there could be no d(ud3t the rebel
Lance had by this time reappeared and carried her off.

' So console yourself ; and if you must have a wife — a
strange necessity, it seenls to me — look well at these tall
Scotchwomen. Their stature will be commodious to you
and as the major saith, they love to meet a man who has
a small estate.'

But to these suggestions Amyot turned a deaf ear, ana
early in the year 1750 came a letter from Joan which made
him restless and uneasy, and set him pining for leave to
go to London — leave which he saw little likelihood of
obtaining.

The letter ran as follows :

' Having just returned, dear brother, to our home, I
feel much in the humour to write to you, and the more
so, because pleasant and enlivening as our stay in London
has been, there was to me the one great desire ungratified,
that of seeing my dear brother. My uncle tried to console
me by the assurance that any place was better for young
men than London, the which notion he has acquired
from the many evil ways of my poor brother-in-law and
cousin, learnt, as he imagines, during a long idle time in
town. Still, I longed for you, and chiefly that you should
see your little nephew, and that he should learn to know
his uncle. You will laugh at a mother's folly, and so I
will not tell you what pretty ways he has, nor how I love
to think he is like you. One thing only troubles me
about him, and that is, that he is but delicate, and in that

: In

It'.

{ i

1 •

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' '

1 ..

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2 74

Amyot B rough .

!'* ,*

> t

respect most unlike to you, dear brotixr. He thrives
ritrht well when away from Swinford, but the doctor says
our low marshy land breeds fever, and he has warned me
that I may not always keep my darling, so I try to love
him moderately, but feel I succeed but ill.

' But you will desire tidings of others besides myself
and my child, and since it is always my desire to satisfy
the cravin^Ts of your curiosity, I will endeavour to tell
you somethinfT concerninfr all our friends. My best and
dearest is much beuefited by his holiday, and hard at
work as ever. My grandmother looked well, and sweeter
and prettier, if possible, than of old. She has found a
young girl to live with her — to fill my place, she says, but
truly it makes me stand aghast to see in what light she
must have held me, if this young person has stepped into
my shoes. She is a wild Irish lassie, untrained and un-
mannered, with rough locks, and shoes for ever down at
heel. Miss Johnstone is distracted by her, but my grand-
mother says it is rare sport to see the two together. My
aunt is but delicate, my uncle well in health, but much
disturcd b^ 'eason of Guy's wild ways, and here it were
well to tell you that he has lately married my aunt's
woman, Felicite, which few can hope will be for the hap-
piness of either. And now I pass to another matter which
will, I know, be of great interest to you, yet I speak of it
with much hesitation and doubt, for fear lest what I say
should greatly distress and move you. You remember,
dear Amyot, the letter you wrote me in which you laid
before me all the longings of your heart towards your old
playfellow, Primrose Kirkbride, I was glad to have your
confidence, and I promised you that when next in London
I would strive to see Primrose, and make myself known
to her. This, as you know, is my first visit to London
since my marriage, and I have not forgot my promise.
My husband was agreeable to my purpose, and accom-
panied me on my errand. We found the house you

il!

Aviyot Brou^lu

275

were

Hint's

hap-

hich

of it

say

mber,

laid

old

named, and were admitted, and since I know it will be
pleasant to hear it, I do not he-.itate to say how amazed I
was at Primrose's beauty. I could not keep my eyes
from following her as she moved about that poor little
room, and truly I wonder not that your head was turned.
Also her voice pleased me marvellously, and all she said
was most discreet. But the poor mother ; oh ! Amyot, I
could weep when I think of her ! Surely she must be
terribly ill or terribly heart-sick, for never in my life li.ive
I seen such fevered eyes — they seem to binm in their
sockets — while the face is wasted and lined, and the flesh
has such a strange hue that it is scarcely like a living
person's. The poor thin hands moved restlessly about,
and the mouth quivered perpetually. We talked of you,
and I gave her your message about her son Percy, and
that you had seen him, and heard from him that he was'
about to sail for America, and then I saw two tears run
down her cheeks ; I was quite glad to see them, for they
made her face look more natural. She bade me thank
you for the news, and said it was kind of you to think of
sending word. Of Jasper they had heard. Of Lance, but
little ; while we spoke of him, I watched Primrose, and,
dear Amyot, I grie\'e to pain you, but much I fear that
she cares for him — I can scarce say why, but so it seemed
to me ; yet my husband, I feel bound to say, thinks
otherwise. Still, I ask you, is it not most likely that a
woman should be best judge of such matters ? So if you
will be guided by your sister, Amyot, I would have you
strive to think as little of her as may be, since to set your
heart on her must surely end in disappointment. She
has, I fear, something to bear from the poor mother, and
everything about them spoke poverty, yet there was
something reserved and proud about them both, and I
failed entirely to accomplish anything for their relief.
Did they live near us, so that I could see them often, it
would be easier far, by little gifts, to help them. Primrose

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assured me she was well, but looked far otherwise, and
when I spoke of my country home, and the comin<^ of the
sprin(]f flowers, which in the dark winter days I love to
dwell on, she said : " Yes, mother and I both yearn for
the country." Then my husband ventured to urge them
to pay us a visit, and Primrose looked longingly at her
mother ; but she refused at once, and said the fiitigue
would kill her : therefore we could say no more. There
is no likeness between your old playmate and her poor
mother, and it is easy to see there can be no tic of blood
between them ; and here I think to tell you of a certain
incident which Mr. Pomfret has often related to me, and
which I cannot but think may in some way concern
Primrose. It happened some months before our marriage,
while Mr. Pomfret was living alone at Swinford, that an
elderly gentleman travelling through the place was taken
ill at the little inn, and being very lonely, sent to request
my husband to visit him. They had much talk, but
finding my husband cared neither for card-playing nor
drinking, and would gladly talk with him of more serious
matters, he soon gave him to understand that he did not
desire any further intercourse. But my husband, who
took little note of it at the time, has since remembered
that when the gentleman, who was from Wales, and a
person of some distinction, spoke of being all alone in the
world, and Mr. Pomfret asked him if he had neither wife
nor son nor daughter, he replied that his wife had died
long since, and that the only child he had ever had, had
come to an untimely end when about four years old. At
least, so he had been told, but he murmured something
about not feeling entirely sure of the truth of the story.
The child, a little girl, had, he said, been travelling under
the care of her nurse and his cousin from Carlisle to Edin-
burgh, where dwelt some of her mother's relations, who
had undertaken the care of her while he was at the wars
on the Continent. But she never reached her destination,

Amyot B rough.

277

and his cousin had wrote him a doleful story, relating how
the child had fallen out 'of the post-chaise on the journey
while asleep, and been killed on the spot ; the nurse,
terrified lest she should be blamed for negligence, had
fled, and never been heard of since, and this strange mis-
hap occurred while the child was under the care of his
cousin, who had always been jealous of the other's greater
wealth. My husband took but little thought of the
matter at the time, but when I was relating to him Prim-
rose's story, shortly after our marriage, he recalled it to
mind, having a notion, but not a very certain one, tha^
the time named by the gentleman would agree with that
when Primrose was found. Something of the tale Mr.
F^omfret told to Primrose, when we were visiting them,
but she seemed little interested, said she had a mother
and brothers, and cared not to know any other relations.
I have not mentioned the gentleman's name, which was
Solmes, and my husband says that his brother Guy is
acquainted with a man of that name, who may be the
cousin alluded to. But 1 scarce know why I have told
you this long tale, since if it interests not Primrose her-
self, no one else need concern themselves about it, and,
indeed, I do believe it would be truer kindness nex-er
more to recall her to your mind. For the present, let me
remind you, as a good sister, that the path of duty is the
path to honour, and that a soldier has ever one mistress
and lady-love, his country. And now, having told my
tale and preached my sermon, let me say farewell, with
the assurance of the fond love of your faithful sister.

' Joan Po.mfket.

i'l

'hi

* P.S. You will think it strange that I say nothing con-
cerning the earthquake which has occasioned so much
wonderment and panic. Shall I own that I feared to fall
into the same foolish talk concerning it of which I have
heard so much ? Some were convinced that another

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shork would of lu'crssity lollow, siiKV two liiul alrciuly
l)cvii Iclt ; ami tlu' exact day was lixcd, and it vas said
that Loiuloii would without doubt be swallowc ). My
niotluT-in-law was uuich alannod, and lor many days the
talk ran on nauj;ht else ; eaih visitor who presented hini-
selt had somel.liinj; new to add to our luml ol terrible
forebodings, and thouj;h all aj^reed that London was
(ioomeil, none could say with certainty whither it were best
to flee. Truly, it seems too laughable. N'et does it make
one sad to see so many people tremble at the lhouj;ht ol
sudden death ! There have been a marvellous luunber ol
sermons ami discourses written and preached on the sub-
ject ; one would lain hope the world wi'l be the better for
them ; but even with such a stirrinjj; subject, many arc
heavy and tedious. Once more, farewell.'

1; >;

' Madame your sister is rijj^ht in her advice,' was Tack
Pownal's c< .nment on the parts of this letter which
Amyot read to him. ' Abandon all thoughts of the
beauty of I")rin-y Lane: let your country be your mistress
and none else ; and when you are old, and have lost a
member or two — are blind, and deaf, and stupid— it will
\k fitting time to think of matrimony, elbow-chairs, and
chimney-corners. For my part, when I am old and done
for, I shall look out for a bullet rather than a mistress : to
die in my bed makes no part of my plan.'

' Everyone to his taste,' said Amyot, mournfully ; * but
it is a hard fate to be shut up here, and never have a
chance of trying to win her.'

'Ah! well, my friend, you have a grievance: that is
what an Englishman always wants. See you, if all went
as you would choose, and still the young lady had not the
good sense to fall in love with you, you would then be
forced to confess that you were not so handsome, so
pleasant, so desirable as you had fancied — that would not
be at all pleasant. But in this circumstances, so little

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279

a^rcfabk', wlurc you liiul yourself, you cati co?isolc your-
self that it only the l-'atcs were more propitious, you
would assuredly j^aiu your object your lair one would
he in your arms. Thus, you see, you mi^ht ha\'e a
grievance n(»t at all so pleasant, because it wouUl w(Hinil
your iini'iH)' />n)/)r('.'

' What sluir you talk. Jack ! All I desire is a chance.
Are we to be ke|)t in this wretched place lor ever?'

'Ah, that is what 1 do not know. HuL concerning
this story of Mrs. Arnold I*omtret's, what think you?
Doe:, it sound probable?'

' I don't much care whetlier it is probable or im|)ro-
bable. No one would be much the better for having that
fellow Solmes for a relation. You remember him, don't
you ? '

' Was he not that inconvenietit heavy burden that you
and I transported from the major's bed at Maestricht ? I
have never seen liim since, else would I have demanded
pay for my trouble. And so you have a new cousin ! Is
she beautiful, this wife of your cousin Guy?'

' Beautiful as j)aint can make her. Ouy must have
been more drunk than usual when he married her. What
.scenes there will be ! '

' Now behold, Amyot, what fools men become on this
subject of marriage, and look at me. Am J not better
off? Here you are for ever longing for leave, that you
may run about London after a lady who has never
thought of you. Here is our major, the most lucky
fellow in all other regards, fretting -only he has the sense
to conceal his torments — about this Miss Lawson, who
has not the wits to comprehend what the man is worth.
I tell you, you are fools for your pains ; and some day
you will say so yourselves.'

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i\K I'U'OM rill': lusv ii(;m.

'rm-: \illa.u,v to which Joan had lu'taUi'ii IutscH, when sIk*
assutiu'd tlu' hoiuMirahk' estate of wilt-hood, lay in a low
plain in tin* vSonth-west of lMi<;land. Mi};h hills nii^ht
he seen in tlu' ilistanee, but tlu' i)laee itsell was a
strai:;i;Hni; \illaj;e on low and somewhat niarshv f;roinid.
The eountiv around was well wooiled and \erdanl ; a
lovely riyer skirted the jilain.

Reader, the village desires to remain /'hvi^^f/i/i' humour
it in its whim. The name ot vSwinford will serve its turn.
For some years past it had been esteemed a quiet jilaee,
and specially modest and well-behaved ; and so it ajipeared
to a tra\eller who entered it on horse-baek one Sunday
morninj;' some five years after the events recorded in our
last chapter. The village street seem.ed uninhabited, save
by a few lads who loitered about with an ai'" of ^reat
indolence and much stupidity, and a few elderly people
wbo peered from their doors and windows at the stranger
as he rode down the street, or held babies up to admire
his steed, as an excuse, doubtless, for well examining the
rider themselves. At the Green Dragon he stopped ; and
as the host came to the door, he proceeded to inquire the
road to the rectory ; which, being a communicative man,
the landlord pointed out to him with many more remarks
than his question required.

' They'll all be in church now, and near about the
strmon time,' he added. 'You'll find none in the house,

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281

sir, bill a maiil (ir so, and inaylH; tlu- little: hoy, who I hear
has JHrn fvit sadly ollatc. Von u\\\f}\{ sli|) into llic iioust'
until the strvicc is over. I lan take iho horse'

Hut Ain\'ol tor the traveller was he preferred to
dismount and walk on to the church, to see, as he said,
what was j;oinn on there. ' I'll leave my horse with you,
and call lor him |)resently. Shall I find the church hill?'

' Well, as for tnll, sir, the j)arsoii is ever desiring to see
it fuller, hut he minht he content, if he would, since he's
i)roii<;ht folks to church that had never been save to be
christened, and made most of us feel ashamed of ourselves
if we're not there once a ilay at least. I am forced to
stay at ho ne, because my wife chooses to ^o in the
mornings ; but if 1 didn't sliow myself there in the
afternoons, 1 should feel wron^ all over throu^di the week,
for why, he takes such things so terrible hard. Can't
believe but it's his fault, or sometiiin^ of the kind. So
we j^o to kce|) him at peace with himself, if for nau<;ht
else ; but we think a ^ood deal of liim, we do. A ^lass of
ale, sir, before 3'ou walk down to the church ?'

' Yes, and \i\\c my liorse a good feed. I will call aijjain
jiresently.' And so sayinf:;, Amyot resigned his bridle to
the worthy innkeeper, and walked off with quick strides
in the direction of the church. One door stood open, and
he flattered himself that h j could enter unperceived. But
not so: a group of chikh-en seated near the porch were
much disturbed by the unusual event of a total stranger
entering during the progress of the service. There was some
whispering and a little giggling among them, and before
he had found a vacent seat, Amyot felt that the parson in
the pulpit, and the parson's wife seated near the chancel,
had botli discovered his arrival. Almost involuntarily,
Arnold PomfVet had paused, and Joan, from beneath her
closely tied-in hat, had flushed with pleasure, ere,
recovering herself, she cast her eyes on the open Bible
upon her knee, and resumed the appearance of most

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absorbed attention. Aniyot wondered whether she were
really listening, or whether, like liiniself, she had j]frown
used to the dull monotony of sermons, and ceased to
expect any entertainment from tiiem. But, while asking
liimself the question, Amyot found liimself drawn from
the j)leasi!i^ contemi>lation uf the sweet devotional face
under the larj^e sheltering; hat to a more engrossing
consideration of the rather stern face in the puljiit. The
years that had passed since tliey had met had added
much to the gravity and thoughtfulness of Arnold's face,
but his voice had its old sweetness and earnestness,
and Amyot felt its charm as he had done when quite
a child. Was he repeating his text? So it seemed.
Amyot thought he had heard the words before, but knew
not whence they came,

* What doth the Lord require of thee ? Rut few things,
truly. What doth the Almighty request at thy hand ?
Is it thy sheep, thy cow, thy pig, thy farm, thy wife,
thy child ? Nay, not so. These are His gifts to thee —
these and all else that thou boldest dear. These thou
mayest keep. He needeth none. Yet He Jiath need of
somewhat at thy hand, and from His throne in Heaven
He speaks to thee and me — to each one in this village —
and saith, " 1 ask a few things of thee. I say not they are
trifles, I say not they will cost thee nought ; but cost they
little or cost they much, I thy God require them at thy
hand, and naught can I accept in their stead."

'And sayest thou. Who is the Lord, that we should
obey His voice ? Who is this God who demands a gift
from us ? I will answer thee. Nay, I marvel not that
thou shouldst ask. Who is the Lord ? for truly he is a God
who hideth Himself ; and there are those who go forward,
He is not there ; and backward, but they cannot perceiv^e
Him ; to the left hand, but behold Him not ; to the right
hand, but they cannot see Him ; therefore must I strive
to show Him to the eyes which have never seen Him ;

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Affiyol BroitoJi.

28.;

that sceiiip[, they may know ; that knowing, they niay
worship ; and worsliipping may yield lliin the service lie
requires.

' Hut first, I woulu a«k you, open wide tliose eyes lliat
ye may see, else, with all my striving, 1 shall tail to show
Him to ye. Open those eyes as ve walk by the roads,
'neath the blue heavens, and through the fair liekls,
beside the rushing streams, or 'neath the starry sky, and
behold what He hath made.

' Then turn them to thyself, or to the form of thy
brother man, and see again his handicraft. Kail not to
mark the lambs that skip in the fields, the birds that sing
among the b(nighs, the tiny insects fluttering over the
flowers. Each hath He devised and created ; therefore let
thine eyes consider each and all, and then wilt thou know
somewhat of thy God, of His power, His wisdom, and His
goodness. All this thou may'st see, and teach thyself
— this, and much more. But to me it is given to tell
thee more of Him ; to strive to open other eyes than
those which now are fixed on me, and so to guide them
that they may rest, not on me, which were but trouble
lost, but on Him, and that so resting on Him, they may find
the sight so all-entrancing, that they may never loosen
their gaze, but go through life with their eyes set on
their Father and their God.

* Their Father, said I ; yea truly. " Our Father,
which art in heaven," say we daily, and yet if He be a
Father, where is His honour, where is your regard for His
wishes, your thought for His service ! Think but for a
few short minutes of the sights and sounds that meet our
eyes and ears in this our village ; think further of what
we might see by night, did not darkness hide them from
our view, and then ask yourselves how seem such acts in
His sight, who cannot bear to look upon sin, and to whose
eyes the darkness is no darkness at all ? Marvel not,
then, that ye know Him so little, that He hideth His

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284

^ fj2yot Jy roil oh .

face so tliat yc cannot sec Him. Can He, think you,
whose love is vast, boundless, inconiprchensiblc, dwell
with you, yc selfish ones, who love nou,<;ht but your
worthless selves, who p,rind down the poor, and oppress
the fatherless and widow ? Can He, who is the Truth,
enter in and abide where false wei<>hts anil false measures
are permitted, where honesty and truth have tio seti'-'d
d\vellin<4"-place ! Can He, 1 ask a<jjain, whose tenderness
surjnisses a mother's loxe, look with careless eye on you,
who find your sport in tormcntinjjj his dumb creatures,
who cry to Him, and not in vain for venf;eance ? Yes,
brethren, He loveth all His creatures — hope not, dream
not that their j)iteous ^roans, their ag()nisin<;" cries, do not
reach His ears, and will not rouse His wrath. But again,
1 sav, Can the All-Holy dwell with the jirotane, the
profligate, the covetous, the nunderer ! Can He rest
Ixjneath the r(X)f where sin is housed, and cherished, and
tnade much of, and treateil as an honoin'cd guest ? Nay,
ye know He cannot. X'^isit you He may, as of old He
visited the cities of the plain, or Korah, Dcilhan and
Abiram in the wilderness, rushing uj)on }()u in His
wrath, cliastising in His soix' disj)leasure. ]-']\en so He
may visit yen, «i'h1 what will ye say when He aj)peareth ?

'Yet is He still vour i^'ather. It is naught in Him
that scjiarates you from Him. The faidt is yom^s, and
yours alone. Tell me not ye cannot find Him — that ye
long for His j)resencc, but have sought it in vain. Ye are
no true men if tliiis ye sjieak. Cry to Him : Thou art
my h'ather — give Him the tribute that He claimeth, and
sec if He will not manifest Himself to thy siuht. I tell
you He will ; yea, more — I promise you that He will
make such vast discoveries of His wondrous love to you,
that your heart will yearn towards Him, and you will
find yoinselves drawn to surrender to Him your whole
sjiirit, sold, and being.

'But to return : What is it He dotli require of thee?

/Unyot Jh'oiio/i.

28 s

x- .''

Just this — to do justly, love mercy, walk liumbly with
thy (loil. Ahis ! ye say, just the very thiu<>"s I cannot do !
What, do justly when all my neij;"hb()urs do unjustlv?
how then shall I li\e? Must 1 be clieated and detVauded,
and not cheat and ilehaud aj;ain ?
' " lu'en so," saith thy Ciod.

' " Love mercy," thou sayesl ; " what meanelh that ?"
Just this does it mean. Be ye kind, tender-hearted,
lor*»ivin{;" one anotlier, even as Ciod tor Christ's sake hath
t"orj;iven you. " What ! bear with injuries ; let my
nei<;hboin' set my stack on lire, and not tire his? Clothe
him wlun naketl, take of my children's food to nourish
his? — can this be true wistiom ?" 'I'rue, indeetl, since 'I'hy
(jod hath ;u) commanded.

'And once more "Walk humbly with thy (rod."
" Hard a<;ain," 1 liear you murmur, "such dilhcult tasks
doth He set me." What ! hanl to walk with thy (iod ?
Then is it plain to me that thou has tailed to note one
little word, the wliich, if rij^htly uiulerstood, will make
thy walk rioht pleasant ; I said not easy. And this word,
it is but small four letters only luii/i — but 1 |)ray you
mark all that it im))lies. The road ye must walk is, as
percliance ye have heard, and as I jK'rceive ye are well
persuaded, a toilsome ui)-hill path ; yea, 1 will not hide
from you that ye may have to tread it with weary,
bleedint^ feet ; but listen : ye must neeils tread it in
comi)any with the Holy One Hit. self; ye must walk
humbly with your God ; close to His side, watch i no- His
steps, measarinjv yours by His, leaninjv when faint on His
stren<];th, cheered by His kindly converse, aye, and spurred
on by His wise reproot.

' Start on that road alone, tlien indeed will it be weari-
some ; strive to walk in it after your own tashion, and at
your own i)ace, I promise ye many a i)aintul stumble,
many a bitter fall ; choose .some other jvuide, then most
surely will ye lose your way ; but walk with Him, and ye

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Amyot Bro2tgh,

shall fare well — walk humbly, and your journey shall be
right prosperous, and have good success.

' And here I pause amazed. Does He need to bid us
walk humbly with our God? Yea, it would seem He
doth. Then let us question with ourselves what cause
have we to be humble ; and even as I ask the question
there rises before my eyes an awful sight. I see a cross
reared up on high, and on that cross I see One dying in
bitter grief and pain, and I know, and ye know full well,
that it is the Son of God who hangs there, and that but
for my sins and your sins, and the sins of the world He
made. He had never so suffered and so died ; and as I
gaze, 1 wonder and adore. I know now why it behoveth
me to be humble and adore, since He by whose side I
strive to walk is the One who died for me. My brother,
do I hear you speak of hardships ? — nay, check the word
He hears thee — see His thorn-crowned head — wilt thou
^ay He asks too much ? Oh ! behold His pierced side,
His garments red with blood — wilt thou count the road
too steep, the way too long? Nay, hush, for very shame !
He marks thy every sign ; wilt pierce His heart with thy
ingratitude? wilt crucify thy Lord afresh? — rather, I
pray thee, brother, turn thine eyes from thine own
burden and consider His. Yes, consider His — but think
not to measure it or comprehend it. Man knows nothing
of its weight, but little of its nature. It is the guilt of
th'i whole world — of those now living, of those long
passed away — of every land, of every clime ; it is the
guilt of sinners in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America — of
rich and poor, of wise and foolish — it is your guilt, it is
mine.

'See there, where is thy burden? It is laid on Him.
Truly thou hast great reason to walk humbly with thy
God, since He hath lifted thy burden from off thy
shoulders, and now invitest thee to walk with lightsome
steps by His holy side.

!;■ •

Amyot B rough.

287

* What ! complaining still ? What wouldst thou more ?
He will have thee walk, the road He chooses, and it is not
to thy liking. Then, brethren, I give ye up ; ye are well
content that your Saviour should bear the stripes, the
mockery, the cross, in your stead, but ye love Him not :
ye will bear nought — nought for Him, 'Tis base ingrati-
tude, 'tis meanness ! See, your Lord turns sorrowfully
away, and ye will let Him go ?

' Will you ? Nay, not so, surely? Haste after Him,
ere He be gone quite away ; take up thy cross and follow
Him ; cling to the skirt of His robe, and humbly crave
His pard(jn ; search for the prints of His steps, and in
them plant thine own ; then shall the road that seemed
erewhile so painful become pleasant to thy feet, and the
Face that was turned away in grief shall smile upon thee
in tender love, as thou settest thyself to learn thy difficult
lesson — ^to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly
with thy God.'

Arnold Pom fret's voice had ceased, there was a hush in
the church, then some prayers, and the sound of depart-
ing feet, and ere Amyot had awoke from the spell of rapt
attention which the preacher's intense earnestness had
cast upon him, he found the church fast emptying, and
Joan with swift motion making her way towards him.
It was a moment he had long looked forward to, and as
his sister clung to his arm, and clasped his hand in both
hers, while the words, ' Oh, Amyot, brother ! ' broke
from her, he felt himself almost more like a hero returned
from battles won, than merely an officer on short leave
from garrison duty.

' And, oh ! brother, you have come at just the right
moment,' she added, when, her husband having joined
them and added his brotherly greeting to hers, together
they turn d down the churchyard path to the little gate
which led into the rector's garden ; ' for my grandmother
is staying with us, paying her first visit to our home. But
why did you give us no warning of your coming ? '

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288

Aviyot B rough.

' Was there need ? Am I not welcomed well enough ? '
said Amyot, gazing fondly at the sweet placid face up-
turned to his.

Joan was small, and between her tall husband and still
taller brother looked even shorter and slighter than she
really was. Her figure had still its girlish outline, but
Amyot read in the soft blue eyes a wistful expression
which recalled to his memory the words of the landlord
at the inn, and he checked his inclination to mirth, to
ask after the sick child at home.

' He is but sadly,' the young mother replied ; and her
hand sought her husband's arm. ' Dear grandmother re-
mained at the house with him this morning, else should
I not have been in church ; but he is ever quiet, dear
boy, and asks for nothing. How strange it seems that
you have never seen him, and that this is your first visit
to Swinford ! I am glad you have come just now,' she
added the last words after a short pause, and Amyot
caught a tone of deep melancholy in them.

' The cooler weather will bring fresh strength to him,'
Arnold interposed. ' The summer heat has always tried
him ; ' but he too looked sad, and Amyot, who was much
set on enjoying his brief holiday, took up the rCdc of com-
forter, and talked much of the unusual heat, trying even
to strong people, and sure to exhaust the weak.

As they reached the house, Joan hastened forward,
saying :

' We bring you a visitor, dear madam,' and forthwith
she led her brother into a long low room, with a wide
window looking out over the garden, the church tower
and part of the churchyard, where Amyot was welcomed
by Mrs. Darley, cheery and alert as ever.

From her bright face his eye travelled at once to a
little figure lying on a small couch beside the window, to
which Joan had passed immediately she entered the
room. Close beside the child's couch, within reach of his

Amyot B rough.

289

ird,

Kth

the

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small hand, lay Tory, now a very aged dog. He looked
up with a low growl as Amyot approached the couch,
but changed his tone to a plaintive whine, as Amyot
said :

' So this is little Stephen. Has he ever heard of me, I
wonder ? '

A pair of lustrous blue eyes were earnestly scanning
him from among the pillows, and when Joan, smoothing
back the bright hair from the white forehead, kissed it,
saying :

' My boy has heard much of Uncle Amyot — has he
not ? '

The child asked timidly :

' Are you the boy who travelled w'th Tory on the
coach when Tory got so muddy, and was nearly
drowned ? '

' That I am, and no mistake,' said Amyot cheerily.
' Has Tory told you that tale, my little lad ? '

' My mother told me. Tory cannot talk. I wish he
could, and he wishes it too ; but he is growing very old
and sleepy, my mother says, like me. I think I am old
and sleepy too, but not so old as Tory. He was old when
I was born, my mother says.'

' Hush, Stephen, you must not talk so much — here
comes Nanny with our dinner. Brother, let me show you
to your chamber ; you will be glad to wash away the dust
of travel.'

When he returned to the parlour, the cloth was spread,
and the meal only waiting the appearance of the master of
the house. Joan was moving about the room with her
quiet step, helping the maid servant, a rough country lass,
whom Mrs. Darley described as more plague than profit.
As Amyot entered, the little bright head was raised from
the pillow with an eager look, then sank back disappointed,
as the child said :

'1 wish father would come.' - ,

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Amyot Brough.

'He will come soon, little son/ said Joan. 'Why so
impatient, Stephen ? '

' I have something to ask him,' the child said wearily.
' I wish he would come.'

' Here he is,' Joan said ; ' but little ones must not
speak unless they are spoken to, and your father is tired,
Stephen.'

' Joan,' said Mrs. Darley, ' check not the child, I pray
you. We have spoken of nought else the whole morning.
I beg you let his mind be set at ease.'

'What is it?' said Mr. Pomfret, as he took his place at
the table. ' Whose mind is ill at ease ? '

' 'Tis the child,' Joan replied. ' He has something to
ask his father, and being sick, we all humour him.'

Arnold went towards the window and stooped over his
child, whose arms were raised to clasp his neck. A deep
blush mounted to the pale little face, as, in answer to his
father's inquiry, ' Well, little man, what is it ? ' he asked
imploringly :

* Please, father, did you 'member to tell them ? Tory
and I want to know.'

' To tell them what ? '

* What you promised. Did you tell the people in
church that God loves the doggies, and won't have them
hurt?'

' Yes, yes, my child ; I told them, and I will tell them
again. Don't fret yourself about those poor dogs any
more.'

The child was laid tenderly back on his pillows, but
still, half crying, as he laid his little hot hand on Tory's
head, repeating, ' Father did tell them, Tory. I said he
would ; ' and Tory responded by licking the little hand he
loved so well.

' What does it mean ? ' Amyot inquired in a low voice,
as his brother-in-law returned to the table, and Arnold
said ;

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* It was a horrid piece of cruelty which Stephen chanced
to witness in the village the last time he went out — two
dogs terribly ill-used. He came home in great distress,
and Tory sat and whined in sympathy. Then he extracted
from me the promise that I would speak to the people
about it. I hoped the child had forgotten about it. Let
us try, at least, to do so now.'

He led the conversation on to other topics, and Joan
forgot her constant anxiety in the interest of listening to
her brother's anecdotes of his friends and way of life.
When the meal was over, Mr. Pomfret disappeared, and
Mrs. Darley, who had been joining less than was her wont
in the conversation, pointed to a seat by her side, and bade
Amyot leave his sister to tend her child, and come and
talk with her.

' And so thou hast been in many places since last we
met, grandson,' she said ; ' Dover, Exeter, and now
Winchester, I think thou saidst. But thou hast found a
guiding star, if I mistake not. Dost know how oft one
name is in thy mouth, Amyot ? '

' Nay, is it ? I did not think of that, though Jack
Pownal for ever rails at me for talking of none else. I
felt my tongue free to-day, as he was not here to listen.'

' Indeed, I ever thought well of young Wolfe, and am
glad to find that he befriends thee. Do all young men
speak of him as thou dost ? '
Amyot considered a moment.

' There never was an officer more popular than James
Wolfe, madam ; yet since he is a sworn foe to licence of
all kinds, he must needs make enemies at times. Yet
does he give himself much trouble to win friends. At
Exeter he was indefatigable in kis attendance at balls and
routs, the which he does not fancy, because he would win
over the Jacobite ladies thereabouts, and truly he suc-
ceeded. We officers won golden opinions in that city.'
' I have heard his mother say he loves not cards not

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dancing,' Mrs. Darley rejoined. ' Once the old lady was
much incensed because she thought he meant to condemn
her card-playing, and he had some difficulty in appeasing
her. I met him with his parents at Bath two years ago,
and liked him nmch ; he i^ a wondrous dutiful son. It is
a pity his health is so bad, for his parents are so strong
and hearty, it is difficult to credit it that he is truly their
son. He has a notion he shall not live long, has he not,
grandson Amyot ? '

' Once I heard him say that, being not likely to live as
long as other men, he was solicitous to be of service to his
country as soon as might be. But he has marvellous good
spirits, which make one forget his bad health. Truly, I
hope he will live long yet.'

' Mrs. Wolfe is anxious about him at times. She read
portions of his letters to me, and in one he said that a few
years more or less could make little difference, and there-
fore he had no need to lament that he was somewhat
nearer his end than most men. He said, moreover, that
he thought and s'loke on these matters without being at
all moved. Then, doubtless guessing that his mother
would judge him subject to melancholy, he added, " It is
not the vapours, but a desire that I have to be familiar
with those ideas which frighten and terrify the half of
mankind that makes me speak upon the subject of my
dissolution." It is well for a soldier that he be thus
able to think of death calmly beforehand, grandson
Amyot.'

' It is, truly, madam.'

' It is comfortable to think that thou hast fallen into
such hands,' the old lady continued. ' And now must I
go and prepare myself for the service in the church, and
in the evening I have a few words to say to thee on
another matter. We will take a turn in the garden when
it is cool.'

The rectory garden was a peculiarly shady spot» Large,

Aniyot B rough.

293

thickly-foliaged trees abounded, and the evergreens had
been allowed to run wild.

' The rector/ Mrs. Darley grimly said, * was so concerned
about the weeds in other people's gardens, that he had not
marked how much cutting and pruning were needed in
his own.'

' Yet these shady walks are very pleasant,' Amyot
replied as, leaning on his strong arm, the old lady paced
the garden towards sunset.

' Pleasant — yes, once in a while ; but by-and-by will I
make the parson hear reason. He shall cut down half
his trees, and lop his evergreens, and drain that sloping
meadow behind the house ; else will I carry Joan away,
and leave him to die by himself.'

' To die ? '

'Yes, to die, Amyot. Are you blind, too? Can you
not see the reason of the child's ague fits? Ay, I was
a fool to trust a parson. I should have come to see for
myself years ago ; then might the child have been
saved.'

' Poor little Stephen ! Is there no hope for him then ?
I thought he had been ill, but was recovering.'

' Recovering ! You thought so because Arnold talks of
the benefit the cooler weather is to bring. Listen. I
came here because Joan's letters made me anxious, and I
fully meant to carry her and the child away to Westerham,
where, as I thought, he would soon rally and grow strong ;
but when I saw him I said nothing about Westerham,
Amyot Brough.'

' You think him so ill, madam ? '

*' 111 ? The child is dying, and the father shuts his
eyes ; and the mother — well, I do not say how much she
sees, but she does not know how near her trouble is.'

* Poor Joan ! ' said her brother tenderly; 'Her one child.
How will she bear it ? '

* As she beareth all things. She has a wondrous store

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of faith. But I am glad that thou art here, Amyot ; thou
wilt help her.'

'I? No, grandmother; I have little skill in com-
forting.'

' We will sec, we will see. T am glad thou art grown
so humble.'

'And is it really so? Must little Stephen die?'

' Ay, truly ; and the child knows it.'

61 j;
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CHAPTER XXIII.

|:!ffj

rONCKRNlNG THK KNDING OF A SHORT lAVK.

Should I tell him ? Did my grandmother^ mean that ? '
Amyot asked himself, as day after day passed, and he
walked or rode by Arnold's side about the country lanes,
and ever noticed how, in all allusions to his child, Mr.
Pomfret spoke of him as certain to grow stronger when
the cooler weather came.

But it was hard to say the words which seemed so cruel,
and he kept silence, and tried to fancy that the father
might be right. Yet his eyes told him the old lady had
spoken truly, and it was no surprise to him when, return-
ing one evening with Arnold from a long ride to a distant
farmhouse, they were greeted by Joan with the words :

* Little Stephen is so weary and restless that I have
put him in his crib, and sent to ask the surgeon if he can
do aught to soothe him ; and yet, though he could not
rest on his couch, he did not like to go to bed — said it
was so early, and the night would be so long, and he
longed to say his prayer with father.'

' I will go and look at him,' said Arnold ; and Amyot
followed with his arm around his sister.

Mrs. Darley was sitting beside the little crib.

* Something has happened,' said Joan fearfully, as she
drew near the little bed. ' He did not look like that a
few minutes ago. Grandmother, what is it ? Shall I
open the window wide ? He looks faint. Or shall I lift
him up?'

' Nay, nay ; let him lie still. Thou canst do no more

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for him, Joan ; it will soon be past. Tlic Slicplioril is
tender with llie lambs, I Mate thy little one in His arms,
and take thine own away '

' Yes, better so,' said Arnold.

But the surprise had overwhelmed him, and his strong
frame was bowed and shook with agony ; he hitl his face
with his arms, that he mij^ht iiot see his child ilie. 'i'he
young mother, with white lips but tearless e)es, watched
to the end ; and when the last faint breath was drawn,
the last kiss given, it was her hand that smoothed the
pillow, and laid the little golden head gently down again.

Then, with a glance at her husband's bowed form, she
turned, and burying her face on her brother's breast,
moaned, ' I have given him to Thee, and I ivill not wish
him back,' she quietly let Amyot lead her from the room.

Why tell of the hours that followed ? It is an oft-told
tale. Why tell of the waking to life again the next
morning? Who does not know the flood of misery that
surges in and fills the bereaved heart in the first moments
of a new day, when the remembrance of the still form in
the other room creeps in and shuts out all other thoughts,
till the cry of the heart bursts forth, ' Why have 1 had
such joy, if it were to be withdrawn?' Why dwell on
this ? Such griefs have alwa3's wrought the same question-
ing, the same longings. We feel them now as others felt
them a hundred or a thousand years ago.

It was in the afternoon of the next day that Amyot,
having relieved his brother-in-law of all the painful
business connected with the funeral of little Stephen, was
returning to the rectory by one of the shady paths which
led through the long garden, when, somewhat to his
dismay, he overtook Arnold pacing to and fro, and to all
appearance sunk in melanch'^ly. Never perfectly at his
ease with his brother-in-law, Amyot would willingly
have avoided him as much as possible in this time of

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trouble ; but tbis was not in his power, as Arnold bail
beanl bis step, and turned round to meet bin\.

Tbuy spoke for a few moments in low, siul tones of tbe
matters concerning wbicb Amyot bad been occujiied.
Arnold expressed bis gratitude, and tben a silence fell on
botb. Tbey were nearing tbe bouse wben Amyot spoke
afruin.

' Tbere is anotber tbinj; wbicb I bepf you will let me do
for you. I would bave seen to it to-ilay, but dared not
witbout your permission. Let me go to one of your
neighbours among tbe clergy to-morrow, and request bini
to read tbe service for you. You cannot do tbat yourself
Only tell me wbom you would bave, and I "ill settle it.'

' Tbere is no one,' said Arnold. ' I can do tbat nmcb
myself.'

'No, but wbcrefore? It must needs be bard. Surely
there is some one who would oblige you ?'

Artiold shook his bead.

' It is no part of my Wv^rk 10 speak ill of my brother
clergy,' he said. ' Yet, since you urge it, Amyot, 1 must
needs say that there is no one within many miles who
might not vex us more by coming than by staying away.
Surely you take my meaning?'

' Is it so, truly ? I know you parsons are a fine set, but
it will fall hard on you tc read the service. Let me do it
for you ! '

'No, no,' said Arnold, half smiling at the suggestion.
' Everything will be hard — for a time at least ; but the
thought of this does not oppress me.*

' It falls harder on you than on my sister — at least, so it
seems to me,' Amyot replied.

' I doubt tbat it does that,' Arnold answered gloomily.
' Yet she has nought to reproach herself with, while I '

' You ! Well, what ? You did not see that it was
coming. That was no fault, surely, Arnold ! '

' No, no ; you mistake me. But can you not see ? My

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wife utters no complaint — she is quiet, as is her wont —
but her eyes are full of reproach whenever she turns them
on me. I can scarce bear to look at her.'

' Arnold Ponifret ! ' exclaimed Amyot indignantly,
* what do you mean ? My sister reproach you for her
trouble! Wherefore? Was he not yours as well as hers?'

' Ay, am I likely to forget that ? But I see you do not
know that two years back my wife prayed me earnestly,
for the sake of the child, to give up this parish, and take
another then offered in an eastern county. The doctor
had told her it was doubtful if he could be reared in this
place.'

* And you would not ,0?'

' It seemed to me that a man should not be for ever
changing from ])lace to place.'

'1 understand,' said Amyot, gravely. 'And you think
my sister reproaches you now the child is dead. But let
me tell you, Arnold, in that you wrong her. 1 know her
better than you, it seems, and I vow she has no thought
of the kind.'

' It would scarce be possible for her to feel otherwise,'
Arnold asserted. ' She can hardly tolerate her husband
when she sees he has robbed her of her child.'

' Arc you always thus morbid, and given to self-con-
demnation — sure that all misfortunes are your own fault,
Pomfret ? I thought such was a woman's fashion — not a

man's.'

' Be it a virtue or a vice, man's or woman's way, I
would not shut my eyes to my own selfishness,' answered
Arnold wearily. ' But do not speak of this to Joan,
Amyot ; it might vex her to see that I bad read her
thoughts — nought can change the past. '

' Nought indeed ! / seldom think about the past.
But the present might be made more comfortable. Where
are you going — to write your sermon for next Sunday ?
Nay, don't set your mind to that just now. Preach the

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299

her

same over again that you gave last Sunday. That's the
way we drill, and after a few years' saying the same thing
over and over again, the thick-heads take it in. We
never trouble to change a word.'

' Good for the learners no doubt, but scarce wholesome
for the teachers,' Arnold replied, as he j)arted from his
brother, and went into the house ; while Amyot con-
tinued his walk up and down for a while, saying :

' A strange fellow ; thinks too much about what is
wholesome and good and right. But as to Joan, I wonder
where she is.' And, not apt to delay carrying out an
idea, he walked into the parlou where Mrs. Darley sat
alone, saying : ' Do you know, madam, where I shall find
my sister ? '

' Canst thou not guess ? In the little room yonder ;
they have laid the child in his coffin, and she is there
beside him. Are you going to her ? Well, she has been
there too long by far.'

And the next minute Joan, kneeling beside the little
coflSn with her eyes set on the sweet pale face, felt an arm
about her, and, turning, saw Amyot's face, wet with most
unusual emotion, bending over her. The tears of strong
men are painful to behold, and Joan's fell fast at the sight,
but she rose and clung to him, saying :

' Have I been too long here ? Did you want me ? It
was hard to come away.'

' Yes, I want you much ; but there is one who wants
you more.'

' Arnold ? ' said Joan tremulously. * Is it wrong ? I am
afraid to be with him ; his grief is terrible. Men love so
differently from women.'

' Joan, we have no secrets, you and I ; so I must tell
you something. He, too, fears to meet you, because he
thinks you reproach him for this,' and he laid his hand
upon the little coffin.

Joan started back amazed.

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' Yes, sweet sister, so he thinks ; ever fearful that he is
not what he should be, he thinks he has been cruel to you
and yours.'

' Where is he, Amyot ? '

* In his room, among his books.'

And while Amyot reverently covered the little face,
and tenderly arranged the white roses that Joan had
dropped into the coffin, she left his side, and passed with
trembling footsteps to her husband's room, where sat
Arnold with his head bowed upon his handb, and neither
book nor paper before him.

He started up as her soft step fell on his ear, and came
towards her, murmuring something about Amyot ; and
she, looking up at him beseechingly, while the tears still
stood in her eyes, answered :

' Yes ; Amyot told me. I am glad he did. My best
and dearest, our love-token is in safer keeping than ours.
But the love remains, does it not ? Ay ! it seems to me
it must needs grow stronger than ever, since our Lord
hath taken the dear pledge thereof, and laid it up among
his jewels. My husband, is it not so ? '

' Indeed, I would fain hope it might yet be so if '

' Sure there can be no doubt,' Joan pursued, with
feverish earnestness. ' My husband, believe me, I do not
say it to comfort you, but never once, since the day you
refused my wish, has the black thought you dream of
crossed my mind ; no, nor shall it ever. You best know
your duty ; your wife is yours, and she can trust you.'

'Amyot should not have told you,' Arnold answered,
with a troubled voice, but the cloud on his brow was
somewhat less ; still Joan was not satisfied.

' Say that you believe me, Arnold,' she urged ; * truly,
there is no bitterness in my sorrow — it is only a heart-
ache, a longing, a yearning for my little lamb, my sweet
darling ! ' she sobbed ; ' but to dream for one moment that
anyone was to blame, and you, of all others '

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still

' Hush, Joan ! I did but judge you according to what
seemed likely, my wife ; and now I cannot but believe
that which is so pleasant to me ; but had I ever thought
of what the end would be, I know not what I should have
judged to be my duty ; but I was blind, and now, as I
look back, it seems to me I would not see.'

Joan made no reply ; her earnestness had well-nigh
exhausted her. She scarcely seemed to notice Arnold's
last remark, or to have any power to speak again. After
a while she asked :

' Are you busy, Arnold ; shall I hinder you if I stay
here? I cannot meet my grandmother just now, and my
brother has seen enough of our sorrow for the present.'

' But there is no couch for you here, and you should
rest, else should I be most glad to have you ; stay, I will
devise something. My own, I am but a rough husband
to you, still I am grieved that my blundering words
should have added to your pain.'

She raised her eyes, heavy with weeping, to his face,
and tried to smile as she whispered :

' There are pains which are not all painful ; I am glad
I came to you — we are best together now ; nay, do not
trouble to speak to me, or if you will, repeat those ever
blessed words, " The Lord is my Shepherd, therefore
shall I lack nothing"— but not if it troubles you.'

