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 C L E V E HALL
 
 BALt-ANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 liUI.NliURCH AND LONDO;>( ■
 
 CLEVE HALL 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 
 
 Tho' justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
 That in the course of justice none of us 
 Should see salvation. 
 
 The Merchant of Venice 
 
 ,VE \V EDITION 
 
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 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO, 
 
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 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was an old gable-ended farm-house, standing back from the 
 road, with a smooth piece of turf in front, neatly kept, and 
 divided down the centre by a broad strip of pavement. 
 
 Five or six large elm trees shaded it on the left ; on the right, 
 behind some broad meadows, rose a steep bank, forming the 
 further extremity of a rocky ravine, through which ran a by- 
 road from the highway, probably leading to some sequestered 
 hamlet. The whole surface of the country was hilly, almost 
 claiming the appellation of mountainous. A long range of steep 
 downs stretched for a considerable distance beyond the ravine 
 towards the north-east ; whilst in front of the farm, at about 
 the distance of a mile, the horizon was bounded by a hill, 
 clothed with thick plantations, amongst which the sighing of 
 the soft evening wind was heard mingling with the heavy swell 
 of the ocean. 
 
 ■ The view was very lovely, seen in the mellow evening light ; 
 the m.eadows rich with the golden flowers of early summer, and 
 tiie fresh green on the trees and hedges, sparkling as their trem- 
 bling leaves caught the glancing rays of the sinking sun. Yet it 
 was solitary. No building was in sight except the quaint, gray 
 farm-house, with its ivy-covered chimneys, and broad, open porch ; 
 and though there were sounds about the fann, — the carter-boy's 
 whistle, — the clatter of the milk-pails, as the dairymaids crossed 
 the yard, — and occasionally the neighing of a horse, or the low- 
 ing of a cow ; yet they were all hushed, — softened by that 
 indescribable atmosphere of quietness, which prepares the gentle 
 evening for the deeper solemnity of night. 
 
 465473
 
 2 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 A woman, who might have been about fifty years old — the 
 mistress of the farm apparently — was leaning over the low 
 garden-wall. She was rather peculiar in appearance ; her dress 
 scrupulously neat, but decidedly old-fashioned ; the cotton gown 
 scanty and rather short ; a checked handkerchief folded over 
 her shoulders, and a cap white as snow, and quilled in perfect 
 order, fitting close around a pale, worn face. Her attitude told 
 that she was listening, and the breeze brought to the ear the 
 distant trampling of a horse, departing however, not approaching. 
 It was followed with fixed attention, till the last echo had died 
 away, and then a sigh was heaved, and slowly and thoughtfully 
 the woman walked towards the house. 
 
 * Mrs Robinson ! Nurse ! Granny, dear ! won't you speak to 
 me ? ' said a quick, merry voice, and a child of about thirteen 
 years of age, though in heig'it and size very much younger, 
 threw open the heavy wicket-gate, and ran up to her. The 
 woman turned suddenly, a smile passed over her face, a mixture 
 of pleasure and respect, yet her tone had something in it of 
 reproach. 
 
 ' Out alone. Miss Rachel ! what does your papa say to 
 that ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! papa is gone in to see John Strong, and I ran on before 
 him. I shall be at home now before he is. He is coming to see 
 you, Granny.' 
 
 ' He said he would,' was the reply. 
 
 ' And you think he always keeps his word, don't you ? Give 
 me a kiss and let me go ; I must be at home and have a talk 
 with Miss Campbell and Ella before papa returns ; so keep him 
 as long as you can.' She threw her arm round her friend's 
 neck. * Granny, you aren't happy to-night,' she whispered. 
 
 ' Happy as I can be. Miss Rachel, when there's so much in 
 the world to make one otherwise. But you don't know anything 
 of that, so run home and be thankful.' 
 
 Rachel stood for a moment in thought. The change in her 
 face was very marked. It was a countenance formed for happi- 
 ness, brilliant with intelligence, radiant in health, and singularly 
 lovely in its outline. But the small, laughing mouth, and the 
 merry, hazel eyes, and open forehead, shaded by curls of bright 
 chestnut hair, might have been termed infantine till thought 
 came ; — then the whole being seemed to alter, and the gay child 
 became in one instant the self-collected, deeply-inquiring woman. 
 
 ' I don't know anything about it, I suppose, Granny,' she said,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 3 
 
 in reply to Mrs Robinson's remark, ' though I think I do some- 
 times. Shall I ever know it as you do ?' 
 
 'That's for days to come, Miss Rachel. Who can tell?' 
 
 'You can,' said Rachel, quickly; then, correcting herself, she 
 added, reverently, ' I don't mean you can tell what is to happen, 
 but you can say whether I shall be likely to have the same 
 things to bear that you have.' 
 
 ' God forbid you should ever have to trouble for the same 
 things that trouble me. Miss Rachel. Things must be bad 
 indeed if they are not mended by that time.' 
 
 ' And the General won't live for ever,' said Rachel, quickly ; 
 but a glance at her friend's face made her retract her words. ' I 
 don't want him to die, you know, Granny ; but it is always some- 
 thing about him which makes papa, and you, and every one 
 unhappy; so I can't like him, and I couldn't be sorry if he were 
 gone away anywhere.' 
 
 ' There 's many a worse man than General Vivian goes for a 
 saint in this world, Miss Rachel,' replied Mrs Robinson, 'as you 
 may some day know to your cost. Poor old man ! If he makes 
 others sad he is sad enough himself.' 
 
 ' He doesn't look sad,' said Rachel. ' He doesn't seem as if 
 he felt anything.' 
 
 ' That's what folks say of me, sometimes. Miss Rachel ; ' and 
 a smile, which, however, gave only a wintry brightness to the 
 grave face, accompanied the words. Rachel once more caressed 
 her fondly, 
 
 ' Granny, Granny, that 's naughty. Papa says if you had a 
 colder heart you would have a merrier face. But it's merry 
 enough for me. There 's not a face in all the village, away from 
 home, that I love so well, except' 
 
 ' Except whose ? Don't be afraid. Miss Rachel ; you know I 
 am not given to being jealous ! ' 
 
 ' Well ! one that's more to you than I am, though I love you 
 dearly. So we can't be jealous when we both love the same.' 
 
 ' Miss Mildred!' exclaimed Mrs Robinson; 'but I always put 
 her aside. I thought it might be some of the newer friends that 
 you have taken to.' 
 
 ' Miss Campbell, and Ella, and Clement,' replied Rachel, 
 gaily. ' No ; I love them all, you know I must, they are so 
 kind : but they are not like your dear old face. Granny ; they are 
 not parts of the very old times.' 
 
 ' Thirteen years ago ! eh, Miss Rachel ? What an age to be
 
 4 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 sure ! But you do grow, I will say that for you ; you Avill be a 
 woman after all, if you live lonjj enough.' 
 
 'Thank you, Granny, dear! I hope I shall. Now please 
 gather me a whole heap of the climbing roses for Mrs Campbell. 
 She always likes to have flowers brought her, though she doesn't 
 keep them long.' 
 
 Rachcrs hands were filled with the best roses which grew 
 against the house, and the best lavender from the farm garden, 
 under the promise, however, that she was not to give all away, 
 but to retain some for hciiiclf for a remembrance. Her ringing 
 laugh, as the injunction was given, made the old walls echo 
 again. 
 
 ' Why, Granny, as if I needed it ! Don't I think of you every 
 morning, and don't I talk to papa about you every night? — what 
 should 1 need a remembrance for? Do you know,' and her tone 
 changed, as she placed one finger against her heart, ' it's written 
 in here ; I can feel it, though I don't see it — your name, I mean ; 
 and there are others, too — and I know I shall never want keep- 
 sakes like some people, for I can't forget; no, if I wished it, I 
 couldn't.' 
 
 A kiss was the answer, lingering and fond, like that of a 
 parent, and a murmur, ' Heaven's blessing on you, child ! ' and 
 Rachel tossed the wicket-gate open, and ran quickly up the road 
 which passed through the ravine. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was about an hour later the same evening; lights were 
 glimmering in the cottages dotted by the side of the narrow 
 road, and perched, as it seemed, upon almost inaccessible rock?, 
 which formed the picturesque village of Encombe ; and although 
 here and there, might be seen a labourer returning from some dis- 
 tant work, or a woman wearily toiling up a height after an errand 
 to the nearest town, the cottagers were, for the most part, collect- 
 ing around their own hearths, and even the voices of the children 
 were gradually being hushed in sleep. At the lower end of a 
 steep strip of garden, reached by a flight of steps from the road, 
 two persons, a man and a boy, were, however, conversing together, 
 as they stood looking up the village, nearly the whole length of
 
 CLEVE HALL, 5 
 
 wliich was visible from the point they had chosen. The occupa- 
 tion of the man was evident at the first sight; he was a weather- 
 beaten, hardy fisherman — probably a smuggler — for there was an 
 expression of cunning in his keen, black eyes, and a sneer upon 
 his lip, which accorded little with the free, frank tone and manner 
 natural to an ordinary seafaring life. His glance, moreover, 
 showed the quickness of one accustomed to watch and be 
 watched ; and his tone, when he spoke, had in it an accent of 
 command. The boy also wore a sailor's hat, and his coat was 
 rough, and his striped, blue, linen shirt made of coarse material. 
 Yet even a cursory inspection would certainly have suggested a 
 doubt whether the two were equals in rank. The age of the lad 
 might have been eighteen ; his face was bronzed by exposure to 
 storms, and his manner betrayed a mind impatient of control, 
 and caring little for the refinements of civilised life ; but his 
 features were totally free from the look of cunning which was so 
 marked in those of his companion. His blue eye, indeed, uns 
 peculiarly clear and open in its expression, though flashing with 
 all the keenness of a passionate spirit; his forehead was thought- 
 ful ; his mouth told of pride and great wilfulness, and yet its 
 haughty curl seemed occasionally about to melt into a smile of 
 sad, almost feminine sweetness ; and his voice, even when he 
 spoke shortly and contemptuously, had a refined intonation, 
 belonging to a very different class from that of his companion. 
 He might have been formed for high and noble purposes, yet he 
 lingered now in the society of his rough comrade, apparently 
 with no thought but that of idly passing away time which he 
 had neither inclination nor energy to employ. 
 
 Full twenty minutes elapsed, and still he leaned upon the 
 garden-gate, sometimes speaking to the fisherman, but more 
 often gazing with a fixed eye before him. Occasionally, how- 
 ever, he stooped to pick up a stone, and tossed it down the 
 steep bank, and watched it as it tumbled from point to point, 
 till touching a sharp point of rock, it perhaps fell with a quick 
 impetus into the foaming brook, that rushed down the centre of 
 the ravine. 
 
 He had just cast another stone ; it did not follow its prede- 
 cessors ; the twisted root of a tree stopped it, and it sank quietly 
 into its place upon the bank. 
 
 ' They don't all go,' murmured the boy to himself. 
 
 * What don't go ? ' asked the man, with a surly smile. 
 
 ' Nothing that you know of,' was the reply ; ' is he coming yet .-"
 
 6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Can't say ; don't see liim. Suppose now, you were to make 
 the best use of your legs, and be off to the flagstaff to see. It 's 
 not much of a stretch.' 
 
 * More than I choose to take,' answered the boy ; and he flung 
 himself upon the ground. ' I am not made for that at least,' he 
 muttered to himself. 
 