The days went but slowly in that sad household, and
again and again Amyot reflected how different a holiday
this was to the one his fancy had pictured ; yet with an
unselfishness very unlike his former self, he rejoiced that
matters had so fallen out that he could be with his sister
in her sorrow. He saw that after the first few days were
past, it was good for her to have someone to consider
besides her usual household.

' I verily believe they would have no meals at all, if
courtesy towards you madam, and myself did not compel

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them,' he remarked ope day to Mrs. Darley, and the old
lady agreed with a sigh.

Real sorrow, and sorrow which in her view might have
been averted, was very depressing to the kind old lady,
and Amyot, who knew how bitterly Arnold was suffering
from self-reproach, and was anxious to spare him further
pain, had much difficulty in defending him from some of
her more severe speeches.

She longed to make him see his duty she said. She
must speak before she left Swinford, or her next visit
would be to see Joan laid in her grave : ' They should
either leave the place, or make it entirely different ; but
that priest sees nothing but his books, and people's unclean
hearts ; nay, Amyot, I will not be checked — he shall be
made to see their filthy houses, and driven to teach them
to drain off the stagnant water that breeds this horrid
ague and fever ; and if he won't trouble to chop and hew
down the trees that shut in this house, I'll get a hatchet
myself and set to work.'

' Dear madam, let me speak to him.'

' You ! — do you think he will attend to you ? '

* Let me at least try.'

* Well, try, if you will, and when you have finished
your say, he will begin to talk about the beauties of
nature, and the refreshment of green to the eyes, and so
forth ; I know him, obstinate as can well be, and Joan
humours him.'

' My sister is a very happy wife, madam,' Amyot
replied, ' and till this sad bereavement few women have
been happier.'

' Did I ever say she was not happy ? Grandson Amyot,
thy imagination is over-busy. It is her nature to worship
her husband; often have I wondered why your marriage
service doth oblige the husband to profess he worships his
wife^ when it is most clearly the wife that for the most
part performs that duty ; but Joan, I say, being devout

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by nature, worships her husband, and if he wills that she
be choked by trees crowding up the windows, or be slowly
killed by rheumatism or ague springing from the mirshes
and dews, she will say it is well, and that never woman
was so blessed as she. But, if you are a man, Amyot, you
will stand by your sister, and teach your brother-in-law
that things temporal are not wholly to be despised.'

' I will try, assuredly, madam, but I pray you vex him
no more than you can help ; he has reproached himself
much for blindness in the matter of the child, and I care
not to speak too plainly just at present.'

' Reproach* himself ! Does he truly ? ' The old lady's
voice softened at once. ' Ay, it was a dear lamb. Poor
Tory misses him, but not as I had feared. He is getting
very old, and doubtless thinks the child is away. Joan
was mindful to keep him from discovering the real truth,
else I doubt not the poor beast's heart would have
broken. Now he sniffs about, and then comes and lies
down at my feet ? His sight is almost gone, it seems.
Well, Amyot, since Arnold's eyes are opened, I will leav^e
you to deal with him, but do it before you leave. Your
time, you say, will expire next week,'

' Yes ; I must go for a time to London, and my leave
will come to an end in a month. I must see my uncle
and aunt and friends in town.'

Mrs. Darley gazed at him over her spectacles.

' And the young lady of whom Joan speaks ! Is she
still the object of thy devotion ? '

Amyot reddened. ' She has no thought of me,' he said,
' yet I can think of none other.'

' A luckless state of things ! How long is it since you
met?'

' Two years now. I spent a few days in town two years
ago, and saw her several times ; but her mother told me,
in her presence, that whenj her betrothed Lance returned,
they would surely be married, and she did not say other-

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wise ; but she laughed, and said that roAen was a long time
coming, not, I thought, as if it grieved her much.'

' And the mother? Joan spoke much of her ill-health.'

' She seemed quieter, and more like her old self when I
saw them last. Primrose said she was better.'

' And this fancy of thy sister, by which she would
provide a father for thy love, what thinkest thou of
that ? '

' Primrose took no account of it ; said the portrait of
her father, as drawn by my sister, was not enticing, and
so I said little about it.'

'Well ! and when thou goest to London next week,
thou wilt still hover round this girl as a moth round the
flame. Thy passion, it seems, is not very devouring; it
is a wonder thou art so constant. If I might counsel
thee — but in these days young men brooK no advice — I
would say : speak thy whole mind to the girl ; find out
whether or no she cares for the rebel Lance Kirkbride,
and decide thy case one way or other.'

' If it were not that I feared to have it decided against
me, I should have done this long ago, madam.'

' I see ! thou art waiting -n hopes some bullet may find
thy rival, and then thou wilt take the forlorn damsel to
thy heart and comfort her. The notion does not please
me, Amyot Brough ; it is scarce soldier-like in my
thinking.'

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CHAPTER XXIV.

r) i

IX WHICH A SKCKKT COMKS TO I.KIHT.

A fp:w days later, and Amyot was in London, pondering
much and constantly on his grandmother's ad\'ice, also
wondering whether by any means he could induce Mrs.
Kirkbride to listen to a proposal conveyed in a message
wherewith Joan had charged him.

The evening before his departure from Swinford she
had spoken to him of Primrose, putting aside for the time
her grief, and had expressed an earnest wish that Mrs.
Kirkbride and, Primrose might be persuaded to pay her a
visit in her home. * Tell Primrose,' she said, 'how lonely
I am, and how I feel I have nothing to do, and that when
my grandmother is gone it will be worse. Tell Mrs.
Kirkbride, also, what a kindness I should feel it if they
would but come, and see if you cannot persuade them,
Amyot. Then, if I have her to myself, I shall be able to
find out how the matter stands between her and Lar.ce,
and whether or no she wishes to be bound.'

With this message, and his grandmother's advice full in
his mind, Amyot lost no time, after arriving in London,
in seeking his old haunt in Drury Lane. Mrs. Kirkbride
was not within.

' She finds the air does her much good, and walking

also, so she goes abroad twice or thrice a day,' Primrose
said, after the first greetings were over. ' You are a very
faithful friend. Lieutenant Brough. Did you say you only
arrived in London last night ? '

' Late last night,' Amyot replied ; ' but seeing that I

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. Imyo/ Jiroui^li.

am such an old tiicnd, and, as you are pleased to say, so
faithful, surely you might call me by my Christian name,
as when we were cliildren.'

' i\av, 1 always called you Master Brough then, except
sometimes, when I forgot my manners. I pray you let
me keej) what small remnant I may retain in this lonely
j)lace ; it is but seldom I !ieed to speak at all except to
mother, and 1 must needs be careful lest I forget all
proprieties.'

' Small fear of that,' said Amyot ; ' but how does this
dull life suit you ? You find no fairies here, I warrant.'

' Ay, but I could if I looked for them,' said Primrose,
merrily. * Still, at my age one is apt to forget the fairies,
or, maybe, call them by other names.'

' What names ? '

' There is one good fairy whom I have christened Joan ;
she sends me marvellously delightsome baskets, with all
manner of country dainties ; and another whom I respect
too greatly to name, who has a trick of bestowing
books on me, which are much valued in this dull room.
There is another that writes monstrous pretty letters, full
of silly nothings, yet they do us good, for they force us to
lnugh when over-grave.'

' And have you no name for this foolish fairy ? '

' In my own mind, maybe ; but you, Lieutenant
Brough, care not for fairies, and so I will not introduce
you.'

' Yet I brought a message from one of these fairies,'
Amyot replied ; and then he delivered his sister's
message, telling in a few sentences of her bereavement,
and her longing for Primrose's society, adding, ' 'J'he
people there are all rough farmer folk, kind and good; but
Joan has none to talk to her in a fashion to cheer
her sadness. Oh ! Primro'^e, I wish that you could go !'

Primrose's bright eyes ..ad filled with tears as he spoke
of little Stephen.

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307

lines,
ster's
ment,
'The
; but
Icheer
o!'
spoke

' It would indeed be pleasant,' siie said ; 'but I doubt if
mother will eonsent. I liked your sister more than I ean
tell when she eame here, and slic wrote me many
pleasant notes since that day, which make me lonp;
to know her better. I*^ must be pleasant to have a
sister ! '

' Your brothers,' said Amyot, ' have you heard of
them ? And, Miss Primrose, if it be not too pre-
sumptuous, may I seek to know whether the old scheme
Cv)ncerning you and Lance, to which your mother makes
such frequent reference, is like to come to pass ? '

He tried to speak carelessly, and Primrose, shaking off
the sadness that had seized her while listening to his
story of little Stephen's death, flashed a merry glance at
him as she replied :

' Who but you would venture to doubt such a
story ? have you not heard it all your life ? '

' So long, that I am beginning to think it but a nurserv
tale.'

' What I when you have it on such authority as my
mother's ? '

' Your mother, or rather Lance's mother, wishes it I
make no doubt. My doubt was whether you also
wished it.'

Primrose dropped her eyes demurely ; then, raising
them again, and looking gravely in his face, she
inquired :

' Have you any reason, sir, for thinking I should be
inclined to recall my pledge, or in any way fail of my
duty ? '

' No, truly ; but; '

' But what 1 A well-behaved maiden will make it her
pleasure to fulfil her destiny, and mine has long been
revealed to me, as you know well.'

' True ; but Lance is slow in claiming his bride.'
She threw her head back.

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'And what of that, sir ? His bride is not pining tor
him ; she is in no haste to give up her freedom.'

' Oh, Primrose ! tell me. are you really betrothed to him,
or was it merely chilli's pla\', wiiich neither of you hold>
binding ? '

'Have I not answered you, sir? I have long been
betrothed to Lance Kirkbride. Now is your curio>ity
satisfied ? '

' Not entirely,' Amyot confessed. ' Yet 1 fear you will
not let your old playfellow press you further, else would I
gladly hear whether you truly care for him.'

' Care for him ! Oh, to be sure ! We have loved each
other all our lives, and never made any secret of it.
Truly, as you say, 1 have not seen him for so long that I
have almost forgotten what he is like ; but that will make
the meeting, when it does come to pass, all the pleasanter.
I love change and variety — the more, 1 suppose, because 1
have so little of it.'

' Primrose, I cannot tell whether or not you are in
earnest !'

' Never mind, it is of small importance. Tell me now
with whom you are staying in London — with your brave
soldier-cousin and his handsome wife, or at your uncle's
hor -.e ? '

' Last night I lodged at an inn, to-night I shall take up
my abode, by invitation, at my uncle's ; but why do
you speak of my cousin — ha\'e you any acquaintance
with him ? '

'In truth, more than I desire. How he came to know
of my existence I cannot tell ; but one day he called here,
professing to have a message from his sister-in-law, Mrs.
Arnold Pomfret, and insisted on seeing me ; and with
him came a very fine gentleman called Captain Solmes.
But, as neither of them was entirely sober, my mother
was much disturbed at their visit, and blamed me much
for some want of discretion which had brought upon her

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309

such an aimoyiiiicc. It you could prevail upon y<»in*
cousin not to conic again, ycni would do us great service,
Lieutenant Hrough.'

'What could have brought them?' exclaimed Amyot.
'Can Arnold liave questioned his brother concerning this
Captain Solmes, and by so doing have excited his
curiosity?'

' It i^ possible, for your cousin questioned me with
much unnecessary freedom about my history ; whereupon
1 told him that I remembered nothing about it, and could
not j)recisely see how it could concern him — a stranger.
Captain Solmes said nothing, but sat and ogled me like a
baboon. I trust they will never come again.'

'Guy will not be hindered by aught that I might say,'
Amyot replied ; 'yet I will speak to him, if you wish it.'

' If you meet him do, I Jiray you ; but 1 would not have
you seek such undesirable society on my account. How
unlike he is to his brother !'

As fate would have it, Amyot was destined very soon
to meet his cousin (juy : having dined with his uncle and
aunt in Queen's Square that evening, and having had the
honour of attending his aunt to the theatre in Drury
Lane to witness the performance of Mr. Garrick, she
poured forth to him all her trouble with regard to her
unworthy son, who, on account of his low marriage and
profligate habits, was utterly forbidden to show himself in
his father's presence, and was, she feared, at that moment
in actual want of money.

' Such a prodigious uncomfortable state to be in,' she
lamented ; ' and poor Guy likes everything of the best-
good wines, good cooking, and everything in good taste.
It is hard for him, poor fellow I but his father has no
heart, and as for his brother, 1 am out of all patience with
him. Guy says It is long since he had n sixpence from
him, and he a clergyman ! '

Amyot was sorry ; but what could he do?

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' Well, I (lou'l a>k j'ou to Iciul liini anytliin^. because
Mr. I*onifrel would he au^rv it I sujL![);estecl anylliiuj; of
tlie kind ; bul I have a small sum that I can spare, and I
nuist send it to him by some sale liaiul by some one
who will deliver it to (luy himself, not to tliat ba^^a^e
his wife, who certainly shall never have a farthinjj; from
tne. Xow, my dear nephew, will vou take it for me?
the chariot could lea\'e )'ou at hi> door as we dri\'e
home.'

Amyot would gladly have been spared the task ; but
not liking to ofTend his aimt, whom he could not help
pitying, when the play was ended, he agreed to perform
her errand.

It was indeed a prodigious uncomfortable state in which
he found his cousin. He and his constant comjKinion,
Captain Solmes, had been passing a merry evening to-
gether, while Mrs. (luy had been absent accompanying
some friends to Bagnigge Wells ; she had just returned
home when Amyot was introduced into their midst, and
having met with some cause of irritation while abroad,
was relieving her feelings in loud tones when the guest
came upon the scene, (iuy and his friend were lounging
over their wine and dice, and with them also something
had gone awrv.

' 1 swear it is I ' 'I swear it's not I ' — with many loud
thumps upon the table and many big oaths — greeted
Amyot's ear as he mounted the stairs, assuring himself
that he would stay but one minute, l ..". then flee the din
and uproar, however uncousinly such conduct might seem.
But he had no such chance. As he entered the room,
Mrs. Gay, frantic that her husband would pay no atten-
tion to a long story which she was bent upon pouring
forth, had made a savage attack upon him, and threatened
serious damage to his handsome face with her nails, if he
would not there and then give heed to what she had to
say ; while, on the other hand. Captain Solmes, equally

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l)ent on >c'Uliii^ lii> ili>})ute, \vii> uiulcciik-d wlK-tlicr to
siilc with the ciuuj;ul -.vit'c, or wait to >cl' iIk- conjuj^al
tray over, before be^iimiiig on lii^ own account.

' He is a tieiul a brute ot a busbaiul I ( )h ! thai I had
never inarrieil him I ' said Mr^. (luy, j^rintliu); her teeth
as slie |)ieked lierself up troni the lieartliru^. wliere her
hu^balul, uitli one turn of tlie wrist liail hiiil her ; 'but I
will have the law of liiin- I will indeed I \'ou, sir,'
turning to Ainyot, 'will bear witness liow he maltreats
me ? '

' No, indeed,' said Amyot curtly. 'Guy, your nuUher
sent you this. Can I speak a wonl with vou in j)rivate ?
I have a messaj^e '

'Hear, hear! — secrets from his wife! Xo, sir, you
camiot see him in private. Si)eak your messajre here.'

'Wry well,' said Amyot, interrupting Guy, who was
about to sj)eak ; it does not matter ; I can speak it here if
necessary. It was to you, Guy — and you, captain. I was
visiting my old friends, iMrs. anil Miss Kirkbride, this
morning, and was desired to mention to you that they
wish to live quietly, and receive no visitors. Vou under-
stand, no doubt, and will not call again.'

And he was turning to go, when (luy shouted :

' Stop ; you don't understand. Captain Solmes con>ider>
Miss Kirkbride his cousin, and therefore camiot stand on
such ceremonies. You are her cousin, are you not, Solmes ?
I understood you to say so. Her guardian, I suj)pose, you
miglit call yourself if you chose ? '

' But I don't ; because the thing not being certain, it is
more convenient to say nothing about it. You're a tool,
(hiy, to let the cat out of the bag.'

' Well, that's all. Now, good-night, gentlemen ! ' And
Amyot rushed away, saying to himself: 'They're both
tipsy. To-morrow Captain Solmes will vow he knows
nothing about Miss Kirkbride. 1 wonder what's become
of her father ? '

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Hut llio morrow brouulU fuller inlonnalion than

Aniyot could liavc ever antieijiatetl.

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about, beinsj; an uujileasant e])is(Hle, sliall be told as briefly
a> may be.

The ijuarrel wliieb Amyol bail iiiterru])ted, beintj;
resumeil a< soon as ojiportunity was ,t;i\en, eonlinued lor
auolber b(»ur or more, occasion ins;' mucb screaminj;' on tbe
))art of tbe lady, and many ilee}) oatbs between tbe men.
'rbe\' ])arted tor tbe ni^bt, but in tbe early morninjjj (ruy
and Captain Solmes met by a<;reement at a quiet place some-
wbere near tbe (ireen Park. Cajitain wSolmes tell, and (iliy
disapjieared, and was not beartl oi a,u;ain tor some years.
Tbe woumletl man was carried 'M)me anil died a tew
bours after, br\in_o' in tbe jiresence of a lawyer ami
surgeon — confessed tbat lie believeil Miss Kirkbriile, tlien
lixinj;' in Drury Lane, to be tbe cliild of bis late cousin ;
wliicli cbild bad been lost bv bim and by a Frencb nurse
Felicite. now Mrs. (niy Pomfret — somewbcre in tbe neigli-
bourbooil of Penritb se\enteen x'cars before. P'urtber
particulars be ,u,a\e ; and added tbat be bad seen tbe
younj;" lad v. and was well satisfied tbat sbe was Rose
Solmes, tbe dauu,bter of bis cousin, beins; tbe \ery ima^e
of tbat cousin, and, as far as be could remember, like tbe
cbild wlu) bad been lost. Tberefore, to sa\e all trou!)le
and furtber inquiry, be made a will, leavint;" to lier wbat
remained of tbe property be bad inberited on tbe deatb of
lier fatber two years before. 'And about balf-an-bour
afterwarils lie died." said tbe lawyer wbo brougbt tbe news
to tbe bouse in Queen's Square ; ' and your son, Mr. Pom-
fret, bas taken bimself out of tbe country, I bear.'

' I trust be will never come back,' tbat 5]^entleman
replied.

' Tbis property of Captain Solmes's,' continued tbe
lawyer, ' is of small account. It was wortb a considerable
amount in tbe lifetime of bis cousin, but tbis young
captain lias run tbroui;b an immensity of money, and I

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cloubL Avlicthcr the yoi^inR lady's inheritance will be of any
real v.'ilue. You, sir, I belie\'e, can furnish me with her
address.'

'My nejihew knows it,' said Mr. PondVet ; and Aniyot,
who was present, innnediately wrote it down.

The lawyer then bowed anil retired,

iMr. PondVet b- njan to pace tiie room.

' Who is to ted your p(jor aiuit this storv ? ' he said.
' She dotes on Guy still.'

' Tell her lie has ^one abroad. Why say any more ? '

'She will hear it from someone else, but I cannot hel|>
tliaL- — I shall not tell her. Fortunately we seldom men-
tion him, so she will not suspect that I know much
about his j)roceedin^s. This story about hVlicitc will
keep that woman quiet, I should hojie, else should 1 have
her for ever at the door, clamouring to be suppt)rted
durinp; her liusband's absence.'

' 1 wonder if Prinn'ose has any remembrance of her
nurse ? '

'Primrose — is that what you call ner ? Is it true,
Amyot, that you have a fancy for this girl ? Your aunt
has some such notion.'

' I have loved her for years, sir, but she c.u'es nothing
for me.'

' Ha ! is it so ? Then, my boy, think of something
else ; these hopeless love-affairs are like a ^tone round a
man's neck.'

' \Ve are like to have something else to think about —
we soldiers, 1 inean,' said Amyot, trying to speak lightly.
' Have you heard the news this morning, sir, from
.America ? I was about to tell you when that lawyer was
announced. Braddock is defeated and killed by an onset
of Indians in a wood. The story is that his men fled like
sheep, the ofTicers alone standing their ground — twenty-
six of them were slain ; so that \.> the end of our hopes
of him.'

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A my of Ih'oui^h.

'The Froncli will be well coiitotil with that scrap of
news ; it will console them lor our various pieces ol luck
by sea. Someone said the other ilay that we ha\e as
many as three thousand I^'rench prisoners in Kn,i;land,
taken from various ships. Pirates they call us.'

'The pai)ers are full (^f rumours of invasion; \ast
quantities of Mat-bottomed boats at Dunkirk ; sixteen
thousand men assembled there ; but America, and our
bounileries there, is the jioinl to be settled. It is time
somethinjj^ was done lo i)rove our ri*;hts.'

' Vou are tired of beint;- out of work, I see. Well, the
storm is brewing; — it will break before lonj; ; and Marshal
Sa.xe is deatl, as Mrs. Darley oft remarks. She thinks it
has been altogether most prudent of us to keep the peace
vmtil he was safely bestowed with his fathers. Hut if
your love be not agreeable to you. 1 do not wonder ihat
you long to be doing ; there is nothing like a war to put
such cobwebs out of l)ie brain.'

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IN UMKll W !•: MAKI-: Ml T SMAI.I. I'KCHi K IISS.

\l ■!

C\\AV'V\'A< XXV.

' And ilo I rciill\' sec you once a^aiii, oh, IVictul hclo\'C(l I
and do yon conic to heal tlic sores of my broken heart ?'
was Jack Pownal's ^reetii.g to Aniyot, wlier. the hitter
returned to his duty, and met his friend cominj^ ofl'
])araile. ' ^^)u fnul us all sitting in the dust, and tearinj^
our h.air. Have you no halm for oiu* woimds, you who
arrive fr(>m the centre of life and acti\'ity ? 'I'ell us, oh,
tell us some f^ood news ! '

' Why, what ails you, .lack ? you look well enough,
and the colonel reported well of all, when I saw him just
now. He is much disgusted with this business of (ieneral
Hraddock's, as of course e\erybody must be.'

' Hut without doubt that is what I mean. Must we
not wail and lament, and hang our heads to think that
our men can run like cats from a handfid of wild savages?
'^'igure to yourself how the Frenchmen are mocking at us,
and the King, they say, must send for some beggarly
Hessians and Hanoverians to jirotect us from these same
frog-eating dandies. It is a shame, a villain shame ! — I
shall die of it ! '

' No, Jack, thai 's scarce worth while. If these fellows
come over in their Hat-bottomed tubs, whereof it is said
they are building a \ast ninnber, we shall ha\e a chance
of paying the debt ; for it is they that taught the >avages
that trick, and the thought of it must needs make our
men fight, if they have a chance.'

' 1 doubt it. We should all save ourselves, and entreat

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. h//vo/ !■> roil nil.

Messieurs the Hessians to defend us. What has eome
t)\'er our people, Aniyot ? What fiend possesses them,
that they should be such dastards ? '

'Ask. Colonel Wolfe that question — he will ^ive you a
plain answer, I'll warrant you.'

'Rut, yes, that will he, without iloubt. We have had
nuich discourse on that head, and some sharp dealing'
with some youngsters who pretended illness, for to be
excused from duty — a conduct very reprehensible, I do
not doubt, especially when others are the criminals ; but
when it is only myself, 1 do not see it so bad.'

' What do you mean. Jack ? You shammed sickness,
and wherefore ? '

' Now see how, my friend, he fires at me ! Yes, truly,
I did sham — made pretence to be very ill, when it was
a nothing ; and the colonel ! but do not speak of it.
Tridy, 1 have had a singing in my ears ever since I
departed from his presence on that unhappy day.'

' Serve you right. But what say the men here about
the invasion — will it really come to pass ? '

' Who can say? You, who come from London, should
surely know. Are the people in great terror and desolation
there, or do they laugh and bet, and drink and swear, and
run away with other people's wi\es, as they had the
habitude to do?"

' Much the same as formerly. I told you in my letter
about my Cousin Guy.'

' Yes, it is just the same as 1 have always expected, but
he has not completed yet ; he will do more mischief
before he dies. He is a villain by nature, he can never
come to good.'

' And 1 told you about Solmes "> '

' Yes, and the fair Primrose ; but you never told me
how the beauty received the tidings that she was an
heiress.'

' Just as one might expect : laughed to think that she

. Imyol Ih'ouoli.

317

could have a right to any money, looked miserable when
she heard of her cousin's melancholy end, hut soon forgot
everything else in the jov of thinking that she coidd
now make her mother more comfortable.'

' And you ! Has she no thought of bestowing herself
and Solmes's money on her constant adorer ! No ; you
shake the head. Then it is im])ossible for you to deny
that there is no hope for you. You must give up your
folly.'

' Never ! Jack.'

' Well, then, one can no more call you a man of sense ;
but it is enough — converse of something more agreeable.
Tell me of madam vour sister and her solemn husband.
It is a pity the boy died. We might have made a soldier
of him, unless the parson thinks it wicked to hate the
French.'

Amyot's face grew grave, he could not jest about little
Stephen. And Jack, kind-hearted and true, ha.stened to
say, ' Pardon, I am a fool. You were there when th.c
child died, and I can well divine how sad would be your
sister. But that will pass. And I have heard the parsons
say, that those who have sent their children on before
them, are more ready to go when their own time comes.
Your brother-in-law — cousin, you used to name him — is
he the same as ever, or has he taken up the ways more
common with his cloth ? Docs he run the roads after
the hounds, drink in the alehouses, bet upon cocks,
gamble and swear, as the most of them do ? '

' Not he, indeed ! yet he gave me to understand that
for miles around there were none but parsons of that sort.
Some call him a Methodist. I scarce know what that
means, but he has great esteem for some divitie whom he
met in Yorkshire, the same that you and I once heard
preaching on a hill, Jack. Mad Grimshaw they called
him. Arnold says he learned many a thing from him.'

' We liked the fellow, if I remember right. He took

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t^ood aim, and went straight at the mark, and his words
rang in the ears just as the colonel's do.'

It was some months later, in the spring of 1756, that
a move of the regiment gave Amyot the unexpected
pleasure of spending a few hours with his friends at
Westerham. Marching with his men along a dirty
he found himself suddenly accosted by the colonel.

' We are near some old haunts of yours, Lieutenant
Brougii. J am about to pay a passing visit to my old

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t;ARI)EN CI' SnUERRIKS COURI.

friends at Squerrics Court, and you, if you will, have the
same opportunity to pay your respects to Mrs. Darley, if
she be at Westerham.'

Gladly availing himself of the chance thus afforded,
Amyot soon found himself in the old familiar village
street. They passed the house where Wolfe's childhood
had been spent, at which the young officer gazed, saying
sadly, ' It is always of Ned that I think as I pass that
place ; ' then through the village, and following the road

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that
road

beside the river, Amyot parted tVoni his superior as they
chx'W near to Squerries, and repaired to Mrs. Darley's
abode. As he rang and knocked, there was a sound of
pleased excitement within, and the door was thrown oj)en
by Joan, who exclaimed, ' I saw you from my chamber
window, at which I was sitting, thinking of you. Oh I
brother, this is a glad surprise ! '

* And to me, indeed,' said Amyot. ' I did not know
that you were here. How and why did you come ? '

' Come into the house, and I will tell you. My grand-
mother is in the garden, but she will be here immediately.
I came last week, and why, because my husband would
have it. The house needs some alterations for the sake of
health, and he would have me away, though, as you will
guess, 1 saw no reason why.'

' A lucky chance for me.'

'And brother, while we are alone, let me tell you that
you will find Primrose also here. I have prevailed on
her to visit me at this house, with my grandmother's
j)ermission, since she will not come to mine. She is now
in the garden with my grandmother, who has found out
many points in which her education has been neglected.
You know what that means.'

* It means that Primrose pleases the old lady. Joan,
tell me, before I meet her, what think you — ha\'e I any
chance of winning her, even yet ? '

Joan shook her head. ' I cannot tell ; she is so merry
that 1 can seldom guess whether she is in jest or earnest ;
one thing I know : she never hears from Lance Kirkbride,
which seems to prove him no ardent lover.'

' And what says my grandmother ? '

' She says but few words on the matter, but they are
always the same : " Amyot is a fool ; " but she makes no
note or comment on her text, and 1 am slow of comprehen-
sion. But, hush ! I hear my grandmother's step.'

' And so the village is invaded ; have the French

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320

Amyot Broui^li,

arrived, and do they come straight to me, not knowing
whether I am French or English ? Truly, it is an
awkward case, for I know not myself. Oh ! it is only that
young giant ; then are the troops right English, and not
like to do much damage. Primrose, child, you need not
run away ; it is an old friend of yours, a soldier, but not
given to desperate deeds of valour.'

And Primrose came in ; she had started back at the
sight of a stranger, fearing to intrude. She looked lovelier
than ever, her eyes dancing with pleasure at the return to
life and freedom which this visit to the country seemed to
her ; her graceful figure set off by more trim attire than
when last Amyot saw her, her bearing full of natural
dignity, yet something rustic in its friendliness.

She gave her hand with perfect unconcern to Amyot,
and taking up Mrs. Barley's tone of raillery, jested with
him as in her childish days of mirth and fun, while Joan,
listening, said to herself, ' She cannot care for him : no
maiden would thus receive a man whom she loved. He
is right ; she looks upon him but as an old playfellow.'

'Joan, thy brother is doubtless starving. I pray thee
run to the kitchen, and bid them serv'e the dinner as soon
as may be. Nay, Primrose, sit down. Joan knows the
ways of the house better than you, and, though a married
woman, disdains not to do my bidding. It is most com-
fortable to have her here. I wish I had stopped that
foolish scheme of marriage. But, Amyot Rrough, have
you left any of your brother officers starving in the roads ?
— it would be but common humanity to fetch them in ;
starving men cannot fight, and it would be unseemly to
fail to feed our gallant defendi^rs.'

Amyot replied that all were cared for in the village or
the neighbourhood, and the old lady continued :

' That is well ; we are scarce provisioned to feed an
army, and a British one too ; they are wont to consume
much roast beef, and I have no ox to slay. My country-

Aviyoi BroiK^h,

321

1
to

an
ime

rv-

nien, if they come, will be more readily entertained, which
is a comfortable reflection, seeing that we live not so very
distant from the coast.'

' Xay, madam, I pray you, feed no Frenchmen if they

come.

' Not feed my own people ? what brutality ! Hear the
3'ouns; islander ! I, sir, am neutral, most entirely neutral.
I will feed both — the beef for the English, and the salads
for the French, provided they do not come at the same
time, which is a thought which has not a little disturbed
my dreams of late.'

' And what do you propose to do in such a case ? for if
the French should visit Westerham, I make no doubt the
British would be at their heels.'

' Think you so ? Do you yet believe in the prowess of
your nation ? You are still over-confident, Amyot Brough,
and have some lessons left to learn.'

' Many, I doubt not, madam ; it was in search of some
lessons of politeness that I came, having been much
debarred from ladies' society of late.'

' Art beginning to be sensible of thy deficiencies ? Thy
aunt will be greatly encouraged concerning thee ; Joan,
we shall yet be able to speak well of that brother of
thine. What ! dinner is served ? I am right glad to
hear it.'

Before he brought his brief visit to a close, Amyot drew
his sister into the garden, sweet with the scent of may,
narcissus, and all spring flowers, and cheerful with the
songs of many birds, saying, 'I want a few quiet words,
sweet sister, before I go. Who knows when we may meet
again ? '

' You look to be ordered abroad,' she said in a faltering
voice.

' Yes, now war is declared ; but it may be some time
yet. Joan, you will take good care of yourself. I do not
Hke to see you so pale and thin.'

•1M

;

i" ■

322

/Imvol Ih'OUQ-h.

11^

'So Arnold said ; hut I am better, inarvi Ilously better,
since I came here, thoiijjjh I care not to confess it to him,
lest he should kee]> me lonj; in banishment. It is pleasant
to be onlered about and scolded a^ain — bidden to sit up-
ri,<;"ht, antl chilled for melancholy looks ; it is jileasant anil
very wholi some ; ' and Joan lau;;heil a low sad lau^h as
she jiianeed towards the window where sat the silver-
haired old lady as strai<;ht as a dart, in spite of her
seventy years.

' Poor little sister ! who could chide you for sad
looks ? not my grandmother, truly.'

' Yes ; but in her own merry way, which lea\'es no
soreness. It does me ^ood ; my husband had spoiled me,
as would you too, Amyot. Even now you are leading
me to speak of myself — the most foolish thing a woman
can do. 'I'ell me, rather, what do you think of Primrose?
Does she not look well? '

' Lovelier than ever,' Amyot replied, but with his heail
averted ; and Joan saw j^lainly that his hopes had
received no encouragement from what had passed that
day. 'Write to me of her, Joan,' he said at length, ' and
if by word or look she makes any discovery of her mind,
1 pray you, do not fail to let me know.'

Joan promised, and with many fond words the brother
and sister parted.

' Mrs. Pomfret,' remarked Primrose suddenly one day,
' I am strongly inclined to try to persuade my mother
to allow me to rent that little cottage by the river which
we noticed in our walk yesterday ; the air here is so
sweet and balmy, she would be another woman if she
would but leave the town and come hither. What say
you to my scheme ? '

' That it is greatly to my liking, and my gi'andmother
too will be charmed to have Mrs. Kirkbride for a neigh-
bour ; but. Primrose, call me by my name, I pray — for my
brother's sake, who has known you so long, call me Joan.'

jttcr,
liiin,
asiuit
I up-
l ami
oil as
.ilvcr-
f her

acl

'cs no
id me,
.'ading
^oman
nrosc ?

s head
s had
d that
, ' and
mind,

)rother

ic day,

Inothcr

which

is so

if she

at say

pother
neigh-

Ifor my
Joan.'

Amyot Brotigh.

Z^l

' T have long calicvl you so in my 'choughts ; but what
do you think : shall 1 ever induce my inothcr to li.slcn lo
my request ? '

' Surely you might persuade her ; but it will, I suppose.
Ix; but tor a short time. When Mr. Lance Kirk bride
comes home, you will, I imagine, be wedded ? '

' Oh ! that *' when he comes hon-ie " has been so often
>aid that I have ceased to think about it ! ' Primrose
replied carelessly.

' And ceased to think about being v.edded ? ' Joati asked.

' Mother always says that a young girl should not be
ever thinking about marriage,' Prinn'ose replied, dropj)ing
the long lashes o\er her beautiful eyes ; ' and, indeed,
I know not that 1 care to be wedded.'

' I'hen you do not care for your betrothed husband,'
Joan said, with the authority of a young wife ; and the
girl replied :

' Do 1 not ? Oh ! yes, we are \ery fond of each other, or
we were in the happy days so long ago.'

' You were a child then ; is there no one else you like
as well, or even better? '

'Who could there be?' said Primrose, looking suddenly
at Joan's quiet face.

' Nay, dear, it seemed to me you might like many
people as well, without loving them at all in the sense
that a wife should love a husband.'

Primrose was silent ; at last she said :

' When Lance comes home it will be time enough to
consider the matter ; he wrote word to mother a month
ago that he hoped to go to Canada before long. He is
now an officer in the French army ; but that is a secret —
we do not speak of it, you know.'

' An officer in the French army and going to Canada !
Then will he no dou' t be fighting against his own
countrymen. Primrose. I pray you, do not think of
marrying this man.'

: ; ! .■

'TT',

ill

! '

1 1'! ' i

J '

Si I

r 6i

^1 pi

■f to

i 11

324

Amyol Jiroiio/i.

Primrose lauftlicil.

* Ho lias already fouj^lit a<jaiiist rur armies in Fiaiulers ;
you forget, dear Joan, how embittered he was by the
matter of Prince CharHe. Kuf^laiid will ne\er a};ain
be home to him, much as my mother liopes and prays
that he may return.'

' \h)V your sake 1 trust he never will/ Joan replied ; and
Primrose added :

' 1 have small hopes that he will, but should he ever
ha\'e a settled home, my mother says that we will go
to him.'

' And will you ? '

' Truly I do not know.'

' No, dear brother,' wrote Joan a few days later ; ' I
have nothing to tell you. That she loves him greatly
it were folly to imagine, yet, having a certain liking
for him, and holding herself to be betrothed, she may,
and I fear she will, entirely decline your suit. To see
how she was inclined towards you, I talked at some
length about you ; she listened with kind attention,
as indeed she would do if I discoursed about my pigs
or bees, or household matters, but showed no special
interest. Then I tried another device — spoke of your
faults, regretted this in you, and blamed that ; but still
she was not to be surprised into expressing any like or
dislike. Once only was I rendered something uncomfort-
able by observing her stealing a perplexed inquiring look
at me from under those lovely eyelashes of hers, as if
she would say, " Why all this talk about your brother ? "
and then I stopped confused. In truth, I am much
ashamed of my ill success, but my husband ever tells
me that I am a bad schemer ; had you set my grand-
mother the task, it vould have suited her far better.
She thinks you an arrant coward, and says if Admiral
Byng has no more daring than you, the Due de Richelieu
will assuredly have Minorca. I spake of prudence to

i?)iyoi Jh'OJt^i^h,

325

Icrs ;
' tlie

prays

; and

ever
ill go

;r ; 'I

;reatly

liking

I may,

To see

some

ntion,

y pis^
[special

(f your
t still
ike or
imfort-
£r look
as if
:her ? "
much
;r tells
grand-
better,
.dmiral
:helieu
Ince to

her, and of the reward oft granted to long cojistancy ;
but she rappcil my hand willi her tan, and bade me
not try to teach my grandmother ; said she was tireil
of the \vhf)le business, anil was delermineil either to make
or mar it. Hut do not be alarmed at this her threat ; siie
changed her mind soon alter, and said soldiers had no
need of wives, and that you might play the laggard
as long as you pleased. She is a dear old lady, and
wondrous good to me. I tell my husband that thanks
to her schooling, his wife hopes to return to him stronger
in health and braver in spirit, for truly low sj)irits find
no tolerance in her house ; yet am I somewhat glad that
I was sulTered to have Arnold's tender care in the first
months of my sore trouble.'

i«l

.] I

aPHHiBi

MHMalWi

ihi

r
1^.

J '•'>>f

i
1.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONCERXIXG A SUDDEN VISIT TO DRURY LANE.

' Primrose, child, where is that letter going ? You have
grown monurous fond of vour pen since your visit to
\V esterham ; surely Mrs. Arnold Pomfret is not so eager
for your letters as you would fain imagine.'

' I am not writing now to Mrs. Arnold Pomfret,
mother ; but to the kind old lady, Mrs. Darley, who told
me that she would settle the matter of the little cottage
for us, if I could persuade you to make trial of the place.
I was writing to say that, out of kindness to me, you
had consented.'

' Did I say so ? Well, if it must be, it must. I am
better here, and, for some causes, I doubt not, you, too,
are in greater safety here ; but since you pine so for
country air, I will go, if you are set upon it. I trust your
new friends are as truly desirous to have you near them
as you have persuaded yourself.'

' It is my way to believe what people sa}^ to me.
Mother, you could not fail to believe Mrs. Arnold Pomfret,
did you know her.'

' Has she no end to servo ? Well, it matters nothing.
I have said I will go, for a while at least. Though how
to let your brothers know whither we have fled I do not
see. It is long since I knew where to write to Lance and
Jasper, and as for Percy, though young Brough did say
he had gone to America, I much doubt whether he was
not mistaken. Shall I ever see my sons again ? '

' Dear mother, yes. It cannot be that Lance will not

1,1

III

Amyot Brotigh.

327

I am

too,
50 for
your
hem

11 not

return some day. He was a good son to yoi^i in years
gone by — Jasper and Percy wv^re less thoughtful, I used
to think.'

' These wars !' sighed the poor stricken woman. * Can
Lance ever show his face in F^ngland again, having served
against the English troops? Yet 1 do not blame him —
what could he do ?'

' I wish he had chosen any other course of life. Listen
to those songs and shouts below, mother. Only hear
what they are selling now ; that is a new cry, '' Britain in
Tears : a Rueful Story ; " and there's another, " The
Devil's Dance, set to French Music." What can that
mean, I wonder ? The old man downstairs says that the
admiral is burnt in eP-gy in ev^ery city in the kingdom,
and that ali the places of any consequence are entreating
the King to show 'lim no mercy. What will be the end
of it all ? At Portsmouth, he says, it was hard to prevent
the mob from tearing him in pieces. Those savage cries
make me cold all over ! Do they not prove how bitter is
the feeling, at this time, of Englishmen against the
French ? It is a grievous cri'-'-.c, truly, to have failed to
save one small island from falling into their hands. It
would fare ill with the poor admiral could these savage
people but get him into their clutches. Would he not be
torn to piece^i, surely, mother ?'

' It is spite, and rage, and disappointment, ay ! and
jealousy, as it seems to me. I pray you shut the window,
Primrose, though it is stifling hot I am wearied to death
of those songs and shouts.'

Primrose obeyed. Then, returning to her let'er,
finished it and closed it, and soon resumed her coi;-
versation.

' Mother, that wretched woman came again to-day
while you were out. It will be a happiness to be freed from
her importunities by leaving this place, for I am half
afraid of her, her tongue and her temper are so terrifying.'

Ml-

'i\-'

!•

•ymm

HI'

328

Aviyot D rough.

¥i\ i

Mil,

I ' ■ r '

si;;

I,,),'

' Bctrrrins'; fij^ain ? And what did you say, Primrose?
That she liad no elaini on you, but much the reverse ?
That did she get her deserts it -would be hanging, aiul
nothing less ? Woman are hanged every day for a less
crime.'

' She has no fear of any ?uch fate, but holds herself
much ill-used because she is deprived of the money which
she often obtained from Captain Solmes by threatening
to tell the tale. It is her right, she says ; and by some
strange arguments she has persuaded herself that as I
have come into possession of the remnant of his money, I
am bound to do by her as he wao wont to do ; though, as she
knows well, 1 have no secret to keep,'

' She will drive you to reveal her secret for her. Have
you told her so ?'

' No, indeed ; she never leaves me time to speak, but
nrms and rages about her wrongs, her widowhood, as
she calls it, ingratitude, and so forth ; says she is starving
— though while she has so many fine clothes to sell there
can be small need for her to die of hunger. She is sure
that if I would, I could tell her where her husband is, for
do I not know his brother and sister-in-law ? '' that
proud, cold miss," as she always calls sweet Joan. I told
her to-day that Mrs. Arnold Pomf et never named her
brother-in-law, and that I much doubted whether either
her husband or his father knew where he was ; but she
did not listen. She is a terrible woman, and her tongue
is fearful.'

' If she is starving she should seek help from her
father-in-law.

' That she did once, but was straightway turned out of
the house — that is another matter for her fury. Truly,
Captain Guy Pomfret was much to be pitied. He must
be greatly rejoiced to be freed from her tongue. Much
of her time and breath was spent to-day in telling me
how much better I should have been trained had I

Ilii

Amyot B rough.

329

her

)ut of

>uly,

must

[Much

Ig me

lad I

continued under her care, and how much she re<;Tetted
the part she |)hiyed seventeen years ago ; but Captain
Solmes, she says, was urgent, and half promised to marry
her i; she would do his bidding. But that promise he
quite forgot, as indeed was natural, though she deemed it
most extraordinary.'

' She must needs be many years older than her husband,'
said Mrs. Kirkbride. What a misfortune for his parents,
as well as himself ?'

' Dear mother,' said Primrose, suddenly changing the
subject, 'you will not venture out this evening with that
heavy cold upon you. I will go and fetch the things we
need, and be back with all speed. The evenings are so
long and light now, you will not fear to let me go.'

Mrs. Kirkbride made some demur. The streets were
much beset with noisy passengers, the popular disturbance
and discontent concerning the ill-success of Atlmiral
Byng's Minoica expedition had brought some additional
tumult and mobbing, and Primrose's was not a face to
pass unnoticed. Yet, as the girl laughed at her fears, and
said it would be broad daylight for long yet, she let her
go, only bidding her return with all speed.

It was a still summer evening — no air was stirring, the
sky was misty, and the sunset red and angry ; but, tired
of long confinement to the house. Primrose's spirits rose
the instant she was in the open air, and her feet scarcely
touched the ground as she sped along. Was it wrong to
make the walk a little longer than needful — to run down
and take a peep at the sunset lights over the river, and
gaze longingly at the tall masts, and wish that Fortune
had made her a boy, that she might know something of
travel and adventure and foreign lands ? Was it wrong
to hate the thought of turning homeward to that dull
room, where nothing ever came to break the dreary
monotony of life, into which the light of heaven so
seldom came, and where it had of late been so dilBcult to

iii

' i

i!;i

330

Amyot Broiigh.

^»

■ I
II

■I

be cheerful and good-tempered ? Was it wrong ? And
this question suggested another : Why was it now so hard
to be merry as of old ? What did she want that she had
not got ? Surely some good fortune had befallen her
which she had not expected ; why, then, was her content-
ment less? Primrose could not answer her own question,
except by confessing something to herself to which, for
months past, she had been striving to blind herself, inas-
much as such confession seemed to her to imply a great
failure of duty, a change of purpose most humiliating and
perplexing.

' If Joan had been anyone else, I would have told her
all about it,' she was saying to herself, when a sudden
decrease of brightness in the sky made her awake to the
consciousness that the daylight was waning, and she must
hasten home. At the same instant, another and more
unpleasing consciousness forced itself upon her : more
than once that evening had she instinctively drawn her
hood close to screen herself from too familiar glances ; but
they had been directed by casual passers-by, who turned
and stared for a moment after the slight tripping figure,
and then went their way, and thought no more about her.
But now she had a strong impression that the stare which
was calling the blushes to her cheek, and quickening to
agony the beating of her heart, was not the mere passing
gaze of curiosity : something told her that those bold
eyes had been watching her long, and that the tall figure
wrapped in a long cloak, which was drawing nearer to
her, was the same which had passed her several times
before in that evening's walk.

Clearly the individual must have gone past, and returned
on his steps merely for the purpose of meeting and
annoying her. She tried to think, in her alarm, where
she had first noticed the strange man, and it seemed to
her that when she left her own door, he was standing
opposite the house ; he must have followed her, and yet

Ifl:

!t!

'I,

Amyot Brough.

ing to
Lssing
bold
[figure
•er to
[times

Urned
and
Ivhere
kd to
iding
yet

she remembered that shortly afterwards she had met him
face to face. He must hav^e passed her, gone on, and
returned on his steps to stare anew. Again, on leaving a
shop, she was conscious that he had passed once more, so
as almost to touch her as she emerged from the doorway,
and now, as she roused herself from her reverie, and set
out on her return home, here he was again close on her
footsteps. ' Does he mean to rob me ? he looks bad
enough for anything,' she said to herself, as she tried to
outstrip him, but felt his stride keeping steady pace with
hers. ' I will let him pass ; how fast it grows dark, and
how he strides along ! I shall drop in a minute, unless
he passes me.'

But her tormentor had no such intention. Reaching
the corner of Drury Lane, there was some interval in the
passing of foot passengers, and a long step or two brought
him close on her heels. She started on one side, but
found her hand roughly grasped, and a harsh voice close
to her ear, saying, ' How now, pretty one ! — whither
away so fast ? A word with you, if you please. What !
you will have nought to say to me. Nay, but you shall ! '
for Primrose had wrenched her hand from his hold, and,
always fleet of foot, had darted off at full speed, determined
to rid herself of her pursuer.

She had but a few yards to run ere she was at home.
The door stood open. Surely he would not enter. What
strange audacity ! He was following her into the very
house, mounting the stairs behind her — up, up, to the
very top. Alarmed, yet exulting in the thought that she
was safe, feeling confident that he would not venture to
follow her much farther, she struggled up the last few
steps, and sank half fainting into the nearest seat, as Mrs.
Kirkbride, who had been dozing in the fading light, started
up in amazement at her strangely sudden entrance.

The light was too nearly gone for her to be able to see
clearly the girl's terrified and pallid countenance, but she

1)1 I

5?,

•i
ii ■

if:

i ; ' il

332

A7nyot Brongh.

could discern a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway ;
and, ever ready to take alarm, she doubted not that
Prinn'ose had been savagely attacked, and had but just
struggled liome to die in her arms. But before she had
time for question or though*:, before her lips could utter
one word, the intruder was in the room, advancing with
the utmost coohicss towards her, and Primrose, scarcely
in possession of her senses, panting and panic struck,
caught the sound of the harsh voice which had so terrified
her HI the street below, saying, in somewhat subdued
accents, ' Hulloa, mother, we have met at last ! '

Then there was a passionate cry, succeeded by the
sound of sobs, as Mrs. Kirkbride flung herself into her
son's arms, and laughed and cried alternately.

'Is it Jasper or Lance?' thought Primrose. 'Oh,
surely not Lance ! ' But the mother and son were en-
grossed with e.-^ch other, and for some minutes neither
thought of her.

' I had been watching the house for some time, being
unwilling to knock or ring, or call anyone to the door,
when the little one came out,' said the new comer at last,
'and thi'n I watched her till her errands were done, and
followed her home. I knew her at once, but she, it
seems, did not recognise me. Hey, Primrose ! hast
forgotten thine old lover, and found thyself a beau in
merry London ? '

' Fie ! Primrose, for shame ! not to know Lance,' said
the glad mother. ' I truly thought some great mischance
had befallen, when you came rushing in as if a wolf had
been at your heels. Have you still no welcome for your
old friend ? '

' He frightened me,' said Primrose, as she let her hand
be grasped by Lance, but drew back from the closer
embrace which he attempted, curtsying wuth quiet dignity,
and then retreating to some distance ; while Mrs.
Kirkbride, surveying her with some displeasure, said :

Ainyot B rough.

00,

being
door,
t last,

and
e, it

hast
;au in

,' said
:hance
)lf had
your

hand
closer
g"ity,
Mrs.
11:

* A poor welcome, indq/jd ! '

Lance laughed a loud, harsh laugh, as, fixing his dark
eyes with a bold stare on her blushing face, he said :

'You were right, mother; she has grown di\'i'^i'ly
beautiful. But a little more light would give us all a
better chance of admiring one another. Do you live in
the dark?'

Primrose silently lit the small oil lamp, conscious that
all the while those dark eyes were watching her, and
feeling little rleasure in the thought. This done, she
took her seam, and sat down in a dark corner to sew,
while Mrs. Kirkbride watched, and Lance stared.

' I've been long in coming, did you say, mother ? '
Lance remarked, when, after some silence, Mrs. Kirkbride
had made this very natural obser\-ation. * Ay, to be
sure ; but there was little to bring me. England is
nothing to me now. I've no country, no home — why,
therefore, should I come ? '

' Why ? Well, you have a mother, and '

' A betrothed wife, you would say. True, and for
their sakes I have madethis venture, and in busy London,
perchance, I run no great risk, though I have grown to
look like a Frenchman, and the people are mad enough
to hang a man for bearing such a resemblance. Rut my
stay will be short ; and before anyone shall have had
time to ask me questions, I shall be gone. Two matters
I have to settle, and then oflf I go ; and I care not if I
never see England again.'

' And whither are you going ? '

' To America. You must know, mother, that I am now
an officer in the French army. Nay, don't look so
alarmed — surely I may speak it here ? Primrose will not
betray me — and I go to Canada to serve under the
Marquis de Montcalm, recently dispatched thither. You
have no such leader in England ; he will settle the matter
of these British traders, and drive them a 11 out of Canada,

r '

It;
ii:

■A

»■«,:

334

Arnyot BrongiL

as JasjiLT lulls mc is like to happen in India; and Enfjflaiid
will lose her footinjjf in both lands, and ^o down, down —
as she richly deserves to do ! Traitor to her rightful
Kinji^, she will never prosper ! '

'Lance, I like not such talk,' said Mrs. Kirkbride,
glancing timidly around ; ' walls have ears.'

Lance laughed, and nuittered under his breath :
' Revenge is wiiat 1 want — revenge on this Hanovi.rian
brood lor CuUoden, and we shall have it ! Minorca is
lost to them : let them gnash their teeth, and shoot or
hang their admiral! We will laugh at them, and say:
" While v<'U send out such incajiables, our affairs are sure
to go well ! Find a Montcalm for Kngiand, if you want
to kecj) your foreign ])oss<.'<.sions ; out that, I warrant, you
cannot do." '

' Lance, you terrify me ! ' said his mother again.
But he paid no heed to her remonstrance, farther than
to droj") his voice as he ))onred forth a flood of deep curses
and saxage imprecations on his native land, its King and
his Ministers. Suddmlv he looked up. Primrose's bright
eyes were flashing in her dark corner, and her lips had
parted as if to speak ; but as his eyes met hers, she
droj^ped her herid and said nothing.

He paused ; and she began folding up her work with
feverish haste, saying it was time to set the supper, and
hastily left the room.

Then Lance rose, and, drawing near to his mother, said
in a low voice :

' I came because you bid me, mother — in no small haste
and w ith no small difficulty ; but she gives me but a cold
welctune. Think you there is no fear that she will refuse
to marry me ? '

* Refuse ? She cannot. ?he has all along known you -re
to be her husband ; never once have J i^ermitted another
thought to enter her head. I sent for you in haste, because
I feared that other thoughts might intrude if you delayed

/"^

Aniyoi Brono/i.

335

laste

cold

:fuse

Li -re
)ther
ause
ayeJ

much longer; but as yet no harm has happened. Marry
her at oncv : anil when you will, she anil 1 will follow you
to Canada.'

' When that will be, I cannot tell. But T thought you
named or hinted at someone who had become too j)Ieasant
to my boimy bride. If she will not marry me, I may
have an account to settle with him too. Who is it ? '

' Nay, 1 named no one. Marry her at once, and all will
be well.

' When you will, so she wil! have me.'

'She will ha\'e you. T ha\'e no fear for that. Come
again early to-morrow, and 1 will tell you when and how.
But, hush ! here she comes ! What was the other matter
which brou,t;ht you to England just now ? You said you
had two things that claimed your attention ? '

* The seconil was of no <;reat imjiortance, bein<; but to
deliver up certain pieces of property belont;in<^ to an
ac({uaintance of mine, who has recently died, to a brother
of his, and to make his death known to his relatives. It
is no very pleasing task ; and had I not promised, I should
gladly have forgotten the circumstance. To-morrow I
must seek out the man and tell the tale, which is some-
what ugly.'

' Do you know where to find his friends ? '

' Yes. I have an address ; poor silly fool ! he blew his
brains out because the fates were against him ; nought
went well with him, he said. I bid him wait, told him
the tide would change ; but he had no patience ; must go
and see what the other world would do for him ; was
tired of this.

Lance rattled on, mingling with his talk many coarse
oaths and foreign expressions, which made his mother
shrink into herself and grow silent. And ever and anon
he returned to his favourite topic — abuse of England, and
everything English ; longing to see her trampled upon,
scorned and despised, as she deserved to be.

! ■in

336

A?nyot Broui^h,

,:;.»

„!■;
■ ^t
Hi

if"

A))ji.'irciitly he was well content to have the talk to
hiniselt, and scarcely noticed the silence of his companions,
except to laii^h at his mother's fears, or to inquire of
I*rimrose now and then why she would not smile upon
him after his lon^ ahsence.

At length he departed, sayinj,^ he had a cjuiet haunt of
his own where he should lodge, but they would sec him
again in the morning.

Primrose breathed more freely when his step no longer
soundeil on the stair.

'Mother/ she exclaimed, 'with such a tongue in his
head. Lance can never be safe in Kngland.'

' He will not stay long,' Mrs. Kirkbritle replied. ' I
am doomed to be separated from my children, and indeed
I cannot wish him to stay : it is plain enough Kngland is
nothing t(j him. It will soon be nothing to me either !
Once 1 thought I could never leave my home in the
North : I have been uprooted, and now I shall think it
a good wind that blows me across the Atlantic ; for if
Lance settles there, and has a home and family, life may
begin again for me too '

' Lance will never settle; he goes to America to follow
his trade ; when the war is over, he will be away some-
where else.

' So he does not intend ; he would fain marry, and as
soon as he sees a chance, his wife and mother sh(ndd follow
him to Canada : so he told me in his last letter, and it is
in furtherance of this plan that he has come to England.'

Primrose coloured slightly, then turned pale, as she
replied :

' Such a man as Lance has L.ecome should not marry,
at least, so it seems to me, unless it be one of those women
of whom he spoke so lightly.'

' Primrose you are not used to soldiers' talk. Lance
meant no harm ; he has grown rough and boisterous, I
grant it, but his heart is steadfast : and since you must

ill!

A myot lU'oiigh,

111

his

larry,
lomen

^ance

)US, I

1 must

tiL'ccls know it without loss of time, this journey to Kiiglaiui
is for the very purpose of weddiuj; you.'

I^rimrose started back ; then, recovering herself with an
elTort, she said :

' iMother, you must tell him it cannot be ; but, surely,
he must see for himself that 1 am not the wife for him.
Oh ! mother, you mu^t be mistaken ; he does not, surely,
mean it ! '

' What else should he mean ? Has he not called you
his wife ever since you were children ? Have you not
laughed and jested together about it .'' Have you not told
others that you were betrothed to him ? And now, when
he comes at the risk of his life (for may he not be seized
as a French s})y 'i) to wed you, you say " It cannot be ;
and he does not mean it." '

The young girl drooj)ed under this reproach, and, making
no reply, Mrs. Kirkbride went (;n :

' He was pained at your treatment of him, but I assured
him you had no thought but to marry him ; for 1 judged
you would most certainly abide by your word, and do I
not know for sure that you have spoken of him as your
future husband ? Child, child, I could have trusted your
word as I could none else ! '

' Mother ! ' said Primrose piteously, ' I was but a child
when he went away, and I have seen him but once since.'

' What then ; have you not lived in the same house for
many years ? Surely, you know him better than most
brides know their husbands ? '

' But he is not — not what I thought him.'

' How do you know what he is ? I tell you plainly,
F^rimrose, that not every man would have remained stead-
fast to his child-love, and come to wed her at the risk of
his life on the first chance that he had.'

' To wed her and to leave her — that is his purpose,'
Primrose replied. ' Mother, I would rather the latter,
without the former.'

■ f 1

' «•

3:>»

hnyot Brotti^li.

,t:«

1 n

V I

Mrs. Kirkhridc groaned with vexation ami iiii|)aticnce ;
then, sucklcnly sei/inj; the ^\xW hands in a j)assi()natc
jj^rasj), slie exclaimed :

' Child, tell nie this, and tell nie no falsehoods, do you
love that lad Aniyot Hrouj^h ? Nay, stru|;^le not to
escape from me the truth I must and will know. 1
cannot sleej) in doubt. What ! speak out, whatever it
may be ! '

' I did not know it until to-ni^ht,' .said I^rimrosc,
sobbin<( ; ' not until I heard Lance talk, and then '

'Then, silly child, you thought that even a steadfast
heart could not atone for roughness of manner and speech.
You were olTended because he frightened you in the
street ; it was thouj^htless of him, I ^rant, but men who
have lived in camps, forget that ^irls are easily frightened;
and then you were again offended at his rough language.
These are outside matters ; I^rimrose, are such trifles to
be set in the balance against an honest man's true love ?
Fie, for shame ! you are but a silly child in mind, though
a woman i years. But how about thy word ; is it
nothing for a woman to retract her promise, and say it
cannot be ? '

' Mother, would you have Lance married to a woman
who does not love him ? '

' I would have hiiii married to you ? '

' But I cannot love him.'

* Primrose, your talk is unmaidenly ! You will love
him when he is your husband — that is enough for me.'

' Dear mother, I cannot say all that is in my mind,
because Lance is your son ; but I pray you, tell him that
it cannot be. I do not want to be married ; let mc stay
with you, your daughter always, but not his wife.'

' My daughter, because his wife. Primrose, can you
think that I can love you as I did before, if you thus dis-
appoint all my hopes, and mar Lance's life, all for a whim ?
Nay, do not weep, silly child ! How can we talk this

Amy of Broui^^h.

339

icnce ;
aonale

do V"*'
not to

ONV. I

.ever il

.teadfast
I speech,
in the
len who
ivhtened ;
atiguage.
trifles to
ue love ?
, though
d ; is it
|nd say it

a woman

I will love
3r me.'
Jny mind,
Ihim that
me stay

can you
I thus dis-
I a whim ?

talk this

matter over, if you IxLake yourself to tears ? Tears e*er
an^er me, as you know full well.'

' liut what can I do ? I cannot marry Lance — no, 1
cannot, mother.'

'Cannot was an oft-rcjieated word when you were a
child ; I never heeded it then, nor do I feel much inclined
to do so now, were it not for your small lortune, which I
would not have you think I care ahout. One thing I
allow, and no more: to-morrow, when Lance comes, I
will bid him wait a day for his answer, and you must
school yourself to do your duty. Put that silly boy out
of your thoughts, and you will find Lance once more to
your mind.'

' Rut, mother, though I must not say it camiot be,
since it vexes you so much, let me beg you to tell Lance
I would gladly wait, and I l)ray you say nothing of Amyot
to him.' She blushed deeply as she sj)oke.

' Primrose, I promise you nothing ; I shall speak to
my son as I judge right and fitting.'

And with this reply Primrose was forced to be content,
or at least to seem so.

The next day was a miserable one. When Lance's
step was heard coming up the stairs. Primrose made her
escape from the room, nor did Mrs. Kirkbride attempt to
stop her ; probably she wished to speak to her s( n alone.
The interview could scarcely have been satisfactory, and
when at length her would-be bridegroom departed. Prim-
rose trembled as she marked how he banged the door,
and swore and raged on his way down the stairs. It was
long before she ventured to steal back into the room
where Mrs. Kirkbride sat lost in thought, wearing an
expression of deeper gloom than Primrose had seen for
many a long day. It wa^: terribly hard to the warm
heart of the young girl to see that look of hopeless
despondency, anvl feel that she was the cause ; it seemed
as if all the misery of former years, which Mrs. Kirkbride

[40

Amyot B rough.

hud in some degree shaken off, had now returned in
double force, and Primrose dared not make any attempt
to cheer her.

' If I had but known he was coming,' she said to
herself, ' I would have begged her to stop him ; for
though I did not know what he wa:^ like, I did know
that he was nothing to me, and surely it had seemed that
I was nothing to him. But would she have done it ?
And what can I do now? She, who owed me no mother's
love, has been a mother to me ; how can I vex her so ? '

In self-reproach and great perplexity the day wore
away — surel}^ never day had seemed so long — and the
evening came. Scarcely a word had been exchanged
between them since Lance had departed : each waited for
the other to speak ; the silence, so insupportable, was at
length broken by Primrose asking in a tremulous voice :

' Dear mother, may I know what Lance said this
morning ? '

' What lie said will make small difference to you, as it
appears.' Mrs. Kirkbride answered coldly.

Primrose choked back the rising tears, and replied
earnestly :

' Indeed, dear mother, but it will ; I long to think that
he will not refuse to be still my brother, for it is even
so that I have ever thought of him, as I now perceive.'

* A grievous pity you did not perceive it sooner,' the
old lady replied bitterly.

' Bui: will he, dear mother ; will he lee it be so, and
rest contented ? '

' Primrose. I have no heart to talk with you ; you are
a selfish, heartless girl, with no sense of duty towards
those who at least have done their best for you. Truly,
I have nothing left to live for now. My dream is gone,
my best-loved son has now nothing to allure him home ;
he will persevere in his wandering life ; we shall never
more meet or have a home together.'

rned in
attempt

said to
lim ; ^or
id know
iv.cd that
done it ?
mother's
ler so ? '
lay wore
-and the
exchanged
waited for
)le, was at
us voice :

said this

) you, as it

nd replied

think that
it is e
:rceivc.

it IS even

' the

ooner,

be SO, and

Amy at B rough.

341

* Did he say 'jo, mother ? did he say he would never

■^ »

return to Entrland

Primrose's face grew white, and her Hps quivered.

' What else should he say ! He came to seek you, and
if possible to wed you ; but Lance is proud, and he says :
" No unwilling bride for me ! she shall not be forced to
marry a man she scorns ; " but he vows vengeance on
the man who has stolen your heart from him, and '

' Oh, mother ! I prayed you not to name what I said
so foolishly ; in truth, I believe I love no f^nc ; my heart
is turned to stone. I love none but you and sweet Joan
Pomfret ! '

' And her brother. Primrose ! — you said as much.'

' Mother, forget it ; he does not know it, and never
will. He thinks I care nothing for him, and indeed, I
do not know whether I do or not. But, oh ! I prayed
you not to breathe his name to Lance.'

' And I did your bidding, foolish child. Lance learnt
nothing from me, though I cannot say he guessed nothing.
We have had few friends, as he knows full well.'

Primrose's large violet eyes were dilated with terror.
She squeezed her hands together in an agony, as she
moaned :

' What shall I do ? What shall I do ? Lance's anger
must be terrible.'

Mrs. Kirkbride said nothing, but gazed at the girl in
gloomy silence.

* You have yourself to thank,' she said, and added no
more.

■Y.

1
III'

CHAPTER XXVTI.

If ■ 'v

h- ':

li'^

lili]

m •
m ■

IN WHICH TWO KKn<:M)S MKKT AGAIN.

' Anothkr cause for h.iting my native land,' Lance had
muttered ^looniily, when he had learned from his mother
that the bride he had come to seek was to be no bride for
him ; and then he had turned savajj[ely on his mother,
and reproached her for having urged him to come across
the Channel merely to be scorned and insulted. ' I want
no wife,' he liad said ; ' and assuredly I will have none
but Primrose ; if she cares not for me, I will hamper
myself with no other. A free life and a merry one for
me. A soldier of fortune wants neither wife nor child.'
Yet there was disappointment in his tone, and savage
wrath in his eye, as he said : 'If that young Brough
came in my way just now he should learn a thing or two.
Mother, where is he?'

' I know nothing of him ; it is long since we saw him.
Do not concern yourself with him.'

I.ance eyed her keenly ; she quailed beneath his
frown, and sard :

' You can see Primrose, if you will, and take your
answer from herself.'

' And where would be the use ? I read it in her face
the night I came here, scorn, and dislike, and loathing.
Mother, I cannot tamely bear it that I was brought here
merely to hear this tale. Why have you always told me
that she was mine whenever I chose to claim her ?'

' Why but because I thought so ? '

Lance muttered a curse on woman's blindness and

if;:'

incc had
; inothcr
bride for

mother,
ne across

' 1 want
ive none
I hamper
' one for
lor child.'
savage
Brough

IT or two.

saw

him.

leath his

ake your

her face

loathing.

ight here

's told me

r?'

llness and

Afnyot Brough.

343

woman's fickleness, and then relapsed into silence, rousing
himself at last to question his mother closely as to the
immber and frequency of vVmyot's visits ; but she
answered briefly that it was long since they had seen him,
and that she knew not where he then was.

It was a miserable interview, and even Mrs. Kirkbridc
was relieved when it was over, though when he was gone
she sat long in the seat where he had left her, repeating
again and again :

' I shall never more see my son !'

And this melancholy conviction grew each day in
strength as Lance never reappeared, and his mother
concluded that he had left the country. But with this
conviction came another fear, another aj)prehension of
calamity, ' If that young Brough came in my way,'
Lance had said, and his lowering glance, his clenched
teeth, the passion in his voice had not been lost upon
his mother. She rej)roached herself that she had
permitted her own suspicion to be discovered, that she
had not instantaneously and positively declared that no
ground existed for such an idea, for it was impossible to
deny that, as Prinnose had said, Lance's anger and revenge
might be desperate.

' But the world,' she assured herself, * is wide ; if 1
am no more to meet my son, even less likely is it that he
and Amyot should cross each others paths. Lance
would scarcely go far to seek him, and fate would
surely not be so cruel as to throw them together.' But,
oh ! the misery of all that uncertainty ! to what fearful
dreams did it give ri.se, to what weary wondering, what
hopeless questioning ! '

' Mother,' said Primrose timidly one evening ; ' Where
think you is Lance now ?'

' 1 know not ; perchance across the sea. Perchance in
some English prison ; or, maybe, shot as a spy, or torn
in pieces by the mob. He is more French than English

344

iniyot Broui^h.

^i'.

n\-

n
pi ft

\\-'~

now, and, thanks to Admiral T^ynjJf, "<' Frenchman could
be sate ivi Kn^land now.'

' Mother,' said Primrose, with white lips ; * why did
you not entreat him to send you wt)rd what befell him ?'

'He left me in too ^reat anj;er for any such words to
pass between us.'saitl the olil woman, stendy. ' Prinnose,
where think you is Amvot I?rou^h ?'

' I have no notion ; but why ?' she hesitated and a
new fear seemed to seize her. ' Why speak of him just
now, mother ?'

The old woman made no reply, but their eves met,
and thev knew each other's thoughts. Primrose grew
suddeidy restless, paced the room, and gazed often with
wide open, awe-struck eyes from the window at the con-
stantly moving crowds below, then returned to her place,
sat down and buried lier face in her hands.

' I could not not helji it,' she murmured half aloud.
'Yet, if any harm came of it, coukl 1 ever forgive
myself? Oh ! to know where they are now ?'

Anil day by day, hour by hour, this was their one
thought and ilesire, just to hear that Lance had crossed
the Chamiel safely, and that he, towards whom he
cherished thoughts of ill, might not have crossed his
path. But dri}s passed, weeks passed, and no word came
from Lance.

And while these weary an.xious days were passing
slowly by v»ith the two sad hearts in Drury Lane, the
thoughts and tongues of all outside were busy wilh the
momentous subject of Pjigland's disgrace, and France's
triumph. The soberest of London citizens was beside
himself with rage, and from dll the country round sounded
the cry for revenge.

Such was the humour of the people when Lance
ventured to make his .secret visit to London. Then
there came a hush, a kind of sullen satisfaction. The
people had cried for blood, and blood they were to have.

Aff/vo/ Ih'ough.

345

cou

V did

Ills to
nrosc,

;itul a
H just

s nicl,
3 grew
n witli
10 cnn-
r place,

aloud,
forgive

ir (Mie
crossed
loni he
Ised his
1 came

[passing

jne, the

[i'Ji the

[ranee's

beside

)unded

Lance
Then

, The
have.

The adnn'rai, who had left Minorca to its fate, was to
pay for his failure with his life, the people wouki have it
so, and the King liowed to their will.

It was at this xery moment that Aimot I'roiigh (ouiul
himself under orders to march with a detachment of his
regiment t(» Portsmouth , when starting he had cini-
cerned hinistlf little with the reflection that his des-
tination was the sj)ot where the unf(H"tunate admiral lay
conlined ; nor was it until he found himself smToundeil
hy men \vho could speak and think of nothing else but
the admiral, his sentence, and its approaching fulfilment,
that he realiseil how near he was to the man who^e name
was in every mouth.

He had seen his men lodged, and was wandering about
the town as evening approached, seeking anutsement in
watching the busy scene in the harlx)ur, when the con-
\ersation around him, the constant recurrence f)f the
adnu'rars name, made him suddenly ask himself what
day it was, for the last few days had passed so rapidly
that he could scarcely believe that the iith of March,
the fateful day, was close at hand. Yet then^ was no
denying it was the loth, and a strange awe ctej)t over
him as he I<»oked again at the Mumirch lying at anchor
in the harbour, anil wondered now the prisoner on lx)ard
was heeding the closing of this his last day on earth.
Amyot had small symj)athy with him, deeming, like
many an ardent spirit before, and since., that caution and
cowardice were identical, and that the sentence pas.seil
was entirely wise and fitting. Yet there was a melancholy
interest, a kind of fascination, about that ship, and as he
gazed towards it over the quiet waters of the harbour, and
listened to the savage exultation of the lowest of the
loungers by the waterside, he told hiinself that such a
closing to a life of honour and renown must be terribly
bitter, and for a moment he could have wished that more
merciful counsels had prevailed. Could Byng tiave ever

Hit

I;.

V 'i' '

1 .

346

A myot B rough .

dreamctl, when y<>i"iK atul ardent like himself, that the
day would come when he shouM he hraiulevl with the
foul name of iiis country's hetrayer, and from all sides
the cry would resound that his life was forfeit, ami his
blood alone could wij)e out the stain of his country's
shame.

A rou,i;h lauj^h broke in upon his musings, loiul anil
disconlant, from an ale-house close by ; and as he turned
Ids head three or four sailors came reeling forth. ' They
liad been drinkinu; to theailmiral's health,' they said, ' and
a swifi and pleasant journey to the regions lx,'low, and
better luck than in this.'

* Luck ! ' shouted another, ' what better luck coidd he
have than to lind himself face to face with the hVench ? it
was pluck, not luck, that the villain lacked.'

'He should swing like a cat from the yard-arm;
shooting was too good for such as he !'

* He should be given to the |)eople — they would teach
him what Englishmen thouglu of such knavery. Tear
him limb from lindi, roast him, nail him to the ramparts,
a warning to all cowards and traitors !'

Amvot listened in silence, and as the talk grew more
bloodthirsty, more heavily laden with oaths and curses,
more incoherent as the strong drink got hold of their
senses, he was turning away with loathing and disgu.st,
when the words, 'Down with him! pitch him into the
water ! Spy ! French traitor ! ' fell upon his ear, and
at the same nunute there was a rush of the besotted,
grimy group towards a man who had left the ale-house
with them, and had seemed to all casual observers to be
one of them. From time to time he had muttered a word
or two, but Amyot had failed to overhear the.se remarks.
The man had looked more stupidly drunk than the rest,
and for the most part had sat silent and a little apart.
What it was, therefore, that had so excited his comrades'
wrath, Amyot had no idea ; but with the natural dislike

Amyot Brouo^h,

347

at the
Ih the

I sides
ml his
Lintry's

Lid and

lurncil

' They
d, ' and
\v, and

onld he
nch? it

rd-arni ;

Id teach
Tear
unparts,

w more

II curses,
of their
disgust,

into the
|car, and
Dcsotted,
le-house
jrs to be
d a word
Iremarks.
the rest,
le apart.
.)mrades'
1 disUke

of seeing one attacked by many, he turned again, and
hngered to watch the fray.

* Didst hear him, Dick ?' cried one.

'Nay, not I; what said he? a foreigneering-looking
rogue.'

'What said he? Why, that the a(hniral was no
different from all iMiglishmeJi - that they always show the
white feather if ;i man looks 'cm in the face ! What be
he, think ye ? Kngl sh ! no, not he, witii that outlandish
hat and cloak. Ha'k'ee, we'll have no French orvSpanish
spies here. Heave him high ami pitch him into the sea I'

'Nay, nay ; who knows but he can swim. A rope ! a
rope ! String him uj) to yon lamp-post !' and again a rush
ot staggering but savage men made at the stranger.
Apparently he was less drunk than lie looked, for, rising
as they approached, he adroitly shunned their attack, and
three of them rolled over on the beach. Then, seating
himself again on a stump of wood, he laughed a mocking
laugh, adding, ' you're all alike, ye blundering knaves I
Hadn't ye better run away, as the admiral did ?'

A volley of oaths was the reply. The crowd was
thickening, gathering closer round the stranger, struggling,
clamouring with each other, all eager to make an end
of him, but by no means unanimous as to the method.
Amyot still heard his gibes and mocking laugh, and
muttered, 'He will dearly rue it!' as he drew nearer,
convinced that, drunken as they were, the stranger must
in a few minutes be overpowered. And he was right —
there was a desperate struggle ; they had fastened on him
like bvdl-dogs. Half strangled, his clothes hanging in
shreds about h'ln, the blood streaming from his face, for
one moment \vd shook himself free, but only to be
dragged backwards by his hair, and to fall with a heavy
thud to the ground. A fiendish laugh broke from his
assailants as they stood gazing at his prostrate figure ; one
dealt him a savage kick, another, drawing a huge clasp

If.

I ■-

I i :;/-■•

iiiii;

Amyot Bi'ou^h.

knife from hi;-, pocket, evidently contcniplatcil finishing the
work. Hut at that moment a hand grasi)ed the rufllan's
arm ; the ehitch was violent and sudilen and paralysing.
The knife dropped from his hold, and the next minute was
kicked into the sea. The owner struggled, tried to turn;
but another hand grasped the collar of his coat, and as he
stormed and swore, his captor onl}^ tightened his grasp,
saying, * Stop that, or I'll find a way to make you I
What } — you wont !' and Amyot Brough, for he it was,
without more parley, lifted the surly brute from his feet,
and whirling him round, f^ui g him heavily to the ground.

The crowd drev :rcl' ;vac-. or two as he turned round
and faced them ; thi-r': ;v'« aome angry muttering, some
inclination to ren* w t'v. .ii ..ick on the senseless victim of
their wrath, but his sudden lY Tference had awed them,
and seizing the opportunity aiforded by their sullen
hesitation, Amyot calmly remarked :

' The next I lay hands on I'll pitch into the sea. Now,
my friends, I counsel you to go home, before I call out
the guard, and have half of y<^>u in the lock-up. What !
would you make the fellow's words true? Are English-
men such cowards that a dozen must set upon one man?'

* 'Tis a beggarly French spy ! ' shouted the crowd.

' Then he's my prisoner ; lend a hand, two of you to
carry him to my quarters. My word for it, he shall be
hung if he's French or a spy ; but take heed, or some of
you will dance at the rope's end before you're a month
older.'

' He's an officer,' murmured the crowd ; ' and what a
fist,' whispered others. ' It were safest to go home — looks
as if he might keep his word.'

Late that evening Amyot sat at supper in his own
room. It was a comfortable little meal, and a bottle of
good wine stood between him and his guest. The unfor-
tunate stranger had at last rallied from his long fit of
insensibility, and though much the worse for his after-

A}fiyol Brojis^h.

349

^tt

gthe
Tian's

c was
turn;

as he
grasp,

you !
t was,
is feet,
round,
round
, some
tim of

them,

sullen

Now,

all out

What !

nglish-

man ? '

you to
hall be
some of

month

what a
; — looks

lis own
:)ottle of
e unfor-
g fit of
is after-

noon's experience, made pretence of being all right, and
accepted, but somewhat sullenly, his preserver's hos-
pitality.

'I swore that you should be hanged, if, as they vowed,
you were b'rcnch and a spy,' Amyct remarked, as he
filled his guest's glass ' 1 am quit of my oath in one
respect, (.a'ue, b't for the other, what must I say?'

' What vou svill,' said the (>lher gruffly.

'Nay, but, I.ance, 1 was uit jesting. None will know
of this visit, and a> for those di unken brutes, they will
never question me, or if they did, would get no answer ;
but, ff> ■ cl^ friendship's sake, tell me something of your
doings.'

' Ask, and 1 will answer. 1 came t(j see my mother.
What more would )'ou hear ? '

' What you have been doing all these years. Nay,
Lance, forget old animosities and })arty feuds, .. ;id o-
member that as boys we played together.'

Lance drew his hand across his brow, then '■» isi- vl ins
glass from him, got uj) and paced the room. I" ti"ead
was unsteady still, and before long he sal d wn again,
and, leaning his elbows on the table, gazed j..j'(nily at
Amyot.

' Do you know,' he said in a hoarse voice, ' that this is
the second time you have saved my life, Amyot Brough,
and yet if it were worth while to hate anybody, I should
hate you ? '

' And why ? ' said Amyot, meeting, his fierce look of
gloomy despair with a gaze of some surprise. ' It is
scarcely my fault that the luck has gone against you,
and '

'Who cares to ask the reasons of his hatreds? Nay,
who cares to talk of love and hate at all ? 1 did but name
it because you spoke of frienilship. What have I been
doing? Living by my wits ; as a soldier for the most
part. You fought at Laffelt, well, so did L You may.

IllilW

hi
i

h- ■

■ i

( ■■

Aniyo/ n roil oh.

porcliaiico, liavc a canipaifjn or two iti Anu'rica, and so,
maybe, shall 1. You start; is the idea a i)lcasant one ?
'\\) me it is altogether most enchanting. We may cross
swords then, if gratitude, or some other seiiNeless n(Hion
hinders our doinj; so now.'

' Lance Kirkhride ! ' exclaimed Amyot vehemently,
' I cannot thus forget old t'riendshij)s; but if '

Lance broke in with a bitter lau^h. ' My past is so
pleasant toloc^k back upon,' lie said, ' mv future so brilliant
in prospect, you are ama/ed to hear that I am not enchanted
lo discuss old times, or anticipate time to come.'

' Nay, nay, let it alone if it is distasteful to you. Talk
then, of your brothers. What are they doing ? where are
they?'

' I know nothing of them,' said Lance gloomily.
' Amyot, 1 have no family, no home, no jiast, no future ;
but what matters it ? The less to live for, the easier
one risks one's life ; and 'tis a sorry farce this life of ours.
I warrant you that admiral of yours has found that out
by this time,'

' F*erhaps,' said Amyot thoughtfully, ' doubtless he little
thought of such an ending.'

' Little indeed ! yet what matters it ? A shameful
death do you call it ? Well, unpleasant for five minutes, I
grant you ; but what then ? Oh, don't begin preaching
about leaving a sj^otless fame behind you. Are you such
a fool as to think the grave doesn't end all such troubles,
and make all alike ? '

' Then you'd have no objection to find yourself in the
admiral's place to-morrow ? '

' I scarce look for such pomp and ])arade at my exit ;
a rope and a lamp-post are more like to be my way out of
the world, as you saw this afternoon.'

' A nd it will content you ? '

Lance swore that one way was as good as another, and
then returned to the bottle. After a while he roused

inm

ikI so,

one ?

' cross

lolion

icntly,

I is so
-illiant
lianted

Talk
ere are

)()mily.
future ;
easier
Df ours,
lat out

little

latiicful
nutes, I
eaching
ou such
roubles,

f in the

ly exit ;
y out of

her, and
3 roused

35'

himself to ask the time, and when told that it wanted but
a few minutes of midnight, he started up, sayinj^ that the
master of the luj^j^er, who had ^iven him a |)a>sa^e to
Holland, had sj)oken of sailinj; soon after twelve, and he
must not run the chance (jf beinj^ late. Amyot accom-
j)anied him alonj; the now silent streets, j^arted from him
at a ilark and little frequented sjiot on the harbour, where
a boat was in wailinu for the ski|)[)er and his passenger.
It was a relief to bid him farewell, a relief to be quit of
his sullen company, and to know him safely shij)|)ed for
the Continent, for surely such a tongue would bring him
t(j mischief hail he lingered long in JMigland. Yet it was
no small relief to Ix- rid of him without having yielded to
the impulse to make him rejient his savage words, and
Amyot breathed more freely when he had walcheil the
little boat push off into the darkness, and knew that
Lance no longer stood on luiglish soil. They had not
pressed each other's hands ; they iiad uttered no word of
fare\.ell. Lance had breathed no syllable of acknowledg-
ment for the service rendered : but he was gone, and
Amyot was glad.

Pearly the next morning he was astir, watching the
motions of the ships in the harbour, wondering if this or
that of the outgoing craft was the one which was carrying
his friend back to that strange life of hazard and adventure
which alone seemed now to have any charms for him.
Before long he conclud'id that the Dutch lugger had
probably sailed at break of day, since none of the ships
then visible carried a Dutch flag, but so long as Lance
was safely embarked, Amyot cared little in what vessel he
had sailed.

Yet there was a wondrous enchantment to him in the
sight of that mighty harbour, and though he had matters
to arrange during his brief stay, he found himself ever
and anon returning to the shore, watching the doings
on the docks, gazing at the mighty vessels, the sight

'lffn'(>/ I h ouch.

1)1 \vliu li i«'(.ill(tl to linn lilt i|,i\'< III liis ( Inltllinitij,

.nil! t lir III

A I

n inhiMi M'

.niil I III' t'\ cnin^x ^pi iii in li -li n

\\\\\ Iti Ills Lithti'" mmI.ii iiiv: l.ilr^ \l In I In >\liii|r

lu'itifi h.iil n'\.>li«(| liniii llu- iinlion n| l.iUni^ .in\ 'ii.nr,
oi t'Mii -It nnn<', to p.n I u ip.ilf in llu' .H.ip.i' liiinnpli
nt the lit\\ n .|H-ii|)|(< .il lilt' ilonin i>t llif ntilot inn.iif
iiilinn.il ' ' ji • III", I t nliH l\ .ind .il'-ojiilt l\ mt css.n \ ,'
I'ttliMul \\ .'III' li.id -.11(1 l<t linn, '.III r\,iiii|>lf inn. I In-
in.itir, t>i tlitic will W .III tihl III ,ill ilit'il. Ill tl.iini)',
;\\\ linn. 'in, .ill ili^i i|»liiit'. Ill- M.i|i'-I\ li.i- llif i ii;lil

,111.1 \ni\ < il li.iil 1 1 iiu III I I'll, ,is

on t , I \w in. in nni'-l tlif

.1 I

iihlroil lir w .1 - >\ .'

Ill l.ii.MUm in inn. I nl ('nlnlU'l Willi

(' s

si'Mlinu'iit-- Hnl lif tnnM n.'l l.n lli.il if.i-.in iniii in
till' Willi liniinpli nl till' iiinh. (Mil wliilc .i -li.inm'
fa^i in.ili.in kept linn lini;fiin^ williiii "-i^lil nl llif -Inp

wlnii' lilt' pi l^^niU'I l.l\ .IW.Illnii' llis ijnnin. .\liil \»l .l'^
lu' li>U'IU"il, linw I.I llic I. ills nl tin- iniik'Jl i'n;||nii'n, linw

lt> the >'nlilii'i>' loili'iini; abnni ihc i.mip.nis, now In llic
tnw H'^pi'npK". 1 1 nwilin.; mm lillK" Im.ils .uul w Iumi if> w liii li
^lunllli v.iM\ lluin nr.n innni;!! In liMst llicir «'\cs mi ijic
jMi'x^n Awy, .nul \ illnn r.i'-x hr.nini; nl llic i.il.il \n||('\',
lio \x.i>« vnn''finn>' »>l A );lnnni\ UimI nl s.it i->|,u (inn ^Icilini;
«>\iM him ; till' hnnnm nl I'!ni;l.iiul, whiili, muiiM" W'nllc's

iti

mtuuMuo

h.ul

mow I

\ tn hi' .1^ li

iMi tt> him .is his own

h.ul Ih'imi hut ^-iMUtilv nplu'lil hv Ium sons tor many a loiij^
ila\ ; till' Kinc w.is s.iiil to Iia\i' sin. ill i-onruii'iui' in ritliiT
luT soKlii'is ni hi'i sailors; tlu' Ii'smhi was most plaiiilv
iHwltul. .uul louKl sv.nii*' l.iil to hi' s.ilntary. Ih' hail
rohisoii m.uu an «.'iUioat\- ln>iii thr w.iti'tiiu'ii to hi'
allow I'l

Moihv\h anil w lu'ii at loniith lu' \ii'h! J. it was more
to hi' rill ol thi'ir imporlnnit\- ih.iii from anv anxious
ilosiro to niiimlf in tlu' thronii ot hoats thai covoroil
tho wati'rs ot tiic h.irhiiir. In t.ut, ho w.is .i>-h.imi'il

tho uionu'nt attcrwarils, ami hluslu'il

I thr hon.nir ot ion\ i'\ins; him .ilso m-ai tlu'

t I

lis aiquu'soonco

to think that ho was tollowing tho vuli^ar orowil. ami, liko

ft;

!///]•(>/ />'j(>tf>'//.

'x\

llim»»l.
sliatc,

•sHiU V,'

ii<l In-
I. tun)',,

It'll. ;»^

^V. 'Ill's

ioiii in
sti.in^it"
\u- -lni»

\(l .IS

11, now

til tlu-
•s whii l»

on tlu"

Volll'V.

Icalin^
\VoHi-'s
s own,
.\ lon^
1 titluT
plainlv
\\v iwul
to bi'

A\ till'

IS \uorc
anxious

I OVl'lOll

i^hanu'il
Mushoil
anil, like

llii'iii, tiiviii)', lo Ik ,1 IK ai ill)' lal< III! |mi| ,i |mi .jWIc.
lie l< 1,11 M It! ,)( I lie oil! iin.ii iiMii .1 III' (I i|)|ii(| In , oai < into
llir wain, .iinl loi ,i iniiiiwnt li.ill m 'iKcil to loall lii^
«oii (III ,111(1 ithitii |o limr, ImiI oiiii'tliiii^ III iIm oIiI
l*'llo\\'. niM'ii .itliailiil liiiii ; In h.id iilliitd no Wiiital
|«''l >, like m.iii\' ol hi' l( llow ., lallii'i it (•( inrd thai linn
laii^il.i^c, (o,ii.(' ,inil (iiirl III It. niiilli and {dec, galled
and ( li.ilcd Inin, ami .i lie |)iilli'd a\\.i\ lioni tlu' ^lioir, lie
dicw one li.iiid .kio-. In . liiow, ,nid Wirallicd s(tinct liiiij;
Ixlwirii a i^li .iiid a j;ioaii, tlicii, lookiii)^ at lii>
|>.i-.fii^i'i , he .,iid, will) .oiiic licilation, 'Anions that
iifw \iiiiil(i, .1 III, in dm -n't -pcik lii^ tiiiiid, a el ol
low lived, (o\\,ndl\ iiiifiaii' a. cnci hicat lied, and IIk'V
|o Ix' r.dliii); a },M'iit N iiMii liailoi ,{\n\ ifMV.nd; you
ina\' 1)1- t liinkiii); dillficnl l\ . ii .'

' ' I'l ^ till' aiiir 1 1 \- all osn I'in^laiid,' -aid Amiv'L
j;loomil\'.

' Ma\ln', ina\l)(,' -aid llic old m.in lia-lil\'. 'Ay, -^ii'.
don't I know liow it wa^ wlii-ii the aduiiial wa^ landed,
and oiiKi - lanic a- lie wa^ to he Wrought >att' to London.
Sail', sir, it w.i-n'l -o easy. I'licy slat ted with him ahonl
hall pa-l thii'c in the morning, hut thoni^h he wa-.
,i;uai(U'd bv nxty liiu- Icllows (»l tlu- lihu's, would yon
lu'lii'M" it, llu'\ had to turn round and lomc bat k with
him, i'ouldn'* ^et him to London no way^.'

' Why not ?' iiujuiri'd Amvot, who had heard ihi- tale.

' \\'h\-, biiL because of the tiowd^ ol l)la( kf^uarcL
between there and London lown; in om; phue, a^ I
heard tell, there wa> more nor a thousand of them,
earryin<; pitehlorks, clubs, and '.vhat not, eaf^er, a^ t hey
said,toj)ay their respects to hi-- honour. So lliey brought
him back, and i heated the rabble finely.'

' liut In- wa^ cairied to (ireeiiwicb, altei all.'

' v\y, ay, af'er a bit, travelling mostly by nij.flil ; but
wh il with bu un;.^ fi<;ures ot the admiral, screeching
a.^ain^'. bini in llu' sLfccls, ibc Lown went jusL mad. And

2 A

til ,.

.^54

. I n/yof /hoifo/'.

fi-
ll

;i iiMlc t/t mine toKI mc tliat al Soiithainptun il v,as
\vor>e. Tlicy made a figure of liim there, dressed uj)
uith a wooden sword, and wrote across the right breast
a '>cra\vl, " Aty heart grew on the wrong side," and they
carried it round the town, hanged it up to a >ign-post,
and fired seven rounds at it, and tlien cut it down and
burnt it in a huge fire made with tar barrels, and a rare
good sport tliey thouglit it, ay, and tl»c gentlefolks too;
but seeing as I have served under the admiral, and knew
him when I wa> a bit younger than I am now, I can't >ee
things in that fashion ; no, I can't, sir, and I'm not
;i>hamed to >av it.*

' Vou hold him not wanting in courage,' wa> Amyot's
reply.