 The fisherman evinced no surprise at the refusal, but opening 
 the gate, descended the steps, and sauntered a few paces up the 
 road. A merry shout, a few moments afterwards, caught the 
 boy's ear, and he started up. 
 
 'Well! he's come ; it can't be helped.' He flung the gate 
 open, and at one spring bounded into the road. 
 
 The fisherman stood on the projecting point of a rock closing 
 in the angle of the road, and beckoned to him. The boy still 
 paused. Once he even turned directly away, and went a few 
 paces in the opposite direction, and waited for an instant, as if 
 undecided whether to return ; but another shout of ' Ronald ! 
 Ronald ! ' startled him ; and flinging his hat into the air, he 
 gave a wild answering cry, and ran forwards to the rock, where 
 his companion awaited him. 
 
 They were not alone together then ; a third individual had 
 joined them ; a boy probably about two years younger than 
 Ronald, and bearing in every look and feature the stamp of 
 gentle birth and careful education. He was tall and slight ; 
 his face very intelligent ; his voice sweet and refined ; and 
 when he joined in the fisherman's coarse laugh, and addressed 
 him in terms of equality, it was evident there could be no real 
 congeniality. 
 
 ' Why, Goff, you are a harder master than Mr Lester ! ' he 
 exclaimed, as the fisherman, in rather an uncivil manner, held 
 before him a huge old-fashioned watch, and pointed to the hour. 
 ' 'Tis but five minutes.' 
 
 * May be you'll learn the value of five minutes to your cost, 
 one of these days. Master Clement !' replied Goff. ' Ronald has 
 been here, waiting to see you, the last half hour.' 
 
 ' Ronald is not like me,' replied Clement ; ' he is his own 
 master. See if I won't be mine, before long, Goff, eh ?' 
 
 ' Them that will can always find the way,' replied the fisher- 
 man, ' Are you come to tell us you '11 be here to-morrow for the 
 sail, Master Clement ?' 
 
 Clement looked up hastily, and his eye encountered Ronald's. 
 The boy was standing at a little distance watching him narrowly,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 7 
 
 a strange mixture of feelings expressed in his handsome face. 
 A bitter pride, perhaps, was written there most clearly ; yet a 
 glance of compassion, blended it might have been with self- 
 reproach, fell upon Clement. 
 
 'You'll be ready, Ronald, as you promised?' said Clement, 
 appealing to him. 
 
 ' I made no promise,' was his reply. 
 
 ' But you are going ? ' 
 
 'Ay, going ; wind and waves, and heaven and earth forbid- 
 ding ! ' exclaimed Ronald, impetuously. Spurning from him a 
 stone against which his foot had been resting, he added, ' My 
 doings are no law for yours.' 
 
 Clement regarded him wonderingly, whilst a sarcastic smile 
 curled the fisherman's lips. 
 
 'Don't mind him, Master Clement,' he said; 'it's his way. 
 Six o'clock, to-morrow evening, at the West Point. We '11 have 
 a short run, with a fair wind, as it's like to be, and be back in 
 time for the old lady's tea.' 
 
 ' What do you say, Ronald ? It 's to be done, isn't it ?' inquired 
 Clement. 
 
 'Ask Goff !' and the look of pride passed away from Ronald's 
 face, and seating himself on a stone, he rested his arms upon his 
 knees. At that moment the loud barking of a dog was heard in 
 the distance. 
 
 'Ah! the Captain !' exclaimed Goff. 'He's as good as his 
 word, at least. Come, Ronald, my lad, there's work for you 
 now.' 
 
 Ronald did not move, even when Goff touched him roughly 
 with his foot. Clement stooped down, and put his arm round 
 him caressingly. 
 
 ' Ronald, it was your notion ; why won't you go ?' 
 
 ' I am going ;' but Ronald's head was not raised. 
 
 ' Then why shouldn't I go ?' 
 
 Ronald started from his bending posture, as a large Newfound- 
 land dog rushed upon him, and tried to place his two fore-paws 
 upon his shoulders. 'Down, Rollo! down!' — he patted the dog's 
 head, and caught it between both his hands, looking at it ns if 
 reading a human countenance, then seizing Clement's arm, he 
 dragged him to the edge of the ravine, and pointing to a broken, 
 tangled path, rushed down it. Clement followed. The dog 
 waited and watched them, irresolute ; but the next moment he 
 was coursing at full speed along the road by which a mnn,
 
 8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 dressed in a shaggy greatcoat, and a lo\v-cro'«vned glazed hat, 
 ■with a heavy stick in his hand, was seen approaching. 
 
 ' To-morrow, at West Point, at six,' called out the fisherman, 
 as the boys disappeared from sight. 
 
 'To-morrow, at six, yes!' M'as heard in Clement's clear, re- 
 fined tones. 
 
 ' To-morrow, at six — no !' added another voice, deep, rich, and 
 full ; and the fisherman burst into an angry laugh, and shouted 
 after them, ' that he would be made a fool by no one.' 
 
 ' I\Iy hopeful boy you are calling after, eh ! Master Goff ?' was 
 the observation by which the attention of the fisherman was 
 drawn to the person who had now joined him. 
 
 'Hopeful, indeed, Captain. Why, he's taken to turn lately 
 like a weathercock. If it goes on, I wish you joy of anything 
 you'll ever do with him.' A scowl rested on the stranger's face, 
 \\ hich was not needed to render it unprepossessing, for it was 
 rarely that a countenance could be seen on which so many evil 
 passions were to be traced. There was a strong likeness to 
 Ronald ; it might have been told at once that they were father 
 and son ; but whilst the pride of the boy's face was softened by 
 thought, and his reckless^ bearing was checked by some eager, 
 though it might be transient feelings of the necessity of self-com- 
 mand, the father's countenance showed little but a dogged reso- 
 lution, the result of habitual selfishness and indulgence in habits 
 which had nearly obliterated every sign of higher education or 
 feeling. 
 
 ' He is coming with us to-night,' he reniarked ; not replying 
 directly to the fisherman's observation. 
 
 ' That 's as he will. Captain ; as you know c[uite as well as 
 I. He is off now with the young springald, and who's to catch 
 him?' 
 
 The stranger uttered a profane ejaculation, and walked to the 
 edge of the ravine, looked down it, and then returned again. 
 'He'll be back, he's not a fellow to miss the fun. How go 
 matters at the point ?' 
 
 ' All ready, only waiting for Captain Vivian,' said Goff, with 
 something of a contemptuous laugh. 
 
 'And Captain Vivian's son ; the boy has a mind to drive me 
 frantic. But there is no need to wait.' 
 
 ' No need and no power,' said Goff. ' Time and tide wait for 
 no man ; so, by your leave, Captain, we'll let the two youngsters 
 be off.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 9 
 
 ' You wouldn't have taken the other boy/ exclaimed Captain 
 Vivian, quickly. 
 
 ' Not quite such a fool as that ; no, — he 's a mere land sawney ; 
 nothing 's to be made of him — as dainty as a girl. What a fine 
 fellow will be spoiled if Ronald takes after him ! ' 
 
 The frown on Captain Vivian's face became terrific ; and Goff 
 softened his words. ' No fear of that though. Captain. See 
 Ronald in a gale of wind! that's the time when he's a man. 
 Come, are you ready?' 
 
 He received no answer. A crowd of angry feelings seemed 
 working in Captain Vivian's mind, and throwing his stick back- 
 wards and forwards, he strode on silently; Goff accompanying 
 him, and occasionally stealing aside to the edge of the ravine to 
 discover whether any glimpse could be obtained of Ron.ild. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * T^ IGHT o'clock ! Where is Clement?' The question was 
 -C-' asked, in a querulous tone, by a lady seemingly infirm, 
 rather from indolence and illness than from age, as, ordering 
 the door to be shut, and wrapping a shawl around her, she drew 
 near the tea-table, spread in a small, neat, but poorly-furnished 
 drawing-room. It was answered in a girlish voice, but the accent 
 was scarcely more amiable. 
 
 'Indeed, grandmamma, I can't say; he has been out ever 
 since six.' The speaker was a young girl of about sixteen, tall, 
 graceful, and rather foreign-looking, from the darkness of her 
 complexion, and the dreamy, yet very intellectual expression of 
 her splendid dark eyes, the only feature in the face which could 
 lay claim to real beauty. She was stationed by the urn, and her 
 attention was given more to the teacups than to the person wlio 
 addressed her. 
 
 ' You might as well learn, Ella, to be civil when you are spoken 
 to. Why can't you look at me ?' 
 
 ' I am pouring out the tea, grandmamma. Oh dear, what a 
 slop ! Louisa, do run into the pantry and bring me a cloth.' 
 
 ' Louisa not gone to bed ! how is that ? Louisa, why don't you 
 go to bed ?' 
 
 ' Because I am reading, grandmamma.'
 
 lo CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' But you ought to be in bed ; it 's a great deal too late. 
 Where's your aunt ? why doesn't she make you go to bed ?' 
 
 'Aunt Bertha went down the village, and isn't come in,' re- 
 plied Louisa, without attempting to rise from the low stool on 
 which she had placed herself to be out of the reach of observa- 
 tion, and able at her leisure to study a volume of fairy tales. 
 
 ' Very wrong, very forgetful,' was murmured, and Mrs Camp- 
 bell sank back again in her chair, without repeating the order 
 for Louisa to go. ,. _ 
 
 Ella just glanced at her sister, and, forgetting the slop, handed 
 a cup of tea to her grandmamma ; and pouring out one for her- 
 self, and helping herself to some toast, gave her whole attention 
 to a book, which she kept by her half hidden by the tea-tray. 
 The room was very silent again for some minutes. Then Mrs 
 Campbell took up her cup, and complained that the tea was cold, 
 and Ella said the water didn't boil, and the bell was rung ; but 
 it was not answered. 
 
 ' Very wrong of Bertha, indeed,' repeated Mrs Campbell to 
 herself; 'and why don't they answer the bell? but there's only 
 Betsy and the girl. Oh dear!' 
 
 Ella sighed, oh dear ! too, but she took no other notice. 
 
 The door opened. Mrs Campbell began in a fretful tone : ' It 
 is too bad, the water doesn't boil in the least ;' but she stopped 
 on finding that she was not addressing a servant, but a young 
 lady. ' Bertha,' and she leaned forward, and spoke with some- 
 thing approaching to energy, ' why don't you tell us when you 
 are going out ? We have been waiting this half-hour, and the 
 tea is quite cold, and no one answers the bell. I can't think 
 what possesses you all. Where have you been ?' 
 
 * I was called out to see Hannah Dobbs, ma'am ; she is worse ; 
 and then I had to go up to the Rectory, and other things besides.' 
 The last words were uttered in an undertone, but they were in 
 no way hasty or confused. ' Louisa, you ought to be in bed ;' 
 and Louisa in an instant jumped up from her seat, closed her 
 book, said quickly, ' Good night, grandmamma ; good night, 
 Ella; good night. Aunt Bertha,' and was gone. 
 
 Bertha walked up to the tea-table : ' The water is not cold, 
 Ella. You must have poured out grandmamma's tea before she 
 was ready for it. Just put away your book, and attend to what 
 you are doing.' Ella's book was taken from her, and placed on 
 a side-table. No remonstrance was made, but Ella leaned back 
 in her chair, and allowed her aunt to fetch Mrs Campbell's cup,
 
 CLEVE HALL. li 
 
 pour away the cold tea, and replenish it with something which, 
 if it was not strong, at least had the merit of warmth. 
 