' I ilo, >ir.' wa> tlic unflinching answer.

'And true to his country? Men have doubteil e\en
that.'

'True as >teci. I'hat court-martial a> Nat on him may
!i«.l have been quite as brave nor quite a> true. I take it
they were a trifle scareil al the pitchforks and clubs, and
the uglv i)ictures and bits of verses. Mr. Pitt, as 1 heard
tell, wa> afraid of notiiing of the kind."

Amyol was silent, ga/ing at the busy scene arounil
him, anil the men swarming the rigging in a neighbouring
ship. Tb.n, turning again to the old sailor before him,
and pitymg )iis emotion, he said knull\-, ' Well, it was a
blunder, i'.nd it has cost him dear.'

'Ay, ay, but il shouldn't be I ' crieil the old man, while
the tears chased each other down his brown cheeks ; 'he
lias done his country good service, couuin't they have
forgi\ei' ( ne fault, if fault it was? '

' Vv'e have made many blunders,' Amyot was rei)lying,
when from some small sailing vessel near at hand there
came some sounds of ominous imi)ort, hooting, jeering,
bitter laughter. The old sailor's colour faded from his
face, he ground his teeth as he bent his head ujjon hi^

liiivot Ihvuo/i.

I \

il was
scd u))
, breast
k1 they
Tn-posl,
\vn aiul
I a rare
Iks too;
id knew
can't >ee
I'm not

Aniyot's

)teil everi

breast, nuillering, ' "Pis, then, the time; what matters,
he'll not hear them; a coward, no, not he.' The boat
rocked gently to and fro as the old man leaned on his
oars, listening with awe-struck face and softly drawn
breath.

Amyot leaned over the side, gazing into the water and
li>tening too, and wondering at himself that he was there.
At length it came, that sharp rattling sound, echoing
over the waters, and leaving an awful silence behifd it.
The old sailor's head drooj)ed lower for a moment, then
raising it, he lifted his cap from his brow, and with
soleiiin, tear-choked voice murmured, ' 'Tis done, well for
him, and well for all of us. Pray God have mercy, and
give him rest, a home, and a welcome, though man will
have none of him.'

ill

bim may
1 lake it

uns, and
I heard

around
hbouring
ore bim,
it was a

m, while

ceks ; ' be

hey liave

rujilying.
land there
g, jeering,

from bi>
1 upon hi>

CHAPTKR XXVIII.

pi;

IN WHKH M.WV giKSTIONS AUK DKRAIKD.

A MKi.ANcHoi.N |)cric)cl in Primrose^ history had followed
that visit of Laiicc Kirkhridc. The httle eolta«;e in the
country which had heeii taken, and in part prej)ared, still
stood empty, for Mrs. Kirkbride stoutly resisted all jiro-
posals to remove tliither, feelinj; that to jilace Primrose
in circumstances where she nii<;ht hear anil see tnore
of -Vmyot B'"ou<:fii, would be treason to her son.

Hut at len<j[th she ^ave way. The post one day brou<;ht
a letter for I*rimrose from lier one friend, .loan Pomfret
a letter received with such rapture that e\en .Mrs. Kirk-
bride could scarce forbear to >mile.

' Dear Joan is again at Westerham.' Prinn{)>e saiil; ' ami
oh. I am n;lad I she ha> a >wcet little dauj^hter. And. oh I
ilear mother, do but li>ten. She bej^s ant! ])ray> that we
will come ilown to our little cottai^e, il it be onlv for a
while, and see her and the babe. .Mr. Pomfret, she says,
is very strict in his coimnanils that she remains quiet at
Westerham, so she will not be able to >ee us unless we j;'o
to see her. Dear mother, ma)' we not o() for om.- week,
at least ? '

'The winds are cold, and it is early in the year for
travelling;'.' objected .Mr>. Kirkbride; ' and you ha\e been
but poorly all the winter. Primro>e.'

' Dear mother, you know well the reaxm whw 'Tis
but the mopes and had temper. .\ breath ot country air
will help me to a better frame of nnntl; and >weet Joan,
you always say, is good comi)any for me. Xay, mother, do
not look so uneasy. 1 guess your thoughts. Vou will not

.In/yof Ih'ouoJi.

:>:>,

t"()ll(j\\al
no in tlif
iml, still
all pro-
PrimroM.'
see move

y br<Hii:;lil.

PointVeL

Irs. Kirk-

viiil; ' aiul
And. oil !
> thai we

)nlv toi' 'i

>he sa\>.

. ciuiel al

Il» we «j;o

)ne week,

■ year lor
have been

why. "ri>
ovnUry air
weel .loan,
niolher.ilo
ovi will not

forget those silly wonls of mine, hut Joan says there i> no
chanee of her seeing her brother while on this \i>it, seeing
he is with hi> regiment in (jloueester>hire, buried in
quelling riots there.'

' Well, we will go for a week,' Mr>. Kirkbriile rcplieil.

Ami l*rimrosc's rap-turous thanks and fer\'ent embraee
gave her a .^ense of pleasure to whieh she had long been a
>tranger. She had felt bound in loyally to her >on lo
keep the young girl in disgraee, to permit few earcsscs,
ami t() treat her aN Vi.ueh a> po^^ible a^ a eulprit. It hail
not Iven always ea^v; for, as of old, Prinn•o^e's spirit>
would bounil uj), her laugh would ring out at the \erie>l
trifle; >he would rtnil source^ of anui-^ement where other>
eould see nothing to |)rovoke a >mile. Hut as nuieh aN in
her lay, Afrs. Kirkbride had made her feel herself a
delinquent: henee ihe dej)re>^ion whieh l*rinn'o>e had
deseril)ed a> the mope> and b.id temper. What joy to
be permitted to throw it all to the wiiuU, to revel in the
eountry sight> and M)und>, lo talk with .loan, and nur">e
I he baby !

So the simple preparalion•^ were niaile, and in a lew
ilays they found lhem>elve> settled in the little eollage
whieh .\h^. Kirkbriile wa^ always earefid loeall l*rinno>L\,
and whieh I*rinn"o>e was equally positive wa> her mother'>.
( )ne lillle maid, nought out bv Mr>. I)arle\, wa> their M)le
attendant; the furniture wa> seanly and of the plainest
but what mattered that ? The snowdrops in the garden,
the j)rimro>e> just beginning to pec|» abo\e the ground,
the ehirping of the birds, and, abo\e all, the near neigh-
bourhood of Joan and Mr>. I)arle\', maile il paradise to
i'rimro>e. Nor was it long before .Mis. Kirkbride ihaweil
to these kind friend>. and was persuaded bv Joan to admit
that there was no imperati\e teason whv the visit should
be so short as had been at first jiroposed.

The journev, though not long, i> fatiguing,' .loan urged.
'To stay (-nlv a week seems .i pity.'

¥■

'i»

it,'

f i !■ ■

.^5S

.hiiyot BroHi^h,

And the old lady, in whose arms JoanV fair baby lay
sleeping, agreed that perhaps it would be foolish to return
so soon. And as Primrose was needed as godmother to
little Peaee, she would not hurry her away.

And so, in a manner most satisfactory to Primrose, the
days slipped by. The babe's christening could not take
place until her father could leave his parish and travel to
Westerham to be ))resent.

'And tliat will not be until the end of the month,' said
the young mother. 'Then he will come to conduct
us home; but the child will be baptised here — my
grandmother wishes it. Ah, Primrose, I dread, and yet I
long, to .see my husband with a child in his arms on.:e
again.'

' Does Mr. Pomfret care for children ?' Primrose
asked ; ' he seems to me too grave to notice little ones.
\\\\\. it were strange, mdeed, if he did not notice this sweet
babe. Dear Joan, is .she not lovely ?'

Joan laughed.

' A strange question to put to me,' she said. ' But you
asked another, and to that 1 say that my husband is
marvellously fond of children, and chililren of him. Could
vou but see him among the little ones on Sunday after-
noons, when he catechises them, )(iu would cease to
think him grave or severe. It is the work he loves best,
and the children clamour and struggle to be near him,
which proves they stand in no dread of him. \'(»u,
Primrose, must cease to fear him.'

' I scarcely fear him ; but I do not know him as I
know you. 1 doubt he will not like to hear me call )-ou
Joan.'

' He will never heed it. Men don't notice such things
— ^else would he be verv glad. He knows how often I
have longed that (xod had given me a sister. }*rimrose,
tell me, have you heard of late from Mrs. Kirkbride's
sons, whom you used to call your brothers. Now that )our

.Imyo^ B rollick.

.59

name is no longer Kirkbride, I (t.nchKlc you have ceased
to call them thus.'

' Indeed, no ; tliey are my brothers still, a:id e\er will
be I trust. Of the ycjunfrcst, l*ercy, we never hear ot
Jasper and Lance but seldom. Jasper's last letter was
full of a certain Colonel Clive, who is about to do ^reat
things for our people in India, at least, so Ja>p'v'r says.
But Jasper is always full of high hope^. 1 know not
that they mean much.'

Nay, I have heard much of Colonel CIi\e

Pomfret knows about him j he i> a born >oldier. ihcv
>ay— daring and dashing ; hard to guide when a bov. but
able to leail others, as it would seem. Hut of your brother
Lance what news have you ?'

Prinn'ose turned away her head, ami hesitated ere she
replied :

' My mother hail a letter frtjni him a forlnigiu ago. lie
is in Quebec, in the P'rench army, ser\ing under a
general whom he calls the Marquis de Montcalm. Lance
adores him. his whole letter was taken uj) with hi>
praises of his skill as an oHicer. iiis kinilness a> a
commander, of his generous treatment of the jioor
Imlians, who worship him, ami will be led by him in all
things ; ami of his \irtue and religion, which I womlei"
Lance shoidil notice — he was not wont to set nuich store
by either.'

' Indeed, wa- he not ? And I hi- i> your lielrollitd
husband, Prinnose ?'

Prinnose blushed rosy red.

'That is an olil joke — our being betrothed, 1 mea .'
she said. ' Lance i^ best without a wife,li\ing the lift \e
does. Please do not speak of that again, .loan.'

\'erv well," Joan as>enteil.

If \-ou are no It ^cr

betrothed, it were certainlv be>t to say no more about it.
In that case too nuich has been alreaily >aiil.'

' Too much, a great deal,' Primrose replied ; 'but 1 diil

II*
' i

lil 1,1

•f^MHlpM

;6o

I /f /]'()/ /);'()//<'//.

;l!ii'

l'.' t

i».!

!;| '

not sas' \vc ucrc not iK'trolliccl, Joan dear. Oiilv. please
let us sav no more about it.'

* As v<>u w ill. Hut, having always heard the story from
my br-jther, and from youself too, 1 should like to know
whether or no it is true? '

' It wa> true onee. lUit now Lanee eannot return to
Knjfland, and i> in no slate to marry, it is best to say
nothin«r about it.'

' And it will never be ?' inquired Joan, suddenly liftinpj
her quiet eyes troni the sewing in her hand to Primrose's
agitated face, and dropping them as rapidly when slie
perceived the trouble expressed in e\erv line of the v()unp,'
girl's countenance.

' Please ilo not ask ine,' Primro>e replied. And Joan.
per|)'e.\ed, said no more.

The week which Mrs. Kirkbriile had agreed to stay at
^\'esterham had long j)assed away, and many weeks IkuI
succeeded it, ere she again thought of moving. It was an
ellort to her, she said in self-e.xcuse for her change of plan ;
and when at length the news came that her old rooms in
Drury i.ane had iieen let in her absence, the landlady
thinking she must ha\e gi\en uj) all notion of returr.ing,

^lle sh

lowed no great ve.\ation cr ilisapjionitment.

'All places were alike to her now,' she saiil, 'anil
Prinnose was hapi)y and contetUeil.' This was saiil with
a glance ot reproach which checked the girl's mirth, and
made her last ilown her eyes as if detecteil in -^ome gra\e
fault.

.Mr^. Darley, whose quick eyes had intercej)ted this
look, wondered what it meant, ::iul a^kcd imuicently ' if
it was strange that Prinnose >hould be liapj^y and con-
tenteil. \\'as it not generally allowed that persons of her
age, and personal ad\antages, might be both happv and
contented, although it was much the fashion for those
who had passed their first bloom to suller from the
V'ipour^ ? '

)()ni> 111

.Ufiyot /yroi(o/i.

361

Whereupon Mrs. Kirkbriile >i^he(l, and agreed that
Primrose initijln well be happv. ' Slie hail merely meant
that tlie ease with herself was different ; but she wa> glad
that life should still shine on the young — it wa^ right and

.'il auain.

Ill' •

SIJ'

' Xay ; there I ditTer from you, madam,' the elder laily
replied. ' Il i^ we who should be blithe and merry, seeing
our task is nearly done ; the young have mueh to make
them >eri()us, thvir work being but just begun.'

' Hut thev have no fear> for the future, born of tlieir
knowledge of the j)a>t ; the\' ha\e no regrets o\er pa>t
joys never to return.'

' Xo more have we fear> for tlie future. Why, mailam,
our future may be \'ery sliort ; ami fear^ born of the
knowledge of the j)a>t, did you sav ? Truly, my i)ast has
taught me not to fear the future, >iiKe I have li\ed
through all my troubles, ami am none the wor>e, but in
>ome sort the better tor them. Thev have no regrets, did
you say ? no more have 1.'

' Then are }'ou a most hap)n' woman, madam," Mr>.
Kirkbride replied, with solemn empha.>i>, but a tone that
imj)lied >ome degree of doubt.

' llai)i)v I ^'es ; but I lo>t mv hu>band, and I likeil him
very well, and eould have been well eontent to ha\c liveil
with him twenty or thirtv \ear~- longer. I lo>i >i\ eliikl-
ren, ana ha\e onlv one \*d\.- Mrs. Pmniret, Arnold's step-
mother, as you know — and I have had other Miiall trouble^

of dix'erse kind>, yet ha\e 1 no iegret> to

-])e;

ik of.

Mrs. Kirkbride looked ama/ed ; then, doubtless re-
membering that the I^Veneh are lighthcarted bv nature,
she eontented her>elf v.ith remarking that it mu>t be \erv
pleasant to be able to >ay sueh a thing.

' \'astl\' more plea>ant than to go through life groaning
about what eamiot be meiuled,' the old lady rt.Mnarked.
'1 wa- but thirty-five when m\- hu>ba!ul died. ()nlv
imagine how long 1 >nould have tor nented mv friends,

Ijll'

r. I

-r^-' ^'f!»i.>

\(^2

had I uiiiliinu'tl t

liny of nro!f>'/i.

• 1 Wl'CP .1

II ll

u'^i' Near

M'\' \\<>Ul(l

iisMiii'(ll\ \\,\\(' luvii (lii\rii lit tnaUi- an riul «>l iiif I<»m^
ano; w lii'ii-as, siiKc I iliii'd m\ ttars, ami inadr iiosjiow nl
ni\ giii'l. tlu'\- ha\i' shown ihcin^iKi'^ \ri\- |)assahlv
tonUnliil with in\ sorii-lw 1 iiiij;ht aK<> havi- hitikcn
ni\ hrait whrn rai h ol n\\ ihiKlii-n ilit-d, and (Unc I \\a^
ntuch intiinii! to do -^o; Imt I ii-asont'il uilh niVHll in
soini'thini; tin- \\a\ : 'V\\v\ an- lallcd to \a^t pi uniolion.
to a woi Id tar luttri t han t In--, to --.del \ and liri'doni h om
^•in ; all thi'> \\\v\ cainiot ha\i' ^o lonj; as llu'\- .iii- with
tn«.', lluTi-loii' it is 1 atom- that am tlu" lo^ri . and am I to
Irct about n)\ (w\ii lo'^•-, whiih ~<o ^rcalK- hrnilil'- tluin .-

I iil\

aunnc

)at

r\ . sui n s(.'

Ili»l

nu'^s wire sni anc

^hanu'. Thus 1 hinu^ht nu^ilt to ^ci- tca^ m. .nid so I
sa\ , I ii^i\l none ol the- thini;-- th.it hasi- lup'tcni'd toinr,
painlul a^ ^omr haw iui n. ( hu' tlnni; i> icititin, t lu' pain

is behind, th

r lo\' 1^

bcl

oil' mc

' Hut \(Ui haw man\- still who low \(Ui, niadam ; \dn
ail' not aloni'. a^ I max bi' any day, il I*iimroH' should
mai r\ .'

' 1 ha\i' bi'i'ii aloiu" tnan\- tinu's in m\- lili'. but il is nol
j>''\ mt; aiul 1 usualK' si'i,'U new hiiiuis lor m\sc'll \\ hi'ii
iliMtn or eiianui' ii'inoxi's tlii' old onrs. W'lun Joan lilt
nil' on hiT marii.»,ui'-da\ , 1 sought out a ni'^ltili'd Irish
Lin I who had no hoini'; slu' «^.i\r nu' muih atnusi-nu'iil
and .1 \ ast di'.i' it iKuibli-; but she, too. matiii'd and litl
nu'. Still I h.i\ • m\ i^ood .lohiistoni', wln» will iiTlainK-
not sdili'^^it nil'; and .loan irtuius from timr to time to
sri' till' old i;i andmolliiT, lor whom she pioti'sM-, \ast
.dli'ition. though lUndnk'ss suih professions mean not
nuieli - eh. Joan ?'- this to her yranddauiihter, who
entiTi'd in thi' miildle ot the last speeeh.

' Whose- proli'ssioiis mi'an not mueh, dear madam ?
not mini'. I trust.'

■ ^'es. thine, suii'lw si'einii lliou art o\erio\ed to think
ot leaxini; nie to-morrow, ami ilidsl Ljreet ihv luisband as

h//v<)/ Hroui'h.

.V-'.J

iJ Ih' had Intn tin- ^in»li'r who Ixni- tin l\('\^ l«» (•|hii |Ii\
|Misoii (l(Mir.'

' ll uas ><» lon^ ^iiui- I li.nl >i'i'ii liim, aiul llu'ir \va.!lu'
tliiM to >|i(»\v liim.' saiil Inaii apolo^c ti( ally ; ' \rt iuiiiNc
il or i)(t| a> you will, «liar ^rainliiintlici . I he |i.iiii at tlir
tliHii^lit III parting imin \<)u i> iiio i icd and hittii. 1
am al\\.i\> ton) in two in iii\ lose lot iii\ two lioinc^ '

''I'lu'ii', lIuTi-! il i-^ tlu" la^hioii to fjatttt ; hut lli\
l.itlui'^ daii^lilcr and tin lui-<l)and'- wile dioidd know
luttii. \\ M<Ti' ha^t iIkmi Iclt tli\ l).d»c ?'

'With i'linud^i', who \\,\. Inin wnpin)^ hitltiK o\(i
iny t.dt' ol pool jdry'^ death. She did not know he had
Inin di'.id >o loiiu. I had Idi^oltiti that -~\\v had known

hnn.

' i'oo) old hra^t I ^^ t il i^ well that he died -o (piirtl\'
and tM>il\-. Wlu'ii littU' Stipluii wiiit. I kniw lu- woidd
not li\ (• lonj;, and Icaird he would liit hinisill to deal h ;
hut Ainolil ^ay> that he hu-^icd hiniM'll with \oii, and
Mrnu'd always to think th.il the thild would kIumi ^^awv
day, iiawlinj; to the door to look out, and then returning
to sit at your Icel. Sure, there never wa> a more loving
beast :•

CHAI^TKK XXIX.

(()\( I-KMNd A I,Al(.H.\ltl.h; KX I'lOIT.

' Dkki' in tliou^lu, plunm-'d in mulilalion,' >ai(l Jack
r<)\\nal, a> he approacliccl Ainv<'t Broiij^Ii, who was
Icaiiinj; over the >\dv of the vessel which was conveying'
the two lrieml>, several ollicers, and a lar^e jiortion of
their rej^iinent alon^ the coa^l of h'ranee. This sliij) was
one of tlie sixteen ship> of the hne whieli, with friti,ates
and transports, sailed iroxu vS|)ithead early in Sej)teinher,
'757. oi^ what was then known as ' the secret e\j)edition.'
Much wonderment hatl been excited at hcJV'j by the
preparation of this armament : and until thev were fairly
on the c)|H'n sea, it^ destination had been kejit a secret
trom botli ollicer.^ and men. Now it had been re\ealed ;
anil as .\mvoi roused himseli to rejily to his friend's
exclamation, it was plain that some disa|)i)ointment liad
been the result of this revelation.

was w

i.>hin<', as 1 told \()u tlnV morninji, that Nova

Siotia were to lie our destination iS we thouf^ht at fnst.'
' Always crying; for the moon,' Jack re])lied. ' .\myot,
1 do at last comj)rehend the mystery of your lonjj" and
hopele>s love. It is because you cannot ^ain her that
your heart is so set on Miss Primrose vSolmes. Did 1
brinjjf you the j^ood news that she nnouUI favour your suit,
I believe that in verity you would altogether cease to
desire her hand such is your nature, ni)' respected

nenci

Hrin^" me sucli news, and \()u shall see.'

If have seen tor man\- years that it i> always the very

.hfiyot /iroui^/i.

;>^5

tiling thai \<ui may iwtl |)o»e'.», which \<tii ik-^iii' with .til
vour ^(tiil. Sec, now tell mc- why do \<»ii complain
tliat \vc may not ^o loH^ht the I'lcnch in America, when
ne are sent to tij^lit them nearer home? I> it merciv the
lon^ vova^e whicli charms yon? h'ew of un would aj^rec
with your last:. 'I'liis plaguy mal-dc-miT nvAkcs the ship
a most dismal place.'

' Do you know why wc are to take Kochelort I mean,
what is the special attraction tothejilace? Ha> anyone
told you ? '

' ( )ne ha> saiil that M)mehody told .Mr. IMti or >omc of
hi> Iriend.". that its fortifications arc weak ami j;reatly
nej4,lected, and that it mi<>ht he ea>ily coiujuered, if we
ha\e enough of that >carce commodit\', the courage to
attemjH it ; and .Mr. i*itt, thinkinj; ihat il mij;ht please
the Duke of Cumherland and the Kiii<; of I*ru»ia to heai
that we were sei/inj; the enemy'>' towi!> wliile they were
awa\', ilesj)atchetl thi> comj)an\' to perform the tiick,
which in my humble oj)inion >eem> uni)leasantly easy.'

' \\\\\ easy ? '

' Because the j^reater jKirt of the I''rench army occupies

itself with other matters. One says th re are but few to
defend tiiis part of the coast, and tlie h'rench ))ilot, whom
the iilmiral has ent^a^ed, tells nuich the >ame -lory about
tiie weak fortifications of the place. One can >ee no fjfreal
<;lory to be rained b\- >uch an enter j)ri>(.'.'

' Who is «;rumblin}; idw, Jack?"

'Is it 1 .' ' Well. 1 know well il i> a mo>l contaj;io'i>
com[)laint. Bui 1 am not tndy discontented ; a \ery
small j)ortion of ^lory will content me ; but to tell the
lionest truth, friend Amyol, I am much afraid we shall
ha\e none.'

'And why do you think we can't take this place ? '

'Can't is not a woid 1 learnt when 1 stud cd Kiiiiiish.

I 11

ave not seen it ni ni

y diet

lonar

' It is in most people's, a- you ofien obserye. llo
think you ? Is it in our {.'neral's ? '

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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366

llr

. h//j'o/ Brougli.

Jack made a grimace.

' I do not speak cv'' of my superiors,' he said. ' We
will see, we will see.'

' What do they call that island yonder, in the mouth of
the river ? '

' Somebody called it Aix ; but ri^jht or wronfif, is more
than I can sa}'.'

' Where are they going to attempt a landing ? '

' How many more questions ? Ask some one who
knows more than I, and e\erybody will tell you some
different tale, which will be marvellous diverting, but not
particularly instructive. However, we shall hear some-

KOCHEFORT,

thing in time, I suppose ; though it would be prodigious
strange if the general does not command one thing, and
the adi.iiral determine quite the contrary.'

The little island of Aix at the mouth of the Charente
being the first point to be attacked, "t was shortly deter-
mined to land sufficient troops there to obtain possession
of the place. The defence being but slight, this was
easily achieved ; but the main object of the expedition,
the seizure of Rochefort, still remained to be accomplished.
Elated with this first slight success, in spite of the strictest
orders against any irregularity, the troops in possession of

\niyot Ih'OJ(j^/i.

I}'!

DUth of
is more

nc who

)U some

but not

,r some-

«y^in i,.ju,.(,,-,

mt.

rodigious
ling, and

Charente
Itly deter-
loossession
this was
kpedition,
|mplished.
strictest
Isession of

Aix broke through all restraints of discipline, got furiously
drunk, and grossly illtreated the poor islanders. It was
not a happy beginning, and many foreboded that the
French on the mainland would make a more stubborn
resistance rather than surrender Rochefort to such ruthles>
invaders.

But before recounting the story of the expedition, I am
bound to relate somewhat of the small exploit which
preceded it, inasmuch as among the regiments landed for
the attack on Aix was the one to which Amyot Brough,
now a captain, was attached, and consequently the assault
on this little place has more to do with my narrative than
may have seemed probable. It was in the first onset that,
while cheering on his men, he was observed to fall ; but
the troops rushed on, and it was not till some hours
aficr that he was found lying just within the fortifications,
a ball in his side, and his head beneath a heap of stones
and rubbish.

' Dead, without doubt,' said the soldier who, being one
of his company, had identified him, and called others
to make certain of the fact, just as Jack Pownal, in a
state of fiery indignation, passed by, striving to bring
to their senses and to some order and discipline, a rabble
of half drunken soldiers whom he had expelled from some
low taverns in the town.

'Who is it who is dead without doubt?' he asked,
stopping for a moment.

The name was repeated to hiin, and the colour left his
face at the words :

' Our captain — Captain Brough — dead as a stone.
Come and see, sir.' And Jack strode off in the direction
pointed out, forgetting his fury, his shame, and all else,
but the news which he had just heard. Some one from
behind called him, but he paid no heed, leaping o\er
rubbish and fallen walls, carefully striding over the corpses
that lay strewn around, intent only on finding the one, and

K\.

K r*y f » ^.y " f f^^- f ' -^ m m M

36,S

I /J/ vol Jh'OllQ-Jl.

i.,;,t:

lurning over in his bewildered brain tlie possibilities and
lii<elihoods of any mistake having been made.

' Here, sir, this way,' said the soldier who had tt)ld
him, and was now following liim. And in another
minute Jack was forced to confess that no mistake had
been made : the body was that of Amyot, without doubt.
Only one other question remained to be settled — alive
or dead ?

' Lift those stones,' he said, in a choking \oice ; 'but
gently — be careful.' And as he spoke a hand was laid on
his shoulder, and a voice said :

' Wliat is it Jack ? Nay, surely not my old school-
fellow, Amyot Brough ? '

' Jack's head sank down lower and lower, as, the stones
being carefully cleared awav, a face, white as ashes, Hxeil
and set, and a perfectly rigid form, were disclosed to
view.

' Been dead for hours," said the soldier. .\nil Jack hid
h"s face and groaned.

' Come, do not be so sure,' said the colonel. ' And if
it is, what better fate would you have than a soldier's
death? And stooping down he opened the vest, and laid
his han 1 upon the heart. Jack \-entured another glance —
this time a miserable inquiring glance — into Colonel
Wolfe's face, to which the latter replied, with much
hesitation : ' I can scarcely tell — yet I think I feel a
flutter about the heart ; but I am no judge of such
matters. Run, my good fellow, and seek some one more
skilled than I am. There must be surgeons near at
hand.' Then, as the man started off, he said : ' Speak
to him. Jack ; that may rouse him to consciousness, if
there is any life left in him.'

Jack tried. But, choking again, he said :

' Colonel, if anv voice will bring him back from the
dead, it is yours. He loves no man on earth as he
does you.'

.ics aiul

lad toUl
another
akc had
,t doubt.
;d— ahvc

ce ; ' but
s laid on

d school-
he stones
shes, fixed
^closed to

I Jack hid

' And if
a soldier's
, and laid
r (vlance —
|o Colonel
ith much
I feel a
c of such
one more
s near at
[1 : ' Speak
iusness, if

from the
Irth as he

A rnyot Brouo/i.

;69

The young colonel hesitated. Then, raising Amyot's
head from the dust and rubbish where it lay, and
supporting him with his arm, he said gently, but slowly
and distinctly :

' Amyot Brough, we've won the jilace. Wake up,
man, and hear the news.'

Jack held his breath and watched the still face with
agonised earnestness ; but the lips moved not, the eyelids
were still sealed in the profoundest unconsciousness, no
sign of life was there. Some moments passed thus, the
colonel kneeling on the ground, still supporting the heavy
head, Jack Pownal motionless and miserable. Once more
Colonel Wolfe uttered his name, slowly and with
emphasis ; then, after a pause, he added :

' Do you not hear me, Amyot Brough ? It is I, James
Wolfe.'

As the words passed his lips, Jack Pownal uttered an
exclamation of startled gladness.

' Did you see, colonel ? His lips moved ; I am sure
they did.'

' I felt a kind of shudder pass through him,' said Wolfe
gravely. ' I doubt whether it is well to try to rouse
him. Place your hand here. Jack. No, he is not dead,
but how near to it, I cannot say. See, there is blood
running from his side ; it would be well to try to
check it — your handkerchief, Jack ; we will not move
him till a surgeon gives leave.'

Silently they kept their watch, the minutes seeming
wondrous long and tedious ; but at length help came.
The messenger had returned with other soldiers of his
company and a surgeon, who, in answer to the eager
questions poured forth by Jack, said :

' Yes, Captain Brough was living, but desperately
wounded ; it was scarce worth while to remove him to
the ships ; he would die as easily where he was. It
might be some hours yet.'

2 B

. '

,|i

I'. ! '

■ .

I f

t >

/;;/)■('/ />'/ (';/''//.

l.ul

V ritvnu'll lu ■ hope

Um\

11 .('H litj'li, t>nl\ I (> PC

Ji,*

tii'

ii,(-1ir»i to t lu' r,i (Miihl ; but I he i olciu-I -itolu" i|nu 1\1\

rll inr. -11 , imr-l he v t'l l,m\l\ ilu' r

r«'M.iinl\ ' We'll, prili.ip- \)o\ (|iiili' *i'il.(inl\, ImiI it

■r.m 1u' hcniinrd wilhout injiiiN- 1p Imium'!! •' ThcM'
jSMsi Ii'Upw • will 1h' v.iu'hil o\ tluii e.ipl.iiii.' lie ('l.nui'il
itnuul. .nul thr nun ir-piMidril ;

' ,\\ . Ml. .>\ : '

'IKMniuhl \ r-. lu' nn^;ht ; Inil i-^ it woilli wlnlo. lliink
\ »ni. (."oKmu'I W ollr ,' '

' \\"ilh(>\n tl(»nbt ; \(Mi will !\p with liiin. ,nul cc limi
--,)trl\ on bp,n»i. .nui vlo \imii iitint>^l loi linn ; .iiul \-on.
(,".i|>l.nn rpwn.il. will .iKp iu vPinp.ni\- Inin. I nnisl sl.i\-

novo no Kmioim

n\ . nu moil, ■to.ul\

( )

llo w,nv'lu\l wlnlo tlio\ liHotl tluMi still iinoon^oipus
buulon. spoki' .1 ohooi A w Pill to J.ivU rpwinl..in(l h.i^toiu'ti
.»w .i\ .

rwvMl.u-- ntti^v. Anu'Pt ;t\vpki" t(> soinotlnns; liko oon
SviPii'-nos--, bill p1 .\ \ oi \ ilio.nn\- kiiui. in hi-- boith. llo
cl.nuwl .WPuiul. wpiuloioil wh.it h.ul h.ipjHMiOii. t riod t
vi>0, but tiiuhni; tin-- nnpossiblo, \.\\ still .nul tiioii to
ihink ; but to think w.i-- .i-^ imjio-sibU' ,is to i iso. ;nul lu-
ao.un li^ll into .\ do.c whioh ki^tovl stinu' tiino. till, ho.niiii;
\ oioos. ho oponoJ his o\ os, to tnul J.iok's t.nnili.u' lonn
bouviing o\ or him. whiU^ hi-- onos oliMmoil witii lii'liglu.

' Como {o \ovn' sonsos .ig.iin. .\m\ot. \u\ bo\-. In wh.il
I.mJs ol ilio.nns .nui sh.ulows h.i\ i> \pu boon w.nulovini; ?
In \ .lin h.u 1 li ioil to toUow \ou. 1 ooukl makonothino
iM \ o\n- ilisoomso. miglUv tino lluniLih it h.is 1h\mi at limos.
l>ut ono li.is told mo not. to lalk. ov lot you l.ilk. nuioh as
1 long lo lioar \pu.'

• Toll mo .ill,' s.iid AmyiH f.iintly.

' All w hat ? Xav, 1 w ill toll \ou nothing, but that voii
arc \o lie still and sloop your till.'

' But tell mc what has happoncd. I havo had a stvang,>

,lv t<' 1''"
uUlv ;

hilo. lliinU
; .wul von.

iX like con
Ivvlh. He

11 1

h^*

1. [v\(\\ t<'
;uul lio

ilisc

llill. iKMiing
luili.iv \o\\n

In Nviiat
IwaniUM-inii ?
ivkc not bin,*;
<n ;il linic^.

Ik. inuc

h as

kii ihal you

tn.

.1 a slvans

tlicnn I low Inn)' i- il .intc \\c loiuird ,\i\ r* Sonir
(inc -ntl \\c li.id l.ilun il Tlic wnid. .(rmnl iinkcn l»y
llic (nldiuT. \iiu(', hut I (Id ni>l .( r how tli.il ( an Im.'

' \\'«' (lid \.\Vv \\\ no f'lr.il ni.illci Irl lli.il (onhiil
\on. i sec \nii ,ii(> ,1 .li.ini ; il w a . llir ( oluncl told you,
and \ou lii'ld Ihc i\(' . dull, and ni.idc licliiAc lo be .lone
drai;

' ^'o\|;^^(• jcl inf\, lac k,' .\n)\<t| .md.uilli a wcai y '^milc
'Tell nif .ill, iuid llu-n I will sltrp lui d;i\'^, il yon will. I
an) -I I .in);cl\- sK'i'|i\-.'

' Well, lo (unlcnl \'(iii, I bicik ,dl order, and Icll llir
lliinj:; .IS il ,ii lived. We sloi nird .ind look ,\ i s I In cr (l;iy,
aj^o. ^'()n Yy\ a hnllcl in \i"ni .idc jn I ;illri llif In I
allaik, .ind l.i\ in .i ii|',lil In.it Ir nine |»l;i(c, wlxii one Inld
me ol \()nr niisrii.intr. I )(Md nun .iioiind \oii, :ind
a wonndi'd I'tciulnn.in or two, who were milking; a dciil
cnini; noise loneerniii); iheir wound-. Ihere seemed
sin. ill liopi's ol \'oii, \on h.id heen bleeding so lon^ ; lor il
w.is lioins aller \oii Id! I hut \'oii were lonnd. The
.surgeon h.id all Ihe ineliiMlion lo le.ive yon lo die, bill I he
tdlonel onleu'd \-on to be ean ied heic, and so here \\('
broui;lit \»>ii ; and now yon shall j^o lo sKcp, or I will
never speak a sin^U" word lo yon as lon^ as yon li\'e.'

Not anolluT s\llable eoiild be extracted Iroin him,
lhoui;li Ainyot's euriosily was far Irom sali^lied ; and
the latter at length desisted Irom (jiiest ionin^, and l(;II
ai;ain into the dreamy state ol semi-mu onsc iousncss from
whieh he had re\i\ed. I lours |)assed by, and days al^o,
without his beinn ;ible or (K-siioiisto notice their flight.
Sometimes he took the lood put to his lips by his nurses,
sometimes he steadily refused it ; sometimes he oj)cnc(l
his eyes anci j;a/ed with a ])u//,led air at anyone wlio was
present ; ottencr he lay with his eyes haU-shut, noticing
no one.

Jack Pownal liad frequent fits of despair, and was
inclined to think many times that the surgeon's worda

- >

Ir'/ /»'nV/jl'^/.

li.n «• Il 11 In • (m n.l (.' (Iir pt nti. i d. ii h .mi tin 1« ill K lirld
n\il , I>\ iltiMrr;, ll'r pcnoil i>l w iK i I iililr . ; jMrw iimif
lir()\U'lU \\\>\ liMlt'CI ll\ l.hK' \\iMil , ' \in\ii| I t ;l III In

')M \hl lu w hnli' I ii\\r n. I hi liml i 'I ill ■ .im .' .iml linn I lie
» u ni III. nil il lilliM\ Innk I iMn ;i>M' ;it'.nn

11 n I \ I Ml Il.til \ iMn (ill nl II I M 1 1 ' il.l \ ' hr ;l Ivi il

I Mir

r\ ( nin»',. .) - Ih' ili rw m .n I Iir p n ii iit ' I<i d. nnl \\\ w \\\\

'■.U 1 -l.u ( )iMi ih.u llii link r\r. Will Iniiiiil In Inni will) ;i

Irnk ni ]s i li « I irinointmn, x\ Iiii Ii llii\ Ii.iil Iml ililnni
shnw u -n\> r t Iir nn •» InrI w ,\ . ilnnr

' \ « •>, null 111.' AnunI nplii'il, ' 1 iln nnllnnc, ImiI Ircp
It \\ nwld br bri In 1 n hew c nu' n\ n l'n:n il. I.ii K , t h;\n h;i\ r

uu^ •-nnnno .n\ .u »in\\n hiM*'. \ -U ihi tnlnnri il Iu> (ini";
u.M 1 huiK mv'

N,M 1

\ nu .ur (Inino^ ,\ . nnu h ;\ > ;ni\ nl n

nii>;ht :v- wrll :\11 \n\\ nui •»'I\»'< (n '-Ircp A ^ pn'.; n\n ihn < ni

llu' i,v^l\;.Mi \h.\[ \\

•t.iinu', :\1 lhr»n;r'l. ;niil wjilUinp

u]> ;iu»l »ln>\ u ;\n»l -l.nnir. .u;.\ni. 1 h,\\(' nr\ (M hrtn n\nn'
uiK~ m \iu \\\c iMlrn 1 rnx \ \.mi, \\hiM;ni hr und -.Icrp.'

Anui't tiuiud hr- hr,\d \\\th .ni rllni I Inw.nth^ hi>;
fiu'-ui, ;\nd uupinwi r.u;vMl\ :

' Imu \\ h\ , hu k

' Ah ' Nini ui,i\ ^n\ , " ImU win ? " I'hul i'. \\h;U 1 say
all iho »l,u . ;invl <^\ri \ d,u ; h\i( Mh\ i.nnml \\i> vlnim
thi- ]>1;A^\' .»>- MO did \i\ .' Ihitin. thr pilnl. ^;\\ > hi' v.\li
sh>'\\ r,s a •p"i.\v\' wluMv' \> r in,u l.uid .dvMil li\»' n\dr:< limn
K^vluMv^^ t . and Adnuial U.wxki^ s;i\sonrn| hissi\t\ ^',iin
shrl^s sh,\ll Iwttn d»M\n tho loit nl Toiiia^. h\ >\.i\- nl
liol]"»ir>ki v>s ; Vu{ >i\\\ wc vio nothing, v^n h^hu Mnnlaunl
\\a-V."> iho .uinuial li^ pronu^o. ih.U it \\r h.ivc ((> sa\r

i^\'.rs4.-

Iws. a> ho >».vni

to think hkv'K . ho will Uavc his
shi-j>s all voadx to tako ns up. .nul tho avlniii.il ,^.»\s ihoro
avo >uoh thinc's •i> winvis anvl tido> w hioh niav pri'Notit,
an.v'. ibo gonoral has tho aiv ol novor havinj; hoard lA suoli
lhinc> ; i^^vi so wo wait, wo wait, till what ? Trulv, I do

h//y,>/ /hi'/ff//.

• /

\i\v inoH"

, , ,, , ,1 I.'

1 \\u n iIm'

1 (I \\v «1«'»"'

>| u

(>\n <

1;\V • "»

\r ;\nt

tow.vu

lot w*^ ^.tomi

;\\

U bavo bis
il s.ws Uhmv

|\v»

in.w l>vi

vont

Tiulv, I Jo

KWVl

m 'I K III i\\ , ImiI I ii|>|ii ■ I I ill I III I Mil I iii\ I Mil III wind

iinl w .i\ I III' 1 1 III I I I

I'l I «|ii I l\

I , :iiii| I , nil' III 1 1

'I H I IM I II

Hill , III Iv ' ' t jii iiliili i| \ tii\ 1 1|
\li, \Mii III. IV .,i\ " Hill I II I; '

" '.hll, I I. II V"" ••"
I ml II K'l >i In JMi I i . nil II I; I III I .1 1 II ., .nil I w i II iim n I- I ill I Im

I nil III I III I ll;t|i| ) I

' Mil n I nM\ :i \\i II III III II ,' wHil \niv"t 'I' ]< < I' 'lly,
' Il lliiti' iiiillnni' III III iliiiir Wli.il (I'll f mIiiikI
Wi'llt :t\ III lln. ml " I llniii; i' Il i i in . jo \\\r likr ||ic
Mini ii I ;i I'll nil . ill, Ink i' '

' M.n \ I III 111 . likr I ;i k in \ i II lii iw iiii iiv' ' il u lln y'll
'In II i| ",\ lien \\ I • I'll III III II i' ;i (» Ml III I V nil nil II i , I In i| n

' I I r, I .1 HI, Ink, \ I HI I .ilk I I r;i .( Ill I Jill I » 1 1 nn ,i jM in ,

li.il

,i\ lln II '|i 'III I I

' I |i >\\' ill ' I k III i\\ '' III' ,1 \' . Iinl llillj' Id nil , I Ml I W.I Ik .

1 1 • iUiil II 1 1 ;nnl I'll ik . nil .( I ,ililr lln 1 1 it y I',"' ' ' I'''' '"'
w rnl 1 1 '. I In- i-riHi ,il, ,iinl ( illiM (I 1 1 1 I ,il; I Ki h In |i .i I , il lir
tlllpjil Im\ r I In- I I iiinn.itnl < )l li\ < |ni inli i i| nun ,i nd I Iim r
-hip. Ii'l llir , ill, III , lull 11", Il 1. iml I'l l»r l,ik(ii ,iikI
I Inn' . ,111 mil nl il

' I )n \ I Ml llllMII I lir\ If III I'll liiin '' '

I '.III

1(11

VI Ml ; III' \\i mill ni i| I ,ilk .ilt'iiii il

(Inn'l kimw picurlv wli.il \v,i . .liil 'ii done; Inil il I
Unnw .mytliin^; -iImmiI Inm, he', in, id ,il ;dl lln. \v<i.lc ol
t inir.'

' ( )| I (Mif.c ; i ; I licic iml liiii|', dfiinj', r' '

'(>li, nniiuil. williiiiil end ; iiiik li t;ilkin|^, tn;iny re-.o-
hll ions ; t his one in ,i i .I|m', I hiit our in I lie iilk ., a in I t he.
I'Umu h making; l.imoiis |)i(|);n ,il ion . loi the. dcliiKc'

' What lools I hey will think us.'

' A\', won't ihcy lan<;h \vc hall hear thrtn aero., the.
t'hannrl!'

' Ihit it cannot he: the (general will never ^o }ir>rnc
ithout attein|)lin>4 something. lack, yon arc foohricr

ino, to make tnc conU'iitid to lie: JKrc.

f-^i ^ .' . ^i' i - yy'WWW.' i' i ' )" w n i» i' » Jm m

Amyot Ih'oiioh.

* Whal ! do you iniaj;iiic that 1 Icll lies to make vou
contonlal ?— a slate ot tliiii^s thai lu-vcr was known
since you were horn ! Nay, when I i)erjure niyseU", it
will he for a heller purpose. I tell you tiie trutli most
plain anil sinijile, anil hehoKl you t'urnisheil willi enoujj;h
ot" mailer for iliseontenl ; so now I douht not thai you
will thrive anil ^row fat, it heinj; your natural tooil.'

Amyot smiled a weary smile, and tried to turn on his
side, which Jack perceivinfj;, started up to render assistance,
and shook up the ])illow vehemently, saying :

'You cannot yet lift the head; where has all your
hoasted strength departed ? The French have got the
hetter of you, if I do not deceive myself.'

' Thanks ; my head seems tied to my pillow ! I have
been a plaguy fellow to nurse, I fear.'

' The old creature wIkj looks after you makes no
com]-)laint ; do you find yourself comfortable now, my
boy ? '

' Hot ! ' said Amyot, pushing back the covering. Your
news has made me hot, Jack.'

' Fool that I am ! ' exclaimed his friend ; ' could I not
have held my tongue ! Look here, Amyot, lie still and
speak not one other word— for my sake, I pray I Try
and sleep again ! What a fool I am ! '

And he seemed so truly miserable at the consequences
of his rash communication, that Amyot could not but
submit, and lie quiet till the sleep of weakness and
exhaustion again crept over him ; and when he next
opened his eyes, it was late on in the night, and all was
silent around him — no sound to be heard but the water
plashing against the side of the ship.

His dreams had not been pleasant, and he was un-
willing to fall asleep again, lest some of the dark spectres,
which had been so constant in their attendance of late,
should reappear. He had fallen asleep entirely engrossed
with the thoughts of the disgraceful failure of the ex-

luiyot Jh'oUi^/i.

make you
IS known
inysclt, il
•villi most
h enough
llial you
xkI.'

in on liis
ussislance,

^ all your
•e j;ot the

! I have

makes no
now, my

mg. Your

:)uld I not
e still and
ray ! Try

nsequences
Id not but
ikness and
n he next
md all was
the water

le was un-
rk spectres,
ice of late,
y^ engrossed
of the ex-

peililion ; hut so hazy and indislinct were any impres-
sions that might he made on his miiul during those first
few days of iiis coiualescence, that when he woke again,
all remembrance of the news which had so ilisturhed him
had passcil awav, and his own personal trials hail
assumed giant proportions, threatening entirely to oxer-
whelm him.

In the silence of the night in the intense solitude
that the darkness seemeil to bring, as it wrap|)eil him
rountl ami shut him olT from all consciousness of the near
neighbourhood of his fellow-creatures — Amyol felt a
despairing sense of l()neline>s ; once he e\en asked him-
self if he were ali\e or dead. Might not this darkness
xvhich eiiwrai)t him, be the darkness of the gra\e ? or was
it that unknown home of sj)irits which men must enter
after death ? Had he i)assed the boundary line? Was
he now no longer an inhabitant of the worUl where he
had lived and lo\ed, and longeil and hoped — the xvorld
of so many loved ones, of Primrose ami Joan, of his
adored colonel, of his true-hearted friend Jack Pownal,
and many more ? Was he sei)arated from them ? The
thought was misery, and some hot tears fell which helped
to rouse him from the strange delusion. Then succeeded
another thought of delirious wretchednes:-, — the phantom
of a fevered brain. The fleet had started on its home-
ward voyage : the ship on which he was, filled with sick
and wounded, had been left behind — hence the silence,
the sense of loneliness. This delusion, too, passed away
— perhaps he dozed : another followed. It had been
thought useless to bring him from the field of battle,
the surgeon had deemed his case hopeless — why then,
of course, it was ; and what did that mean, but that
he was dying ? and dying meant — what ? Often
had he and Jack Pownal discussed this question, but
with what result his bewildered mind could scarcely now
remember. ' Nothing to fear, so long as it finds us

ny*f

*.M

-6

h;/j'ol Brouirh,

ulicrc' wc ourIiI to be/ the colonel had otice said in liis
heariiifjj ; but to face it on the liekl of battle, in the \\\A\
and tiunult, the clashing of arms, the noise and the
shouting, was one tiling — to lie alone and wait its slow
approach, a very dilTerent tiling indeed.

Attain his thoughts seemed lost in wild confusion : he
had wandered back to that day in Swinford rectory when
little Stephen had passed into the unknown land, and
then further still to the Sunday morninpj in wSwinford
Church, and some of Arnold's words sounded again in his
cars : ' Turn thine eyes from thine own burden, and
consider His ! ' and again, ' He will have thee walk the
road He chooses, and it is not to thy liking.' He had
rejieated those words to himself many times since that
Sunday two years ago ; they had jiroved a wliolesomc
reminder many a day — they came to him again to help
him through that dark night. ' What He chooses shall
be to my liking,' he feebly said ; and before that deter-
mination, the gloomy spirits of the darkness fled, and
when the grey morning dawned. Jack Pownal stealing on
ti})toe to his bedside, found his fears and self-reproach
allayed by the placid quiet of Amyot's sleeping face.

The day that was dawning brought much discontent
to many on board the fleet. Admiral Hawke, wearied of
the irresolution of the land commanders, resolved to set
sail on his return to England. Orders were given
accordingly, and the expedition which had excited so
much hopes, and cost, some say, a million of money,
returned to Portsmouth.

il ill bis

the rush

and tlic

its slow

uon : lie
try when
and, and
Swinford
lin in his
len, and
walk the
He had
ince that
lujlesonic
1 to help
Dses shall
lat deter-
ifled, and
ealin^ on
reproach
ace.

iscontent
rearied of
ed to set
re given
fvcited so
money,

ClIAPTKR XXX.

ov A SK("o\i) \vor\i) KKri«:i\-Kn hv amvot urocCiH.

'And so you are in urgent need of tidings of your
brother, Airs. Joan Pomfret, and you nuist needs suggest
to your oUl grandmother to take a journey to London to
see bow be comports himself in his new character of
interesting invalid ! Truly I was much astonished at
your request ; and pride suggested, '' Let her go herself,
if she needs to know ; " but other sentiments interfered,
and thus I have made the journey to Queen's Square,
stayed a week, and returned home, and now I take the
pen to write to you. I had been in some need of change
for some time past — not on account of any bodily ail-
ment, but because I bad bad naught to divert me for
months — no fresh society, no one to tell me the news ;
therefore this little jaunt was to my liking, and I was not
sorry to have a reasonable excuse for it. Though, to be
sure, I would not have you let my grandson think that I
went to London purposely to see him. He is interesting
enough already, being one of the very few who have
suffered in this silly business, and be needs not to be
made of greater importance still. My daughter Pomfret,
always silly in the matter of youths, makes a grievous
lamentation over his wound, speaks of his mother's
delicate constitution, and doubtless, in her own mind, has
settled the fashion of bis coffin, and the shop where she
will order her mourning. And now, Joan, I see you turn
white, and wring your small dainty bands as in the old
days when you repeated your tasks to me, and had not

^.r>«,^,,

-s

/?M(V /»''.';/ <7/.

Will iiMnnntliil ihcm (i> mimiM\ Ni\, ill\ "Inltl, lii'
.nnH' (i^<!i h I (IK hiMild Ji' i l>i,\\i n\:ni no liiim, nn

ni\ iM > p\ .(\ 1-, :i -, mill I (i . hi

hi I

I 'n I 1 'iilil line

\.\\] \o hr llr will 1\,^^ il\i ihi hiMh, lhiM\i'li I il<' iii>l
\\\\\\ In- l.^oK . -lulliil nic ni'i I hli li p.Mihlli , (lii\
mi ni,\n,(o, i h. n i« k , ,\ • t hi \ Ji ' i 'il

111 I I nil I Ml , III Mil r

u- llr » \n Irll l^m lilili' I'l 111. wiMiiiil, nnnniliri

iHlM'hl ,\0,M1( U , 111

II 1 ,n I

In I li ( i> I'r iK I'l It

I ;

li i.nd, 1 ',i|M nn TimximI, irll. ni\ ilim-lihi r.MiiInt (li:il
]i»' li^-t nuh h MiM'ii liiMii ihr hiillit in In. I'lc, iiml
^U'-t.nnx^i -iMur iMnn\ to (hr lii ,iil Wr ]\.\ . .i w i ,n \ li>i'K,
.^•- >M ^^n^" \\ l\i^ ili-r - n.M >m r.h 1\ ilc n »■ 1 1> li\ r , ImiI i >I t I|;|I
1 ^ ill \inr Iniu w h« u hr iiMni . |i> -l,i\ witli iiir, ,i . I
nUvTiii hi' '•]\.\]] .h.M(l\ Ihi hiMii' ni Oincn'. Siiiiiiic,

Isniv; nnu b hr<)ihiu>ii b\ n\i u \\lii> l.ilK polilii ■, r. nnl ;i
iittnio nl,u-r («M .\)\ in\ .(li.l Xiulici i- il wrli Iim Inni In
hv\n ,^(1 thv' .»biiM" .\n>l iiilunlr ol llior wIiimii (lie ill

■ 1 U V \ '''.> \

'i tin- »'V]V'«l\t \iM\ In. |M 1 <\ i<lvi'il lie I ,ni, I'l
v'iM;i'-v\ ihnik .M n.Mlniu> hm (hi- iiii|im\ tli.il i- >V'nu\
1.M\\,n>i. .r,ivl v> v\ n vi.wnu^ ii>l\i,n itllih.it \- -.iJi! Ii\ in\

nivM 1 \ n.UuM^ .ul^^■■- till- ^"h,n"n,

l\,i( thill ninth i

1 1

\\M \ iMttvM tv^ Inni 1 -,tv\ tivi pl.\inl\. tn.t-nnuh ;) - hr
v\"'v,ul •-v'.nw v-ont .nn In^ \»'\.UuMt w hrii 1 )» -trd with him,
I'Jv' li.i'-, .^-^ \v^n know hill wrll, .\ tu-i \ trmjH'i. thmh'Jt 1 il
.\*inv>t lir h.^-- n>^\\ ,U',.t;;u\l .i --ui pi r-nu', m.i-ti-i\ ovri it.
1 w.m.^r.t 1 ^h.^il tT'-t It 'xMnrwh.U wlun 1 h,i\r Inm In
■"■'A soli ; ImU tli.r* v.inuiM hr i«M ^^Mll^' \1,\\'-, .f- he i^

OTv^nn^^tM

to 'O.^---- .1 wln.u^ ,tt Viioonwuh \\ith In-, niiu h

^ _. v1

» V H ' . V \ 1 V V

^lonol. .in.vl 1 wonKi not mtviiru' with ;\ :h lu'iiu

-li

\\ !V,v~!1 w ; Il ;>i

hnn so nuu h plo-i-^nu

i\.t . t V

w li.uo 1 viiMu^ \ om huidin^, loan, with irj^^ani
v'tlior; h'lU oonoovnmo th.it othoi v)\irstion in
. ] .ur, A{ .\ Ion-- how to .mswiM it. \\ hat said
w lior, sliv^ luMVvi hoT oUl liion^l was liUo to die ?
v!r.k slio s.rivi notlinic- l'lio stoin oUl mother hopoil
h.o r.richt wt nvo\ cr. and spoko in ei\ il tcitns oi her

;< » I V

I . i i ; , < >>v

1 '1

lul.l, In
.\\\\\. I'"'

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I, ;, \ . n«'l ;«
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^\n tli<~ '"
Ir v.ui. «>'
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\ui In nu

\\v h i\ ■ !''•
\\\tb him;

-1 \ >>\ n it
(\ ,- bull to
,\', \\c i^
l\i- uuu li

q\n>tion in
\Vl\.it saivl
l,Uo to ilio ?
otluM hopol
onus ot luM-

M" |Mi I |i i| hi , I |i:ii ;ii l( I , lull I 'i imi ' . ( Ik Id jiri |if ;i( »

nril 111 I I Mill

I \M

In I |:ii I , In III m|> In IimhI my < h;iif

I r iiii r

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<il n^\^., fi| liiMi. IMII

il nnn li inti 1 1 li

IM li;l'

lull

III I ' I M I I ; 1 1 1 1 1 (

lllili il , I' >l I

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;ri' iiiiill ipii I hill III- 1 1 I III M i!

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\ I mi l;il Ini ;i \ iii;im \' ;i I iiin'

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SI >niiil ;iinl I 1 1 •nj> I ' • lipjil In < ' Mini i y'' I'^iM I' . ; I In in'iic
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'.( Miic III lii ■ 1 1\\ II .|iii ll inl ' I I In )m m i ,il In- .< ml , fni t li In
lu'lil, m\- iniiiiliv will 'nllf I lilllc li'iin I'nn kn.ivi li
(li(k;, I lir I'likr nl ( iilnlici l;i ml h;i ''iiin |(,nk, ,i -,
dnnlilirs'; \nii Im\i' licil'l. VVIi,il lliinl; ynii nf In,
l.ninm- ( '<iii\ nil nm ;il (In. In Sivni '' It i. .,iid In fi-i-;
|)loini'('d mil III (iiMiiiKiinl limti' ;iiniM'. ;i(/;iim.I tin'
I'KmuIi, iind .il.n I'll III. .iiinv tinit it Inill nnt ,ii/,iin
jMC'.iiiiH" l«» Imnl tin riicinv. iMo,! divntiiif^ tnily, it is
\v<)i I ll will It' Id ( (line In I ,'>ii(|(»ii I ') iiinl .'» in in 1 1 f ,iii c \' >i
atiur.nncnl ; iml my on in l;i\v looks wondff,u-. ifjuv:,
illid Am\or:- lic;i\'v iirow. Iiowii |»oi trnton ,1 y, ■.(> I ;irn
Ion rd to I ail f:^! I (|u icily w lim | he tidk i iin on t In . Ki;ittcr.'

So wrote Mis. |)a?I('y in reply to Joan', anxious
itu|iiirii's alter liei hrotlier, who, having been uith -/yrrio
dillienlty reinoxcd to London on tin, arrival of tfic fleet at
Porlsmoiith, was now on si( k leave at his uncle's hon-.e
iiipueen's Stjuare. The old lady had been much •>h''x,ked

■. ■ 1

.^bfiyot Jh'ouo7i.

m
ir

U'i

:« i:

'I\

at his appearance, and was ea^er to have the nursinj^ of
him; hut it was Ion*; belore he was ])ronouneecl well
ent)u«;li to dispense with the constant altenchmce ol
sm'^eitns, and a hmouor, ijuite new to him, had crej)t
over him, making him much disincHned to consent to
any mo\e.

.And so the change to Westerham was deterred, much
to the wrath of Mrs. Darley, who had set her lieart on
undertaking tlie task of bringing her grandson back to
Hfe, and was most unwilhng that anyone else should have
the credit of his cure. Secretly, Amyot had a further
reason for delay — of which more anon. To his gi'tinil-
motlier lie only wrote that he lelt too weary and weak to
go anywhere, and she must excuse him ; and then he
resigned himself to some ilismal forebodings, which his
aunt's not \-ery cheerful iliscourse suggesteil, and which
each ilav grew stronger and took more definite form.

From this state of depression he was roused at length
by a siuklen visit from Colonel Wolfe, who had come to
remintl him of his engagement to pass a icw days at
Blackheath ; but who, fnuling out in a few moments the
}K)int of melancholy to which Amyot had sunk, declared
that there was no time like the jiresent, and carried him
off then and there to the house where he was staying
with his parents, which, he assured Mrs. Pomfret, was on
one of the finest spots near London — so placed as to
enjoy the best of air, and the finest of views.

Was it the air, or was it the society of that cheery, but
tender-hearted friend, Amyot cared not to inquire ; but,
whichever it was, that short sojourn at the house in
Chesterfield Walk dro\'e away the dark phantoms which
weakness had brought ; life became once more a thing to
be desired, full of high purposes and ardent longings.

At first it was strange to Amyot to hear his friend's
foibles, hitherto quite sacred in his eves, noticed and
remarked upon, and not unfrequently censured by the

i \ i

ursinu; ol'
icccl Will
dance ot
i;ul crept
jnsenl to

cd, much
heart on
1 back to
)uld have
a further
lis ,u;i^nd-
il weak to

then he
^vhich his
Lud which
Form,
at length
1 come to

days at
ments the

dechired

ried him
Ls staying

t, was on
ced as to

leery, but
lire ; but,

house in
ms which
thing to
Lings.

s friend's
Liced and

d bv the

,-J

•f ■

i) i

3^^

ulinyot Ih'ouo/t.

liaiulsotnc old latly, his mother ; for, perfect in his eyes,
Atiiyot had ne\er imagined that anyone eoidd discover
aught to hlanie in James ^\^)lt'e. She must be liard to
j)lease indeed, if slie was not satisfied witli sucli a son —
so dutiful and tender, so solicitous for her comfort, so
ardent in his admiration of both her and his father.
Somethino; of this surprise, James Wolfe seemed to read
in his youno- friend's countenance, and once, when alone,
he remarked suddenly :

' You wonder what my mother means, Amyot. She
lias always been good enough to tell me plainly of my
failings, and my vehemence and impetuosity have often
called forth her censure ; yet, though she may not think
it, I do believe I never meant to \c\ her.'

Then, as if to prevent any reply, he turned to speak of
other subjects, which he naturally supposed more inter-
esting to Amyot — when the latter would be fit for
service again, of the prospect of taking a sliare in the
ne.xt campaign in America, of the peace signed at Stade,
of the last doings of the King of Prussia ; and then
they touched on the inquiry lately held concerning the
Rochefort expedition. James Wolfe had been summoned
to gi\'e his opinion, and had owned that he thought tnore
might have been done ; yet, to Amyot, he was careful to
speak moderately, asking if he was not contented with
the scars he had brought home, and what more he
desired ?

' And you will go to Wcsterham now, if you really arc
determined to leave us so soon,' he added, when Amyot
spoke of departure. ' Yes ; Westerham is better for you
than Queen's Square — I mean no disrespect to Mrs.
Pomfret when I say that were I ill, Mrs. Darley's care
would soonest cure me — I do not wonder you had grown
melancholy in London. And now I think of it, what
is the latest news of Captain Guy Pomfret ? '

• None for a long while. Some time ago a strange

his eyes,
diseover
; hard to
a son —
nifort, so
is father.
lI to read
len alone,

yot. She

ily of my

lave often

not think

o speak of
,ore inter -
be fit for
ire in the

at Stade,

and then

jrnino" the

summoned

light more

eareful to

nted with

more he

really arc
[en Amyot
:er for you
to Mrs.
Irley's care
[lad grown

)f it, what

a strange

1 !■<

u^lfiiyot Ih'oiii^h.

3S3

thing happened, whicli they have never understood. A
singidar-looking man, a foreigner, called one day at the
house in Queen's wSquare, and asked for tlie Rev. Arnold
Pomfret. My brother-in-law was, of course, not there,
being at his parish, and tlie servant told him so ; where-
upon tlie fellow swore a good deal, and handed in a
packet, which lie requested might be sent to Arnold. It
was despatched, and when opened, was found to contain
a watch and some rings, which my aunt affirms were
Guy's ; but there was no line in the packet to say whence
they came, or what it meant. My uncle thinks his son
is dead, but my aunt entirely refuses to belive it — thinks
that the ruffian who left the packet had stolen the things,
and for some reason repented, and wished to restore
them.'

' A strange piece of business. And no further tidings
have ever been received from Captain (i-uy himself ? '

* None whatever. My grandmother thinks he will
reappear some day ; but I doubt it, and think he must
be dead.'

' Most likely. Well, if I chance to come down to
Westcrham, as I am always desiring to do, having very
much-esteemed friends in the family at Squerries Court,
1 shall look to sec you in much sounder health and spirits
than at present. Mrs. Darley has no tolerance of low
spirits, she once told me.'

' But my spirits are first-rate now.'

The young colonel shook his head.

' I know your case. You'll have many fits of vapours
yet. And, remember this : a soldier must have good
spirits; but a small amount of health will content me, so
long as a man has good spirits — that we cannot dispense
with — therefore, shake off the gloom that besets you, for
England will want you yet. Don't fancy it is time to die
until you have done her some good service.'

And his friend proved right in his surmise, the fits of

!!•

i ■ )

384

Aniyot Brougli.

hii*.

■■■!■)

l!';;tt.

vapours, as he called them, recurred many times during
the months which followed, and Mrs. Darley found the
cure by no means so easy or so rapid as she had expected.
It had not occurred to her that by bringincj Amyot into
the near neighbourhood of his lady love, other causes of
de])ression might be produced. If she had considered the
matter from that point of view at all, she had probably
concluded that a lengthened sojourn in each other's near
vicinity would result in the happiest consequences. A
wounded officer must needs be interesting, she thought,
as she recalled her own girlhood, her courtship, and gay
officer bridegroom.

But sickness and weakness, and the strange propensity
to visions and fancies which still clove to Amyot, did not
help him in his wooing.

Was Primrose merry and unrestrained as of old ? Then
it was plain she never thought of him as a lover. Was
she silent and embarrassed ? No doubt she was thinking
of Lance. Was she sympathetic in his sufferings ? She
looked upon him as one like to die, whom all the world
must pity. In her society he grew more and more hope-
less, yet ever more desperately in love. Every evening
he told himself that he Avas a fool to have come to
Westerhan,, that he must go away, and never see her
again. Every morning, he found some new pretext for
lingering there.

Such being the case, it was scarcely to be called marvel-
lous that the cure which Mrs. Darley had foretold was not
so rapid as she had expected, and before long the good
lady grew impatient.

' Amyot Brough,' she said, with some asperity, * it
seems to me you make small effort to be well. Tell me,
do you take your doses of physic as ordered by your
London doctors ? Yes, you say. Then they must be of
little worth, as it appear^ to me. But tell me, further,
when you go to bed, do you address yourself to sleep, or

I ' t.

Aviyot Broito^lu

385

les during
found the

expected,
myot into

causes of
,idered the
1 probably
iher's near
lences. A
e thought,
p, and gay

propensity
ot, did not

3ld ? Then

)ver. Was

as thinking

ngs ? She

[ the world

more hope-

ry evening

come to

;er see her

pretext for

led marvel-
)ld was not
the good

[perity, ' it

Tell me,

[d by your

Imust be of

le, further,

to sleep, or

do you lie awake ? There is much mischief done by idly
tossing on a bed instead of slee})ing. And your eyes have
a weary look about them.'

Amyot, thus catechised, confessed that he was some-
what addicted to tossing idly in his bed, though, as he
averred, he knew not why.

' Then 1 will tell you. It is a foolish habit to which
some are greatlv given of permitting the thoughts to
wander, which leads to this bad habit. Train thy
thoughts, Amyot; keep them well in hand, as thou
wouldst a masterful horse, and then, by the grace of God,
thou wilt sleep. And, to another matter — thy food. I
like not to harass people in my house about what they eat
and drink; but thou art my grandson, and a sick man.
So I must prescribe for thee. Doddridge tells me you ate
far more heartily when a lad than now, when thou art a
man of six feet and some inches. It seems to him strange,
and to me unreasonable. Therefore, I pray thee, mend
thy ways in this respect also.'

'Nay, madam; a growing lad needs more food than a

man.

' Tush ! do my bidding, and thou wilt recover thyself.
But another matter, Amyot Brough, I grieve much to
see thou cherishest thy old folly for Primrose Solmes.
Nay, do not interrupt me ; let me have my say out. I
know what thou wouldst say : that thou canst not help it ;
but I tell thee that thou must find a help for it, one way
or another. How long is this dream of thine to go on
marring thy life? I pray thee, tell me, grandson, hast
thou ever plainly asked the maiden to be thy wife ? '

' Madam, where woidd be the use ? '

' Answer me. Hast thouever told thy love, and sought
hers i'l return ? '

' Not precisely; but I do believe she kr./jws it.'

' Amyot Brough ! you try my patience sorely. Will
you do my bidding in this matter ? '

2 c

i.i

^1?

II.

' I'i

rf"

386

/hnyot Brough.

* Most gladly, if I can, dear madam.'

' If ! The whole story rests on ifs ! — I hate such un-
certainties. Go to Prinu'ose, tell her thy love-tale, and
ask her to be thy wife. Then we shall know how we
stand.'

' Rut, jrrandmother, she is betrothed to Launcelot Kirk-
bride.'

Mrs. Darley rapped the table with her fan.

* Small marvel is it that yoiu" Hne exj^edition failed to
take Kochefort,' she said scornfully, ' or that you came
back woimded like to die, having gained nothing by it.
Will you ever learn wisdom ? '

Amyot matle no re})ly, and she continued :

' In this matter I am determined, Amyot Rrough ; find
out thv fate for thyself, or I will do it for tlicc, and
Prinu'ose shall laugh at thy cowardice all the rest of her
life.'

' It is no lack of courage, madam ; but it seems to me
dishonourable to take prof L by my old schoolfellow's
misfortunes.'

' Dishonoin"able ! and wherein ? I say to thee, Amyot,
find out if Primrose be attached to this man, or if indeed
it is true that she be in any way pledged to him; and if, as
I judge, there be no such barrier in thy way, tell thine
own tale, and see what she says to thee.'

' Bui, madam, you forget that I heard of her pledge to
him from her own lips.'

' Tush ! that childish talk again ! Take it for granted
that they have changed their minds, and urge thy own
suit boldly. Then, if she says thee nay, take thy fate
bravely and like a man ; but have done with this
hesitation. Had thy father been of thy mould, my
daughter had never been his wife.'

Amyot received this last thrust in silence ; which for-
bearance was not a little surprising to the old lady.

' Weakness makes him marvellously meek,' she thought

rlmyo^ Broui^Ii.

e such un-
e-talc, and
w how wc

icclot Kirk-

)n failed to
It you came
thing by it.

U-ough ; find
or Ihcc, and
AC vest of her

seems to me
hchooUeUow's

thee, Amyot,
1, or if indeed
lim; and if, as
ay, teU thine

Iher pledge to

lit for granted
lurge thy own
take thy fate
lie with this
mould, my

le ; which for-

|ld lady.
' she thought

to herself ; and looking sharply at him as he sat half
lying in the window-seat, her heart smote her as she
marked the look of dt;ep depression on liis })alliil
face.

She gathered together some ])apers with which she had
been busying herself when the coiuersation began, and
prepared to leave the room.

Amyot, seeing this, rousetl himself from his abstraction,
and sj)rang up to open the door for her.
She smiled as she passed him, and said :
'Bend ihy tall head, bo\-, and kiss me, and say thou
wilt follow my advice. 1 tell t. .e, 1 shall live to see
Prinu'ose thy wife.'

' (irandmother, that hoi)e, small as it is, is my life, li I
speak now, and she will not listen^ — -— '

'If, iigain ! 1 tell thee, Amyot, she will listen.'
' I think not.'

' 'Jliink no more about it, but go and try.'
And with these words she left him ; and Amyot, hesi-
tating for one minute only, went to know his fate.

It was ijiarket-day in the little Kentish town, and as
Amyot walked slowly down the street, in no very hap})y
and contented mood, the cheerful bustle chafed liis
spirit — the jolly, red-faced farmers, who had to all
appearance everything that heart could wish ; the lively
housewives enjoying the ojiportunity of friendly gossip
with their neighbours ; the young men and maidens
exchanging rustic compliments over their baskets, all
seemed fortunate compared with himself; for by no
manner of means could he bring himself to believe that
any but ill-success would attend the venture he was about
to make.

The walk was not long, yet he was tired when he laid
his hand on the little gate, and, pushing it open,
advanced into the porch. The house-door was ajar, and
announcing his approach with a knock, Amyot entered.

I i

38S

Arfiyot Brouoh.

t(j fuul himself in the midst of a scene of distress : his
bright Primrose in tears, wiiile Mrs. Kirkhricle, with an
()|)en letter in her hand, was lookin*; worried and anxious,
and more fretfid than usual. What did it mean ?

As he entered, it seemed to Amyot that some words of
reproach had been addressed to Primrose, but of this he
couUl not be certain. Of one thing, however, he did feel
sure — his coming was not welcome either to iMrs. Kirk-
bride or Prinn'ost^ : the latter seemed to shrink back at
his approach, and the hand she suffered him to take was
cold as a stone.

' wSume bad news, surely ?' he ventured to say, when
the first greetings had been exchangetl ; and the inquiry,
received at first in silence, was, after a few moments
an.swered in constrained tones by Mrs. Kirkbride.

' Yes, from my eldest .son. He is very ill in Canada.'

' Lance very ill ?' Amyot replied, as his eyes scanned
Prinn'ose's tear-stained face. ' What is it ? Does he
write himself? iMay I hear what my old schoolfellow
says, iMrs. Kirkbride ? I am truly sorry for your
distress.'

With some mistrust — and, as he fancied, with some
dislike, the stern old woman' eyed her visitor : then, glad
of a listener, she took up the sheet of pajier, and read
parts of its contents. Lance told of a long attack of
illness, from which the doctor gave him small
hopes of recovery ; he felt so bad at times, that he
had no great desire to live ; he begged his mother to
forget him, and to think no more of their old plans of
a meeting.

Then Mrs. Kirkbride made a pause, and cast her eyes
further down the page. She was missing something —
Lance's message to his affianced bride, no doubt, surmised
Amyot — hence her tears. Then Mrs. Kirkbride resumed.
Lance was speaking of his new life in Canada ; of his
enthusiastic admiration for his leader, the Marquis dc

Amyot Ih'OitoJi,

,trcss : bis
;, with UM
id anxious,

111?

e words ot
t of this he-
he did feci
Mrs. Kirk-
nk back al
to take was

D say, ^v^i'^'^
the inquiry,
;w moments

ride.

11 Canada.'

eyes scanned

? Does be

scboohellow

y for your

with some
then, glad
•cr, and read
attack ot
him small
lies, that he
is mother to
old plans of

cast her eyes
something —
)ubt, surmised
ride resumed,
anada ; of his
e Marquis de

ig;

Montcalm ; of the great exploits and still greater
projects of the gallant Frenchman ; how beloved he was
by the natives, how well be knew iiow to win their
allegiance, and to make use of them for bis country's
service. Should lie li\e, i.ance concluded, Canada should
be his home ; but of that, be thought little until be saw
bow it would go with him.

Mrs. Kirkbride read all with a tearless eye and un-
faltering \()ice, but her face was white, and her lips
drawn. Amyot knew her well enough to guess bow
much she was sutTering, and tried once more to express
Ills sorrow and svmpalbv ; but bis words sounded colder
than be would fain have bail them, for bis thoughts
were all astray, and no one seemed much to care what he
said.

'It will not be long before be writes again, I trust,'
were bis concluding words ; and Mrs. Kirkbride as.sented,
saying :

' Yes, or some one for him ; ' and again her eyes fell
with cold severity on the still weeping Primrose, and she
said no more.

Amyot felt indignant.

' She might try to comfort Primrose,' he said to him-
self ; ' for of course her trial is the worst, after all,' and
then he found himself wondering whether be could say
anything to console the young girl, and asking himself
whether she would take it amiss if be made the attempt.

It was hard, with those stern eyes watching their every
movement ; but after a while Primrose slipped away, and
before long Amyot found bis way to her side in the garden.
She had dried her tears, but it was manifest they were
but just restrained, and that an unguarded word would
make them flow again; and Amyot, watching her quiver-
ing lip, felt afraid to speak.

' You must hope,' he said at last. ' Men who have been
strong are apt to think they are going to die with small

390

/Iffiyol liroitg/i.

III'

reason. T know tluit well c'iioiijj[h, Primrose, from my
own ease. Lance is, jjerluips, by tiiis ;i:i'e, well aj^Min.'

' I think it is very likely,' she said; ' but it is natural
his mother should be anxious, only it is hard to bear, when
anxiety makes her unjust. You look surpriseil, Captain
Brouj^h. 1 thou,i;ht you heard her words wheti you came
in. No! oh, then, it docs not si<j;nirv. You thought my
vexation was all for Lance. Oh, well, let it be so ! '

' I thou<;ht it but natural that you should be grieved
for him,' Amyot replied, pu//led at her indilTerent tone
and manner ; and Prinu'ose replied :
' Well, so I am.'

' But not too deeply, as it seems to me. Primrose, will
it offend you greatly if 1 venture to ask an okl question
once ajrain ? I pray you believe me it is not iille
curiosity that drives me to do so, but another purpose
which I will exjilain hereafter.'

' And this old question ? ' said Primrose {^ravcly, re-
treating to some distance from him, as she cast a
frightened glance towards the cottage window ; and
Amyot replied :

' You will not think me curious when I beg you to
tell me how stands the matter between you and Lance.
Nay, Primrose,' he added earnestly, catching her hand as
she was turning away ; ' forgive me if I vex you, but
bear with me, and let me know.'

' How can it concern you, Captain Brough ? and it
does vex me. I do not care to sjieak of the matter. Let
me go — my mother should not be left.'

' One minute only. Primrose, it does concern me ;
surely you know why ! If Lance is to you but a dearly
beloved brother — if, as some have thought, you are no
longer pledged to him, then I would ask you, may the
dream of my life be realised ? Will you try to think
of me as, for long years past, I have thought of you ? —
will you try to love me, Primrose ? '

•s-

L*, trotn luy
;11 a^iiin.'
it is luiUiral
)bear, when
.ccl, Captain
.11 you came
ihoujfht my
c so ! '

1 he j^ricvcd
iffcrciU tone

rimrose, will

oUl question

is not idle

tliet purpose

gravely, re-
she cast a
indow ; and

beg you to
and Lance,
her hand as
'ex you, but

ugh ? and it
matter. Let

concern me ;

but a dearly
you are no
/ou, may the

try to think
It of you ? —

A niyol Ihvuo/i .

391

' Captain Rrough ? ' said Primrose, turning very white,
* it cannot be ! Oh ! I thought I was to you but an
old friend and playlellow. I thought -but never mind
what I thought — only 1 pray you say no more ot this —
it cannot be ! '

Amyot's face grew mournful almost to sternness.

* Is it so certain then ? ' he asked. ' If it be not un-
courteous, I would pray to know the reason whv it is
so certain. wSince you ilo not altogether dislike me.
might you not some day learn to love me? It seems
to me that my love is such, that it will be content with
but small return. Primrose, is it altogether impossible ? '

vShe bowed her head, and her lips, rather than her
voice, repli<;d :

' It camiot be ! '

' And the reason ? I may not know the reason ? '

The yf)ung girl raised her head with an effort at com-
posure, and re))lied, with some imiKitienee ■

' Is it truly so hard for a man to believe that a woman
does not hne him ? Must one say so jilainly ? Truly,
Cai)tain Brough, you force me to be monstrous uncivil.
I beg you to receive my assurance that this can never
be ; and say no more about the matter. My mother
is calling, I must needs go.'

She curtsied to him, and fled into the house, while
Amyot, feeling his worst presages to be more than
realised, went slowly down the lane towards the village.
But before he had gone far, the sound of running feet
behind him caused liim to turn his head. It was
Primrose, with a letter in her hand. The paleness had
passed from her cheek, and it was a blushing face that
looked up at him as she said :

' This letter came enclosed in my mother's this morn-
ing, with a request that it should be forwarded. My
mother thinks that you will know best where it should be
sent, whether to Queen's Square, as directed, or to Swin-
ford ; may we beg you to see to it ? '

1 ,

f'"

392

.'»

Aniyot B rough.

Amyot took the letter, addressed to the Rev. Arnold
Ponifret, with some surprise, replying :

' My brother-in-law is at Swinford ; it will be be^t
to send it there. Yes, Miss Primrose, 1 will take charge
of it ; ' he was turning away, when she stayed him with
an entreating look.

' 1 have something to confess,' she said. ' My mother
had vexed me much by some unjust suspicions this
morning. It is small excuse for ill-temper, 1 know, to
plead that one lias been provoked, yet. Captain Brough,
as my conscience tells me that J s];)oke ungraciously
to you just now, I would fain discovc some excuse while
I pray you to forgi\'e me for my rudeness. You did
me much honour, and while I cannot consent to your
wish, it grieves me to remember that I parted from my
old friend unkindly.'

' Primrose ! ' the young man burst forth vehemently ;
but she was gone, and there was nothing left for him but
to return home, and confess the failure of his wooing.

Mrs. Darley had a mind to know all, being firmly
convinced that could she draw from her grandson a
circumstantial account of the whole transaction, she
should be able to tell him wherein he had _ failed; but
Amyot was not communicative.

' It was as I expected, madam,' he had replied to her
inquiries. ' She does not care for me.' And then he
would fain have dropped the subject, but his grand-
mother would not permit it.

'You had made up your mind beforehand, and took
your answer before she had well spoken it, I warrant you,
silly boy. What, do you not know that many a maiden's
" Nay '' means " Yea " ? She only waits to be asked a
second time. Your Primrose has a sour old mother, who
keeps her in mortal dread of doing the wrong thing.
Was she not listening at the keyhole, think you ? '

' Nay, madam, I spoke in the garden.'

Amyot B rough.

393

'. Arnold

I be be^t
cc charge
him with

y mother
:ions this
know, to
w Brough,
graciously
disc while
You did
It to your
I from my

hcmently ;
jr him but

ooing.
ing firmly

andson a
iction, she

ailed ; but

lied to her
d then he
his grand-

and took
irrant yor,
a maiden's

e asked a
other, w^ho

ng thing,
lu?'

* Well, she was weeding behind some bush, and Prim-
rose knew it.'

' Mrs. Kirkbride was in the parlour.'

' Thou shouldst have seen her further off ; and Prim-
rose ran after you with the letter — thou mightest, at
least, have learned the truth then.'

' She stayed but one minute, and then ran away.'

' And why did you let her ? Amyot, thou art the
most thick-witted swain that ever went a-wooing. I
shall have to do it for thee yet. But for the present, I
counsel thee to believe it is as thou sayest, and so think
no more of her. Take thy trouble with both haiids,
crush it, and make an end of it.'

' Not so easy, when you tell me that but for my
blundering I might have succeeded ; but 1 must try.'
He paced the room restlessly, then, stopping suddenly in
front of Mrs. Barley's chair, said : ' Will it seem un-
courteous to you, madam, if I leave you somewhat sud-
denly ? My sister is urgent upon me to visit her, and it
might be wiser to quit Westerham for the present.'

' Doubtless you will be best away. You can be the
bearer of Arnold's letter instead of sending it by the post;
but I would not have you stay long at Swinford, which is
an unwholesome place, and certain to feed the vapours.
I intend shortly to visit Bath; you can join me there,
and, if possible, induce Joan to come thither also with
her little daughter. The worthy priest will stay among
his flock — black sheep though they be, he loves them
better than the gay world.'

And in this manner was it settled; and the next
morning saw Amyot riding towards London en route for
Swinford. He must needs pass the cottage on his road,
and as he drew near, he saw the flutter of Primrose's
dress as she stood at the door feeding her fowls.

She saw him, too, and hesitated for a moment whether
or not to retreat into the house until he had passed by.

{

Fi I

394

A7nyot B rough.

On second thoughts she contented herself with appearing
much engrossed by her feathered family, and scarcely
looked up as he drew near. He would surely pass, she
thought; but no; he checked his horse, and lingered for
a Hiinute to wish her good morning, and to beg her
kindly to visit his grandmother in his absence, as rheu-
matic pains detained her much within the house, and she
was wont to complain of dulness.

Primrose promised, without raising her eyes to his face,
and he continued :

' Tell your mother that I am going to Swinford imme-
diately, and will deliver Lance's letter to Arnold Pomfret
without delay; antl if it contains aught of interest to
Mrs. Kirkbride I will not fail to write her word.'

He raised his hat, remounted his horse, and rode slowly
away; while Primrose, throwing hastily the rest of the
corn to the fowls, ran indoors and up to her little
chamber, where she drew the bolt of the door and sat
down to think.

'How gently he spoke; he cannot be angry with me,'
she said to herself. 'I am glad of that; and, perhaps, it
is not a great disappointment after all. How I wish I
could remember exactly the words I used. I thought I
had wounded him so deeply; he looked so grieved and
vexed. Did I say I could not love him, or only that it
could not be ? Oh, mother, why are you so hard on me ?
Surely, it were no great sin to love AmyotBrough, since
1 cannot love Lance; but she thinks I could if 1 would.
She cannot truly believe, as she is wont to say, that I
despise Lance because he is poor, and because I have a
little money of my own. Nor can she think, as she
hinted yesterday, that I am weary of the life I lead with
her. Oh, mother, trouble has changed you sadly, that
you could think so meanly of me !' And then, as even
harsher w^ords recurred to her memory. Primrose hid
her burning face in her hands, and murmured, ' Is it, can

Amyol Bro2igh,

395

appearing
l scarcely
\f pass, she
iigered for
D beg her
3, as rheu-
;c, and she

to his face,

"ord imme-

)ld Pomfret

interest to

rode slowly

rest of the

:) her little

oor and sat

y with me,'
, perhaps, it
3W I wish I
thought I
grieved and
only that it
ard on me ?
rough, since
if I would,
say, that I
,se I have a
ink, as she
; I lead with
I sadly, that
ben, as even
rimrose hid
[d, ' Is it, can

it be, true that I have been forward and unmaidenly ?
We had known each other so long, it seemed so natural
to laugh and jest with him. Shall I ever dare to jest
with anyone again ? But he is gone ; that will be a rest.
Mother will forget her suspicions while he is absent; and
after what passed yesterday we shall never be too much
at ease with each other again. Heigh-ho ! I wish 1
could remember the words I used to him yesterday. Did
1 say I could not love him ? But what is that ? — my
mother calling, and I have Amyot's message to deliver !
She can scarce bear to hear his name ! '

,' Primrose, come down; here is a note from Mrs.
Darley which concerns you more than me ; read it, and
send your answer by the lad who brought it.'
And Primsose read :

* Will you, dear madam, lend me your daughter for a
short time this afternoon ? My grandson has left me to
visit his sister, and I am lonesome, and would gladly have
some lively discourse. I am much concerned to hear of
your ill news from Canada : the uncertainty of letters
and the long distance must render such anxiety doubly
hard to bear. May God in Kis mercy restore your son.

' Yours, in true sympathy,

' P. Daklky.'

* Shall I go, mother, or do you need me ? ' Primrose
asked, in some fear and trembling, for what, she thought,
might not that keen-sighted old lady have discovered ?

But Mrs. Kirkbride deciding that she was bound to go
when asked in such a civil fashion, she had no objection
to urge, and in due time found herself in Mrs. Darley's
oak parlour drinking tea with her old friend and her
aged companion. Miss Johnstone, now almost stone deaf
and totally blind. It was not until the latter had fallen
into a doze in her elbow-chair that any discourse of much

?:;l

396

Amyot B rough.

ill"*
J;-'-

interest passed between Mrs. Darley and her young
favourite, and Primrose liad quite forgotten her fears in
amusement at the old lady's tales of her youthful days,
and playful sallies coneerning the universal corruption of
inorals and manners as shown by the idle ways of the
youthful generation, when a sudden silence fell upon
both, and then the old lady, in quite a different manner,
asked abrujHly why Primrose had been so little to see her
of late — was she tired of her old friend ?

' Indeed, no ! ' the young girl replied; 'sometimes I
fear lest I come too often, madam.'

' Primrose, child ! ' .said the old lady gravely; ' I trust
you always .speak the truth.'

' 1 hope so, madam; but why do you doubt it ? '

' Why, but because, since you have not been inside this
house for more than a month, you can scarce think you
come too often. Tell me, is there no other reason that
has kept you away ? That tall, blundering grandson of
mine, has he by atiy chance offended or troubled you ?
If so, let me know; those who .stay in my house must
needs learn manners.'

' Captain Brough ? ' said Primrose, with some em-
barrassment. ' Nay, madam; he is always kind and
friendly.'

' Kind he means to be, but blundering he is, and it is
small marvel to me that while such a watch-dog guarded
my premises you dared not cross the threshold. Come,
Prinn'ose, make no pretence — tell me all his awkward
ways; then shall I have matter for many a lecture these
long evenings, when conversation is apt to be tedious,
seeing we arc not all blessed with the knowledge of words
possessed by Dr. Samuel Johnson.'

' Rut, dear madam. Captain Brough is my old friend !
I have no complaints to make of him 1 '

' None whatever ? I am much disappointed. I looked
to hear of sundry breaches of all rules of politeness, since

\ w

• yoinig

• fears in
fill days,
Liption of
s of the
ell upon

manner,
;o see her

"ictimcs I

' I trust

inside this
hink you
;ason that
andson of
Died you ?
)use must

some em-
kind and

and it is
g guarded
1. Come,
awkward
ture these
e tedious,
of words

d friend !

I looked
ness, since

A?nyot B rough.

397

he owned to me that he was out of favour with you,
though he would not tell me wherefore. Come, tell the
old woman what he has done to vex you ? Old friends
should not fall out without eause.'

' Indeed, he has done nothing to vex me. He is always
kind and gentle.'

' Is he ? but you do not like him ? '

'Oh, yes ! I like him very mueh. I have always liked
him. Dear madam, why do you doubt it ? '

' Prinn'ose, I am a very inquisitive old woman, and for
the most part I know my ehildren's troubles — it is not to
my credit, and perhaps not for their comfort, but it is my
way, and I am too old to mend. I have pryed antl
peeped until I know most of my neighbours' troubles ;
they give me something to think about when I lie awake
with my aches and pains; and when you came in this
afternoon, it seemed te me that I read something amiss in
your face too. Does it mean that mv grandson's trouble
■ — you see, I have heard of that little matter — is some
sorrow to you also ? '

' Did he — did Captain Brough tell you, madam ? '
Primrose asked in much confusion.

' Did I not say I know most of their troubles ? Yes, he
told me something, and I guessed the rest; and now, I
ask you : did you speak your mind plainly to him, or has
that blundering lad mistook your meaning ! '

' I think not, madam. I spoke most plainly; too plainly,
I thought, since I fear I wounded him.'

' And you spoke the truth ? It was no whimsical
" Nay " when your heart said " Yea " ^ Tell me truly,
Primrose, can you not bring yourself to fancy him for
your husband ? He has his faults, but there is good stuff
in him, and he is most obstinately in love with you.'

' I am sorry for it, dear madam, because, as I told him
plainly, it could not be.'

' And you will not tell me why ? I am but half con-
vinced that you do not love him, Primrose.'

':;!!

398

A my at B rough.

* Dear madam, as it cannot be, surely it were best not
to speak of love. I like my old playfellow much, and
would be always among his friends. I am disturbed that
1 have been forced to vex him, and hope he will forgive
me, and that you also, will not cease to love me. Dear
Joan, too: will her brother tell her, and will she be angry
and cast me off? Truly, I think he might be more
generous.*

' You speak nothing of the old story of your boy-lover,
r.ance Kirkbride, Primrose,' said the old lady, after a few
minutes' silence; 'tell me, is he the cause why this wish
of Amyot'.s may not be gratified? If so, it woidd be well
to say so plainly.'

Primrose blushed deeply and hesitated.

*I am not likely to marry Lance,' she said at last;
' poor fellow ! he is more likely to find a grave than a
wife; but even if he live, in his wandering life he wants
no wife, and 1 too, I think, am much inclined to lead a
single life.'

' She has baffled me so far,' said ]\Trs. Darley to herself,
as Primrose departed, ' but I am not so easily discomfited;
I will know the whole truth lx;fore I have done. Shall I
try the old mother next ? Nay, Amyot does not deserve
the treatment he would receive at her hands. A sinsrle
life, indeed — that child to be an old miss ! — I like the
thought amazingly.'

'm-

ii:

1.1 a

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN WHICH A LETTER AKKIVKS.