 * Clement is not come in, is he ?' said Bertha, in a low voice 
 to Ella, as she bent over the tea-table. 
 ' No, I have not heard him.' 
 
 Bertha's face became very grave, but it was a gravity which 
 suited her, for it softened and rendered her features expressive. 
 It was that which they wanted to give them the beauty to which 
 they ought to have laid claim from regularity. Bertha Campbell 
 was a striking-looking person, very tall, and slight, and refined 
 in figure and manner ; not exactly graceful — she was too stifi" in 
 her movements for that, — and not exactly interesting — she was 
 too rigid and self-controlled — too much like an automaton for in- 
 terest ; but the stamp of a lady was upon her every action. As she 
 moved about the room now, putting a chair in its proper place, 
 brightening the lamp, handing her mother the milk and sugar, 
 and placing a footstool for her, an indescribable spirit of order 
 and repose seemed to follow her. The room assumed quite a 
 different aspect under her auspices, and yet what she did was 
 almost too trifling to be noticed. 
 
 Mrs Campbell spoke again more gently and cheerfully. ' Did 
 you see Mr Lester at the Rectory, Bertha?' 
 
 ' No, ma'am. Rachel was expecting him ; she left him at the 
 farm. I gave my message to her. Can I do anything more for 
 you, before I take off my bonn et ? ' 
 
 * No, child, nothing ; but make haste down ; the tea won't be 
 fit to drink if you don't.' 
 
 Bertha glanced again round the roorn, told Ella she was sitting 
 in a very awkward attitude, and disappeared ; and she was no 
 sooner gone than Ella, having poured out a cup of tea for her 
 aunt, stole quietly to the table on which her book had been 
 placed, and returned to her studies. 
 
 Bertha came down again, took the tea which Ella had pre- 
 pared, without making any remark upon it, helped herself to 
 some very cold toast, and completed her repast with a piece of 
 dry bread ; and then, placing the empty cups and plates upon 
 the tray, rang the bell. 
 
 The summons was answered by a very young girl. 
 
 'Jane, that weak arm of yours won't do to lift this heavy tray ; 
 you had better let me carry it for you.' 
 
 ' O Aunt Bertha !' escaped from Ella's lips. 
 
 *Why not, Ella? what harm can it do me?' and Bertha lifted
 
 t2 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 the tray and carried it out of the room, whilst the little servant 
 girl wiped away the crumbs from the cloth, and placed a few 
 books on the table. 
 
 Bertha did not immediately return ; and at the sound of a 
 heavy opening door Mrs Campbell, who had seemed inclined to 
 sleep, roused herself, and inquired whether that was Clement 
 come in. 
 
 ' I don't think so, grandmanima ; I fancy it must be Aunt 
 Bertha gone out.' 
 
 ' Gone out again, it can't be ; go and see.' Ella obeyed 
 reluctantly. 
 
 ' It was Aunt Bertha, grandmamma,' and there was a tone of 
 triumph in Ella's voice. ' She was standing under the veran- 
 dah ; she is there now.' 
 
 ' Tell her to come in instantly ; she will catch her death of 
 cold.' The message was given in audible, authoritative accents, 
 such accents as might well have roused a storm of angry feelings 
 in Bertha's breast ; but she came back into the room with Ella, 
 with her quiet, gliding step, and merely said, ' I went or*- to see 
 what kind of night it was likely to be, ma'am. Shall I read to 
 you .'" She took up a book, and, seating herself by her mother's 
 arm-chair, began to read aloud. Ella took no notice of this, but 
 resting both her elbows on the table, riveted her eyes upon the 
 page before her. 
 
 Bertha's voice was rather monotonous ; her reading had the 
 same absence of expression as her face ; perhaps she was not 
 giving her full attention to the book, for she paused sometimes 
 in wrong places, as if listening, and looked up, — quietly and 
 slowly, though — for slie was never hurried — at the least sound. 
 ' There is Clement,' she said, at last. No one else seemed to 
 have heard anything, but that was not strange ; a very loud 
 clock in the hall had just struck ten, and the sound was likely 
 to drown all others. 
 
 ' It is very wrong of him,' said JNIrs Campbell, hastily. 
 
 ' Yes, very wrong,' repeated Bertha, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' It is a beautiful moonlight evening ; I dare say he has been 
 wandering on the shore,' said Ella, not raising her eyes from her 
 book. 
 
 Bertha went to meet him. They were heard talking to- 
 gether in the little entrance hall, but the words were indis- 
 tinct. 
 
 'Where have you been, Clement?' asked Mrs Campbell, as
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 they entered the room. The boy's eye sparkled with a flash of 
 irritation, but he answered gaily — • 
 
 'Been! grandmamma, oh, to a hundred places — along the 
 cliff, down on the shore, watching the stars; it's a wonderful 
 night. Ella, I wish you had been with me.' 
 
 ' Ella knows better than to wish anything of the kind,' said 
 Mrs Campbell. 'It is a great deal too late for you. Whom 
 had you with you .'' ' 
 
 ' Part of the time I was alone,' was Clement's evasive reply, 
 and Mrs Campbell seemed satisfied ; but Ella looked up at her 
 brother and laughed. 
 
 Bertha was very cold and stiff. She asked Clement if he was 
 hungry, and when he said, ' yes, ravenous,' told him he must 
 wait till after prayers, and then he might have some cold meat, 
 and at the same moment she rang the bell. 
 
 Bertha read prayers, — reverently and simply ; but the tone 
 might have suited a sermon ; and Ella fidgeted, and Clement 
 was once heard to yawn. 
 
 ' Don't let Clement be late, Bertha,' said Mrs Campbell, as 
 she tooK a night candle in her hand, and, going up to her 
 daughter, gave her a cold kiss. 
 
 ' No, ma'am, he will have his supper directly.' 
 
 'And don't be late yourself. Bertha. I hear you moving about 
 in your room, and it disturbs me.' 
 
 ' No, ma'am !' Bertha opened the door for her mother. 
 
 ' Good night, grandmamma,' said Ella ; and Clement drew 
 near also, though his step was a little doubtful. 
 
 ' Good night, loves. Clement, you stamp dreadfully over my 
 head at night.' 
 
 * Do I, grandmamma.^ I can't help it ; it is my heavy boots.' 
 
 ' You may wear slippers,' said Bertha, shortly ; but Mrs 
 Campbell did not apiiear to need the apology. She kissed him 
 affectionately, and went up-stairs, Ella following her. Bertha 
 and Clement stood lingering over the fire. Clement raked up 
 the ashes, and tried to make a blaze, and Bertha remarked that 
 it was no good ; he must make haste and eat his supper, and 
 go to bed. 
 
 ' I wish supper would come,' said Clement, pettishly. ' What 
 is that woman, Betsy, doing with herself.^' 
 
 ' She has more to attend to than she ought to have,' was the 
 reply. ' She can't be expected to have supper ready at all hours 
 of the night.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' If she is so busy, why doesn't she have more help ?' asked 
 Clement. 
 
 ' Because we can't afford it, Clement.' The boy kicked away 
 a stool which was in his way, and started up from the chair into 
 which he had flung himself. 
 
 ' The answer for everything, Aunt Bertha ; are we never to 
 be able to afford it V 
 
 ' Time will show for us,' replied Bertha ; ' for you, Clement, 
 it is in your own power.' 
 
 ' If I were rich, you would all be rich too,' he exclaimed. 
 ' But, Aunt Bertha, who can soften stone walls ? Not I.' 
 
 ' It is no question of softening stone walls, Clement ; that is 
 neither your business nor mine. The work is in your own 
 power.' 
 
 ' Yes, plod, plod, night and day ; work one's brain till it hasn't 
 an idea left in it, and then get a crust of bread to live upon ; 
 and that is the life of a gentleman !' 
 
 ' The life of a good many gentlemen,' replied Bertha. ' But 
 here is your supper, Clement ; make haste and eat it, for we 
 mustn't really be late.' 
 
 Clement sat down to the table. Some slices of cold mutton 
 were put in a plate for him, with a piece of bread. He asked 
 for some pickle. 
 
 ' You can't have any to-night,' said Bertha ; ' it is locked up.' 
 
 ' And no salad .^ — nothing ?' 
 
 ' It is a very good supper if you are hungry ; and if you are 
 not, you don't want anything,' answered Bertha, 
 
 ' Who keeps the keys ? Grandmamma ?' and before Bertha 
 could stop him he was at the top of the stairs, knocking loudly 
 at Mrs Campbell's door. He returned holding up the keys 
 triumphantly. 
 
 'Now, Aunt Bertha!' but Bertha took no notice. 'Which 
 cupboard is it. Aunt Bertha V No answer. 
 
 He only laughed and ran away to the kitchen. Betsy, the 
 cook, followed him as he came back, and put down on the table 
 a jar of pickles and the remains of a cold tart. ' So, Aunt 
 Bertha, I have not been foraging for nothing ; come, you will 
 have some with me.' But he failed to extract a smile from 
 Bertha, who stood looking on whilst he ate his supper, with an 
 appetite which, as he himself had described it, was ravenous. 
 
 Bertha broke the silence. ' Clement, what time did Ronald 
 leave you .'"
 
 fa 
 
 CLEVE HALL. 15 
 
 ' Oh ! about half-past nine, more or less ; I had no watch.' 
 
 ' And you walked on the shore all that time ?' 
 
 ' Yes, there and on the cliffs. He was in one of his moods ; 
 i couldn't leave him.' 
 
 ' He ought not to have been with you,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' He said that, and told me to go ; but we had made the en- 
 gagement to meet. And where was the harm ?' 
 
 ' Where is at any time the harm of disobedience, Clement V 
 
 ' Now, Aunt Bertha, I don't understand you,' and Clement 
 hastily finished his tumbler of beer, and rose and stood by the 
 fire. ' Who tells me not to be with Ronald ?' 
 
 ' I tell you, and that ought to be sufficient.' Her tone was 
 very authoritative, and the angry flush rose in Clement's cheek, 
 and he bit his lip. 
 
 'You know, Clement, that there is disobedience to the spirit 
 of a law as well as to the letter. What matters it that you have 
 never been absolutely commanded by my mother not to be with 
 Ronald ? You are as well aware as I am that both she and Mr 
 Lester disapprove of it.' 
 
 ' Without a reason !' exclaimed Clement. ' I will never listen 
 to any one who doesn't give me a reason.' 
 
 ' Then you will be a slave to yourself, Clement, and a miser- 
 able man.' 
 
 ' As you will,' he replied, carelessly, ' I will run my chance 
 of misery, but I never will leave a noble-hearted fellow, like 
 Ronald, merely because there happens to be a prejudice against 
 him. And you, Aunt Bertha, to try to persuade me not ! — you 
 who are always looking after him, and turning and twisting him 
 at your will.' 
 
 ' Not at my will, Clement,' rephed Bertha. ' He would not 
 be what he is if he were turned at my will,' she added, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 ' He might not be the better for being different,' exclaimed 
 Clement, ' or if he were, I shouldn't like him as well.' 
 
 ' No, and there is the danger, Clement; but we won't argut 
 the point : Mr Lester wishes you not to be with him ; my mother 
 wishes it also. You have no right to require more.' 
 