Mrs. DARr.i'iv had been right in her surmise that the
Rev. Arnold Pomfret would prefer his life among his
black sheep to the gay world of Bath ; but so firmly
impressed was he with the conviction that the climate of
Swinford was unfit for his wife and child, that he gladly
acquiesced in the old lady's request that Joan might join
her during her stay there.

To Bath, tlierefore, Joan came with her babe, now a
sprightly laughing child of twelve months old, attended
by a little country maid who acted as nursemaid, and
escorted by her brother, still much of an invalid, and
theref(jre still on sick-leave from his regiment.

They found the old lady already established with her
feeble companion and maid and man in comfortable
rooms in Pulteney Street, and eagerly looking out for their
arrival, fairly tired to death of her own company, since
poor Miss Johnstone grew every day more silent and
more deaf.

' She hears nothing I say, and she never speaks; but,
poor thing ! truly she never had anything worth hearing
to say, so it is wisdom to be silent,' the old lady said.
' But what a hateful old chatterbox I grow, Joan. Child,
I am right glad to have thee, but my pains make me
cross-grained; you will have much to bear.'

Joan declared that she was prepared; her grandmothers
scoldings were excellent medicine, and always did her

i'' ^

1 : ;

ifii?

400

Amyot Brottgh.

! .

j>o(xl I Whureupon Mrs. Darlcy lost no time in launch-
ing forth :

' Thy child is too noisy, Joan; thou must chuck such
riotous spirits; and remember, it is a «jfirl ! '

Joan, well on her ji;uard to receive reproof meekly,
atrreed that the child was too noisy.

' And thou nuist teach the girl to treat her with
respect, else she will learn not to respect herself. Thou
art too easy a mistress, Joan.'

And Joan submitted. Her husband told her so, she
said.

' And where hast thou left all thy colour ? Think you
I will let my friends here see my granddaughter looking
thus pinched and sickly ? That husband of thine, has he
no eyes in his head ? And, Joan, art thou nothing of a
nurse ? I sent thy brother to thee with some misgivings,
it is t''ue, but I little thought that after a month's stay I
should find him worse, rather than better. What hast
thou been doing to him ? '

' We have done our best for him, madam, and yet I
grieve to say he is no better. It is the wound still pains
him, and the doctors tell him that so it will be for some
time to come. He went to London last week, seeking
leave to return to his duties, and most of all to go with
the troops starting for America ; but all he got was a
most positive refusal, and he came back most grievously
disappointed.'

' He thought to cure one w^ound by another; it is like
him,' Mrs. Darley replied. ' But, Joan, I pray you, did
he see my daughter, Pomfret ? '

' Yes, surely, and very sadly he found her; she takes no
interest in anything, and is constantly talking of poor
Guy.'

' She is a marvellous strange parse ; one would have
thought his name would never pass her lips again. I can
but shudder when I think of him.'

ilrr

III

Iniyot J3roito/i.

401

lavinch-

cck such

meekly,

her with
If. Thou

er so,

she

rhink you
er looking
ine, has he
.thing of a
misgivings,

ith's stay I
What hast

and yet I
still pains
|)e for some
lek, seeking
Ito go with
oot was a
grievously

it is like
xy you, dul

he takes no
(ng of poor

Ivould have
lain. I can

'Ah ! but my mother-in-law has a power of forgetting
which is altogether wonderful. Wlien my husband
carried that doleful letter to London, wondering nuich
how he should contrive to break tlie news to her without
causing her instant death, she paid no attention to the
manner of her son's dei)arture — was in nowise shocked
that he had j)assed by his own act into another world—
but spoke only of his many virtues : bidding Arnold
remember how fine a gentleman he always was, how
complete in all graces, how nice in his taste in dress, how
handsome, how merry 1 Surely it must have greatly
comforted her to be able to think, as she told Arnold,
that he had scarcely left his like behind him.'

' Poor silly woman ! Well, she has no more sons to
spoil, so let lier deceive herself as she will. Mr. Pomfret
has more sense. How did he bear the tidings ? '

' He was much broken down by it ; wished he had
seen the writer of the letter when he called months ago in
Queen's Square; longed for more particulars, clinging to
the hope that Guy was not in his senses when he did the
fearful deed — which, indeed, we all hope ; but who can say ? '

" Has anyone written to this Mr. Kirkbride, and asked
for more particular information ? Though he was com-
pelled to write to Arnold by the thought that he had not
fulfilled his promise to Guy, and that he might die
without doing so, still he was not dead, as far as his
mother knew, a week ago. Nor do I hear anything that
inclines me to think he is like to die. They have had a
sharp winter and much scarcity of food, and he has had
fever ; but that is all.'

' Arnold wrote at once, but has heard no more, and
Amyot, who knoAVs something of this man, thinks it
scarcely likely he will reply. How strange that this
Lance Kirkbride, of whom we have heard so much, should
have met with poor Guy, and been bidden bv him to tell

us of his death I '

2 n

402

Ijuyot lU'oiii^h.

IV'f

J' ■
If .

What is ilic iiKin doinj; in America ? Can you tell
nie that, Joan ? '

'No. The three hrotliers, liavin^ been concerned in
the KebelHon, left the country when it was at an enil.
One went to India, and is jrrowinj;' rich, Aniyot thinks :
he avoids wars, but will doubtless profit by all the success
that has attended our arms. I3ut of Lance, Primrose's
betrothed, Amyot cares not to si)eak ; and when I asked
what he was doinp; in .America, he made no reply. You
know his way, madam — when he knows something which
he wishes not to tell, he answers nothinjf.'

' A very iipjly way. 1 wonder that you should bear
with it.'

' Nay; I can take much from Amyot, dear mailam; lie
has liad much to bear, and has been marvellous patient.
1 could liave wept to see him when he returned from
London so bitterly disa))j)ointed that he mi«;ht not go
with the forces to Canada, finding it so hard to rest quiet
and be patient, and yet withal so wearied out with his
journey that, from sheer exhaustion and heart-sickness
too, he could scarce keej) from tears as he answered my
questions. Colonel Wolfe being about to start, and all
his friends lull of high hopes, feeling tliat with Mr. Pitt
at the head of affairs iMigland would at last rise to her
proper place, it was so hard, he said, to be shut out of all
share in the expedition. For v\m\'ot lox'cs his country,
madam, and has keenly felt the disgrace that has of late
attendetl our arms.'

'Ay, no doubt, we all like success. And so lie thinks
that we are going to make the gentlemen in New France
shake in their shoes ? If I know anything about the
matter, M. de Montcalm is not much addicted to shaking ;
and he has already discovered, so a friend of mine told
me, that the English are a very cautious people.'

'Amyot says Mr. Pitt is not over-cautious, and that in
this expedition it is noticed that new commanders have

^Imyot /)roito/i.

4 ^^3

m you ^«''^'

nccnictl in

at an cnil.
:()t thinks :

the success
, Primrose's
hen 1 asked
reply. You
thinjj; which

should hear

madam; he
ilous patient,
jtuvned from
nijvht not go
I to rest quiet
out with his
icart-sickness

answered my
start, and all
.vith Mr. Pitt
St rise to her
Hit out ot all
his country,
at has of late

LI so he thinks
New France
ing about the
ed to shaking ;
of mine told
lople.'

lus, and that in
imanders have

been ai)poinled. Ah'. I*itt, my brother say>, lias resolved
to teach Knglishmen what liiey can do. You nuist own,
dear iiuulam, that in India the French have not had it
their own way.'

' Tusli ! tlie r'rench are kept so busy with that mi>-
chievous King of Prussia, that AI. Duplei.x was ill-sup-
ported, else liad lie carried out his jvraml plan, and India
had become another new France ; but what do women
know of these things, J(jan ? I warrant we are talking
folly.'

Hut, though she sj)oke thus, no one could have been
more keenly interested in all public questions than was
iMrs. Darley.

' We fight their battles over again, I and my grandson,'
she remarked, when some one obser\x'il of how martial
spirit she was. ' It does him gooil, and is a great diversion
to mc. In truth, I should have been dead long ago if I
had n(jt been kept supplied with excitement by the pranks
of this mad King of Prussia. Fngland is such a dull
place of residence. iMr. Pitt might do something to keep
us supplied with conversation, if he were not so often laid
up with the gout. I am glad he has tl." sense to pay the
Prussian King to provide us with entertainment in his
stead.'

' Why, grandmother, woidd you think it a matter for
rejoicing when the King of Prussia gains a victory over
your own people ? ' Joan inquired innocently.

Whereat Amyot laughed, saying :

' My grandmother cares little whether it is a victory or
a defeat, so long as something befalls. It is these unlucky
trips to the coast of France, where we do nothing but
inspect the coast and come home and report, which excite
her indignation.'

And the old lady replied :

' To be sure, to be sure ! Inaction is and always has
been a grievous affliction to me ; as may plainly be seen

i^i

IC i

404

Ihiyo/ Jiroii^Q/i.

by my impatience of tlicsc pains wliicli tic my feet toRclhcr
and hinder my turninjj; my liead. Amyot, too, likes not
idleness — it is a pity wlien a man has but one trade. I
counsel tliee, Amyot, to seek out some of those famous
bookmakers, and study their bu>ine>s. Didst thou not
tell me thou liadst seen the writer ol tliose tales which
have rendered folks so wild with ecstasy ? Wiiat are tliey
called ? — " Clarissa Harlowe ? " " Sir Cliarles (irandison "
— suppose thou take lessons of him, and set thyself to
write a book ? — though perchance a more straightforward
task than a tale will suit thee better, such as Dr. Samuel
Johnson's dictionary making.'

' iMadam, my dictionary would be but a small one, and
would bring me into more disrepute than my present
trade is like to do. Jack Pownal can never cease wonder-
ing by what blunder I fell in with a wound at Aix, and is
sure I must have gone out of my way to seek it; he would
die of laughter did I take to the pen. Nevertheless, you
are right, madam, and I would give much to have some-
what to do.'

This, though often checked, was the cry ever on
Amyot's lips. The diversions of the gay world at Bath
failed to amuse him: the promenades in the pump-rooms,
the evening assemblies, tired him, and he wearied of them
long before his more energetic grandmother, and none
were so glad as he when the time fixed for their departure
drew near, and he could again seek leave '. rejoin the
army.

The next ft;w months were spent by him in London,
but in August he again appeared at Swinford, quite
recovered, as he reported, and ready for active service.
Joan doubted, but as her brother could quote medical
authority for his assertion, she could only sigh, and hope
that as the campaign for the year was nearly closed, he
would still have some months to recruit. He came laden
with news, marvelling much how they could live in such

iriM
'1- '.

. I myoi /irouii/i.

405

[), likes not
c trade. 1
ose t'atnous
L ihou not
.ales which
uit are they
(iranilison "
: thyself to
lijrhtforward
Dr. Sanuiel

Kill one, and
my present
ca-^e wonder-
it Aix, and is
it; he would
jrtheless, you
have some-
cry ever on
^rorld at Bath
pump-rooms,
aried of them
er, and none
eir departure
rejoin the

111 in London,
jvinford, quite
ictive service,
[uote medical
^igh, and hope
irly closed, he
[e came laden
Id live in such

an ()iillandi>!i place liiat they >ii()ul(l ha\e hearil of ncilhcr
of the two^reat events of the day, the capture of Ciier-
hourj; hv Admiral Howe, or the news, more interesting to
liim, of the lakinjj; of Louishurg in Cape Breton.

' I have hurst u|)on the villa;;e like a >hell, slartlinj^ the
good ))eoplc out of ihcir senses; hul they are English
enough to like victories, though they have no notion
whether they were gained in the next village or in the
moon,' he saiil, ere he had heen in the house fi\'e minutes.
' Does the vicar never read the Gauttcs, Joan ?' (Arnold
was not present.) 'It is a sin and a shame ! '

' vSometimes,' Joan replied. ' Dear hrother, I am gl.id;
hut forget your wars for the nu)ment, and kiss your niece.
See, she is stretching out her arms t(j you.'

Amyot complied, took the little one, and raised her
high ahove his head; which action elicited shrieks of
delight from little Peace, whose hoisterous spirits were a
great perplexity to her even-tempered mother, Joan being
at times inclined to think there was some naughtiness in
so much merriment.

But Amyot liked the din, as he called it, and baby,
perceiving sympathy in his gestures, clutched his hair,
and cried ' More, more ! ' whenever he showed symptoms
of relapsing into a quieter style of play.

' It is of no use saying " Hush, hush ! " Joan; let her
screech — what harm does it do ? She's glad to see her
uncle, and she's shouting, " Hurrah for old England I "
That's it, baby, try again— hurrah ! ' And the little one,
kicking and screaming, imitated the sound in her shrillest
key.

' Now I am going down to the church to ring the bells,'
said Amyot. ' Where's Arnold ? Will he be much sur-
prised, Joan, or is he too absorbed in other matters to
hear the bells? Maybe he will fancy it's Sunday, and
rush to church and begin to preach. I will give him a
subject which it seems to me he has much neglected.'

4OD

ijjiyol Jh'Otig/iy

And what is that ? '

' Patriotism ! why, the people here scarce know that
they are EngHsh — have no interest in anything outside
their farmyards. It is a shame to let them live in such
ignorance, when, before long, Kngiishmen will have their
homes on the other side of the .Atlantic, and in far-oflf
India too. Arnold should at least teach them to pray
for the armies and na\ies lighting our battles. But I'll
settle the account with him, ne\er fear, Joan. What !
must you take the child ? Well, if you will.' And he
Avatched with much amusement while, wi<^h quiet resolu-
tion, Joan disengaged tlie little hands which had tightly
clutched his coat, and silenced the passionate screams
that were beginning to break forth, with a grave ' Hush,
Peace, you vex mother ! ' which brought an awed look
on the eager little face, and an abashed drooping of the
long eyelashes, as the child controlled herself, and became
as calm and quiet as Joan herself could be,

' You have misnamed that child, Joan ; there will be
war before there is peace there, 1 warrant you. But it
matters not; a well fought war brings a lasting peace,
and you, at least, will fight well.'

' Hush ! we have no fighting here,' Joan said gravely,
as she placed the little one on the floor. ' Now, brother,
tell me all your news — or stay, I mu>t order in some
refreshment, and see if Arnold is in his room. He will
be most glad to hear that you are come.'

Amyot's news was chiefly contained in a long letter
from his friend Jack Pownall, now major; and to save
trouble, we insert it here. Right glad was Amyot to
have had such prompt information of his old friend's
safety, and such sure testimony to the truth of the
intelligence of the capture of Louisburg.

'Friend beloved,' wrote Jack Pownal, 'yet though
beloved, the most ungrateful and undeserving, how long is

I if I

Ajfiyot B rough.

407

it since I had news of you ? What has arrived to you ?
Plavc you gone over to the enemv, and sworn eternal
hatred to your old friends, or have the ships which carried
your longed-for epistles been seized and rifled ? Nay, I
doubt it. Fie, then I you that are the most idle of men,
a most poltroon and coward' v knight ! have riOt even
energy enough to put pen to paper to write and tell mc
how many times you ha\-e been to stare at the coast of
France, and come back to report how charming it is.
Is it that you are jealous of me ? Eh Men ! Amyot
Brough, I can well believe it. Had you not put yourself
in the way of that unlucky bullet at Aix, you would have
learned a thing or two in your profession on this side the
ocean.

'Will you have all the details? But I know your
greediness — you will have all and something more, and at
the end you will say, " What a poor story that fellow
makes !" But what to do? 1 was born to fight, not to
write romances, so may you be sure that all I say is most
plain and simple truth — that is to say, it is what I saw.
Another man may have ^ een quite contrary things. I
cannot help that. But one thing everybody has seen,
and that is, that we have taken Louisburg. Do you hear,
my boy? — taken Louisburg, on Cape Breton, the key to
the St. Lawrence ! What may we not do now ? General
Amherst would like to go on and take Quebec, but the
admiral says no. Still, that must be the next business.
\\"\\\ vow come and lend a hand ? or is the rule of carpet
knight so pleasing that you will still let the surgeons have
their will with you ?

' But, lo ! I hear a deafening sound about my ears; it
is your sonorous voice, and you are waxing impatient.
" Jack 11 me all — how did you take the place ?" Patience,
sweet friend, till I bethink me how the thing l-'as arrived.

' And now, I must confess that since you are not here
to carry on your wonted ro/^ of Wolfe- worship, the malady

( liM

40S

has singularly attacked invsclt". I stiu,i;t;lc aji,ain^>t it, and
\v(Hdd fain recall all the rebukes he has dealt out to nie in
times ])ast. and harden ni\' iK'arl aj^ainst him; but it is in
\"ain. His \-oice is nui>ic in m\- ears; I rise each day to
tlo his biiKlino; I am as enamoured of his example, as
j)roud to run his errands, as if i were his lunnble sla\e;
and, theretore, when 1 tell you what has arri\ed in this
most ha]i))y adventure, you will not fail to j)erceive that
it is Hri,u;adier Wolfe's exjiloits that I relate, for of (jleneral
Amherst's I can tell xou not hint; extraordinary, not
ha\-in,i;" been in his comjiany.

'But, to the fact, we- that is, the detachment letl by
J^ri^adier Wolfe- laniled at a little creek called h'resh-
water Co\e. (^ur hi^ates, close behind, kejit uji a hea\v
tire, in (M"der to make clear the beach before us. Tlic sea
was in a truly unrulv condition, the surf most powerful;
but tlic brioatlier, can \-ou not figure 10 )-omself liis
artloiu' ? woidd not salTer the men to be disheartened : he
uracil on tiie rowers, and when, in the end, his boat
touched the slu^re, he sjirano- through the boilino-, foaminj;
wa\es and led the men — nothinL!; but a cane in hishantl —
up a stecji bit of hill. The men followed as Britons
should — they will follow him anywhere. .\iul here, I
would call you to notice, .Amyot, that Britons will dare
anything if only thev be well led; it is the leading wc
have lacked of late. And why, do vtui ask ? Nay, that
1 cannot rightly e.xjilain without j)reaching a long sermon,
which \-ou may as well })reach yourself. But, to return.
The heaxy siuf played us some \illain tricks; more than
one boat was overset, and the crew lost. 'I'he French
opened fire so soon as we a]>j)roachetl; but we charged at
a rush, and the skirmish IitaI soon an end — tlie\' fled
within the walls t)f the jilace. Then tlie general, who had
also landei.1. ordered the guns, stores, and ammimition to
be brought u]), and the siege began in real earnest.
(General Amherst inxested the jilace on the land side, and

\tn\ot /yroiti'/i.

409

■'•'ilH

i^t it, ami
. to 111c in
ml it is in
cli ilay to
anijilc, as
iblc slave;
cd in this
Lcivi' ill at
:)t (icncral

nary

not

■nt Icil by
led iMOsh-
ip a heavy
The ^ca
power! i\l;
ourselt' liis
rtened : he
, his boat
iv, f(>aniin<;-
his hand —
as Britons
d here, I
|; will dare
jading we
Nay, that
ig- sermon,
to return.
Iniore than
lie Freneh
.barged at
l-they tied
|], who had
unition to
1 earnest.
1 side, and

detaebeil our brigadier with the light infantry and some
higblanders to attaek the Lighthouse Point battery, it

was a ta>k nuieh to hi> likinj

ere at it before

dawn, and the l*'reneli had not enough of notiee of our
coming to get uiuler arms. The battery was charged and
taken with amazing rapidity, iuul then Wolfe led us on
to some lesser works. TheN', too, were taken at a rush,
anil their guns at once tii-ned on the town, much to tb.e
ilisj)leasure of the inhabitants, who, having the wits to
percei\-e we were unpleasant x'isitors, had the good sense
to say we might ha\e their town. So Loui^burg was
taken on the 26th of" July. The jilace is ours, and the
French garrison are to be sent as jirisoners of" war to
England. So, at iasl, we have done something to wipe
out the Minorca stain, and we are noV a little content

ill

witti ourselx'cs

'As usual, 1 have come ofT without a scratch. I am
bullet-proof, I do believe. Lord Howe was killed in a
skirmish, as one may ha\e told you ; his brother, the new
earl, is that same Captair. Lfowe who Went on our famous
exj)edition to Rochefort, the man wlio ne\'er opens the
lips ; but he is brave as a lion, all tlie same. He and our
brigadier were marvellous g(X)d friends on that same ex-
pedition, which, if they had had their will, would have
turned out in quite other fashion than it did.

'And now, Amyot Rrough, my well beloved, \ have
told my tail — I pray thee, do I spell that word as should
be ? I am ever jierplexed thereat, and the men here are
not entirely to be trusted in ■ uch important matters.
Write to me speedily, and give me much information
relative to. all your engagements at home. I take refuge in
the long words that are more commodious than those
^h'Drt ones, which spell themselves in such tiresome fashion
tliat one's head turns round only to think of them. Rut,
again I say, write to me, and specially tjll me how much
money has been sjient on these pleasure trips to the coast

imHTwmv immrii-ii

410

AjNyof Brouo/i.

of France. I am truly sorry for our brave enemy here,
the I^'rcnch oeneral, whose Ciovernment is starvinj^ him,
and ruinin<> liim, and tellint^ him that they have full con-
fidence in him that he will abide at his post so long as we
lea\'e him place to stand on. He is a bra\'e fellow, accord-
ing to what men say, and as religious a soul as ever
breathed.

'But I must, it truly is necessary that I terminate my
letter. 1 say nothing to you on a certain subject and a
certain lady, because we are always inclined to dispute on
that subject, and a dispute in a letter is senseless, above
all when the response will not arrive for months. On
that })oint, you know my mind ; there is not one woman
in the world that is worth the thought you ha\'e wasted
on your Drury Lane beauty, and by this time I hope well
that you ha\e seen your folly. For the rest, I trust all
goes well — the fair Airs. Arnold Pomfret, the grave
parson her husband, and, above all, the charming lad}/ at
Westerham. If only one could find a wife after her
fashion, I would enter the state of matrimony myself, but,
in fine, such ladies exist no more. Adieu.

' Your true friend,

' John Jamks Powxal.'

Much of the above Amyot read alou(1, but it need
scarcely be said that he kept the last paragraph to himself ;
his sister, however, leaning over his shoulder, caught sight
of it, and whispered:

' Is it so ? Ha\'e you seen your folly ?'

To which inquiry he merely replied by a shake of the
head.

She kissed him, and said no more.

' And do you really hope to take part in the next
campaign, if peace is not concluded before next spring ?'
Arnold Pomfret asked, recurring to this subject a few
davs later.

Afuyot Bro7iq/i.

411

'ti'^

I shake of the

He had, in the meantime, heen roused by Amyot to
take a more evident interest in the war, and had been
brought by the latter to own that he had been defieient
in the duty of teaching his flock to think of their
fellow-countrymen in arms, and of their country's
glory.

' Yes, indeed,' Amyot replied ; ' for though our
battalion of the 20th has been formed into a new
regiment — the 67th — and is likely still to be quartered in
England, I hope for an exchange into a regiment going
on foreign service ; but first I must take a journey to the
North.' He looked at Joan, and added gravely, ' It is
well to set one's house in order before going to war, and
our old lawyer at Penrith has been urging upon me to go
there, and see to many little matters. Our old friends
Michael and Deborah are desirous to give up the care of
the farm, so I must either let or sell the place ; which do
you counsel, Joan ? Then I must see that the old people
are comfortably provided with a pension and a c(jttage to
their liking, and there are other matters concerning some
cottages which belong to me, which must be settled.'

' It will be pleasant to visit the old place,' Joan replied.
' Shall I ever go there again, I wonder ; but, brother, I
have a tender feeling for Broughbarrow — I trust you will
not sell it ; who knows, when peace is made, you may
greatly wish to settle there ? Surely, if a tenant could be
found, it would be best to let it for a few years.

' I doubt whether I shall ever wish to settle anywhere,'
Amyot said somewhat gloomily ; ' but the loss of an arm
or a leg might compel me to be peaceable for the rest of
my days, therefore, Joan, I incline 10 think as you do
about Broughl .irrow, and if I do not come back from the
wars, you can train up little Peace to make butter and
cheese, and send her to live at Broughbarrow.'

'Brother!' said Joan, shivering; 'I wonder I ever
rejoiced as I did when you received you commission —
yours is a fearful life I'

(iff- 1

412

Amyoi Brotigh.

i!,! ^i

M ■■■■■

i %

S I

»i '

' Not at all— don't be anxious — 1 shall come back to
plague you yet ; but, as Jack Pownal tells me I have an
awkward way of putting myself in the way of bullets, it is
wise to leave all in order. I would not have you tor-
mented with business, sweet sister.'

Here Joan's self-command failed her entirely. She
laid down the sewing on which she was occupied, and
went to gaze out of the window. Arnold Pomfret left the
room, and Amyot followed his sister to her retreat, and
taking her hand caressingly, said :

' I was a fool, Joan, to speak U) you of these matters. I
should have told Arnold, but you are so brave, I forgot
myself. It is merely the thought of my late ugly wound
that so distresses you ; but having come well through that
trouble, can you not hope for the future ? And in truth,
dear Joan, seeing we are much separated by necessity, and
cannot see each other as often as we would, should what
you dread come to pass, you must just think of it but as
an extraordinary long separation, which must needs come
to an end at last, and wait patiently till the joyful
meeting sets all right again.'

' We have loved each other, Amyot, as brother and
sister seldom do.' Joan sobbed.

' So much the better for us. You have a power of
loving which ofttimes surprises me.'

' Nay, Amyot, how could I help it ? Have you ever
done aught to vex me ?'

' Much, I should think. There are many years in my
life I care not to think of, and many sharp speeches that
abide in my memory ; but I do not say forgive me, sweet
sister, because I know you have never done aught else.
But there is another matter on which I would rather
ask your counsel than Arnold's if it will not be painful
to you. It is but a trifle. May I speak, and you will
not weep ?'

' Ay, surely ; tell me anything.'

II ^A

A?nyot BnmQ^Ji.

413

J back to

I have an

allots, it is

you tor-

•cly. She
ipied, and
■ct left the
itrcat, and

matters. I
/e, I forgot
gly wound
rough that
id in truth,
cessity, and
hould what
of it but as
needs come
the joyful

'Other and

' It is but the disposal of some money that has accumu-
lated in the lawyer's hands. I have the wish to buy with
it Rlencathara House, which is for sale ; and, Joan, will
)ou think it strange, I have not thought to leave it to
you or to your children ? '

' Blencathara House ? Oh, it is the old home of the
Kirkbrides ! I understand you, brother, and am heartily
glad ; but why should you ask me ? '

' Why ? Oh ! because we have no secrets, and you
might one day think it strange. But that is all ; and
now we will forget our gloomy talk.'

:<! Ii'l

I a power of

;e you

ever

[ears in my
3eches that

me, sweet
I aught else,
^uld rather

be painful
Id you will

■'■*'
I- 1 ; ■ '

B:,

CHAPTER XXXII.

MRS. DARLKV CHAXdKS HKR MODK OF DKAI.ING.

Maw times during the last few ^^ears Amyot Broiigh had
told himself that he had lost all affection for the North,
and would feel no regret if he ne\-er saw his old home
again. Nevertheless, when he found himself once more
among the rocks and mountains around his birthplace,
he became very conscious that these imaginings had been
the result of a mistake, and that the love for his native
place was as strong as ever. His heart warmed at the
sound of the Northern tongue ; and when his old friends
lamented that he had nearly lost the Cumberland accent,
he felt inclined to resent the remark as a reflection on his
character. And though during the last few years the
state of the farm had certainly not improved, it seemed
so home-like and so entirely his own, that he was glad he
had determined not to part with it altogether.

But when he asked himself whether he meant ever to
return thither, ever to settle down, as his father had done,
so far away from all the din of the world, out of sight
and almost out of hearing of all that now seemed life to
him, the question brought along with it such a train of
doubts and misgivings that it was hard to answer. And
with each familiar spot revising old memories, how was
it ]")ossible to be rid of these doubts and wonderings ?
Every turn, every hill — I had almost said every tree —
spoke to him of Primrose, and yet Lance might return;
the bells of Penrith church might yet ring for the mar-
riage of these two, so long betrothed; if so, Brough-

. I )/iyol /iroiii^/i.

415

barrow could never more be his I'.onie. Then, he bitterly
told himself, a wandering life, abundant adventure, danj^er
and excitement would alone make existence tolerable, and
as he mused over the future, ami tried to realise it as
spent without the bride of his heart, the jrloomy ihoufthts
that had been such frequent \'isitors since his desperate
illness, returned, and he wa> fain to wish that Jack had
not found him, and br()u<j;ht him back to life a<]jain. But
such a wish was, he well knew, a cowardly one; he was
heartily ashamed of it; the bree/es of the North were brinjjj-
ing health and stren<j;th each dav; the next camjiaifjjn
would bring him work to do, work that might perhaps
make even him forget the pain of his hjve story.

And thus revisiting old haunts, revi\ing old friend-
ships, the days passed quickly bv, a,nd the call to action
came even sooner than he had hoped. In fact, so slowly
did business in that northern workl progress in those
days of our forefathers, that the two matters which had
brought him thither were scarcely entirely arranged when
letters reached him which determined him to desj)atch
all with speed and return to the South. One informed
him that Colonel Wolfe was in England, much the worse
in health for the late campaign, but eager to be again
employed. Mrs. Darley also wrote that she begged her
grandson would \isit her before he returned to his duty,
which, she understood, he might now any day be ordered
to do; and others reported various rumours with regard
to a fresh campaign, which would certainly open early in
the coining year.

Did that letter of Mrs. Darley's imply anything of
hoi)e ? Amyot read it again and again, and could not
find an answer to this question. She mentioned no one,
only expressed a desire to sec him to ascertain the state of
his health. ' And yet,' thought the young man, ' surely
she would not press me to return to Westerham merely
for that reason.' Then he told himself that he was a

■ii\

4i6

h/n'o/ Bi'oucJi.

?i,<

\, I

tool to hope, and yd lie went on ho})in^, and in a very
few days had brought all necessary busines to an end, and
was once more on his way to Westerhani.

' I heard a door slain as it the wall was coming down,'
was his orandinother's ^reetin^ to him when he presented
himself in her quiet sitting-room, where she sat peacefull\-
knittinjT, by the side of a hu};e Christmas fire ; T mi<Tln
have <vuessed it was you, straight from the lanil of bar-
barians. 1 pray you, sir, touch my hand gently — it is
not made of iron ! '

' Dear madam, I bej^ your pardon ; I think it was the
wind, not I, that shut the door : it is rough outside
to-night.'

'The ',vind has put some life into your face; you are
better, grandson, than when 1 saw you last. Yes, you
may go to your business again, and try not to make your
huge form such a commodious mark for the enemy. \Ve
will dispense with the glory of wounds, to be sa\'ed the
trouble of nursing you.'

' It is unlike you, madam, to urge a soldier to be
careful of his own life ; my grandfather, as you often
say, had more wounds than you could count.'

' Maybe ; but I was young then, and had a passion for
glory ; now I am old, and j^refer to be saved all trouble
and anxiety. And Joan, too, she makes such a lamen-
tation when any harm befalls you, that for peace' sake T
am forced to hope you will come to no ill ; and what
have you been doing in the North ? '

Amyot told her, and the old lady listened, and found
much amusement in every trifling incident.

' It would be great sport to me,' she said, ' to see you
making pretence to understand the concerns of sheep and
cows, the value of land, and such things ; but Penrith is
too distant for me to make the journey. I must rest
content with hearing your relation of what takes place,
though when you return from those outlandish region.s,

A»iyot BroHg/i.

4i7

in a very
1 (.'tul. and

nil ilown.'
; presented
pcaeetuUy
I ; I niiglU
,nd of bar-
nitly— it is

it was the
gh outside

;c ; you arc
. Yes, you
make your
ncniy. We
»e saved the

Idier to be
s you often

passion for

all trouble

Ih a lamen-

leace' sake I

and what

and found

to see you

sheep and

Penrith is

must rest

lakes place,

Ish rcgion.s,

your tonpue is apt to retain sn nuich of the bro<;ue, that
your narrative is hard to luulerstand.'

' (ira uhnollicr,' said the younj^ man, with some con-
fusion and embarrassment, when a short pause in their
conversation seemed to permit the introduction of a new
subjecc, ' had you any second reason for ilesirinn- me to
come to Westerham at the present time, or was it merely
that I mi<rht pay my duty to yourself — reason enomdi,
to be sure — but still, I fancied your letter had another

meamnir.

Youth

7)Uth is full of fancies,' said the old lady, lookmjr
hard at him through her spectacles. ' 1 wrote nothinj;"
of any other purj)ose. What, Amyot Brou<^h, dost thou
imaujine that 1 will permit thee to avoid this place
entirely, because once thou hadst an unpleasant day
here ? No, indeeil, I tolerate no such whims and
delicacies ; thou hadst had time to recover from that small
rub. and must now take life as thou findest it.'

' Then you had no thought that 1 might find Primrose
in a different mind ? '

' I send thee on no more errands of that sort. Surely,
by this time thou hast made up thy mind that she is not
for thee ? Nay, but did ever such an obstinate being
walk this earth before ? \Vell, take thine own way — be
as miserable as thou wilt ; I truly believe thou lovest thy
pain.'

' Nay, madam, T am not miserable, but until she is
married to Lance 1 shall n(^t cease to think of her.'

' She will not be married to Lance, nor to anyone else,
so she told me, and I thought her marvellous wise. But
hearken, Amyot Brough : thou must needs see Primrose
often while thou art here, since she com«"s daily to read
to me, but remember, she has given thee her answer;
torment her not again.'

Amyot received this command in silence, and brooded
over it, while the old lady watched him furtively with a
twinkle in her bright dark eyes, remarking to herself :

2 E

ifi'

' i-

.Ml

418

Aviyot Ih'oito/i.

' I ;iin in the ri;;lit way now; tlicse ()l)>tinatcs ;u\' liaitl
to j^iiidc at least, it" one has a mind to be straij;lufor-
ward ; hut \\i' shall see, we shall see I ' and >\\v rubbed
her whitr hands softly, niiinnurin^, ' 1 pulled the u roi'j;
rein helore.'

It was not Wr<. Parley's habit to 'show her-ell \ery
< arly in the niorniiiL!; in winter time: ' It is a time when
we exist we do not lixc iheix-loic, wh\' maki-' the day>
lon<j,er than need be?' she was wont to say. Amyot had
theielore some solitar\- hours the next daw whieh he
spent in la\in,u; to heart the aih'iee or eonnnand deli\ered
to him the ni^ht before, with what result will presently
be seen.

The course of liis meditations wassoniewliat disturbed, it
must Ik; allow cil, b\' some wonderint;as to thetimi' ot ilay,
when the dail\' \i>it spoken of by Airs. I)arle\', wa> likely
to take plaee ; in all re>pect to his orandmother's wi^he^,
hcjud^^ed that it would be iittiiif;" for him to be out of the
way when it oceuri'ed, Init then, unha])|)il\-, he had no
idea when that wouKl be, and the okl Ciazii/rs which he
held in his hand wron.u,' sitle upwanls contained some
matter which he much desired to read; so the morninn
sli))i)ed away, and it was not till a slight rustle in the hall
<>;ave him a notion that j\Irs. Darley was coming" down,
that he ilunj; away his newspapers, and vowed he must
go out.

Just at that moment of lonfr-delayed decision, the door
opcnetl oently, and Primrose, in cloak, hood and mufller.s,
stood before him ; a slight flush on her face from contact
with the blustering wind, but cpiieter, more sober-looking,
than of old. She started a little as he came forward, but
recovering immediatelv, "^^id :

'1 ditl not know you had arrived. Doddridge did not
tell me ; he asked me to wait here till Mrs. Darley left
her room. Thank you,' as \ic led her to a seat ; ' do not
let me detain you, if you were going out.'

Ilii

419

Lcs arc baril

strui^lUt'«ir-

>1k- rvilibal
I I he wn.i'};

IkthII very
;i tinif when
liike tlic aay>
Aniyol bail
ly. wliich he
ami tleUvereil
Nvill proenlly

AldisUirbeil. it
ic tiiiK-' <>t ibiy,
lc\', wii> lik^'ly
)liier's \vi>lK'>,
I, he out of the
ly, he bad n«t
t//(\.s- wbieh be
nlaine.l snine
the morning
lie in the ball
coming- d(nvn,
owed be must

:isi()n, the door
d and nmrtler>,
c from eontaet
soher-lookin<;-,
le forward, but

dridp;e did not
Mrs. Darley left
seat ; ' do not

Amyot assured her he liad no ^\\^\\ iiitention, or ratiier
thai it he had ihou^hl of >ueh a ihin^. il wa^ heeause he
was dull, anil had nolhini; l)eller lo do. She ^niiled then,
hut made no attempt to relie\e hi> einhaiia-^ineiU h\- the
meriy rallies ot former dav> ; and tor >()ine niomenlM the
two eon:^iilered each other in >ilcnee.

To ^Vmyot thi> eonsiilcration brou<;hl the coinietioii
that l*rimr(jse wa> nuieh ehan,i;ed >inee la>l he ^aw lier.
'I'he e\ er \arvin{;" iuie and smile had <;rown moie subdued.
Surely ber linin'e was le>s round, her eyes le>s sparklinLj
and full (A laughter. \Va> it merelv because her hack
was towards the li,u,ht ? He eoukl almost have thought
there were ilaik rint;s round her eyes, ami a tremulous
quiver about Jier mouth, lie wished she would look at
him ; hut a> she sat beside the fire untvinj; her hood and
pullinj;' olf her lon<j; gloves, her head was turned slii;htly
from him, and he fancied she axoided mcetiu}; hi> fiance.

Did she not feel the awkwardness of that j)rolon<;ed
silence ? Why wmdd she not break it ? — she who had so
nuicb more tact than he?

' I have just returned from the North,' lie be^an at
ien^lh. ' Many old friends made civil inquiries after your
mother, Miss Primrose, and re<;retted that I had no better
news to ,t;ive concerning her. 1 hope 1 find her better
on my return ? '

' Better; oh no, far, far be it I ' Primrose replied, turning
round suddenly; and then he saw that the quiet gravity
she had hitherto maintained hid a much deeper feeling,
and that tears were in her eyes, and anxious grief in every
line of lier sweet face.

He sprang towards her.

' Prinn-ose, what is it ? ' he said eagerly ; ' my grand-
mother told me nothing ! '

She drew back as he approached.

*It is nothing new,' she said; 'but it goes on, and grows

. I

If i

IVt

fr '

420 Af??yot Bro2tg/i.

worse — that is, harder to bear. Nothing is right. She
cares for nothing; no one can please her; and yet it is not
ill-humour, as I am apt sometimes wickedly to think. It
i: — well, I thinlv it is a nearly broken heart, if such a
thing can be. Hut why do I tell you this. Captain Brough ?
I ought never to mention it; I never do, except to dear
Mrs. Darley. Oh, what should I do without her ! '

' Can nothing be done for her ? Does she hear nothing
from her sons ? Are they not good to her ? '

Primrose shook her liead as she tried to dasL away
some tears.

' We scarcely ever hear from them,' she said. ' She has
none left but me, and I '

' You are not her own; but she holds you as such.'

1-rimrose made no response.

' She is good to you ! She must be ! You have stayed
with her through every trouble. Tell me Primrose, she
lovi^s you, does she not ? '

' Yes — no doubt; ' the answer came i.lowly and wearily,
and Primrose lifted her lovely eyes to Amyot's face, with
a mournful look which told more than words. ' I am very
silly this morning,' she said. ' I wish I had not come.'

' Primros*^,' Amyot said slowly, ' you said you did not
know what you should do but for my grandmother, and
you have been very good to me this morning in telling
me youi" troubles. I will not tease you or worry you
when you are so r.ad, but just for one minute, will you not
ask yourself if you could not forget what you said to me
last spring, and let everything be as it was beforv^ ? '

She looked at bin: wonderingly.

' I have tried to forget it,' she said. ' I like to think
we are friends still; but I feared you had not forgotten,
and were angry with me still.'

'Angry! Oh, Primrose. I never was!' He turned
away, and began walking up and down the room; then
stopped suddenly, and added eagerly, ' We will be friends

II- . I

Amyot P rough.

421

crbL. She
-t it is not
think. !t
if such a
n BrouR-h ?
pt to dear
ler 1 '
)ar nothing

dasL away

' She has

s such.'

have stayed
rimrose, she

and wearily,
l's face, with
' I am very
lot come.'
you did not

mother, and
|ig in teUing-
worry you

will you not
|u said to me

fore ? '

like to think
[ot forgotten,

He turned
room; then
lill be friends

always, whatever happens. Say what you will, Prim-
rose, we will still be friends ! But tell me just once
?gain, can it never be ? can you never love me, not only
as a friend most dear, but as my wife .'' '

She was silent; gazing into the fire, sitting perfectly
stili and motionless, her lips slightly parted, apparently
lost in thought.

He waited what seemed age^., then less eagerly, with a
shade of fear, repeated :

' Will you not tell me. Primrose ? '

Then, as if speaking to herself, her eyes still fixed on
the fire, she said :

* It would be such rest ! '

He heard, but scarcely understood; and colouring
deeply, she added :

' Oh, I did not mean to say that ! but you are so brave
and strong, and I am so tired of struggling with myself,
Yes, if you will; but I am not what you think me.
Amyot : not even what I once was. I have grown cross
and selfish — even Mrs. Darley will tell you tha«^.'

* She will not dare ! ' said Amyot proudly. ' Primrose,
.say it once again ; I cannot credit my good luck ! '

'Then doubt it! No, I w'll not say it again. No,
An.yot, no,' as he tried to draw her towards him; 'I
have said more than I should have said. You must be
content.'

' But tell me, only tell me why you spoke of struggling
with yourself ! Primrose, I cannot but rejoice that you
have consented, even if it be almost unwillingly, so greatly
have I longed to call you mine; but yet the ihought that
you have yielded to my urgency merely because you are
weary of it, does not bring the full contentment that I
desire. It is not long since you told me you could not
■ove me — dare I hope that you were not altogether right
then ? '

' That is some while ago,' she said, her eyes cast down
and her head turned slightly from him.

!.;;.i

■) '1

n •

If;

:"ft!

1)1:.'
ifi

is !

i *

! }

422

Ajjr'ol BrouoJi.

* And your mind towards mc has changud ? Do T guess
right ? Will you not say so, l^'-inn^ose, my ilearcst ?

' Nay, Amyot ; surely I have said enough ! What
more would you have ? '

'Much more. 1 am hungry for you love, Primrose.
I have wearied for it, dreamed about it ; waking and
sleeping, 1 have scarce thought of aught else for \ears
past. 1 lia\e waited and waited, and hojied and de-
spaired, and tlespaired anil h()}K'tl again. What, do I
frighten you?' His tone had grown so vehement that
her hand trendiled in his grasp, and he saw her lij)
quiver. ' My darling, you shall say no word to me until
you wish ! 1 will wait again, )-es, as long as you will,
until it is not hard for you to say you lo\e me.'

His voi. had sunk to its gentlest tones; she looked up
at him.

'It is not hard.' she said, 'if that is what you wish. T
do love you, .Vmyot.' Then, struggling to free herself
from his close end:)race, she flashed at him one of her
merry glances, adding, ' 1 thought I had to make some
proper sjieech. I felt so monstrous silly, no ci\'il speech
or j)hrase woidd come. Did I not say it was rest to be
loved by you ? vSurely that was flattery enough for even
you. I hoped you had not heard it.'

'And it is true, and the surrender has not been
altogether unwilling ? '

' Nay, can you not credit me? Did T not (»wn that
there had been traitors in the camp ? Captain Brougli,
permit n-e to say that you u;e your poor jirisoner
most ungenerousl}-. \\\\y wring such confessions from

me ?

' I shall not rest till T have sjieech of these same
traitors. I would 1 had known them long ago. I pray
you, Primrose, make me further acquainted with them.'

'That you may altogether despise me? No, indeed;
how could I harbour them ? Why did I not rout them

Amyot B rough.

423

out when first they showed themselves ? — all ! why,
intlecd ! How many times have 1 asked myself that
question ! '

' Do not trouble to ask it again.'

' Shall 1 not ? Ah ! but when the brave captain lays
siege in such desperate earnest as he did just now — till
sparks begin to fly and thunders roll — i shall quake as
I did but a minute ago, and reproach myse'f again for
admitting these same traitors. Nav, do not squee/e my
]i(»()r hantls so unmercifidly ! I toltl you but now that
ni\- bra\e spirits had departed — must I in still hiunbler
tones plead for pity ? Nay, do not look so penetrated
with remorse — there is life left in me yet ! '

' But mv rough tones and sudden moods ha\'e wounded
you when most I should have striven to be gentle. 1 see
n')\\- the reason of many things. Forgive me, Primrose ;
has m\' sa\-age tongue often vexed you thus ? '

lie had ilropped her hand, but his e\-es looked earnestly
into her face. She met his steady gaze, and the mirth
died out of her face as she murmured:

' Xever once in all the years that wo have known
each other. Now, Amyot, are }ou satisfied and well
content ? '

'Content ? Nav, that ho never is,' saitl the voice of
Mrs. Darley at the door. Her eves, as she entered, had
a far-away, pre-occupied look in them, giving the notion
that things present were not much in her thoughts. ' Is
he gnunbling alreadv, mv dear ? W'e will be rid of him.
A man sitting over the fire at mid-day is a dismal sight.
Amvot, I have an errand for thee to the parson. Take
tliis letter and bring me a written answer — I never trust a
parson's word, it is good for nothing ; and while he is
writing his letter, make vourself agreeable to his family.
There are ladies staving there : see that you do not frighten
them with yoiu" Northern maimers. Come, be gone ! '
She stampetl her little foot, and Amyot had no choice but

Sili

424

Amyot Brough.

I'-' . *

I !