 ' But I must and I do require more,' exclaimed Clement, im- 
 patiently, yet without any real ill-humour ; ' and I ask of you, 
 Aunt Bertha, whether there isn't a prejudice against Ronald 
 which would prevent grandmamma and Mr Lester from liking 
 him if he were an angel. And I will ask, too,' he continued,
 
 1 6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 interrupting Bcnha as she was about to reply, 'whether the 
 prejudice is not fostered by my grandfather, and whether it 
 is net because of him that c\ery pleasure I have in life is 
 thwarted.' 
 
 ' Clement, that is speaking very disrespectfully. I can't answer 
 such viuestions. Your grandfather has strong reasons, fearful 
 reasons, for dreading an intimacy with Ronald.' 
 
 'With a cousin ! not very near perhaps, but still my relation, 
 and the only fellow in the neighbourhood who suits me ! Am I 
 then to live the life of a hermit, Aunt Bertha .>' 
 
 ' You are required to lead a studious, steady life, to prepare 
 yourself for the University, if you ever wish to have a place in 
 your grandfather's favour.' 
 
 'Then I will go without the place; I will give it up. The 
 favour of a rich old general ! there will be many candidates 
 for it.' 
 
 'And you will break my mother's heart, grieve Mr Lester, 
 disappoint all our hopes, merely because you won't bring your- 
 self to relinquish a companionship which, after all, cannot be 
 congenial.' 
 
 ' I will stand by Ronald at all risks, Aunt Bertha; I will never 
 sacrifice my friendship to the will of a' 
 
 ' Take care, Clement,' and Bertha held up her finger warn- 
 ingly ; ' you are speaking of your grandfather.' 
 
 ' Yet he has never shown me kindness,' exclaimed Clement ; 
 ' he never asks me to his house— he scarcely pays me the com- 
 mon civilities of a stranger. And, Aunt Bertha, let him be my 
 grandfather a hundred times over, yet he is my father's enemy.' 
 
 ' Your father, Clement, was his own enemy.' 
 
 ' And therefore every one turns against him.' 
 
 ' Yes, every one, even his only son,' replied Bertha. Her tone 
 was so sad that Clement was startled. 
 
 ' I don't understand you. Aunt Bertha,' he said. 
 
 'And therefore you will not act upon faith,' answered Bertha. 
 ' O Clement ! it is a fatal principle to go upon ; it will be your 
 ruin. I have told you before, and I repeat it ; disobey and 
 ihwart your grandfather, and untold misery will be the conse- 
 quence.* 
 
 'What misery? What consequence.? Why will you always 
 speak so mysteriously, Aunt Bertha 1 ' 
 
 ' Because I am not at liberty to speak in any other way,' said 
 Bertha. ' But, Clement, all this is but idle talking. If I could
 
 CLEVE HALL. 17 
 
 convince vou beyond the possibility of doubt, that your intimacy 
 \vith Ronald would lead you into mischief, it would not in the 
 most remote degree add to the duty of obedience to the known 
 will of all the persons whom you are most bound to obey.' 
 
 Clement was silent. Bertha took up a candlestick and gave 
 it to him. He did not wish her good night, but stood thinking. 
 
 ' Aunt Bertha,' and he suddenly raised his eyes from the floor, 
 ' you knew Ronald many years ago.' 
 
 'Yes, many, Clement ; before you can remember.' 
 
 ' And you were always kind to him.' 
 
 ' Yes, I hope so. I wish to be kind to every one.' 
 
 ' But you were specially kind to him, and you are so now ; 
 and you have influence over him.' 
 
 'I don't know as to the influence. If I have, it is not from 
 any power of my own.' 
 
 'You were his mother's friend,' said Clement; 'he told me 
 that to-night.' 
 
 ' Yes,' was Bertha's cold reply : but she sat down for an in- 
 stant, and her hand trembled as she laid her candlestick on the 
 table. Clement did not see or comprehend the signs of inward 
 feeling ; he went on : 
 
 ' Ronald says you were very fond of her.' 
 
 'Yes, I was. Good night, Clement ; remember, if you sit up 
 late, you will disturb grandmamma.' She took his hand — it 
 was as impassive as her own — and she let it fall again quietly. 
 Clement moved towards the door, but paused to say impatiently, 
 in answer to the injunction, again repeated, to go to bed at once — 
 
 ' I shall go presently. I have an exercise to prepare for Mr 
 Lester.' 
 
 liertha waited till she had heard him enter his room and lock 
 tlie door, and then she made a tour of inspection of the rooms, 
 saw that every shutter was fastened and every bolt drawn, and 
 retired to rest herself. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RS CAMPBELL'S cottage closely adjoined the Rectory, 
 iVl only a steep, reedy bank, and a little rivulet divided them, 
 and a rough bridge over the stream formed an easy mode of 
 
 j; 
 
 M
 
 1 8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 communication. Tlie Rectory stood high, on a smooth, sloping 
 lawn, a little way up the ascent of the range of the Encombe 
 hills, which entirely sheltered it from the north. The library 
 windows fronting the south-east commanded a view over a small 
 bay, shut in by rugged cliffs of red sandstone rising at the west- 
 ern extremity into a bold headland. Beyond, towards the north- 
 west, the landscape was more bounded ; the rough ground at tlie 
 top of the ravine, in which the village was hidden, and the thick 
 plantation of what appeared to be a gentleman's park, closing in 
 the horizon. 
 
 Rachel Lester was sitting in the library with her father ; he 
 was writing, she was busy with a slate and a Latin exercise. 
 Rachel was receiving rather a learned education ; an only child, 
 with no mother, and a very classically-inclined father, that was 
 natural. Mr Lester looked very old to be the father of such a 
 child as Rachel. He was nearly sixty in appearance, though not 
 quite so much in reality. His hair was gray, and his countenance 
 worn. It was a very intellectual, studious face, softened by the 
 expression of extreme benevolence ; but there was great firmness 
 in the lines of his mouth ; there could be no doubt that he could, 
 when he chose, be severe. His attention was entirely given nov.' 
 to his occupation. He was engaged with a letter, interlined and 
 connected, often causing him to pause and consider, and some- 
 times to throw himself back in his chair, and pass his hand across 
 his eyes, as if in painful recollection. 
 
 His feelings may be traced in the words which flowed from 
 his pen : — 
 
 ' I need not say that you are continually in my thoughts, and 
 always with the longing to meet your wishes. I desire heartily 
 to find an opening, and can only entreat you to trust us if we 
 seem to delay. Remember that if we seize the wrong moment, 
 everything will fail. Mildred lives upon the hope of success, but 
 even she does not yet perceive the way to it. My dear Vivian, you 
 must be patient ; you must pray to be so ; remembering the 
 offence, and bearing the punishment. In the meantime, your 
 children are well, and doing well — in the way, at least, to do so, 
 though there are many faults to be corrected. Their education 
 is not in all ways what I like ; but there is no direct evil in it, 
 and the defect cannot be remedied. Here, again, we must be 
 patient. Clement may be all that we could wish to see him. 
 He is generous-hearted and refined in taste, but easily led into 
 things which at first sight one would be apt to fancy foreign to
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 19 
 
 his nature. I think this arises from vanity. He loves admiration, 
 and does not much care from whom it comes. You will not hke 
 to hear this ; but you wished to know the truth and the worst, 
 and I give it you. He has no vicious habits, but if he were 
 born to luxury I should feel he might become a sentimentahst. 
 His favourite virtues are of the heroic cast ; so are his favourite 
 heroes. He has great notions of self-sacrifice, but very little idea 
 of self-restraint. 
 
 ' There is a singular likeness between him and Ella in cha- 
 racter as well as in countenance. They are twins both in mind 
 and body, except that Clement will never be what Ella is in point 
 of talent. She really has wonderful powers, but with the singu- 
 lar inconsistency of genius she is as variable as the winds, and 
 as indolent as — I can form no comparison for her indolence- 
 there is nothing in nature like it. I should very much like to 
 remove Clement from her influence. It is all-powerful with him, 
 partly, I suppose, from the twin-feeling which is always so strong, 
 but chiefly from his exceeding admiration of her powers of mind. 
 He will not see her defects, and it is very painful to be obliged to 
 point them out. 
 
 ' The little ones have great promise of good if they are pro- 
 perly managed. Louisa is quick, determined, and wilful ; but 
 capable of ripening into an extremely sensible, useful woman. 
 Fanny is too pretty for her own advantage, or at least she has 
 heard too much of her beauty for simplicity; but she is exceed- 
 ingly affectionate, and very true, and the truth gives me great 
 hope of her. 
 
 ' If the home were but different ! You will understand all I 
 mean by that— you, who have known Bertha Campbell so well, 
 and have reaped the benefit of her virtues, and felt the conse- 
 quences of her defects. But we must take her, my dear Vivian, 
 as she is ; and be grateful that at least the children will never 
 have a low, or insincere example set before them. She is not to 
 be altered ; and really I, who know her in her most pleasing 
 form, often think that there is scarcely anything in her I should 
 wish to alter. But I can see all that you complain of, and, what 
 is more, all the consequences. The evil, I suspect, lies very far 
 back. When I am inclined to be severe, I wish that I could open 
 Mrs Campbell's eyes to the lasting evils of that system of per- 
 petual check which has absolutely paralysed Bertha's powers. 
 To see what she has done would be a sufficient punishment. 
 
 * You would like me to tell you that your children's home at
 
 20 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 the Lodge is very cheerful and good for them, and that their 
 prospects at the Park are brightening. Now this, you see, I 
 cannot do quite ; but I have given you something to comfort 
 you, only, as I said before, patience must be your motto. 
 
 * Mildred writes to you so often, that I need not say anything 
 about her. She is looking better than usual. I think that the 
 neighbourhood of the children has done much for her, and you 
 know what she is in natural cheerfulness and wonderful submis- 
 sion. But I am afraid it may be hope deferred, for as yet the 
 General has allowed no advances. I do not mean that he 
 entirely neglects the children ; he notices them if they meet, 
 and the other day he sent Clement a fishing-rod, which the boy, 
 stupidly enough, was on the point of returning, thinking it 
 rather an insult than a kindness, because some one — I guess 
 who — had put it into his head, that unless his grandfather 
 ■would fully forgive and receive both you and them, it was 
 lowering to accept any favour from him. No one but John 
 Vivian would have suggested the idea, knowing what deadly 
 enmity it might cause. If it were not for the watch we may keep 
 over him, it would be one of the greatest trials of my faith that 
 such a fellow as your cousin should be here just at this moment. 
 The thorn he is in our path no one can tell ; and there is his 
 boy — a fallen angel, if one may say so without profaneness — 
 coming in contact with Clement continually, and exciting in 
 him, what he does in every one, an interest which at last be- 
 comes fascination. All actual authority over Clement must lie 
 with Mrs Campbell, who is jealous of my interference ; so I 
 cannot entirely forbid any intercourse with Ronald, and I am 
 not sure that I should do so if I could. The boys must meet ; 
 they are near neighbours and cousins, and too strict discipline 
 might lead the way to deceit, when the temptation to be together 
 occasionally is so great. One of the most unfortunate points in 
 the acquaintance is, that it serves to keep up the General's 
 suspicion. Your cousin. Captain Vivian, as he is called now, 
 owing, I suppose, to his connection with a trading vessel com- 
 monly said to be used for smuggling purposes, is becoming 
 daily more low in his tastes, and finds congenial society in the 
 place — poachers, smugglers, &c. My heart sickens when I 
 think of his influence for evil ; I trace it continually. The 
 people have a kind of traditional respect for him ; he is a Vivian, 
 and therefore they never can look upon him quite as a mere 
 mortal. They see what he is, but they regard his offences very
 
 CLEVE HALL. 21 
 
 much as we used to regard the crimes of t!ic heathen gods, and, 
 in consequence, are not ashamed to follow him. 
 
 ' I feel I am giving you a great deal of pain in writing all this, 
 raking up in a way the ashes of the past. But, my dear Vivian, 
 there must be truth between us. Your cousin's name should be 
 buried from this moment, if it could promote your real welfare ; 
 but I should only deceive you, and in the end increase the bitter- 
 ness of your trial, if I allowed you to think that he is not now, 
 as he has been ever, your evil genius. I still hold the opinions 
 I mentioned in my last letter as to his past deeds, and am 
 anxiously seeking for an opportunity to unravel the mystery. 
 Your sister-in-law and I discuss plans continually, but hitherto 
 we have failed to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. If we could 
 soften the General, we might reach the truth ; but how is that to 
 be done ? 
 
 ' One thing you must remember for your comfort as regards 
 the children, that there are counter-influences for good. John 
 Vivian, himself, is to Clement merely an object of wondering 
 disgust. The boy's natural refinement keeps him out of the 
 reach of the chief temptations which such a man could offer. 
 And Ronald is open to influences which may — God grant it 
 prove so — turn the balance in favour of all we could most desire. 
 He has his mother's face and in a measure her disposition, so at 
 least I am told by your sister-in-law, who sees him often and 
 talks to him a good deal, I was very much surprised to find 
 when ]Mrs Campbell came here, that Bertha and Ronald were 
 old acquaintances. Bertha is so reserved that I can get nothing 
 from her as to how they first knew each other, except that one 
 day she told me his mother had been a friend of hers. Cer- 
 tainly since she has been at Encombe there has been a marked 
 change in him. It is strange, is it not.' that she should have 
 power over a wild, untamed spirit like his, and yet do so little 
 in her own family. But it is her own family — that, I suppose, 
 is the secret ; and when she has to work in it, she cannot be 
 free. 
 
 ' Your father, I sometimes fancy, keeps a little aloof from me, 
 and I don't wonder at it. He must know the wish that is nearest 
 to my heart. His walking powers are not quite what they were, 
 but he rides a great deal and looks uncommonly well. Mildred, 
 as I said, hopes, and lives upon hope — that is her nature ; and yet 
 with such constant suffering it really is marvellous. My little 
 Rachel is with her often, but not quite as frequently as she used
 
 22 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 to be, for she is working diligently under Miss Campbell's super- 
 intendence. She began doing lessons with Ella, but soon gave 
 that up. As to keeping pace with Ella, I really don't know who 
 could do so. I sometimes indulge a dream of finding a way to 
 the General's heart by Ella's means. He could not help appre- 
 ciating her wonderful talents ; and then he might become proud of 
 her. Mildred would know how to bring her out, but the children 
 are so very little with her ! She does not dare show herself too 
 eager for their society ; and if ever they do go to the Hall, they 
 are kept out of the General's way as much as possible. You may 
 imagine how this chafes Clement's proud temper, and he comes 
 back to me, and raves of insult and subjection, and talks about 
 Ronald and a seafaring life which they might lead together; but 
 it will all come to nothing. He has not enough of the spirit of 
 endurance in him to make a sailor; and he is too old for the navy, 
 and would not choose to enter the merchant service. Ronald 
 might do for it very well ; in fact, I am at this moment negotiat- 
 ing something of the kind for him at his own request. You will 
 understand that I have a double motive for his good and Cle- 
 ment's ; the separation is so very much to be desired. 
 
 ' One word about myself, and then good-bye. You ask me 
 how I am, and what I do, and what my hopes and pleasures are. 
 I am very well, I never was better, and I work contentedly in my 
 parish, and my earthly hopes and pleasures are centred in Rachel. 
 
 * That answer will not satisfy you, I know. It tells too little of 
 my inner self. My dear Vivian, that must be a sealed book. If 
 I were to attempt to describe the struggles of a heart which has 
 yet to learn submission to the Divine Will, I should make myself 
 a woman in weakness. Suffice it that I have one treasure left to 
 render my home bright. Yet you must not fancy I am miserable 
 or even unhappy ; only sobered. Mildred and I sometimes 
 venture to compare notes upon these subjects ; but I don't think 
 it is wise in us, except that to see her is the deepest lesson one 
 could receive in humility. An old woman said to me the other 
 day : " Miss Mildred seems to be always a smiling and a praying 
 —and sure that Mas what the saints used to do." Certainly the 
 poor have especial reason to think her a saint ; for, in spite of " 
 her infirmities, she manages, principally through Mrs Robinson, 
 to make herself at home with all their affairs, and is considered 
 quite their best domestic adviser.' 
 
 The letter was concluded, sealed, and directed to ' E. B. 
 Vivian, Esq., Kingston, Jamaica.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 23 
 
 Then Rachel spoke : ' Dear papa, may I take your letter to 
 the post ? I am going out.' 
 
 Mr Lester did not at first appear to hear her. He was gazing 
 at the words he had just written, probably following them in his 
 mind on their distant mission. He answered, however, after a 
 short pause, 'No, dear child, thank you;' but he spoke in an 
 absent tone. Presently he said, ' How old are you, Rachel ?' 
 
 'Thirteen, papa ! I shall be fourteen my next birthday.' 
 
 'A very great age for such a very little woman,' said Mr 
 Lester, smiling ; and, as Rachel seated herself on his knee, and 
 put her arm round his neck, he added : 'When do you ever mean 
 to be anything but a baby ? ' 
 
 ' Never to you, papa ; but Nurse Robinson told me last even- 
 ing that I really was grown.' 
 
 'She sees what she wishes,' repHed Mr Lester; ' she has set 
 her heart upon your being a fine young lady.' 
 
 Rachel clapped her hands together, and her merry laugh made 
 Mr Lester's grave face also relax into something more than a 
 smile. 
 
 ' Well, Rachel, shouldn't you like to be a fine young lady ! ' 
 
 ' Should you like me to be one, papa?' said Rachel, archly. 
 
 ' Perhaps not ; you wouldn't be so convenient to nurse. You 
 are such a doll now, that you may very well pass for ten. But, 
 Rachel,' and his voice became very serious, ' I should like to 
 think you were old enough to share some of my cares.' 
 
 The deep look of thought came over Rachel's face, as her eye 
 rested for a moment on a picture over the mantelpiece, the like- 
 ness of her mother, and of two sisters and a brother, all older 
 than herself, and all now lying side by side in the churchyard of 
 Encombe. She had never known the comfort of their love, but 
 they were the dearest treasures of her young heart ; and, when- 
 ever tempted to thoughtlessness by her natural gaiety of heart, a 
 glance at the picture was sufficient to remind her that she was 
 to live to be her father's consolation. 
 
 Mr Lester's eye followed hers. ' You may help me so much, 
 Rachel, if you will,' he continued. 
 
 ' Papa,' and she leaned her face on his shoulder, and her voice 
 was low and tremulous, 'will you pray to God to teach me how?' 
 
 He kissed her fondly and repeatedly. ' I do pray for you, my 
 child, daily and hourly, and God hears my prayers. He has made 
 you my chief solace hitherto, and He will make you so still more; 
 I do not doubt it.'
 
 24 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'Are you unhappy, papa, now?' 
 
 ' I can scarcely say unh xppy, Rachel, but very anxious ; not 
 for myself,' he added, hastily, seeing her look alarmed. 
 
 ' For Clement ? ' asked Rachel, doubtfully. 
 
 Mr Lester half-smiled, whilst he hesitated to answer. ' Yes, 
 for Clement, partly; what made you think of him?' 
 
 * Because you are often grave, papa, after he has been here ; 
 and because he seems to make every one anxious. Miss 
 Campbell is always troubling about him for one reason or 
 another.' 
 
 ' Miss Campbell never talks to you about him, does she ?' in- 
 quired Mr Lester, quickly. 
 
 ' Not exactly, but she lets out little things ; and Ella talks a 
 great deal, only she thinks Clement perfect.' 
 
 ' And what do you think ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I think him dreadfully naughty,' exclaimed Rachel. ' I 
 like Ronald Vivian, though he is so rough, twenty times as well 
 as I do Clement.' 
 
 'You don't see much of either of them to be able to judge,' 
 observed Mr Lester. 
 
 ' No ; only we meet them sometimes, when we are out walk- 
 ing, and Miss Campbell always speaks to Ronald, and he 
 attends to her, but Clement never does.' 
 
 ' That is one of his great defects,' said Mr Lester ; ' you and 
 Ella should try to cure him of it.' 
 
 ' Ella upholds him,' replied Rachel. 
 
 * Then you must try and persuade her out of it.' 
 
 ' Ella is not to be persuaded,' replied Rachel ; ' and she talks 
 of Clement as if he were such a great person. I tell her some- 
 times that I think he must be a prince in disguise.' 
 
 ' She thinks he will inherit his grandfather's fortune, and live 
 at the Hall,' said Mr Lester. 
 
 'And he will, won't he, papa?' 
 
 ' We don't know, my dear ; there is no good in dwelling upon 
 such things. Clement must learn to do his duty without think- 
 ing of the consequences.' 
 
 ' And Ella must learn to teach him,' said Rachel, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 'Yes, that is the great duty for her; and Rachel, my darling, 
 you have had more advantages than she has, and I think you 
 may help to give her strength. This was what I wanted especially 
 to say to you. You have little to do with Clement; but you
 
 CLEVE HALL. 25 
 
 have a great deal to do with Ella, and you must turn your op- 
 portunities to the best account.' 
 
 ' But, papa, she is so clever, I can't keep up with her ; and 
 she is older.' 
 
 ' Very true ; but, Rachel, it is not talent which really influ- 
 ences the world, but high, steady principle. You are not very 
 clever, but you may be very good, and if you are, you may help 
 to make Ella good too ; and if she is good she will lead Clement 
 right ; and if Clement is led right' 
 
 ' What, papa ? ' 
 
 Mr Lester paused : ' It would make me very happy, Rachel' 
 He seemed tempted to say more to her, but after a short con- 
 sideration he merely added, 'You don't wish for any other 
 motive, do you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, papa ! only — Clement is no relation.' 
 
 ' He is the son of one whom I once loved, and whom I still 
 love as if he were my younger brother,' said Mr Lester ; 'and 
 his father is away, and there is no one else to guide him. Is not 
 that a sufficient reason to be anxious for him .?' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Rachel, as her father stood up and began to put 
 aside his writing materials. The ' yes ' was doubtful. 
 
 ' Are you not satisfied, my child ? ' 
 
 ' Not quite, papa,' was Rachel's honest answer. ' There is 
 always a mystery about Clement.' 
 
 ' And you must be contented, my darling, to bear with mys- 
 tery. It is a very necessary lesson to learn ; but so far I will 
 tell you. General Vivian has had cause to be displeased with 
 his son, and therefore he looks with suspicion upon Clement ; 
 and everything which Clement does that is careless and wrong 
 increases his grandfather's doubts of his character. Now, you 
 can see why I, as his father's friend, am especially anxious as to 
 h.is conduct ; and so I hope you will see also how important 
 it is for every one who has influence of any kind over either 
 Ella or Clement, to try and lead them in the right way. I can't 
 answer any more questions, Rachel ; and remember you must 
 never talk upon the subject to any one but me.' 
 