*li

fill

i\^^

1 i

.1 ^ ^'

l.r

to obey. * And now, child/ said the old lady, ' is it to be
reading or talk ? Has the poor mother been very hard to
please, and the back been too weak for the burden ? Tell
me. Your secrets are safe with me.'

' I know it, dear madam.' Primrose had risen from her
seat when Mrs. Darleycame in, and now stood behind her
chair. ' I never told anyone but you, because I feared lest
our neighbours might misjudge her — never until this
morning; and then, 1 know not how it was, but Captain
Brough drew it from me.'

' Why have you put yourself in that awkward j)lace, that
I carmot see you without dislocating my neck ? Come
round in front of me, and tell me what else have you told
to Captain Brough: what secrets concerning me — what
concerning yourself? ' Primrose was silent, playing with
the strings of her hood, and the old lady continued: ' Do
you think I am blind, child ! Did 1 not see what had
come to pass when I came into the room ? Can't I read
my grandson's face ? It is an honest one, and tells no
lies, though it might be handsomer. Didn't I send him
away because I wanted to hear the tale from you, rather
than from him ? Tell me, pretty one, what did you say
to him ? '

' Madam, if you can read his face, is mine a blank to
you ? Truly, I scarcely know what I said, but that I
would be his wife. Does it please you, madam ? '

* As naught else could please me. But tell me, Prim-
rose, is it to be rid of his vexatious importunities that you
have thus consented, or with a glad heart and ready will ? '

' Dear madam, I scarce know where I am, so glad am J I
Yet how to tell my mother, I cannot guess.'

* Leave that to me. She will complain and lament :
yet that she does daily. I will tell her she shall not lose
you, and no more she shall: we must devise some plan.'

' Oh no; I could not leave her ! Oh, madam, if Amyot
should ask it ! But he will not — will he ? '

* He will not ask what he cannot have. But tell me

Atnyot Brough.

425

s it to be
■y hard to
311? Tell

1 from her
Kjhiiul her
feared lest
until this
It Captain

place, that
^ ? Come
^e you told

me — what
aying with
uied: ' Do

what had
!an't I read
id tells no
I send him
you, rather
id you say

a blank to
Ibut that 1
?'

me, Prim-
;s that you
|ady will ? '
;lad am I I

[d lament:
111 not lose

plan.'
I, if Amyot

t tell me

child, when did you begin to love this persevering
lover ? '

' When ? Oh, I scarcely know — long since, T think.'

' And yet you call yourself a truth-loving maiden I —
and you told him you could not love him, only so long
ago as the early spring. How did you explain this to
yourself, Primrose ? '

' Did I tell him so, indeed ? — surely not, dear madam.
I said it could not be, and when I think of my mother, 1
am fain to say the same thing now; yet I did not mean t«)
say I could not love him, though I tried to make him
think it, so that he might be more easily content with my
refusal. Was that wrong, I wonder ? '

'Well, well, let it be — it is no great matter; you shall
not read to me to-day, child, but sit on Joan's stool and
talk, until we are interrupted by the dinner and thy
clumsy lover. Be not too kind to him. Primrose — he is
headstrong and wayward, and must be kept in order; and
now he will be like a horse with the bit between his teeth,
having got his own way and being determined to let us
know it.'

' Surely that is not like Amyot,' Primrose said, blush-
ing; whereupon the old lady grew eloquent, and told the
girl, tale after tale of Amyot's childish pranks and follies,
in all of which Primrose found some trait of character to
be admired, even where the faults were most glaringly
displayed.

But before Amyot's return she slipped away with
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, extracting a promise
from Mrs. Darley, that so soon as the wind should lose
its keenness, and the cold be less intense, she would come
and see Airs. Kirkbride, and break the truth to her.

Amyot reappeared a few minutes after she was out of
sight, not a little chagrined at the long delay he had been
forced to endure, and was met by the old lady with all
the appearance of grave displeasure.

7T"'^B»aBp

i:;-

J t.

'"I

: 1

! 'i

f?^

426

A?j2yot B rough.

'It was liard,' slic said, ' tliat at her f^rcat a^c she
could not iiuhd<;c in a tow lioiirs' extra slee[) without
tincHiit; that all went wrong in her absence;' and when
Aniyot, with anxious concern, inquired what had
haj)j)ened to vex her, she said, ' Oh, nothing, it was of no
consequence; she was orowino- old, ami her will and her
aihice went tor nothin*;'; it was what she )nu>l expect
she suj)j)ose(.l,' and she sighed deej)ly.

' Is it I that am the olTender, grandmolli<."r ? ' saitl
,\nn'ot ; indeed, 1 luul meant to follow \'our ;'il\ice, but
the oji])ortiniitv came, and you will allow that I shoidd
have been a tool indeed not to ha\e sei/ed it ami ])r()tited
by it;

' 1 will allow nothing, but that thou art the most
awkward fellow in the worKl; thou sayest thou hadst no
intention to offer thyself to Miss Solmes, \'et the op-
portimity came, and so thou didst it. (lo I \'ou are a
\aurien I a heartless rogue! I will teach Piiimose what
thou art worth. Ha\-e J n(;t already told her such tales
of thv temi)er and ill-usage of thv sister, that she has
tied in horror, determined, it was j)lain not to meet
thee again ? But she shall know all ; so beware, sir, how
you set mv commands at naught.'

' I wish Joan were here,' Am\()t remarked, ' to tell me
whether \'ou are in earnest or in jest, dear madam.'

' It were a long journey to take for such small reason.
For shame, grandson ! Sharpen thy wits a bit ; what
can they do with thee in the army ? '

'Rut, mailam, you must needs be contented that at last
Primrose has listened to me, and that you will have such
a granddaughter.'

' And yet I am sorry for the jioor girl : what has slie
done to deser\'e such a husband ? She is sweet and
gentle and most innocent, ami a beauty besides; truly, it
i> to be hoped she may yet be rescued.'

CHAPTER XXXIIT.

itt to meet

TX \VH[(F{ THK SCKNK SHIFTS TU ANOTHllk C ON'Tr.NKN'T.

' So sf)on ! and you are <;la(l ? '

It was Pri'inrose who s])oIvv'. statidiiio- in the parlour of
their Httle eotta<2;e with both her small hands in Amvot's
grasp. He had eome hastilv from Lontlon, and leaving
his horse tietl at the gate, had taken her bv surprise, and
told her somewhat too sudiletdv the news whieh had
drawn from her this exelamalion :

' vSo soon ! and you are glad ? glad to leave us all ? '

' No, no, my own, not glad to leave you ! but glad to
go, I must neetls be. \\'hy, it is what 1 have most
earnestly desired.'

She gazeil at him.

' Antl this is ytnir farewell visit ? and it is scaree six

weeks since . But I am not going to com})lain : since

you are glad, I will try to be so too.'

'That is just like you. Primrose, and when T comeback
from this can\paign I shall fii\d you ready, shall I not ?
You will not bill me wait again ?'

' I cannot tell; n\v mother's state — much nnist dej)end
on that. But tell me more — do you reall}-sail next week,
and this is Friday ?'

' Yes; tlid 1 not sav so ? On Tuesday the expedition is
to start, m\' new regiment, the 47th, being among those
chosen. CoUjnel Wolfe, now major-general, is appointed
to the command of the force ilirected against Quebec.
Mr. Pitt found out his worth after Rochefort and Louis-
burg, and sent for him a few days ago, and offered him

¥v

H'-: ■

mi ,

■\ ;-^

\r^

i.(:

428

lifiyol BrotlglL

the command, much to the surprise of mt.ny, who talked of
his youth; he is but thirty-three, you know. It is just
the thiiif^ for him; he accepted ^ladly, though his health
is shattered, and men wonder how long he has to live.
He, too, must leave the lady of his heart, so you sec it is
but a soldier's fate that I have to bear.'

' I thought he had gi\en up all other loves, and had no
mistress but his country ?'

* It is a new thing, I believe; yet they say he is much
in love with Miss Lowther. James Wolfe does nothing
by halves : he will be much in love or not at all.'

* And you will be long on the sea ? There arc dangers
there ! Oh, Amyot ! shall I ever have a moment's peace
while you are away ?'

'Many, T trust, df:;ar one. Think to yourself, "It is
not always a storm, so 1 will trust now they are in smooth
wnter." And then, when we arrive, say again, " Tli<-y
cannot fight every day, so to-day I hope .le is in no great
danger." And thus each day will pass, and when the
news of some great vici;ory comes, you will be glad to
think that Amyot Brough was there.'

* If Amyot Brough comes safely out of it.'

* Oh ! of that never doubt. Away with such notions !
Lc k up. Primrose, and tell me that you will never doubt
that you shall see your lover again, my darling. I shall
begin to be faint-hearted myself if you look so sad.'

* You faint-hearted, when you are panting to be gone
as that restless horse at the gate ! I pray you, Amyot,
how can a man who calls himself a Christian be thus
bloodthirsty V

Amyot laugi.cd.

* Am I bloodthirsty? Nay, Primrose, you do not
comprehend me. War is a horrid thing — ev-'^ybody
knows that — yet am I glad I am a soldier. Is it a mighty
strange contradiction ? Well, perhaps it is, and I cannot
explain it. Are you afraid of such a savaj;e husband ?'

A)fiyot BrojioJi.

429

talked of
It is just

his health
las to live,
oil sec it is

and had no

he is much

)cs nothing

,11;

are dangers

lont's peace

rself, " It is

'C in sTuootli

ain, "Tlury

in no great

1 when the
be glad to

:h notions I

hever doubt

ig. 1 shall

Isad.'

to be gone

)u, Aniyot,

in be tluis

)u do not
-evrybody
|it a mighty
id I cannot
[sband ?'

' Xay, you have a tender side, your grandmother tells
me ; but I cannot jest to-day, Amyot. Your news has
drawn a dark cloud over all my sky.'

' And was it tolerably bright before ?'

' ATy mother is more restless than ever. Have I told
you, Amvot, that for the last week she has been stead-
fastly determined to leave this place and go back to die at
Pem'ith ? Naught that I can say in remonstrance moves

t, and' go she will; and I am balf

ler

jo sue mus

disposed to vield, thinking, maybe, the return to her
home might do more for her than all the medicine in the
world. But it is her old house she desires; and so clouded
is her understanding, that she cannot perceive that it is
in other hands, and that we may not go there.'
' Would you be hajijiy there ?'

' I ? Oh, yes ! If she were more content, I should be
glad there, or anywhere. I love this place, and your dear
grandmother; but for my mother's ease and peace, I
would willingly return to Pem-ith. Rut how can we?'

Then Amyot told the tale of his purchase of the old
house.

' For you. Primrose, and for your mother, I bought it.
Why should you not spend the time of my absence
there ? It is standing empty.'

' You bought it for us ?' she said. ' I cannot think why.
I was nothing to you then.'

* It was a fancy of mine,' Amyot rej)lied carelessly.
' Shall I write, Primrose, and tell someone you think of
going there, and to see to the old place, and have it in
order for you ?'

' You are very good,' she said. ' How^ shall I thank
you ?'

' By sending me away with a smile,' he said, as the
clock struck. * I have but a few minutes to bid my
grandmother farewell. I must not lingc*. I will write
to you further about this matter.'

430

if') '■ .

IU>.^

,1*1:'

I ^«

i •11

Aifiyoi Broiti^lL

' .Ami niiist you ^o so sr)o!i ?'

' I imist. And yet, love, ulu;n 1 look al you, and lia\c
you in my arms, I could for^vt everything, abamlon
everything — duty. His Majesty's scr\iee, my engage-
ments — all might go, it I might hut stay with you.'

She clung to him one nujiiienl, then ihew herself
away. Me understood the movement, and saiil :

' You would des|)ise me it I stayed at .such a cost ? '

'Yes,' she said honestly. ' Ikit vou wouKl not — 1 know
you would not I Don't look at me, or mind iiow I look.
1 shall Ik' better soon. Now, I will come with )()U to the
gate and see you mount.'

i|^ ^ <)f Tp ♦

Two months later, and Anu'ot's eves rested on a far
different >cene. Instead of the quiet Kentish village, with
its green fields and gentl\' tlowing narrow ri\er, before
him lav the wide St. Lawrence, and on the farther bank
the r()i.k\' heights crowned with the wall> of Quebec, and
not tar distant, the ever rushing", foaming torrent of the
Montmorency Falls. Amid these new scenes and their
varied excitements, the short jieriod of hap})v lo\e seemed
like a dream, and Amyot could scarce at times jK-rsuade
himself that the hope of so many years had at length been
realised.

It had been a moment of delicious trium]ih when he
had told the tidings t<j Jack Pownal; but the utter dis-
belief with which the latter had receivetl the intelligence,
had for a moment staggered him, and as he sat and
watched the s^'>nly rollitig waters of the majestic river, or
scanneil the dark heights on the opposite bank, thinking
of those happy days in quiet England, when love, not war,
was upj-jermost in his mind, he wondered whether Jack
was right, and whether his self-conceit and fond imagina-
tions had deceived liim.

' The fair Primrose has given herself to you ? Nay my
good fellow, you have been betrayed into some folly when

.1)11 vol Ih'ouch,

43 1

I was not llific tn prolcct yu. She lo\'cs you? Don't
ti'Il me. ir>lu' lowd \-()U, \\Ii\- lia\c \'oii lux-n ^inhin;; for
her ill \am. all lliese lonji" tedious years ? Slie has phi\eil
you some little triek. l\iio\vin,i»; that \ou were about to
clejiart to the ends oi" tlie earth, and niit;ht ne\'er eoine
baek. I helie\e nothing of your tale— let us lalkoFsome-
thin«j[ else.'

And thus he always treateil Atn\ot's rhapsodies of love,
with the re.->ull M)iuetinies of lialf persuailini^ him to doubt
Primroses eon>tane\'; .sometimes, and that, jierhaps, more
often, of t'xeitin^' Amyot to bursts of wrathful in .ij^nation,
whieh mueli aimiseil his hiend.

' Oh ! we w ill ri,L!,ht al)out it, if \'ou please, he would
reply, perfeell\- unmo\ed ; ' but it is searee worth tiie
])ain. CoiiK', IVieiid Amyot, i)ut >ueh follies a-> lo\e out of
your head, and tell me liow does this affair plea>e \-ou ?
Look at that plaee vonder, and tell nie what chanee you
think we lia\e of takinjf it ?'

'I believe in (ieneral Wolfe,' was Amyot's curt reply.

'And so iloe> every one here,' Jack Pownal rejoined;
' but it is a tou,tj,h jiiece of business. Hast met with many
friends, Annot ?'

'Some few, and one that I have not seen for many
years. I had entirely forootten him till he came uji to
mc, and a^ketl me if I was not at Swinden's Acadamy at
Greenwich, and then I knew Jack Jervis.'

' What I the fellow that commands the ronupine
sloop ? The oeneral and he are much in each other's
company. 1 like the l(jok of him. Yonder lies the sloop,
if I mistake not. She ])iloted the way when the trans-
ports came up the river. How still the water is to-night,
Amyot ! it i> time to turn in.'

It was a still, elark night ; the camp on the Tsle of
Orleans was wrapt in silence, the sentries paced their
rounds, ami quiet and order were Cfmiplete. Amyot,
having no duly to perform, no call to keep awake, was

432

Aff/yoi /hvito/i.

f)'i'',i

' 1

sdoTi fast asleep, dreaininpj of Primrose, and walking witli
her in the j^reen lanes of \Ve>tt.Tliani. He woke and
thounlil of her ; fell asleep a<j[ain and dri-ained of her anew ;
hul thi^ time not so traiu|iiillv. He laneied they were iti
Westerham ehureh ; Arnold i'omfret was there, waiting
to marry them, hut, hy some strange misehanee, the
hridegroom was not himself hut Jack Pownal ; and he,
watching the ceremony in greal indignation and misery,
could fmd neither power to move, nor \'oice to speak,
when, lo ! the wall of the church seemeil to sway and totter,
there was a strange rund^ling sound — it fell. He awoke,
much surprised to discover that the quiet of the camp
had given way to a sound of trampling feet, and much
tumult.

' A night attack, a sudden surjirise,' he muttered, as he
sprang to his feet and hurried out into the open air,
meeting at every step startled forms in every kind of
strange attire, all asking eager questions which none could
answer. ' What is M ? where's the enemy ? an awful
ujiroar, but what does it mean ?' men asked each other.
' Where are the watch ? what do they say ?' ' You here,
Jack ?' ' You here, Amyot ?' ' For goodness sake tell us
what's the uproar all about .'''

'Hush, Amyot!' said Jack, with a suppressed laugh ;
' the mischief's plain enough. The I'Vench have sent a
troop of tire-ships down with the tide, and one exploded
with such a din that the watch thought their heads had
been blown otT, and they ran away to look for them, and
scared all the camp. If I were they, I wouldn't come
back. Figure to yourself, I pray you, the general's
wrath.'

' And the ships— are they floating among the fleet ? '
' They're blowing up at their leisure, most of them at
a safe di'^tancc. Some men have been despatched by the
admiral to row to them, and tow them away — a pleasant
otVice, isn't it ? but tliey have ^one at it like true Britons
singing and shouting to one another.'

il-

4'> ^

kitijv witli
woke and
lur anew ;
cy were in
•c, wail i no;
liaiKC, tiic
il ; and he,
nil misery,
i to speak,
anil totter,
He awoke,
[ the camp
, and much

tered, as he
; open air,
IV kind ot
1 none could
an awful
each other.
You here,
^ake tell us

ed laugh ;

lave sent a

le exploded

heads had

them, and

Idn't come

generai's

le fleet ? '
lof them at
|hed by the
•a pleasant
le Britons

The tumult was beginning to subside; the excitement
of the soldiers rapidly passed away when it was evident
there was no enemv at hand, and nothing for them to do.
The perilous task of towitig awav the dangerous proent
which the French had sent them, was safely and courage-
ouNly accomplished by the sailors, and the danger t(j the
fleet was over for the present.

' Those fellows have more steadiness than our men,' a
young ensign remarked to Jack Pownal the next morning;
and the latter shrugged his shoulders replying :

' One of them called out to his mate, " Well, Jack, didst
ever take hell in tow before ? " but he went at it bravely.'

' What will befall the officer of the watch, think you ? '
inquired the young man, somewhat anxiously, as Jack
was turning away.

' Nay, I do nf)t know, nor will I pretend to say ; the
general ordered him to be placed under arrest — you heard
that, I suppose, and the discourse of much severity which
he administered to the men this morning? Do you
know the fellow ? '

' He is a relative of mine,' the boy replied, blushing;
' and though you may scarce credit it, Major Pownal, as
brave a fellow as ever breathed.'

' I am altogether ready to believe it,' said Jack kindly;
' but the question of more importance is, will the general
believe it ? '

' Some men say he will be tried by court-martial and
straightway shot,' said the young ofl[icer, in a faltering
voice, looking anxiously at Jack for a re-assuring word.

' Never listen to such tales; there are men who are for
ever hanging and shooting their friends beforehand, and
find a marvellous great pleasure in the performance. I
foretell a better fate for your relative, so don't look so
miserable about him.'

' Major,' said the lad, imploringly, ' if you hear anything
with any certainty concerning his fate will you tell me ? '

2 V

'■V-

J-<)

>— *.

434

A/)iyol B rough.

'That I will, my boy; atul if I meet the general, I'll
tell him what a bra\'e fellow your cousin is. Tell mc his
name : it may bo more convenient to have it off by heart;
and though it has been in every man's mouth to-day, I
have not gi'»en my mind to remembering it.'

The young ensign replied eagerly, and thanked Jack.
Pownal for his kindness; while Jack, who saw a group of
officers at a little di tance, walked off to join them. They
were gazing up and down tlie river, commenting on the
late attempt of the French against the fleet; and among
them Jack spied the young general.

* Novv^'s my time,' he thought, as Wolfe approached
him with his usual friendly greeting; and at the first
opportunity he i introduced the name of the unlucky
officer, remarking carelessly that he believed his character
had always been of the best.

' vSo Brigadiei Monckton tells me,' the general replied.
' He has urged inc to consider his former good service,
and so I have determined to let this night's performance
pass without further comment; but Jack, my old friend,
the men must learn greater steadiness, or we shall be
undone.'

Jack assented, and shortly after he had good reason
to acknowledge the force of Wolie's remark, when, beiiig
among the officers in command at an attack on the
redoubts at Montmorency, he had as much difficulty in
restraining hl^ men from rushing forward in disorder, as
their unlucky captain had had in keeping his guard at
their posts. On this last occasion much more might have
been done, so all agreed, had the men paid prompt
attention to orders and allowed themselves to be led.

It was on the 31st of July, that this attack on the
French entrenchments near the Montmorency Falls took
place. Fseing manifestly the spot most easy of attack, the
French had constructed a line of entrenchments, running
*"rom the Montmorency River, oi)posite to ^he Isle of

A)iiyol Brough.

435

L^ncral, I'll
cU me his
fby heart;
I to-day, I

mked Jack
a group ot
em. They
ing on the
and among

approached
at the first
he unlucky
lis character

leral replied.

rood service,

performance

old friend,

wc shall be

,oood reason
when, being
Itack on the
difficulty in
II disorder, as
Ihis guard at
might have
Jiaid prompt

be led.

Itack on the

:y Falls took

)f attack, the

Ints, running

the Isle of

Orleans, as far as the mouth of vSt. Charles' River, on tlie
left of tlie to'vn of Quebec; on the farther side precipitous
cliffs seemed a sufficient defence from any attack.

For some time the bombardment from the British
camp at Point Levis had been carried on with the utmost
persistency, but without producing any manifest effect on
the defences of the town. The town, therefore, it seemed
evident, could on'y be carried by an attack on the en-
trenchments of the enemy. This Wolfe accordingly
determined to attempt, and on the 31st of July, he suc-
ceeded in effecting a landing on the shore below the
redoubts of Montmorency. Great hindrances and diffi-
culties attended this attempt. As it turned out, the
assailants had been ill-informed of the nature of the shore,
and when the boats conveying the troops ajiproached the
beach, a line of rocks stretching out into the river barred
the way before them.

In this perplexity, the general flung himself into a
small boat, and set himself to find a point where a land-
ing might be effected ; this he succeeded in accom])lish-
ing, and in a short time this, the first difficulty, was
surmounted. Rut the impetuosity and ardour of a body
of grenadiers from Louisburg frustrated all the jilans of
the.i" superiors. The Marquis de Montcalm, strongly
posted between Quebec and Montmorency, poured down
a most destructive fire upon the assailants, and the
grenadiers, who formed the van of the attack, wrought
up to the highest pitch of excitement, rushed forward,
eager to seize the outjiosts of the enemy ; the rest of the
army had not yet landed, and finding themselves un-
supported, the grenadiers were soon thrown into con-
fusion and driven back with great loss. All that their
general could do was to conduct the retreat with all
possible order and steadiness, which he did with great
skill, everywhere exposing his person with the utmost
intrepidity.

(■•

I*:

i> »

^■1t

436

Aifiyot Brouo/i.

' It is much to be desired that this check may be a
lesson to you,' was Wolfe's comment on the affair to his
troops ; ' the best officers can do nothing unless the
soldiers attend to the word of command.'

But the failure of this first attempt, and the heavy loss
that attended it, weighed much on his spirits, and threw
him into a low fever, while the troops, depressed by
inaction, grew daily more hopeless and discontented ; and
in this manner the month of August passed, and
September found nothing of consequence accomplished.

A second attempt of the French to make havoc among
the English fleet by sending fireships among them had
caused some alarm and excitement, and some amount of
damage, and had impelled Wolfe to send a message
under flag of truce to the enemy, to intimate that the
next flotilla of this perilous nature should be promptly
towed alongside of the vessel containing the French
prisoners ; and this message had the effect of discouraging
the besieged from any more such attempts.

' I had a notion,' said Amyot one day, ' that the two
other expeditions which departed from England about
the same time as we did, were to join us here after they
had des})atched other business. Have you any notion,
Jack, what General Amherst can be doing ? '

' Knocking General Montcalm's fine forts along the
St. Lawrence to pieces, I trust ; but we hear nothing of
him. That Marquis dc Montcalm must be a fine fellow,
judging by what one hears. How cleverly he has
succeeded so far in cutting off our settlers on the coast
from the far west by building that chain of forts ! Were
he but properly treated by his superiors in France we
might soon be despatched to our homes again. What
think you, is he amusing himself with our idleness as he
watches us from his nest on the top of those rocks ? We
must buy for ourselves wings if we are ever to gain
possession of that same nest ot his.'

A}fiyoi B rough.

437

' Is it to devise a plan for attacking the place that the
general passes so much time on board Jervis' sloop,
sailing up and down the river ? I would gladly hear
that he had hit upon some notion ; I am weary of staring
at those cliffs, and watching the ships as they lie down
yonder.'

' Patience, good Amyot ; you have yet to learn that
the beautiful science of war consists much in doing
nothing at all. When there arrives something to be
done, be well assured the general will set us to the doing
of it ! '

' He is ill and weary himself. Can you not see it,
Jack ? '

' I have eyes, my boy, and for the most part I use
them. I have also a tongue, but in the use of that I am
less liberal, and for two reasons, both excellent in their
way ; first, my tongue will not learn to speak good
English, though it is much improved ; and secondly,
because men are wondrous clever at repeating all the
foolish things one says.'

' Fiddlesticks ! between you and me anything may be
said ! '

' Is it so ? Then repeat that desperate sharp speech of
yours, which I but half heard yesterday, concerning
Commander Jervis. Others were present, and so I re-
strained my curiosity ; but all the same, it devours me.'

'What did I say ? Oh, that he ■ but never mind, he
knows his own trade, and I had no call to meddle with him.'

' Well, that is probable ; but what had he done ? '

' Did you not hear what a narrow escape he had, he
and the general too, cruising down the river ? The wind
suddenly fell, or i\rc\\ mischievous, I kn(nv not which;
and the sloop drifted" right under the walls, whereupon
the enemv. perceiving it, opened a heavy fire.'

' Rut you don't say so ? and what haj)pened then ?
Where was I. that I iiearil nothing of this affair ? '

438

Auiyoi Br Olio- Ji.

it-

\ ■

' I ran't say; everyone was ta'/:ing of it. Well, Jack
Jervis did what he could, having j^ot into such a plight;
he ordered out his boats, cheered his men lustily to their
oars, and they towed the sloop out of danger. But, I
say, when he has Wolfe on board he ought to manage
his sloop better.'

' Just so. What was the fellow about, not to keep the
winds in better order ? But being by ourselves and no
one listening, tell me, Amyot, you, who know his friends,
is this malady of the general's truly dangerous ? Do they
thus speak of it ? '

' I scarcely know ; he himself thinks it so, and it was
said to-day that he had been forced to take to his bed,
and had told the surgeons that he knew it was all up with
him; but he prayed them to set him on his legs again just
for six months, that he might finish this affair. Yet, I
warrant, it is not as he fears; he is active and light of
heart when free from pain, and his father lived to a fair
age ; he died just after we arrived here.'

' Then we must hope for him; but this illness falls
most inconveniently. The men are much depressed on
his account; they miss him, and cannot believe there is
any chance for us if he should die.'

• He die. Jack ! I tell you, these are but a sick man's
fancies.'

' Well, well, not so fierce ! Does the fair Primrose
know how you can still bluster ? The general won't
die, of course ; and yet something tells me that he will.'

' Jack, what has come to you ? You used to be such a
merry fellow, one could scarce dare to talk of death ! '

' As one grows older one learns many things,' was
Jack's reply ; 'and in particular one learns that, whether
one likes to talk of it or not, men do die, and oftentimes
at very inconvenient seasons. I may tell the men to
hold up their heads and cease lamenting, but, in effect, if

4viyoi Bnmo/i.

439

Wolfe dies, the English won't take Quebec this campaign,
nor the next either.'

' He won't die, I tell you ! '

' If you are so sure, go walk yourself about the camp
and tell the men so ; but when you have well considered
their dejection, you will lose all hope, as I have done.'

' This fervent lo\'e of yours for Wolfe is something
new. Jack. In old days you scoffed at me for my devo-
tion to him; now, it appears, you go beyond me.'

' But, no, yet truly I cannot say, Amyot ; I could tell
you scores of things, that when they arrived last year
were hard to bear: bad news from my home, all that
could be of pain and shame and trouble, and you were
not here, and but for Wolfe, I should ha\'e put an end to
my troubles and myself at one blow. ^Vhy have I never
told ye ? Why, but because it is hard now to think of
it, and not grow wild, and the worst is over; thanks to
him, I struggled through it— I care not to go over it all
again. And what I say to you, scores of other men
would say, if they cared to tell their secrets. See how
proud they are when he asks them to dine with him I I'^
it because he's a general, do you believe? No; it is
because he is Wolfe ! '

■n

CHAPTER XXXIV.

m
m

Ii:

;¥■-

VVHKN KNGLAM) JOYKD AND WKPT.

'Hk is well again, did you say, Amyot ? Theti, was I
wrong ? Well, I am glad ; and the men arc glad. Did
you ever see general received with greater transports of
joy than he when he showed his face again yesterday ?
Yet, am 1 wrong ? but I do not know ; something tells
me he will die ! '

' Something ! you are an old woman, Jack ! He is all
alive again, and the men — why, Quebec is a trifle ; they
are ready to conquer the world ! '

' Yet Quebec still remains impregnable ; three or four
attempts have failed signally; Montcalm holds it fast, and
the admiral is beginning to make much talk about the
Canadian winter and his ships. Will it be Rochefort
over again ? '

* No ; a thousand times, no ! '

' But what to do ? '

' That is not for me to say. Ask Captain James Cook,
who is for ever busy sounding the river, if he has not
some idea in his head; he is a wise man, we all know.'

' I'll torment no man alive with foolish questions; but
there's an air of something doing — let's hope we shall hear
what. I have always a curiosity prodigious, devouring,
when I see preparations, and comprehend not wherefore.'

' Major Pownal, you are wanted; one of the staff is laid
up; the general bade me ask you to come to his quarters.'

'So much the better for me,' was Jack's comment, as
with eager alacrity he obeyed the summons.

4ffiyot B rough .

44 i

Amyot and many others looked after him with envious
eyes, as he sped away towards Wolfe's quarters. A
eouncil of officers was just breaking up : the Brigadiers
Monckton and Townshend, and several others, were
parting from the general as Jack entered. An atmosphere
of bustle and excitement seemed to pervade the .party,
and Jack's spirits rose, as his conviction was confirmed, that
some great stroke was impending. There was a flush on
the young general's face, a light in his eye, as he looked
up from some papers on hearing Jack's step, and^niet the

-'■^^^a!:^V.>',."-^-v ■ -rr- •.•^^^,.:^'»^•-:-^■..^-•^.

■►-- •«■ —.^'^-

Fi't'^K.

. I. ^ - . . -

(JUEHEC, IN 1761.

latter's glance of inquiry with a courteous greeting; and
then, without loss of time, told him why he had sent for
him, and what he required of him. He spoke rapidly
and decidedly, as he went on to unfold to Major Pownal
the plan he had laid befou the council, and the decision
arrived at; but stopjK'd suddenly as he saw the anxious
look with which Jack was regarding him.

'You think me rash, madly rash, Major Pownal ?' he
said in a somewhat altered tone.

'General,' Jack replied, 'I ask myself, can Riitish

442

hiiyof BroUi^h.

' 'if!

soldiers make tlieniselves into cats or mountain goats ? I
ask myself, can I s:j transform myself?'

Wolfe laughed.

' We shall see, we shall see ! ' he said; ' it is not such a
bad place as 3'ou may think. I have examined it well and
often; and. Jack, was it not you who once, with your
French politeness, assured me the men would follow me
anywhere ? '

'And I repeat it; but, sir, are you sufliciently recovered
to take tlie command ? '

'Jack, the thougl ' of ■> ivisme life. To do nof.hing
Is k'MinjT me. "'ait ' -it :>.uc^- -why talk of that ? '

' I'p the face of ^lu'•: iJ'l, vnd in the dark, too ? ' Jack
repeated.

' Ay, in the dark, to be sure; but there will be light
enough for our purpose, and the ebb tide will serve us
well, \\niat, not con\'inced. Jack, old fellow ? Are you
not weary to death of this delay ? '

' That am I, and no mistake; and the matter is decided,
therefore there is no more to be said. (Jreneral, have you
further orders ? '

'No; but stay a minute. I pray you put your heart
into this business. Jack. We are lost if we doubt; I tell
you it can be done.'

'Then, assuredly, 1 doubt no more; but, general, if 1
may but sjieak '

' What is it. Jack ? You are not yourself to-day, man;
1 looked to see you fidl of zeal in this affair. Any ill
news — the poor mother, the lost sister, tell me ? 1 have
forgotten everything in my late sickness and worry.'

' Nay, nay, nothing of that sort, general. I was rather
thinking of the Montmorency affair and Louisburg, and
desiring much that you would be persuaded to take
better heed to yourself in the coming business than on
past occasions. All the world marvelled, and with
reason, that you escaped unhurt from the hail of bullets

yh//Vo/ Broil oh.

at MontinortMicy Falls, and I take it we shall scarce be so
lucky as to come upon M. de Montcalm entirely unpre-
pared. "*ye must look for hot work, and I would pray
you not to be too rash.'

' Is that all ? Why, Ja.k, what a.i ado about nothing !
Wi it is my life worth ? Not much, as the surgeons
niil tell you. And look you, mv old friend, I ask the
mci' to do a somewhat singular thing, as you })lainly
perceive ; then, it i^ but likely that they will look to me
to lead the wa';. liut thanks for your kind thought,
Jack ; we shall be much together in this business. I am
glad of it, yet burden not yourself with care for me.'
He spoke lightly, yet Jack could detect some sadness in
the tone with which he added, as if speaking to himself:
' Of aught beyond the conduct of this night's affair it
is scarce worth while to think.' Then with more anima-
tion, he resumed: 'But to our business, Jack — I nc
not keep you longer. You know the hour, and wh^.t
must needs be done, and I will show you the way '.;;•
th- cliff'

'Small doubt of that,' Jack remarked to himself as he
departed; 'and wherever the fire is hottest, the peril
most desperate, there without doubt will he find himself.
And how to hinder, I know not. Yet, who but he would
have thought of my })rivate miseries at such a n^oment ?
But now to work.'

And in the bustle and excitement of the succeeding
hours. Jack's misgivings were soon forgotten. The fiery
enthusiasm of the young leader had inflamed every man,
from the highest officer to the youngest private, and
Jack Pownal was no exception to the rule.

' This place, where is it ? " Amyot asked, when his
friend told him of the general's design. 'A steep cliff
you say, and General Wolfe has spied out a narrow path
which is likely to be ill-guarded. Where i it, Jack ?'

' About a mile and a half abo\e the town ; the path is

V-*'

' 'f

\u ■

•*r

)'!

I'.'

I '.

i'' .

)'.■

•m:

•ir

444

hiiyoi UrongJi,

but little used. M. de Montcalm has the air of being
secure against attack on that side, and leaves it little
watched. Above are the heights of Abraham ; it is
there we may have some warm work.'

Jack had by this time quite forgotten the diftlcidties of
the ascent, and was in imagination already on the
heights.

Did those doubts and fears return when, on board one
of the ships employed to transport the 5,000 troops down
the river, Jack's eyes rested on the destined spot ? If so
he said nothing. The ships passed slowly on, and at last
dropped anclior. On board were about thirty flat-
bottomed boats ; these were quietly lowered into the
water, and in death-like stillness and complete silence,
the first division of the army, 1,600 men, embarked in
them. To the men it seemed a thing of course that the
young general should step into the first, ever impetuous,
ever rushing to the front. J.ooking at his face as he
followed him into the boat, Jack Pownal read there high
resolve, strong determination and intense excitement ;
but the light of confident hope shone in his keen bright
eyes, and those around grew confident in his presence.

In unbroken silence the troops had embarked in the
boats, and still in unbroken silence they passed on their
way, the darkness and stillness adding intensity to their
excitement.

A young ensign by Amyot Brough's side almost
choked, so fearful was he lest he should draw his breath
too audibly ; the oars scarcely touched the water, so
anxious were the rowers that their dip should not break
the silence of the night. Every ear was strained to
catch the faintest rustle along the banks, as the boats
glided along under the shadow of the overhanging cliffs.
But all was still I No voice of bird or beast broke upon
the stillness : the night was calm — scarcely a leaf stirred.
The only sound that broke the silence was the voice of the

.Imyoi Jh'oiio/i.

445

younf:^ general, who, perhaps to still his own excitement,
or that of others, repeated in a low voice to those around
him, (jray's beautiful lines, ' The curfew tolls the knell
of parting day.'

Jack Pownal, and iloubtless others, listened and won-
dered. Was there no omen in those words, ' The paths
of glory lead but to the grave ' ?

He looked at Wolfe, and saw that while his Hps spoke
the words, his eyes were still intently fixed upon the
cliffs — seeking what ? that scarcely to be discovered path
on which s(^ much depended. Whither would it lead ?

Jack's forebodings revived; but that subdued voice
continued to the last stanza, ending with ' The bosom of
his Father and his God.'

Then, scarcely pausing, the young general added :

* Gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that
poem than take Quebec ! '

No one spoke, and he said no more; but continued to
gaze through the darkness at the thickly wooded cliffs
until the appointed spot came in sight; and when the
boat touched the shore, he was the first to spring on land,
and search for the upward path.

For a moment even his venturesome spirit seemed to
quail; overhead hung the almost precipitious cliff; thick
trees and brushwood, mingled with loose rocks, covered
the face of it; the path was but a scratch — hardly to be
seen in the darkness.

' Well, we must have a try,' he said to those who
followed him, as he dashed at it, closely pursued by his
men, while Jack struggled vainly to keep him in sight, as,
with his usual vehemence, he forced his way up the
giddy ascent.

' Strange that none hear us,' muttered Jack to himself,
as crashing boughs and much rustling of leaves seemed as
if they could not fail to betray the presence of unwonted
intruders. ' My good fellow I ' to a burly private soldier

i id

5'> i.il

Jr ' ;
1',':' ■
I j

f •

I i

' I

446

.h//V()/ /iroiio/i.

close hc'hiiul, \vh()>c iliflicullics drew forth many a ^ru(T
coiui)IaiiU, 'spare vour \voril> ami keep your breath : you
will need it y<-'t ere the top be reached; >o much iliscour.se
may brin^ answers in the shape ot lead.' Then, as a
iieavy stone came thuiulerin^ down the clilT, forcing the
pmtinj; man backwards in its downward course, and
threateninjj; more mi>chief ere it reached the bottom, lie
nuirmureil, 'That sort of warfare is not to my taste.
Hey ! what was that ? ' as a sound scarcely to be mis-
taken fell on his ear. ' Don't tlisturb yourselves yet, my
good frienils, I jiray you I Is there never a sunnnit to
this hill ? and the j^eneral — why, I ha\e lost sij;lU of him
this century or more I '

While Jack thus lamented and strupjf^led upwards,
slipping;, springing, and clinji;in«j; to broken roots of trees
and friendly branches, ami in like manner privates and
oflicers made slow but steady jiro^ress up the path, other>
of the boats, having ilrifted lower down the river, landed
their freight at a point where no path whatever was to be
seen up the rough fice of the clifT.

Among the troojis in these boats were some companies
of the ySth Highlanders, who, little dismayed by the
frowning aspect of the hillside, made straight at it, and
by dint of clinging to trees and bits of rock, forced their
way boldlv up the precipitous height.

It was when about half-way up, that the unusual dis-
turbance and rustling among the trees, drew the attention
of the lonely sentinel as he jiaced to and fro upon the
summit, and the long-e.xjK'cted challenge 'Qui vive ? '
rang through the air.

Promptly, and without hesitation, came the fitting
replv, ' La France I ' from the Highland captain, and the
sentrv, satisfied, shouldered his musket, and continueil
his round.

With still more stealthy tread the troops crept on,
congratulating themselves that the FreuLh deserter,

Iniyot Jiroiii^/i.

447

brdii^lit lalciv iiUo the camp, liail Mipijlicil ilair general
uilli lliat cdiut'iiifnt pa>N\v()nl.

A tew miiuilcs more, ami llic cil^c ot the tlifl" swaniKtl
witli troojis; the ^iiaiil, alarmed loo late, lurneil out, tiretl
one volley iloun the jireeipiee, and then (leil in terror, their
captain alone standing his ground until overpowered.

'They are ofT to the town,' Jack Pownal said. ' M. de
Montcalm, the fox is in your poultry-yard; bestir your-
self ere it be too late I ' He met the general's ^huice of
exultation, and adileil, ' Krc the day breaks we shall be
ready f(jr him.'

\\y this time 500 men had reached the top, and had
taken up their station as guard at the head of the jvilh
by which their comrades were to ascend. The boats
had returned to the ships and refilled ; battalion followed
battalion quickly, each formeil first on the shore below,
and then aj^ain on the table-laiul at the top, as fast as
they arrived. When the day broke, 5,000 men stood in
their ranks ready for the attack.

' wSo far all goes well : the general i> satisfied,' said the
officers among themselves; ' The men are steady ami
orderly, but, how long must we wait thus? M. de
Montcalm, we are ready for you I '

The sun had long risen when from rank to rank passed
the murmur, 'They are coming I' and a movement, a
kind of quiver of satisfaction, ran along the lines. 'I'hen,
as the lines of the b'rench army came in sight, the order
was given, ' Load with an extra ball I' And, fearful lest
in their ardour, his troops might repeat the error which
liad proved so fatal at Montmorencv, their young general
fiew from line to line, urging them to be steady, and
await his order before firing.

It was a terribli ordeal ! Amyot Rrough ami many
others groaned with nipatience as thev saw the Frencii
line open a heavy fire and fouml that every moment it
grew more murderous.

44S

.hiiyol BroHo/i.

The British troops fell thick and fast; but confident in
their leader, devoted in their loyalty to him, the ranks
stood firn'. and motionless.

Jack Pownal, close beside the oenerul, f^round his
teeth as he saw that Wolfe had been struck in the wrist,
and that more than one well known to him had fallen
under that deailly hail. But still no word passed the
general's lips. Calmly wrapping a har^dkerchief round
his wrist, he j)aid no further heed to the hurt, but
continued at the head of the 28th to watch with satis-
factit)n the patient endurance of his men, ;is with their
guns shouldered, they remained motioidess, or oidy
moved to fill up the ghastly gaps made by the French
fire in their ranks.

' And yet he's right : he always is,' Jack repeated to
himself. ' But what is it now ? Yonder poor fellow has
t{ot his death-blow ! He was one of the first to scale the
clifT, and the general marked it : he sees everything I
What is he saying ?'

Wolfe had stooped over the wounded olTicer, and
Jack was soon at his side.

'He must be moved to the rear, Major Pownal. V(»u
will do well, viever fear; and assuredly you have earned
promotion. ' wi'l not forget ; or if,' turning again to
Jack, ' if 1 sho'ild not live to see to this, let it be men-
tioned to Brigadier Monckton. Be sure it is not for-
gotten.'

And, havii'g thus satisfied himself, Wolfe resumed his
post, and with earnest gaze watched the or^-'t of the
enemy.

Not till the French were within forty yards did the
eagerly e.xjjected wor^l ' I'Mre I' pass his lips. Then in an
instant a volley, distinct as one shot, burst from the
whole British line, taking deadly efifect on the advancing
foe. They staggered, rallied, continued their onward
march, while some ran asiile. shrieking with agony ;.

Amyoi Jiroiio/i.

449

others fell from the ranks in disniav; nianv sank without
a ^roan. Their general, still untlainUeil, coiiliniieil to
cheer them on with voice and woril; hut their lines
quivereil and shook, and each moment showeil more
j)lainly the frinhttul force of the lonjjf-suspended hlow.

Their hesitation was quickly jKirceivcd hy Wolfe. At
once he ordereil the whole line to ailvancc. Slowly and
steadily the troops olx^veil, returning svith all sjK'ed th'j
\'ollcys of the I^'rench. Then, feclinj^ their athanta^e,
they j)ressed on with the havonel, quickeninj^ their j)ace
to a run, as they dashed over d\in^ anil dcail, tlrivino all
Ix-'fore tlu;m. It was in this charj^e that Captain lirou^h
received a sword wound in his left shoulder : but of that
more an(jn.

Wolfe had led the charj^e in jxirson. l^^)r some minutes
Major I^ownal ami others near the general had been
aware that he had been womuled in the boil\-; but he
made lij;ht of his sulVerin^, until another ball struck him
on the breast, and he was seen U) reel »>n one sitle.

' Suj)port me,' he said to a grenadier olhcer near at
hand, ' that my brave fellows may not see me fall.'

He sank as he spoke, and in a few minutes was carried
to the rear, and laiil on the ^rass.

The troops dashetl on; and though Montcalm, still
resoliUe and courageous, galloped throujj;h his broken
ranks, striving to rally them, it was all in vain- they
br(jke in every directit)n : and at the very m(jment when
all hope died in his bieast, the brave Frenchmaa also
fell mortally woundeil.

Wliile the victorious British trooj)s were driving all
before them, a mournful j^rouj) was lin^erin^ near the
dyinj^ general. Some one proj)osed to >cn(i for a surgeon,
but to this Wolfe replied :

' It is useless, it is all up with me.'

Once and a^ain, as .Majnr I'ownal afterwards related,
he raised his head, and liieil to clear the fa^t-f;athering

2 (i

450

Affiyot JyronQ/i,

Vwn'

mil

death -mist fntiii his si^ht, fa^crly cnckavouriii); to dis-
ct)\c'r wliat was jjassinj; on tlie tickl; but soon the ctlort
was too painlul : he lay back and strnicd scarcely conscious.
Sudilenly, from an olhcer standing by, br(;ke the cry :

' They run I -see ! they rvin ! '

Wolf'j started as if tronj sleej), and asked eagerly :

'Who run ?'