 Rachel was a little awed by her father's manner. Her coun- 
 tenance showed it. Yet the feeling vanished in a moment as he 
 stooped to kiss her, and she said, ' I am going to see Aunt 
 Mildred to-day ; you don't mind ? ' 
 
 ' No, my child ; how should I? I shall be going to the Hall 
 myself, probably, and if you are there we will walk home together.'
 
 26 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Then I may stay a long time, if she asks me ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but who is to go with you ? ' 
 
 ' Miss Campbell and Ella to the Lodge gate, and if I don't stay 
 they will wait for mc, but they are not going in.' Rachel could 
 liave wondered and asked the reason why, but she checked her- 
 self. 
 
 ' One more kiss, papa.' And she ran gaily out of the room, 
 and her joyous voice was heard as she went singing up the stairs 
 to prepare for her walk. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CLEVE HALL was a long, low, irregular, red-brick house, 
 part of which dated as far back as the time of Henry VIL 
 The history of the Vivians was written in its gables, and cluster- 
 ing chimneys, and turrets, and oriel windows of all shapes and 
 sizes, — for by far the greater number of its possessors had 
 thought it necessary to add to or alter it ; almost the only thing 
 which had descended unchanged being the huge griffin, the 
 family crest, standing erect above the entrance porch. 
 
 A quiet, solemn-looking place it was, resting under the guar- 
 dianship of the Encombe Hills, and shut in by plantations on 
 every side except towards the sea ; a place to which childish 
 memories might cling, with vivid recollections of long summer 
 days, spent under the shade of the old oaks whilst listening to 
 the soft murmurs of the sea, or of winter evenings in the great 
 library, or rainy days in the billiard-room, or long twilights 
 passed in recounting the tales belonging to the grim old family 
 pictures. Many such places there are in England — few per- 
 haps more interesting than Cleve Hall in its stately, sobering 
 quietness. 
 
 It was in a handsome though narrow room, in the oldest part 
 of the house, that Rachel Lester was sitting on that evening as it 
 drew towards sunset. She had drawn a stool into the depth of 
 the oriel window, and was endeavouring to read by the fading 
 light. Twilight is not, as every one knows, a cheerful hour, and 
 Miss Vivian's morning-room, as the apartment was usually 
 called, was low, and the windows were small and deep. Yet it 
 was not gloomy, there were books, pictures, flowers, cabinets of
 
 CLEVE HALL. 27 
 
 shells, a piano, and a table with a work-basket and drawing 
 materials, — all giving notions of constant, cheerful employment, 
 and of the comfort and elegancies of life ; and though the 
 shadows were deepening, yet the rich sunset hues were pouring 
 in through the windows, and lighting up the lower end of the 
 apartment with a flood of crimson. 
 
 The sun was setting over the sea, which could be seen through 
 an opening in the shrubbery, with the jagged edge of the cliff 
 forming its boundary. It brought indications of a change of 
 weather ; the clouds were gathering angrily in the west, some 
 heaped together in huge masses touched at their edges by 
 streaks of gold, others rushing across the sky in long, feathery 
 flakes, becoming brilliantly red when they came within reach of 
 the departing rays, and melting away in hues scarcely per- 
 ceptible as they stretched themselves far into the grayish-blue 
 vault above them. 
 
 The wind moaned ominously amongst the Cleve woods, the 
 leaves moved restlessly to and fro, and flights of birds were 
 winging their way rapidly from the cliffs, whilst even from that 
 distance the foam of the white breakers might be seen as they 
 tossed their chafed waters upon the beach. It was clear that a 
 storm was rising, and that rapidly. 
 
 'O Aunt Mildred! can you see that boat? how it goes up 
 and down, and all its sails up! How beautiful it looks!' 
 Rachel had put down her book, and was pointing with one 
 hand to the window, whilst the other rested upon the arm of a 
 couch, on which lay a lady whose age it would have been diffi- 
 cult to tell. Seen in the twilight she looked still young, but her 
 complexion was worn and sallow, probably from the illness of 
 years. Her face was painfully thin, and her fingers were very 
 long and slender ; yet the impression she gave was not that of 
 suffering, and scarcely of resignation, at least when she spoke. 
 Some persons are said to have tears in their voices. Mildred 
 Vivian certainly had a smile in hers. 'What boat, darling?' 
 she said, in answer to Rachel's observation. ' Oh, I see it now. 
 Please move a very little. How fast it goes ! the wind must be 
 in its favour.' 
 
 ' Should you hke to be in it. Aunt Mildred?' 
 
 ' Like it ? O Rachel ! yes ; should I not ? It is fifteen 
 years since I was in a boat.' 
 
 'Where is it going, I wonder,' said Rachel. 'Where would 
 you go, Aunt Mildred, if you were in it?'
 
 28 CI. EVE HALL. 
 
 Mildred paused. Rachel could not sec her face clearly, for 
 the shadows were deepening every instant. ' I should go far 
 away from England, dear child.' The very lightest sound of a 
 sigh could be heard, following the words. 
 
 ' You should take me with you wherever you went, dear Aunt 
 .Mildred.' 
 
 ' ^^'hat, away from papa ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no ; but he must go with us. We could not live 
 away from each other, could we ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say that, Rachel. We did live some years without 
 knowing each other,' replied Mildred. 
 
 ' Yes ; but I always wanted something.' 
 
 'And did not know that it was a mock aunt,' observed Mil- 
 dred, in a tone of amusement. 
 
 ' I don't like your saying mock, dear Aunt Mildred,' exclaimed 
 Rachel. ' You are more real than a great many real aunts, I 
 am sure.' 
 
 ' More real in love, dear child ; that I am quite sure of 
 
 ' But you could do without me,' said Rachel, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' I shouldn't like to do without you ; I mustn't say I could 
 not.' 
 
 'Aunt Mildred,' and Rachel spoke anxiously, 'I know I 
 couldn't do without papa.' 
 
 ' Ah, Rachel ! you don't know.' 
 
 ' But must I try? Am I very wicked to feel that I couldn't ?' 
 
 ' Not at all wicked ; only, Rachel, we can do without whatever 
 God may please to take from us.' 
 
 ' But we should die,' said Rachel. 
 
 ' No, dear Rachel, we should only be made more fit to die.' 
 
 'And He hns taken so much from j^ou !' exclaimed Rachel, 
 flinging her arm round Mildred's neck. ' Was it all needed to 
 make you fit to die ? ' 
 
 ' All, Rachel ! every pang, every sorrow ; there was not one 
 too many. And He has lelt such mercies ! Perhaps some day 
 He will add the greatest of all — the thankfulness which one 
 ought to have.' 
 
 Rachel stood up again, nearer to the window. The boat was 
 fast becoming indistinct in the dull light and the far distance. 
 
 ' Can you see it still.'" said Mildred, sitting more upright. 
 
 'Just. How the wind is rising ! I shouldn't like to be in the 
 boat ; I should be afraid.' 
 
 Mildred did not reply, and Rachel, too, was silent for some
 
 CLEVE HALL. 29 
 
 time. The last gleams of the sunset were melting away, and 
 the room was becoming very dark. ' Mr Lester will be here 
 soon,' said Mildred ; ' or will he wait till the moon has risen ? ' 
 
 It was strange that there was no answer. Rachel's face was 
 pressed against the window-pane. She seemed straining her 
 eyes to obtain the least glimpse of the boat. A sudden gust of 
 wind howled through the trees, and, as it died away, Rachel 
 turned from the window, and kneeling by Mildred's couch, ex- 
 claimed, as she burst into tears, 'Perhaps Clement will be out 
 to-night.' There was no exclamation of surprise or terror. 
 :\lildred's hand was placed lovmgly on the child's head, and she 
 said quietly, ' Are you sure .?' 
 
 'Not sure; I think so,— and — Aunt Mildred, it may be my 
 fault.' 
 
 ' Yours, my love, how V 
 
 ' Because if I would have done all they wished me to do, he 
 would not have gone.' 
 
 'Whom do you mean by they, Rachel.? You must be more 
 clear.' Mildred rather raised herself on her couch, and a tone of 
 anxiety might have been observed in the first words she uttered ; 
 but even at the close of the sentence it was checked. 
 
 ' Ella and Clement are they,' replied Rachel, speaking hur- 
 riedly, and not very intelligibly. ' I went there before I came 
 away, and Clement was talking to Ella.' 
 
 'And did they tell you what they were talking about ?' 
 ' I heard a little as I went in, and then they were obliged to 
 tell me more. Clement did not say, though, that he was going 
 in the boat, only that he had an engagement ; but I am sure he 
 
 was, and I saw him with Goff in the village afterwards ; and' 
 
 ' Go on,' said Mildred. 
 
 Rachel drew a long breath. ' I could have stopped him. Aunt 
 Mildred, if I had chosen it. He said if I would go to the shore 
 with him and Ella, and read poetry— something of Lord Byron's 
 which he wanted Ella to hear, — then he would stay at home. 
 But papa doesn't like me to read the book, and so I said no ; 
 and now perhaps Clement is gone, and the storm will come, and 
 he will be drouaicd. O Aunt Mildred! was it very wrong.? Was 
 it very wrong?' she repeated in a trembhng voice, as Mildred 
 delayed answering. 
 
 ' No, dear Rachel ; how could it be ? but ' 
 
 ' Hark ! there is some one,' interrupted Rachel, listening. 
 ' Papa will be come for me. and what will he say } '
 
 30 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Not that it was your fault, Rachel, whatever happens. But 
 we must trust.' 
 
 'And he may not have gone,' said Rachel, in a calmer tone. 
 
 ' No, he may not. — That must be Mr Lester's voice.' 
 
 Rachel ran out to meet him. Mr Lester entered hurriedly. 
 The storm, he said, was rising like a hurricane, and he was 
 anxious to be at home. He shook hands with Mildred, and sat 
 down by her, and asked after General Vivian ; but his manner 
 was reserved and abstracted. Mildred looked at him, as if she 
 would read it ; but she was puzzled. 
 
 ' Rachel, you had better go for your bonnet,' she said ; and 
 Rachel drew near and whispered, ' Will you tell papa when I 
 am gone ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, dear love ; don't come back till I send for you.' Rachel 
 ran away. ' Rachel is anxious for Clement,' said Mildred, as 
 soon as the door was closed. 
 
 * She need not be to-night ; he is safe ; Goff did not take him ;' 
 but Mr Lester's tone was less calm than his words. 
 
 * Thank God for that,' said Mildred, with a sigh of gratitude. 
 
 * It may be a fearful night.' 
 
 Mr Lester looked out into the dim twilight, and stood as if in 
 a reverie. Presently he said, 'It is not from Clement's obedience 
 that he is safe. It was Ronald who interfered. Mark Wood told 
 me he thought he was going, and I believed he was, till I met 
 Ronald. These are things which make me feel that he must 
 have a father's hand over him soon, if possible.' 
 
 ' Have you any plan ; anything to propose ? ' inquired Mildred, 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' No ; but I have been writing. My letter ought to have gone 
 to-day, only I kept it open till I had seen you. Can you give me 
 any hope ? ' 
 
 'Dear Mr Lester! how can you ask?' and Mildred's lip 
 quivered. ' Should I keep it from you a moment if I had } ' 
 
 ' Yet I could not be contented without asking,' said Mr Lester. 
 
 * He will think my letter miserably cold, for I had no comfort to 
 give him but words, and I was obliged to tell him that Clement 
 doesn't satisfy me.' 
 
 ' I have not yet sounded the matter,' said Mildred, speaking 
 in a tone which indicated great self-restraint. ' Incautiousness 
 would do immense mischief. If I take my father at the wrong 
 moment, he may forbid the subject ever being mentioned again ; 
 and I feel as if we should be more certain of our end if we could
 
 CLEVE HALL. 31 
 
 gain admittance to his heart iirst in some other way. I have 
 thought of asking him to let Ella stay with me.' 
 
 ' It is a strong measure,' said Mr Lester. ' I should be afraid 
 Ella would not win him. He will see her faults, and exaggerate 
 them.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so.' Mildred considered for a moment, and then 
 said, as if speaking to herself, ' Is it not unaccountable ; so good, 
 and honourable, and kind-hearted as my dear father is to all 
 others, — so clear-sighted too, especially in discovering injustice 
 or prejudice ? ' 
 
 ' Not unaccountable ; it is human nature. "A brother offended 
 is harder to be won than a strong city." ' 
 
 ' And the Campbells to have settled in the neighbourhood ! ' 
 said Mildred ; ' it widens the breach infinitely. He cannot en- 
 dure even their names.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mr Lester ; * and the very fact of seeing the 
 children, I often think, reminds him of the connection.' 
 
 ' And Edward then must linger in a distant land, away from 
 his children, working without hope.' 
 
 ' Better that than to return and be rejected. If the experiment 
 were to fail, we should have nothing else to fall back upon. We 
 must wait for time and softening influences. Thi'ough God's 
 mercy they may open a way. Oh ! if any words could but teach 
 those children what may depend on their present conduct ! ' 
 The exclamation came from the very bottom of his heart. 
 
 * Does Miss Campbell complain as she did ? ' inquired 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' Yes, and for the most part justly.' 
 
 ' But she is not merciful,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' That is not to be expected from her education. She is 
 antagonistic to them always.' 
 
 ' She is the person to be reached,' continued Mildred. 
 
 ' She is reached continually in a way. I tell her her faults, 
 and she hears them all patientl)', for she is very humble-minded ; 
 but I see no results.' 
 
 * Yet, so good as you say she is, her character must tell.' 
 
 * One would think so ; yet one infirmity will neutralise a dozen 
 virtues. How one trembles to hear people talk so lightly as they 
 do of what they call failings ! ' 
 
 Mildred sighed. 'Yes,' she said, alter a moment's silence, 'it 
 would be a curious and fearful history to write, — the history of 
 failings.'
 
 32 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'It will be written one day,' said Mr Lester, solemnly; 'and 
 then may God have mercy upon us ! ' 
 
 A pause followed. It was interrupted by a heavy, booming 
 sound, heard distinctly amidst the roar of the rising storm. 
 Mildred started up. 
 
 ' A ship in distress ! ' said Mr Lester. 
 
 Mildred sank back, and covered her eyes. Mr Lester took up 
 his hat. 
 
 'You will leave Rachel with me,' said Mildred, quietly. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, if you will keep her. I wish she could always 
 be as safe. God bless you.' He pressed her hand affection- 
 ately. 
 
 'And you will take every one witli you whom you think mny 
 be useful,' said Mildred ; ' and remember,'— her voice changed,— 
 ' there is room at the Hall for all who may need shelter.' 
 
 'Yes, I am sure of that always. Good-bye.' 
 
 Mildred's face was perfectly colourless; and when another 
 boom of the signal gun was heard, she clasped her hands to- 
 gether, and prayed fervently to Him at 'whose command the 
 winds blow and lift Tip the waves of the sea, and who stillcth 
 the rage thereof.' 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 ■pEOPLE were hurrying to the shore, making their way 
 -L thither by the nearest paths, and guided by the uncertain 
 light of the moon, as it escaped from behind the racking clouds 
 which were rushing over the heavens. Mr Lester's road was 
 narrow, and tangled by brushwood and briars. It led directly 
 through the woods to an open heath terminated by the cliffs. 
 A rough road, sometimes traversed by carts, crossed the heath, 
 and when Mr Lester emerged from the copse, he found the 
 road already reached by stragglers from the lone cottages 
 between Encombe and the neighbouring town of Cleve. Women 
 and children, as well as men, were amongst them. There wns 
 a strange, fascinating horror in the thought of a scene of danger; 
 and some, it was to be feared, had in view a prospect of per- 
 sonal advantage, to be gained at the expense of the unfortunate 
 owners of the distressed vessel. Mr Lester mingled amongst
 
 CLEVE HALL. 33 
 
 them at first unpcrceived. The greater number were unknown 
 to him, as not belonging to his own parish, and the Hght was 
 too indistinct to allow of his being recognised by them. 
 
 D'ye see her?' asked a rough, farmer-looking man, of a boy 
 who had been to the edge of the diff. 
 
 ' See her ? yes, as well as a body can in such a blinking light. 
 She's off Dark Head Point, on the rocks, I'm thinking; and 
 sore work 'twill be to get safe in.' 
 
 ' Many folks down on the beach?' inquired the farmer. 
 
 ' Aye, a crowd. I heard the Captain's voice amongst the 
 loudest.' 
 
 'No doubt of that,' was the reply. 'Where's there ever a 
 skirl without him ? ' 
 
 ' Aye, where ? He was in Clevc this afternoon, blustering ; 
 and I heard it said, if he went on so he'd some day be taken up 
 to the old General. That is a sight I'd give one of my eyes to 
 see. But he's a brave fellow after all, is the Captain.' 
 
 'Brave, is he? That's as folks think. Stay!' 
 
 There was a momentary pause, as if with one consent, as a 
 shrill cry of horror was brought to the ear in a sudden lull of the 
 tempest, and then, with an instantaneous impulse, a rush was 
 made to the beach. Mr Lester v/as amongst the first to reach it. 
 It was a scene of darkness and confusion. The moonbeams 
 touched the white foam of the curling waves, whilst they rose 
 majestically in the form of lowering arches, and broke against 
 the rocks with a crashing sound, which seemed as if it must 
 shake the firm cliffs to their centre. Beyond, the spray of the 
 troubled sea, and the misty clouds, caused an obscurity every 
 moment increasing, as the last faint light of sunset faded in the 
 far west. The crowds on the shore were, for the most part, 
 crossing and recrossing each other, bringing contradictory 
 reports, arguing, exclaiming, asseverating ; but in one spot a 
 few men had collected, and were discussing in loud and angry 
 tones the possibility of rendering assistance to the distressed 
 vessel, which could be seen lying directly in a line with the 
 angle of the steep cliff usually known by the name of Dark 
 Head Point. 
 
 ' We must throw a rope from the clifi'; no boat will live in 
 such a sea/ said a coarse voice, which would have Ijcen known 
 at once as Captain Vivian's even without the profaneness that 
 was the constant accompaniment of his words. 
 
 ' Too far,' replied Goff, who was standing by his side, exa-
 
 34 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 mining the scene with a cool, practised eye, and not even shrink- 
 ing when a second cry of agonising distress fell upon the ear. 
 ' They must even go, if 'tis Heaven's will they should.' 
 
 Captain Vivian moved away to obtain a view from a higher 
 position, and at the same moment Mr Lester drew near. 
 
 ' Too far, Goff? and will no one try the boat ?' 
 
 Goff touched his hat, but his manner was surly : ' Your rever- 
 ence may try. It's just tossing away your life, but you can try.' 
 
 Mr Lester considered. It was madness, utter madness, for 
 him at least. He looked round for another opinion. 
 
 ' A quarter of an hour hence the tide will have turned,' said 
 a fisherman who was standing near. 
 
 ' And a quarter of an hour hence,' exclaimed Goff, ' they will 
 be in' 
 
 Mr Lester stopped him. ' On earth, we trust, Goff. Fifty 
 pounds reward,' he shouted loudly, ' to any one who will under- 
 take to man the boat and be off to the ship !' but his voice was 
 lost in the roar of the elements, and the deep call of another gun 
 of distress. Once more he looked round, hopeless and despair- 
 ing. Ronald Vivian was close to him. 
 
 ' Mr Lester, one word with you.' He drew him aside : 'If I 
 never return, say to Miss Campbell that I obeyed her.' He 
 caught hold of the boat to push it from the beach. 
 
 Mr Lester held him back. ' Ronald ! this is actual frenzy ! 
 Your father and Goff are the only persons fit to go.' 
 
 ' Their lives are precious,' said the boy, scornfully. ' Mine ! ' 
 — he seized Mr Lester's hand — ' I am but a stumbling-block in 
 the path. Clement will be safe when I am gone.' Again he 
 laid hold of the boat. 
 
 At that moment a shout arose from the clift'. ' They are off ! 
 brave fellows ! they are off!' followed by a deep, muttered prayer, 
 ' God help them ! ' and like one body, the crowd hurried to the 
 spot from whence they could best watch the fate of the little boat, 
 which in desperation had at length been committed to the waves. 
 It was manned by three experienced sailors, and bravely and re- 
 solutely it made its way, followed by a breathless silence, as one 
 moment it was borne upon the crest of the waves, and the next 
 sank into the deep abyss of the angry water as if never to rise 
 again. 
 
 Ronald had thrown himself upon the beach, and his head was 
 buried in his hands. Mr Lester spoke to him gently: ' It is best, 
 Ro«mld, as it is ; we must pray for them.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 35 
 
 Ronald made no answer. ' They are gone ! they are gone ! ' 
 was the cry heard amidst the tempest, and he started to his feet. 
 But the black speck, though scarcely discernible, was still to be 
 seen breasting the waves ; it was nearing the ship. Ronald 
 rushed to the edge of the water, and stood there with his arms 
 folded moodily upon his breast. Mr Lester followed him near, 
 yet not so near as to be observed. The moonlight fell upon 
 the boy's tall firmly-built figure and noble features. The ex- 
 pression of his countenance was very painful ; — cold and proud, 
 and when he heard his father's coarse voice shouting from the 
 cliffs, recklessly desperate. ' Ronald,' said Mr Lester, approach- 
 ing to him, ' you would have done a brave deed, and God 
 accepts the will.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' was the answer. ' It is all that is allowed to 
 m J ; ' and he moved away. 
 
 The boat was not to be seen ; whether sunk, or passed beyond 
 the power of sight, none could say. The moon was hidden by a 
 thick cloud. The howling of the wind, the rush of the waters, 
 silenced every other sound ; and only a light raised in the un- 
 fortunate vessel showed that human life was at stake. The dark- 
 ness continued for several minutes, — minutes which seemed 
 hours. A voice from the crowd uttered a loud, shrill call. Some 
 said it was answered, but it might have been only the scream of 
 the stormy blast. ' Try again ! ' and a second time the sharp 
 yell seemed to rush over the wide waste of waters, seeking for a 
 response. It came ; yes, it was a human voice ; a cheer, a cry 
 of exultation, and the moon for a moment appearing showed the 
 little boat crowded with people, tossed upon the crest of a 
 mountainous wave. It will be swamped ; it must be ; a huge 
 mass of waters is about to fall upon it ; but no, it has risen again, 
 liic awful power conquered by human skill : still it seems to make 
 no progress, and now it is lost to sight; the moon has sunk back 
 again into darkness. Oh ! for one minute of peace on the restless 
 ocean to make certain the door of escape. 
 