' The enemy, sir,' said the oflicer; ' they give way in all
directions.'

'(lo, one of you,' said Wolfe, speaking still in a firm
\()ice, 'to Colonel Burton : tell him to march the .jSih
with all >peeil to St. Charles' Ri\er,lo cut olTthe retreat.'
Again, after a slight pause, the young general murmuretl :
' 'i'hank (lod I I die content I ' Then, turning on hi> side, a^
if seeking an easier position, lie quietl\- bii-atlied his last.

Not man\- xai'ds from the spot where Wolfe la\' deati,
his secoiul in command -Hriuadier Monckton — fell des-

perately wo

ndeil; while, not far di>tant, .Montcalm had

.- -t

■ I

been snuck to the ground by a mortal wound. The tall
ol their geneial was the signal of utter ruin and dismay to
the hVench. Pursued b\- the Highlanders with claymores,
by the47lh, sSth, and ySth kVgiments with fi.xed bayonet •>,
they Ik'il from the field, many taking refuge in the town.
others continuing their (light to the camp at Heau])orl.

The \'ictorious army innnediately encamj)cd outside the
town, while the whole licet moved into the basin, to be in
reailiness to bond)ard the tiladel. Not man\- hours had
|)as^ed, howe\er, before it was e\iilent that no further
resistance would be made; the \ictory was tell to be
decisi\e, and in a short time the I^nglish aiiny took po>-
ses>ion of the place.

{ )ne of the lir^t acts of the I*"ngli>h generals was to take
pos>ession of the general hospital, situateil about a mile from
the town, on the south side of the St. Cijark's' kiver; and
thither the wounded of both sides were carried, a bod\' of
men, under the command of an ollicer, being stationed

Amyot BroitgiL

451

rlavniorc^.

1(1 lurllKT

l\'ivcr; ami

->liiluinal

ihcrc oil jruard, reassuring tlic terrified nuns, aiul.securitij^
order and quiet.

Our tVieiid Jack Powual liad been husieil willi tliis
service- walchiiiji' for hours the inelanclioly hu>iness (jf
carryiiiy, in the woundvd, and the sin<;eons en>;a^eil in
their j;ha>tlv work : d(jinjj; all that in him lav to comfort
and helj) -till utterly overcome with fatigue, he resigned
the task to other hands, and was turning awa\' wearily to
seek rest in the camp. As lie descendetl the steps ot the
huiUlinu;, he observed a nvnnlK'r of persons jirou|)ed outsiile,
p;rief and cotisternation in their faces, while the words:

C'esl fi

ini : il n'exisle i)lu^

fell on his ear; he turned

rouiul with an iiuiuirin<;" look, and, amid cNclamations of
^rief, caught the worils, ' le bon marcpiis, noti'e "general,'
and j;ue>sc'd at once that the brave i^Venchman had that
minute terminated his career.

Jack's reaily l^'rench tongue connnendid him to the
b\stanik'rs ; and torj^fttinj^ that he wa^ l'!n<j,lish, and
one ot their conquerors- they poured forth their j;rief—
their l(t\'e and admiration for the departed general —
into his svmpathisin^ ear. He was their lather their
benefactor.

'The bravest -the kindest of friends!' exclaimeil an
oKl Canailian. 'He has not forgotten us! l'"rom his
death-bed he wrote to the Kn^lish general, implnrinp,' his
protection tor u> praying that we mii;ht nd h.ive reason
to rej^ret the change which has befallen us.'

*I saw him,' cried another, 'brought into the town by
two soliliers, bleeilin^ from his terrible wouiuU. He
jirayeil the surgeons to tell him how lonj; he had to
li\e, anil when tlu^y said, " But a few hours," "So much
the better," he re])lied ; *' I shall not li\c' to >ee the
Mn^li>h in (juebec." .Xiul in his nuirt.n' a^ony he
cried : " It i.s my C(»n,M)lation to ha\e been con(|ueretl by
an eni-my so brave." '

' .\nd by one who knew Ids worth,' .said Jack to

mm ■

!!,'

II .^i

'I'

452

Amyo/ Broitgh.

himself as he turned away, and his mind, released from
the strain of present duty, rushed back, and ])lunf^ed into
the remembrances of tlie last few hours. In .1 strange
kind of waking dream he passed along, scarcely noticinj.^
the way he was takinjr, until, as he drew near the Knglish
encam])ment, lie began to ask himself what had befallen
this one and that one among his many friends. He had
seen more than one whom he well knew carried into the
hospital, and, with a dull kind of anxiety, he wondered
why Amvot Brough, who he knew had been wounded,
hail not been brought there. ' It must have been but
a scratch,' he thought. ' I shall find him in the camp.'
And thee was comfort in the thought. And then his
eves, heavy with fatigue and want of sleep, scanned in
a dreamy fashion the ruineil walls of the captured town
and with little of triumph or exultation in his face or
bearing, he was beginning to ask himself diverse un-
answerable questions, when his eye fell on the figure of
an English oilicer leaning against a broken wall with
all the apjiearance of intense suffering and overjiowering
fatigue. It was fast growing dark, but Jack's heart gave a
sudden boiuul as his eye fell on the well-known form.
He was at Amyot's side in a moment ; and as the latter
raised bis head at his aj)proach, and the eyes of the two
friends met, they grasj)ed each olhjr's hand with a
l)ressure that meant more than words could say ; but
no words would come.

When they did speak, it was Amyot who broke the
silence :

* Well,' he said, ' it is a complete thing, I suppose ? '

'Yes,' rei)lied Jack; 'Colonel Townshend exjjccts to
receive the formal surrender in a day or two. Are you
badly hurt, Amyot ? '

' 1 don't know. I was trying to get back to the camp
to have the cut dressed ; but it seems a monstrous long
wav, and 1 don't believe I can get there.'

.<,-^ii^

A 7)1)' of B rough

453

' Lean on me/ said Jack. ' You should have gone to
the hosjiital last night.'

' Inhere was work to do.'

They spoke in short abrupt sentences. Kach knew the
other's thoughts. Each equally feared to reveal his own.
Aniyot, l(^aning on his friend's arm, felt his chest 'leave
with the effort to restrain his emotion, and said >vearily :

' Don't, Jack — don't give in — there's a good fellow.'

' " The victory that day was turned to mourning."
Who said that ? ' asked Jack. ' It has been running in
my head all day.'

Amyot made no reply. The pain of his wounded
shoulder was hard to bear ; he dared not trust his voice
to speak of that other wound much more hard to be
endured. He staggered on, then sat down again to rest.'

' Come ! this won't do,' said Jack, roused to anxiety
by his friend's exhaustion. ' You want rest as well as a
surgeon. I hope they will have room for you at the
hospital ; but, for the present, let's get to your tent.
Make another effort, Amyot — it is but a few paces now.'

The few paces seemed hundreds ; but they brought
him what he so sorely needed — rest and surgical aid.

Jack watched while the wound was dressed, and then
sat down by the side of the bed, and hid his face between
his hands.

' Now, tell me all,' said Amyot ; ' you were there, and I
wasn't.'

' Some other time,' said Jack, in a choking voice, ' not
now, Amyot. I've been going over it, and over it, and
over it, till I can't rejoice in the victory, or care what
happens next.'

Some large tears were making their way down Jack's
face, and falling quite unheeded by him ; his utter
weariness deprived him of all power of self-control. He
flung himself on the ground and groaned.

454

"Iniyot Brouo^h.

* .

Atiiyot lav back on his pillow, lookinj^ very worn and
sorrow-stricki'ii.

'Tell inc all you saw and heard. Jack,' he rej)eated.
' They say he was content.'

Thus ur^ed, Jack struggled through his narrative of the
general's ileal h.

'Content, a\', that was he; it was for luigland and
r"nglanir> glory he strove and toileil, not for his own, else
woidd hr lia\e thought it iiard to die without recei\ing
the honour and thanks he iiad earneil. Ainvot, think v<

le IS content now .''

' Content, ay, surely; lie had his desire — just so much
ot life as was needed to do his work— he asked no

more.

' 1 met \'our old friend Connnander Jer\-is to-tlav," said
Jack, growing more calm as he spoke; 'and he stoj)petl
and asked for V(»u, and then he told me a singular thing.
Tile general, he says, sought him out the night l)efor<.' this
affair, and spoke to him of the coming atlemjU on OucIk-c,
telling him Jiat lie had a tiini conviction that he should
fall in tlu' next dav's battle; and then he unfastened the
breast of his coat, and drew forth a portrait of tin- ladv to
whom he was attached. This he gave to Jer\ is, ami
begged him, if all happened as he anticipateil. to carrv tlie
jiicture to hjigland and return it to the iady— I forget her
name to whom he was lx;trothed.'

'Miss Lowther,' Amvot suggested. 'It is mighty
strange. .laik.'

Hut .lack, ha\-ing toUl his tale, relapsed into hoi)ele>s
grief, lie soon (lej)arted, promising to come again in the
morning, a. id Amyot was left to rest.

But the rest was long ir, coming, and wlien at la>l he
fell asleeji, it was tr^ start anil groan in his slumlx-r as he
found himself going over in liis dreams the scenes of tiie
Inst forty-eight liours. Now he was straining uj) the
jirecipice, clinging even more desperately than in reality

\V' ■

Amvot /

\fn)

>roiio'>

455

to breaking trees ami slij)|)cry r{x-ks; now he was stumbling,
falling from the heights; now again, elinging. now i)re>sing
on. More than onee he awoke siuuklering. to tall asleej)
and dream again, if not of the jircvipice, of the deadly hail
(»1 fiery bullets, (;f the faees of the dead anil the dying.
Again he heard the battle eries; Wolfe's ringing voice,
now urging and exhorting to patience, now theering t(.»
the charge, ind then he awoke, groaning to think he
should never hear that \'oice again. Towards morning
his sleep grew quieter, and when the surgeon \i>iteil him
lie declaretl himself refreshed. .lack l*ownal was as con-
stant in his visits as other duties would permit. The ne.\t
tlay lie came in hurriedly, anil, sitting down on the foot of
the l)ed, said:

'I'he order is gi\eri for

cannot stay many minutes.

the whole armv to attend, and several olhcers beside yo
are laid up. There is much to be done.'

' To attend what and where ? ' a>ked v\m\'ot in be-
u iklerment.

'To escort the general'-^ body to the ship in which it i:
to ix" transjiorted to iMigland,' Jack said with avei c! eyes
* What are you doing, -Amyot ? '

nui

St Ix.'

)reseiu

Wi'l

\U\ not be absent from

place for anything,' Am\'ot rtj)lietl, iKginning to jnit on
his clothes.

Jack stared at him gloomily, and at last said:

' ^'ou must get lea\e from the surgeon.'

Am\<)t made no rej)l\-; but in a lew minutes, said:

' I'm ready; lead the way, Jack.'

Jack again (U-murred, and a \'oung surgeon standing
near the lent, to whom he appealed, spoke of the fear of
lexer ensuing; bin .Amyot was obstinati', and in a few
minutes more the two friends had left the tent, and were
xsalking ni mournful silence towards the place where the
troops were nuistering to render their last homage to their
dead chief. They walkeil slowly; Amyot from weaknos,
Jack out of consideration for his friend.

456

Affiyof Ih'oitoh.

With sok'inn j)(iiii|), and almost as silciitlv «'is on the
incriiorabk" iii^lit ot tlic attack, the troops tell into their
ranks. It was a ^orj;coiis sinlu, anil unspeakably ^ii<l.
Many old men ucpt, tlie youn^ men groaned, as their
victorious K-ader was borne into the midst of them sleej)in^
in death. From the heights he had so bravely won, they
carried him with hij^h honour, arms reversed and mournful

music, to the shore of the stately river, where lay the
fleet at anchor, their fla^s half-mast hi^h. The city, also
mourning the loss of its honoured chief, looked on, as its
bra\'e enemy passed on liis strange triumph, the i)ath of
^lory leadin<r to the ^rave. As far as they nn*j;ht, his
soldiers followed their younpf j^eneral, then returned to
hold what he hail won.

That evening, Amyot Brou^h, who had fli'ltered him-
self that his short confinement to his bed had wrought a
cure for him, felt himself seized with sudden chills, rapidly
succeeded by burninjjf fever, after which he was conscious
of nothinjjf for many days, until at Ia>t he wok ■ to find
himself a prisoner in the hospital, where, lie was told, he
had been ever since the nij^ht after the general's funeral.
H ;''^ he ^()t tlu;re he never knew, nor troubled to inquire.
He lay still, and thouj^ht of his former illness off the
h'rench coast ; uoiulered whether the ellects of this wound
would be as lasting; thouj^ht ol Primrose, and questioned
in a dreamy \\-\ whether it was likeh* he shoidil ever see
her a^ain.

He was lyin^ in a Ion*; room with many beds; but it
as quieter now than on the first days after the battli;,
hen groans and moans were ceaseless, and much cursing
and swearinj;- was the order of the day. Some of the
patients were asleep, but one in a bed at a short distance
from his, was tossing and complaininj^. now in b'rench,
now in Knglish, and givin^r the attendants no small
trouble.

Amyot lay and watched this man, alternately pitying

w
w

Atuyot Jh'ouo/i.

457

his sufTcrinps, anil iiuliilf^iiij.' in anj^cr aj:rainst his iinpa-
licnce, occasionally uttcriiij^ a word ot ssinpathy, hut more
often nuitlerin^ a wish that lie woiiUl cease griiinhMnf^
and j^ro to sleep. Alter a while, he noticed that his
nei^hhour was visited hy a young w<<inan carryinj; a child
of ahout a year old in her arms; she looked like a French
maiil-servant, hut from their conversation, Amy(»t soon
disco\ered she was his wife. She came frequently, hring-
ing fruit and <':iinties to temjit the sick man's ap|)etite;
hut he turned g!imly away, ami treated her attentions
with disdain. Sometimes she wept; but t\'iilently she
stood in jifreat awe of her sc'ldier-husband, who treateil her
Hke a child, and spoke his wishes with rough authority.

Aniyot pitied lier, ami W(»ndered whether she really
loved the rough, surly fellow who scarcely welcomed her
when she came, and yet railed at her whenever slu tailed
to aj)i)ear as early as usual. lie woidd talk to his boy
with something like good-humour, but towards his wife
he was always cold and repelling. And yet she had a
sweet, modest face and maimer, and her little daintily
dressed figure was pleasant to see. Others besides Amy(it
longed to break the fellow's heail when he scowled ami
grouletl at her, but perhaps the wife understood him
better than they.

One day, the surgeons going their usual lounds lingered
longer than usual in their examination of the surly French-
man's wtnind. Amyot, watching them, saw their faces
grow unusually grave. (^ne shrugged his shoulders,
looked at his companion, and muttered some mysterious
word uruler his breath, on luaring which the other
nodded : then they rej)laced the batulages, and one of
them passed on, leaving the other standing beside the
bed, sj)eaking in a low, grave voice to his patient.

It was oidy the last words that reached Amyot's ear :

* II ne vous reste que bien peu d'heures; comprenez-
vous, monsieur le capitaine ? '

458

Affiyoi Broil Q^h.

The sick man growled a rc;j)Iv, ami the surgeon passed
on. Ainyot tried to see his nei^iihour's lace; but he hail
turned to tlie wall, ami it was not till his bright little
wife came tripping in, that he either moved or spoke.

' lie will behave decently l<> her to-day, at any rate/
lhouji;lit Amvot, as juilj^in;^ it dishonourable to hear
more of their discourse than he could avoid- he tried to
think ot something el>e, and bej^an a conversation '\ith
his nearest neii^hbour on the other side — a youn^ lui^lish-
tnan who hail just parted with his ri^ht let;, and needeil
much consolation in con>ecpience.

Hut before lon^ his delicacy anil reserve were lortrotien,
and he jound himself listening, in sj)ite of himself, to the
earnest diaio<'iie j)roceeilin^ on the other side. 1^'rom the
words he cau<;bt, Amvot guessed that the husband had
< oimnunicated the doct(;r's verdict to his wife, and was
now explaining to her his intentions rej^ardin^ licrself and
child. She sobbed and cried; promised implicit obedience
in (Mie breath, and in the next complained j)iteously that
what he askeil was very hard.

' \'ou piomised to n() to F-nj^land with me if e\er T
should a>k yiHi,' he said reproachhdly. 'Now that I may
not ^L^o - now that it is certain I shall nex'er see my nati\e
land a;;ain I am \et delermined my son shall i^o, and
be brouj;hl up an Knt;lishman.'

' Hut,' she uri^ed in reply, ' Ouelx'C is I^n^lish now. He
will l)<" h'.n^Iish all the same if he stays here.'

'Will you promi.se to do my biddinj,^ ,' — to grant my
last reijuest ? — if you like that mode of speech better,' he
said impatiently.

' wSo hard ! ' she murmured, 'to leave country, friends,
and home, and jj;o acro.ss the wide ocean alone with the
baby. How could she } '

' It was not hard,' he j)rotested. ' She had the money
at home; and once in Kngiand, and with his mother, all

Amyot Broui^h.

459

would be well. For his sake, his wife would be cared
for. A^aiii would she promise? '

' wShe would try — yt's she would; but if she found it
very difricult, he inU't forgive her.'

' No ; oil IK) aceoiMit. Keep your jironii^e, I^lise, or
some evil will befall you ami my son.'

She wrunji, her haruls, ami burst forth in ])itter
latneiitatioMs; whereujxni one of ihe rrsuliiie Sisters
hurried to her, and lakinj^ her hands, urged her to be
ealm, and not agitate her husband.

'She cares little for that,' the sick man rejilied. 'These
women are all alike; thev must j)lease themselves what-
ever tine promises they make when the knot is tied. WvX
listen, I^lise : one thing I command y(»u if vou choose,
against ir.v will, to stay here when 1 am dead, at least
send my boy to {{nglaiid.'

wShe had grown calmer under the nun'> soothing; and,
placing her hand in her husband's replied :

'No, my husband; we will go together. You shall
have your will: so you will at least sj)eak om woril of love
before you die ? '

'Love' — ave, that is ever your song! Love is a
dream. I know nothing about it : but I care for ynu,
Klise, in a fashion, and 1 am sorry to Iea\'c you .so soon.
1 thought we should have /nany merry days together.
Now say adieu, and lea\e me; 1 shall die best alone.'

She looked at him with longing, yearning eyes, then
held the child's face l » hi?, lijis for a kiss, touched his
pale brow with her ruby mouth, and inirried from ihe
room without looking back.

The sick man moaned; then, turniiig towards Amyot,
said, in Lnglish (hitherti he had alwavs sj)ol- n in
French) :

'Caj)tain Brough, you do not know me, but I know
you; who I am is of small cc«nsequence; I have b(jrne
many names since I left England, fifteen years ago; but

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(716) 872-4503

460

Amyot B rough.

i?i'

in a sense I am English still, though once I vowed quite
to forget it. You may have heard what passed between
my wife and ht: ? ' He looked for a reply, and Amyot
assented. ' She must go to England — my boy must go
to my mother : she will love him for my sake. Now,
may I make one small request ? '

' I can guess it before it is spoken,' Amyot replied. ' It
is that I will aid her in her journey, show her how to go.
Am I not right ? '

' Precisely so; and you consent ? '

' If it is in my power. Tell me where to seek her; and
when I leave the hospital I will do all I can. You need
not tell me where she is to go. Your mother is now at
Penrith, in her old home. Lance Kirkbride. It is possible
you did not know it.'

The sick man started up, and fell back pale as death.

' I thought you did not know me,' he said faintly.

'Nor did I until you spoke my name; then many
things became clear to me. Your little son's face had
perplexed me, reminding me of something, I knew not
>vhat. Now I know that it was your own face when first
I saw you years ago in the Penrith school — what an age
it seems ! '

'It is a mistake ever to look back,' said Lance bitterly;
' but I cannot talk more, I am worn out. When you go
home, you will tell my mother you saw me die — poor
mother ! Did I say I did not know what love meant !
Yes, I did love her.'

' I will tell her so,' Amyot replied.

'Yes, do; and tell her I sent her the best I had — my
little son.'

' And your wife ? '

' Yes, my wife.' Lance's voice was growing weak; he
closed his eyes, and seemed to dose. Then suddenly
rousing himself, he said, ' My wife's name and present
dwelling are written in this book.'

Amyot B rough.

461

He fumbled beneath his pillow with one weak hand,
pulled ihence a small poeket book, which Amyot took
and placed beneath his own, then he sank to sleep again.

From time to time the Sistc.Ts came and looked at him,
adjusting the pillows or wiping the clammy sweat from his
forehead; but no one lingered near him. Alone, as he
had wished, with no hand in his, no loving face bendingr
over him, Lance Kirkbride passed away.

ilk

li !

('1 '■

CHAPTER XXXV.

IN WHICH WE takp: lp:avp: of many friends.

The year 1759, memorable in English annals as the year
when Enoland set herself right with the rest of the world,
and learned once more to respect herself — this wonderful
year was on the point of expiring, when Amyot Brough
entered London by the Plymouth coach, invalided home
to avoid the severity of a Canadian winter.

London looked very cold and dreary, and a thick fog
greeting him, reminded him of Major Pownal's parting
assurance that he would find London far more disagreeable
than Quebec, which would serve him right, since his
friend was well assured that the plea of ill-health vvas
nothing in the world L<^t an excuse for running home to
get married.

' You're not fit to be a soldier, Amyot,' Jack had
ass( rted. ' Half your time you are lying in bed or kick-
inr.^ your heels about doing nothing, because, forsooth, a
bullet or two found their way into you, or somebody
scratched you with the wrong end of his sword. The
country docs not want such soldiers as you. Pll see if I
can't get you dismissed the service.' And when Amyot
had assured him that he need not be jealous, he would be
ordered home soon, he had retorted, ' I ; what for should
I desire to return home ? There is no bride waiting for
me. Are you very sure, my dear fellow, that yours is
still waiting for you ?' But to this question Amyot had
not deigned to reply.

But the long voyage had intervened since they had

Amyot Brouqh.

463

parted, and little of the invalid was now to be seen in the
tall traveller who, as a gentleman from Quebec, had
received so much honour on the coach -journey from
Plymouth. Amyot had grown very weary of his glories
before London was reached — very tired of the cuiming
questions by which coachman and guard had sought to
draw from him a full narrative of all he had seen and done
in the famous city, and very silent and morose when the
great general's name was mentioned.

Conscious that he had not displayed himself in an amiable
or pleasing mood, as he drew near his journey's end he
made an effort to enter into more friendly converse with
his fellow-passengers ; and the coachman, encouraged by
these improved signs, ventured to inquire if the shij) in
which he had crossed from America had done much
fighting on the way.

'None,' Amyot replied. ' Why should she ?'

' Why, indeed !' said the guard. ' I reckon by this time
there ain't many French ships left to fight. We've
settled most of them.'

' They Frenchmen are a poor set,' remarked the coach-
man. ' It won't do to be too hard on 'em. It wasn't to
be expected such ships as they build could make fight in a
storm.'

' Nor any ships either,' x^myot asserted ; but the coach-
man begged his pardon :

' To English ships a trifle of a storm Avas no matter, as
Sir Edward Hawke had taught the French in Ouiberon
Bay.' And Amyot felt his ignorance and wisely kept his
peace.

' I must have missed some part of the story,' he said,
when repeating this conversation to his uncle an hour
later in the familiar drawing-room in Queen's Square. ' I
had heard of Admiral Hawke's victory over the Brest
fleet ; but of the battle being fought in a storm, I had
heard no mention.'

464

Aniyol B rough.

ri^

' Battles both by land and sea are nianafrcd in strange
fashion nowadays,' Mr. Ponifret rej^Hed. ' A battle was
won in Germany the other day. Why, the troops and
ships too shoidd have been in winter quarters long ago ;
but the ardour for conquest which Mr. Pitt has wrought
in our nation is prodigious.'

' Have you heard Mr. Garrick's new song in honour of
our victories, nephew Amyot ?' his aunt inquired. ' It
will scarce please you, being mostly in praise of the
exploits of our fleet, but I must teach you to sing "Hearts
of Oak," when we have leisure ; it will suit your voice,
and your father was a naval hero, though you are not.
But, nephew Amyot, let us forget wars and victories for
the time ; indeed, I am entirely weary of such things —
sick of the thundering of guns and pealing of bells — let us
talk of something pleasanter.' She dropped her voice, and
in a lower tone added : ' When are you minded to go
North to fetch your bride ?'

' Very shortly,' Amyot replied. * Yet I do not know,
madam, if she is willing to leave her home as yet.'

' If it is colder in the North than here; she cannot fail to
be willing,' his aunt replied. ' And where will you take
her, nephew, always supposing that she be willing ? '

' Straight to my grandmother at Westerham. So it
has been long arranged, and Primrose loves to think of it.'
' To live with my mother ? Amyot, you are a brave
man 1 '

' Who knows how soon I may be ordered abroad again ?
My own house is occupied, and Primrose loves to be with
my grandmother.'
' And you, Amyot ? '
' And I also, madam.'

Here Mr. Pomfret broke in upon the conversation be-
tween his wife and her nephew, to resume the thread of
his remarks on the strange fashion in which war was
carried on.

Ajfiyof BrougJi.

465

'And \vhat think you, nephew, will bo the fate of Lord
George wSackville ? He is not an officer after Mr. I^itt's
style. Can you fancy him scaling a precij^ice at the head
of an army, or taking his ships into battle in a storm ? '

' Ha])pily, Lord George was only second in connnand,'
Amyot replied. ' Prince Ferdinand knows how to use
F^nglish soldiers. The King will surely dispense with any
further service from Lord George. But 1 know little
about these things, sir, having been so long absent. We,
at Quebec, were much rejoiced to hear of the glorious day
of Minden, but the news was long in coming to us.
What is it, aunt ? ' For Mrs. Pomfret had thrown her-
self back upon her sofa with a little shriek, followed by a
ringing peal of laughter. Her husband stared, and said:

' I did not know that we said aught so entertaining;
but I am glad, my love, that you are amused.'

' No, indeed, it was nothing you said. I am sick of
these endless talks concerning battles and sieges ; and as
for Lord George, I am so weary of his name that it would
be a real satisfaction to me if he were shot — which you say
is not likely to happen. I was laughing at a sudden tfiought
of mine. You must know, Amyot, that since her poor old
companion. Miss Johnstone, died, my mother has been
much depressed and lonely ; wherefore I cannot say, since
Miss Johnstone was only a burden and no use at all.
But so it is : and all her friends, seeing her thus lonely,
have recommended young persons suitable for com-
panions. But my mother will hear of none of them.
She says she is weary of old misses and young misses :
the old misses fall sick and die, the young are not satis-
fied till they are wedded, and she has therefore determined
this time to engage a married couple, with whom she
trusts there will be peace and contentment, since they
will have satisfied their craving for matrimony, and if
tolerably comfortable, will not be for ever talking of
dying. I had pictured to myself an elderly and perfectly

2 H

466

Amyot BronQ;h.

hideous pair, since my mother is wont to surround her-
self with monstrously peculiar people ; and when it
popped into my head that you and your intended hri(
are the married couple of whom she spake, I could not
restrain my mirth.'

' It is precisely the ri^ht arrangement,' said Mr. Pom-
fret. * The old lady is growing too feeble to be left to
her own solitary life. You would not agree, my love,
to my wish that she should take up her abode with us ;
therefore, nothing could be more suitable than this plan
of our nephew's.'

His wife shrugged her shoulders.

' She will make them both Methodists,' she said.

It was in the beginning of February — when the snow-
drops were peejMng forth, and some gleams of sunshine
gave hopes of coming spring — that Amyot brought his
bride home to his grar.dmother.

'If you find her Ways and somewhat strange speeches
vex you, as my aunt seemed to fear, you will tell me, will
you not ? ' he had said as they drove into the village ;
but she had looked at him with the laughing, fearless
eyes of her happiest days, and replied :

' No, Amyot ; I will tell you nothing of the kind.'

* But if, as she grows very old, she should grow queru-
lous — old ladies often do — what then, my own ? '

' Then she will scold you — I know she will — and I shall
listen, much diverted ; and wlicn you lose your temper,
as I have seen you do when she carries her tormenting
over far, then I will rush to the rescue and say something
monstrous provoking, so as to draw your wrath on me :
that is my little plan, Captain Brough. In what light
does it appear to you ? '

' As most monstrous treachery,' Amyot replied, as he
helped her to alight, the chaise having stopped before the
door. ' Now, then, for our first essay ! Where is my
grandmother, Doddridge ? '

Amyoi B rough.

467

* In the oak parlour — she feels the cold terribly,' the
old butler replied.

And Amyot led his wife thither.

' Shut the door behind thee, Amyot, and brinfj thy
wife close. Dost think I want to see tlicc ? ' — as he bent
to kiss her hand. ' Truly, I have ugly things enough
about me ! Untie her hat, and let me see her bonny
face ! Ay, truly it does my eyes good ! '

' And how didst thou leave thy mother, and the new
daughter, and the little grandson. Primrose ? ' inquired
the old lady, when <"he evening meal was despatched, and
the trio were seated round the hearth, the young wife's
hand imprisoned between her trembling fingers.

' Oh, wondrous well ! ' Primrose replied. ' Return to
the North has been life to my mother, and the coming of
the little grandson a great source of comfort. F^lise, too,
though pining much for home and friends, is growing
more contented, and amuses herself with English ways,
and will in time grow to feel at home.'

' That is well,' said Mrs. Darley, and she looked at
Primrose with a sigh of relief. ' Then she is content to
do without you ? '

' Oh, but I have promised that whenever she feels a
longing for me I will go to her. I promised, and Amyot
promised.'

' I promised anything and everything,' Amyot replied.

' But I promised nothing,' said the old lady with
solemnity; 'and the matter rests with me : it can in no
wise concern you, Amyot. Primrose has come hither to
dwell with me. I have had change and disturbance
enough in my life : henceforward I mean to have peace
and quiet.'

' Yet, if I may venture to differ from you, madam, it
must in some degree concern me where Primrose dwells.'

' Nay, in nowise, Whai, ! do you not know that in
this arrangement you are of no account whatsoever ? — •

f (I

468

Afnyol Brouoli.

and why? B'.'causc, it bcin^ a well-known, and wcll-
asccrtaincd fact, that Mr. Pitt spends his days and liis
nij^dils ]K)riiij; over tlic map of the world, to seC if by
chance there remains no other continetit to conquer, it is
i)ut natural to conclude that he will shf)rtly discover
some corner of the world not yet greatly observed, and,
havinjT discovered it, will send all the idle soldiers he can
find to make it part of the British jiossessioiis; and in
this wise will you, Amyot Brou/^h, find occujiation, and
Priim^ose and I much rest and quiet. Is it not so,
Pri'nrose ? '

Primrose glanced with laughin^; eyes at her husband,
and replied :

' Whatever Mr. Pitt does will be rijrht and ^ood in
Captain Brouoh's eyes; and whatever you do, madam,
shall be ri^ht in mine.'

' Nay, do not flatter the old woman, child. I love
thee right well, but I never flatter. In fact, my dau<;hter
Pomfret more than hints that I am hard to live with;
and awhile ago so many things went wrong in this house,
that I was almost convinced that she spake truly. Poor
Johnstone died — not that I think I am much to blame
for that. She was ever bent on proving herself both
older and more feeble than I; and if it gave her satis-
satisfaction, I have no right to blame her for it. Then
my cook and Doddridge quarrelled; they had lived in the
house thirty years in peace; but war was the fashion, and
they almost came to blows ; that was a trouble to me, and
I fancied myself to blame. I had not given them work
enough or trouble enough, and so they made both for
me. But I found a cure for their miseries and mine too.'
' And this cure, madam ? — pray let us hear what it
was ! ' her grandson entreated.

' I made them marry ! ' the old lady replied triumph-
antly. ' I had some trouble, but I made them do it; and
now there is peace in the kitchen — rather like the last

A)?iyol I^roiio/i.

469

peace wc made with France, it is true. They still play
each other u^ly tricks, hut all the same they call it
peace; and there is no screaming or loutl talking ; so I
am well content.'

' And that ended your troubles, I trust ? ' Amyot
inquired.

'Nay, nay; not at all. This year, the wonderful year,
as they call it, brought nothing wonderful to me, except
it may be a wonderful number of sleepless nights. Vou
will remind me, Amyot, of my own counsel to you on
that matter some two years ago; but what is good for a
young man does not alwa)s suit an old woman, and these
sleepless nights conquered me. And what brought them,
do you ask ? Nay, that I care not to confess, else shall I
never more have duty or reverence from you. 1 think it
may have been the danger which threatened that poor
Marquis de Montcalm. Yes, it must have been his sad
plight that took my thoughts for ever across the ocean,
and made me think of roaring cannons, and fields strewn
with dead and dying. 1 fancied I heard voices call my
name each time the wind whistled in the chimney. It
was a strange freak, was it not ? '

' A very unpleasing freak,' said Amyot gravely. ' I
hope those visions and sounds have pas,,iid away long ere
this.'

'Ah, yes !' said the old lady, sighing. ' It was a foolish
fancy, and a silly weakness to be so occupied with the
fate of that brave marquis, for it could have been nought
else. Could it, grandson ?'

'Truly, madam, your pity was well bestowed; none
deserved it more.'

' Well, well,' said Mrs. Darley, ' that trouble's over,
whatever the cause might be. Doddridge prophesies new
ones; but we will wait till they come before we settle
how to be rid of them.'

' I should like to hear Doddridge's prophecies,' said

470

A myot Ih'o ugh.

'ii

Prinirc^se. * He has such a loiij; face and solemn air. Is
it an eartiujuake that he fears ? '

' Nay, nay, my child. You arc the suhject of his fears,
and yet, not you, hut your peace and welfare. " Do I
mind what a Hfe Master Amyot led his sweet sister ?
Does the youn^ mistress know ? " Such have been his
questions for many a lon^ day ; and my answer you well
may guess.'

'To mind his own business,' said her grandson,
reddening.

' Just so, Amyot. " See that you set him a good
example, Doddridge," say 1. And Doddridge departs to
the kitchen, and tells his wife that madam has small hope
of peace now her grandson is coming home. Ah, Amyot !
see the fruit of the seed you sowed. This is the tempest
we have to fear. Primrose. Doddridge has been master
here for many a long day; it pleases him but ill to think
that times are changed.'

' But it pleases you, dear grandmother; and tliat is all
that matters,' Primrose said, with loving eyes gazing into
the old lady's face.

' Yes, yes; it pleases me. I love to have you to make
much of me — none have since Joan left me; and I like
well to have that troublesome husband of yours safe back
from America. Ah, Primrose, how much precious
time you and I wasted on pen, ink, and paper, while he
was away; and he — why, we both knew full well he
never wasted a thought on us.'

* Did I not ! ' said Amyot warmly.

' Nay, child; don't believe him.'

I had thought to say adieu, but no, I add a postscript
to my story; and why ? good reader : for the best reason
in the world — to please myself. Forgive me if it please
not you.

Six years have flown since Amyot Brough brought his

Afnyol Broui^Ji.

4/1

bride to Westcrhain. Ho has hrii iinicli away witli his
rc^imc'tit in many lamls, hut Mrs. Darley's liouse has
hccn IVimrosc's home at all times, exceptinjf when ho
lias been iiiiarterecl where she ean he with him; anil it is
at Wesierham once more we seek him. And as we travel
alon^ the London R(jad anil uj) the wide villajj;e street,
we are conscious that another traveller is followmj; the
same track as we — a traveller from far-off lands, from
sultry climes, if we may judge from his face and colour.

'Mother — mother!' cries an eager little voice, front
within the tall iron railing, as we ai)proach Mrs. Darley's
abode. ' Mother, may I go a-walkiiig with Cousin Peace ?
she bade me ask you.'

There is a slight rustle among the bushes, and from
the further part of the garden comes Primrose Brough,
but little changed, save that her dancing step has grown
more sober and demure, her figure somewhat rounder,
her face more thoughtful; but the eyes are still full of
love and merriment, the voice as joyous as when she was
a child.

'Listen, little son,' she says; 'if I permit you to go
walking with Cousin Peace, you must go no further than
the fields around the church. When father returns
home from his ride he will come with Aunt Joan and me
to seek you, and he will not be pleased if he finds you
have wandered far.'

' Yes, mother,' said the boy, his eager feet restless with
impatience to be gone; but she stopped him again.

' Last time I sent you out with Cousin Peace, it was
" Yes, mother," to all I bade, but you forgot. James, do
you remember what father said to you then ?'

The child grew quieter.

' That I could ne^'er be a soldier unless I learned
obedience. Mother, I won't forget to-day. I may be a
soldier, mayn't I ?'

' We will see. Now go : Cousin Peace is waiting.'

4/2

uhnyof Broito^h.

'An "> wife and cliilil,' said the stranger to himself,
' He wa. . i^ht she is wcnuirous beaulifid. \\\(\ Ainyot
is not at home ; then I will follow the children, and
diseoser of what stidTthe next generation of our army is
like to be.'

'What is it yon want to show me, Consin IVace ? '
asked v\m\'ot's little son, as the two children ran hand in
hand tt)wards the village. ' Is it the white hunb with
black legs and face ? I saw it yesterday.'

' It is no lamb, and it is nothing" in the fields. It is
something in the church, which I found out on Sunday.'

r^^^-^^^\%

WESTKRUAM CHU RCH.

■■■/»

W,.^

' In the church ? Mother said we were to stay near
the church. Cousin Peace.'

' We shall be near the church if we are inside. I don't
'^ee how we can be nearer,' Peace replied. ' And they
are cleaning it to-day, so the door will be open.'

Little James was not quite satisfied with this reasoning,
and pondered it with serious face, whereupon the traveller
remarked to himself :

' Amyot's son ; but who could doubt it ? His heavy
brow and deep-set eyes ; the mother has not bestowed
her beauty on him, but the child pleases me better as he

ia'

A myot B rough .

473

is. What can Cousin Peace have to show liini in tliu
church ? Some Utile demon on a tomhstone, I'll
warrant. There's much lo\e for the horrible in woman-
kind.'

Tluis amusing himself, the stranger followed the
children into the church, where Peace, holdinj^ litile
James by the hand, was pointing to a tablet over the
door, and saying :

' Look, Cousin James, they have written your name up
in the church. Come ; you know your letters ; read it
for yourself.'

The boy blushed.

* It can't be mine, Cousin Peace. People's names are
written on the church walls after they are dead, and
nobody would put mine there. I^'ather would not let them.'

'But it is,' })ersisted Peace. 'Look! in large letters,
just that you may read it : '' James Wolfe." '

'But that isn't all my name. Cousin Peace, you are
silly.' Here little James's eyes met those of the tall
stranger gentleman who had followed them into church,
and looking up in his face, he said : ' 'ihe does know
all about General Wolfe, sir, she is only pretending.'

' She pretends very often, I should guess,' was the
reply. ' And you, too, little man, do you know all about
General Wolfe ? '

' I know a good deal,' said the boy modestly. Then,
lifting his head proudly : ' My father fought in his army
at Quebec, sir.'

' And your father tells you about his wars, and shows
you his wounds, I suppose ? '

' No, never ! he never shows his wounds or talks about
them. Once, when he was ill, I saw the cut on his
shoulder ; but father does not know I saw it. Mother
let me see it.'

' And your cousin, here ; she does not care for heroes
and wounds and tales of battles ? She is all for peace.'

474

Ainyot B rough.

'.*'

' Oh, that she is not, sir. My father says she would
make a better soldier than I. And my father has a
friend, a brave soldier like himself, who saved his life
once, and Cousin Peace says she will marry none but
him. Only she hopes that when he comes back from
India, he will have a wooden leg and only one arm. She
does not care for wounds like father's, which nobody
can see.'

' Cousin James ! ' said Peace, much disturbed. ' Your
tongue is more mischievous than I ever dreamed.'

' Nay, nay,' said the stranger^ smiling ; ' what harm is
done .'' Tell me the name of this friend of your father's,
my lad. I have been in India, and perchance may be
able to tell you of what stuff his legs and arms are made.'

' His name,' said little James, much honoured by the
stranger's notice, ' is Major Pownal ; but my father, for
the most part calls him Jack. And I have a little
brother Jack, called after father's friend. Did you know
him, sir ? '

' James, I hear your father's voice,' said Peace. And at
the same moment the shadow of passing figures fell across
the door, while a deep voice exclaimed :

' You say you bade him stay near the church, Prim-
rose ? It is the second time the child has played us this
trick. A boy of five to keep us thus waiting ! It is
well I am at home to teach him a lesson. His mother is
too easy with him, is she not, Joan ? '

' His father, as it seems to me, is somewhat rough,' a
soft voice replied. And little James slipped down from
his new friend's knee with heightened colour, saying :

' Father is angry. Cousin Peace, we must go. Good-
bye, sir.'

' I will come with you,' said the traveller, rising. ' I
want to see your father who fought at Quebec. See, they
have gone down the churchyard to yonder field. Ah,
your little cousin will soon overtake them,' as Peace

Amyot B rough.

475

started off in pursuit. ' Your mother bade you wait
near the church. Well, you are near now. What, are
you afraid of your father ? Stay with me, and I will
protect you.'

' Oh, I'm not afraid — at least, not exactly; but when
father is angry '

* It is not precisely pleasant. I can well believe it, my
boy; but here he comes with your little cousin.'

' It was not hard to recognise the gentleman from
India ! ' Amyot exclaimed as he approached ; ' though I
had not heard of your coming, Jack. Why, you are not
changed a whit. But how came you here and not to my
house ? '

' I saAv your little son, and followed him; we have been
looking at the tablet in the church, and having much dis-
course concerning your deeds in arms — it is a martial
spirit, Amyot,' and he glanced at the boy, who still held
his hand.

' Run after your mother, James, and ask her to wait
till we overtake her. Tell her this gentleman is
Major Pownal — ah ! you had guessed as much, had you,
boy?'

'When you called him "Jack," father — not till then —
else I would have kept Cousin Peace's secret better,'

' What secret ? Never mind — run after your mother.'

* Nay, but you should have heard the secret, Amyot.
It is that I am the bridegroom, elected by herself, of your
fair niece Peace, only that I lack the necessary qualifica-
tions of a wooden leg and arm. When you romanced
Concerning your old friend in the bosom of your family,
Amyot Brough, you should have mentioned that he bears
a charm against bullets and cold steel, and has never had
a scratch in his life. I ^ luch fear the young lady will be
disappointed.'

' J never heard my niece's romance. How shocked her
mother will be, and she too, when she discovers who you

476

Amyot B rough.

^•1

-■p

"'*'

'•1

, ■■ -■;*

, '*

l»

; J ;;

SE-f i ;

\ !

are ! But here is my wife, and my sister whom you knew
many years ago.'

' I wondered much why my husband quitted us so
suddenly,' Primrose re})Hed, in answer to his salutation :
* but we wonder no longer — do we, Joan ? I have ever
felt something was wanting to my happiness, so long as
my husband's dearest friend was not known to me ;
though indeed, Major Pownal, I have sometimes for-
gotten that I had never seen you, so familiar has your
name become in our home. Shall we defer our walk,
Amyot, and take Major Pownal to see Mrs. Darley ? '

It was so decided. Jack Pownal had left his stick on a
bench in the church, and turned back to find it, Amyot
accompanying him ; the two ladies waited, then followed
them into the church. Jack's eyes had wandered to the
tablet which little James had shown him : Amyot's were
fixed on the ground.

'Meeting you recalls it all,' Jack was saying. 'Amyot,
I changed into another regiment going to India, because
I wanted to forget it all. I have seen plenty of bustle
and change there, and made hosts of friends — acquaint-
ances, I should call them — but I have never found one
like him : have you ? '

' Never," said Amyot.

' What was it, Amyot ? Tell me. I have often asked
myself, but never found the answer. I have tried to do
for others what he did for me, but have always failed
most signally. I can't fire men to do things they never
dreamt of ; I can't rouse the spirit in them that he did.
Some one said once, that he was to an army what powder
is to their guns. That is a good enough simile ; but
what I ask you, Amyot, is, how he did it ? '

' I don't know. I can't say. Was he ambitious ? I
suppose so.'

' Ambitious, without doubt. What's a man good for
without ambition ? But that doesn't answer my question.'

Aniyot Brough.

A77

* Nor can I answer it. He had a desperate sense of
duty, a ceaseless anxiety to be doing, and a passionate
love for his country. Will that help you, Jack ? '

' All this I can pretend to in some degree. I suspect it
is the degree that makes the difference. I'm a lazy
dog at times, Amyot.'

' So he once told you.'

' Well, there's an eager young soldier waiting for you
at the door; you were right to give him that name. Amyot,
christen all your sons Wolfe. If he had not taken you in
hand, your sons would have had small reason to boast of
their father. Has your fair wife — I own you have better
taste than I thought you had — has she ever heard of your
Stirling and Perth doings before the major came on the
field ? I thought then that you would assuredly end
your days at Tyburn. What ! is my memory trouble-
some ? Then let us get out of the church — it is no place
to talk of such doings.'

' Father — father !' cried little James. ' I've run all the
way home and back to tell grandmother that Major
Pownal has come ; and she has sent Cousin Peace into
the garden to gather every one of the strawberries, and
little Jack is helping her ; and Peace is crying, and says she
has a bad toothache, and wants to go to bed.'

' If I may venture to surmise,' Major Pownal remarks
gravely, ' Cousin Peace has a great talent for pretence.'

But my postscript grows long and tedious ; and yet,
with all my stri\'ing, I fail to accomplish that which I de-
sired — the discovery of the moral of my history. Major
Pownal has helped me through many a tedious page of
my hero's experiences, and I had trusted to his aid to guide
me in this difficult quest ; but, alas ! in this matter, his
and my wit alike are discomfited : and if a moral be
entirely needful, kind reader, seek it for yourself.

THE END.

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