 Ronald never moved nor spoke. His eyes were riveted, as by 
 a basilisk fascination, on the spot where the boat was likely to 
 appear. And it did appear, nearing the shore, guided by a hand 
 which knew well how to break the force of every wave, and 
 direct it amidst the rough breakers. It was all but in ; all but 
 within safe reach of the shore. A cheer rose, loud, prolonged ; 
 ending — surely it was a scream of terror ! A wave had passed 
 over the boat^ and it was upset.
 
 36 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Fearful, awful, was the scene that followed ; struggles for life, 
 —ineffectual attempts at assistance,— the engulphing of last 
 hopes in the foaming ocean. A man's head was seen rising above 
 the waters, his hand was clasping the shaggy weeds depending 
 from a rock ; they seemed firm, but the power of death was in 
 the grasp, and they were giving way ; in another moment he 
 would be gone. Ronald flung aside his coat, and cast hin\sclf 
 into the sea ; few saw him, none cheered him, he was doomed. 
 
 They had sunk both together ; but they rose again, the stran-er 
 clinging to Ronald as he struggled with the water. A mighty 
 wave is near, it must cover them ; but no, they have risen upon 
 its crest ; and now, as if in angry disappointment, it has cast 
 them from it ; — they are safe ! 
 
 Mr Lester was at some distance. Seven men had with great 
 difficulty been rescued, and he was giving directions for their 
 restoration. Another boat was being manned for the purpose of 
 going back again to the ship ; all was excitement and confusion. 
 None noticed Ronald, or thought of him. He knelt by the side of 
 the man whom he had saved, chafing his hands, covering him 
 with the coat which he had himself thrown aside, and at length, 
 with the assistance of another boy of about his own age, though 
 much inferior to himself in power, carried him to the shelter of a 
 boat-house. 
 
 The senses, which had been paralysed as much by horror as 
 by the actual risk that had been run, soon returned, and by th.it 
 time other assistance was at hand, and arrangements were made 
 for conveying the man to the farm. Ronald's manner was in- 
 different and cold ; he answered the few questions put to him 
 shortly and uncourteously ; and, v^hen he found his charge in 
 safe hands, took advantage of the suggestions made that he 
 should look after himself, to walk away alone towards his own 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 '"pHE morning after the storm rose bright, clear, and com 
 -L paratively calm, though deep shadows from flying cloudL 
 were still crossing the sea, and the white breakers tossed their 
 diminished heads with an anger not yet exhausted. 
 
 s
 
 CLEVE HALL. 37 
 
 Bertha Campbell, Ella, and Clement were together on a little 
 hillock from which a wide view of the sea was to be obtained. 
 Dark Head Point was visible, and the wreck of the shattered 
 vessel, stranded amongst the rocks upon which it had drifted 
 during the night. 
 
 'Three lives lost!' said Ella; 'how terrible!' and she 
 shuddered. 
 
 ' And seven saved ! ' said Bertha. ' That one ought to be 
 thankful for.' 
 
 ' Eight,' observed Clement, quickly ; ' Ronald saved one.' 
 
 ' Yes, I heard it,' said Bertha. There was a glistening in her 
 e\e, but it was a strangely imperturbable manner. 
 
 ' Clement would have done the same if he had been there,' 
 said Ella. 
 
 ' Yes, he might.' 
 
 ' Might I O Aunt Bertha ! it is certain.' 
 
 ' He has not been tried, Ella.' 
 
 ' And therefore you doubt me, Aunt Bertha,' said Cleinent, 
 haughtily. ' Thank you for your opinion of me.' 
 
 ' I only judge from what I see, Clement. If }'ou are not equal 
 to ordinary duties, I don't know why I am to expect you to per- 
 form extraordinary ones.' 
 
 ' Ronald does not do ordinary duties that I can ever see,' con- 
 tinued Clement. 
 
 ' Ronald is no guide for you,' replied Bertha. ' At this moment 
 you are neglecting your work.' 
 
 ' Who can be expected to work such a morning as this ? ' ex- 
 claimed Clement. ' Mr Lester himself is gone down to the 
 village and to the shore.' 
 
 ' It is his business, Clement ; it is not yours.' 
 
 ' And it is his pleasure !' exclaimed Clement. ' He is gone to 
 tlie farm to see Ronald's friend.' 
 
 Bertha merely repeated her observation, that Mr Lester at- 
 tended to his business, and therefore Clement ought to attend 
 to his, and then suggested to Ella that it was time for the 
 children's lessons to begin. Ella said, 'Is it ?' but she did not 
 move from the grass upon which she was seated, leaning against 
 the stone that supported the flag-staff, and gazing dreamily upon 
 the sea. 
 
 ' You will take cold, Ella,' said Bertha ; ' it is a great deal too 
 damp to sit upon the grass.' 
 
 ' Oh no, I shan't, Aunt Bcrlha. The grass is quite drv.'
 
 38 - CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Bertha stooped down to feci it, and showed the drops glisten- 
 ing on her hand. 
 
 ' I never take cold by sitting on the grass,' said Ella; ' I never 
 take cold at all, indeed, except when I sit in a draught.' 
 
 ' Every one takes cold, Ella, who sits upon wet grass.' 
 
 * Ever)' one except me,' repeated IClla. ' Aunt Bertha, if you 
 are going in, will you just tell the little ones to get their lessons 
 ready. I suppose one must move,' she added, rising lazily. 
 
 Bertha went into the house, and Ella turned to her brother, 
 and said, ' She is put out.' 
 
 ' Of course she is,' replied Clement ; ' she is always ])ut out. 
 And isn't it aggravating, Ella, the way in which she never will 
 give me credit for a single thing that is brave or noble .'' One 
 would think I was a mere automaton.' 
 
 ' I don't mind her,' said Ella ; ' she hasn't a spnrk of poetry 
 or enthusiasm in her composition. If she had been on the shore, 
 I venture to say she would have stayed to calculate exactly the 
 claims of her own life before she would have ventured to risk it 
 for another.' 
 
 ' It won't do for me that sort of thing,' said Clement, pursuing' 
 the bent of his own thoughts. ' If they want me to listen to theni 
 they mustn't try to keep me in leading-strings in that fashion. 
 Why, there are many boys who have been half over the world 
 and are their own masters at my age.' 
 
 ' It will come to an end,' said Ella, reseating herself on a stone ; 
 'all things come to an end if one waits long enough.' 
 
 ' Very well for a girl ! ' he exclaimed, impetuously ; ' but what 
 is to be done with the years that go by whilst one is waiting ? ' 
 
 * Make them a preparation for those which are to come, Cle- 
 ment,' said a grave voice. 
 
 Clement started, for it was Mr Lester's. He was looking very 
 pale, very haggard,— a year might have passed over him since 
 the last evening. His manner too was different from its usual 
 quiet, almost stern rigidity ; its restlessness showed how much 
 he must have gone through. Ella was very fond of him, and all 
 her better feelings were called forth when she saw him suffering. 
 She becrcred him now to go into the house, and let her fetch him 
 
 -&& 
 
 a glass of wine. She was sure he was over-tired, and if he 
 didn't take care he would be ill. But he would not go in ; ' He 
 would rather,' he said, 'remain with them where they were ; the 
 fresh air would do him good ;' and he sat down by Ella at tlie 
 
 foot of the flag-staff.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 39 
 
 'Those tiresome lessons !' murmured Ella to her brother. 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense, you can't go now,' was his reply, in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 ' A few minutes can't signify,' added Ella, rather speaking to 
 herself than to Clement. ' Dear Mr Lester, do let me go in and 
 bring you something out here.' She spoke now with animation 
 and eagerness : her heart was in her words. 
 
 ' Thank you, dear child, no. One can't forget last night, 
 Ella.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Ella, awed by his manner. 
 
 ' And Clement might have been exposed to danger too,' he 
 continued. 
 
 ' Goff would never take me, sir, if there was danger,' said 
 Clement, a little moodily. 
 
 ' He ought not to take you at all, Clement.' ]\Ir Lester's 
 
 voice trembled. 
 
 ' You are too tired to talk, sir,' said Ella, looking at him 
 anxiously. ' Shall we leave you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; and yet,' — he placed his hand on her head, — ' Ella, one 
 thought was in my mind, haunting it all last night, — that 
 Clement might have been where others then were. I wonder 
 whether either of you thought of it too.' 
 
 ' I believe it was wrong in me to propose going out on the 
 water, sir,' said Clement, candidly ; ' but when I had made an 
 engagement, I didn't like to break it.' 
 
 ' An after engagement cannot cancel a former one,' said, Mr 
 Lester. ' Our first engagement in all cases is to God.' 
 
 ' He was never absolutely told not to go,' said Ella. 
 
 Clement refused to accept the excuse : ' He knew,' he said, 
 ' that it was not quite right, but it seemed such a little thing, he 
 couldn't really believe it signified ; certainly he should have gone 
 but for some blunder of Ronald's which made them all late.' And 
 then he muttered something about seafaring life, and that he 
 must prepare if he ever intended to go to sea. 
 
 Mr Lester was silent. Clement knew that he had said what 
 was very painful ; and, anxious to turn the conversation, he 
 asked whether Ronald's friend was recovered. 
 
 ' Yes, tolerably ; he has gone to Clcve : his name is Bruce ; 
 the vessel was an American.' 
 
 The answers were given shortly, and Clement vv'as afraid to 
 pursue the subject. 
 
 ' I had better go in to the lessons now,' said Ella. She did
 
 40 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 not know what else to say or do, and the claim of the forgoUen 
 duty reasserted itself. 
 
 *I am going home,' said Mr Lester: 'tell your aunt I shall 
 not see her probably to-day ; I must be alone as much as pos- 
 sible.' The last words were spoken in an undertone, lie stood 
 up to go. ' Clement, are you ready for me ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; that is, I shall be. I will follow you.' 
 
 'I would rather you should go with me;' and Mr Lester 
 paused, and his eyes wandered over the sea. 
 
 ' Here is Rachel !' said Ella, as she turned towards the par- 
 sonage garden, Mr Lester's face brightened in an instant. 
 
 'How she runs!' continued Ella: 'I never could move so 
 fast.' 
 
 It seemed but one bound, and Rachel was at her father's side. 
 * Nurse Robinson is waiting for you, papa. She says you ex- 
 pected her. And, Ella, dear,' and Rachel produced a folded 
 paper, ' I have copied the lines, and thank you so much ; they 
 are beautiful.' 
 
 'May I see them.''' said Mr Lester, taking them from her 
 hand. 
 
 'Longfellow's "Excelsior,"' said Ella, looking over his shoulder. 
 ' Rachel, and Clement, and I mean to make a Latin translation 
 of them.' 
 
 * Papa, you admire them, don't you 't ' asked Rachel, noticing 
 the peculiar expression of his face. 
 
 ' Of course I do, my love ; who could help it ?' 
 
 'And you think them very true and right in their meaning ?' 
 
 ' Yes, entirely so.' 
 
 ' And you like us to like them ? ' 
 
 ?\Ir Lester paused. Ella looked up at him quickly. Her dark, 
 expressive eyes seemed in a moment to read the meaning of his 
 silence, and as the colour rushed to her cheeks, she said, 'Mr 
 Lester wishes us to follow them, not merely to like them.' She 
 did not wait to hear his answer, but walked slowly into the house 
 without wishing any one good-bye. 
 
 Bertha was in the little room which opened from the drawing- 
 room, and was used as a schoolroom. It had no carpet, and its 
 chief furniture consisted of tables, stools, and book-cases. There 
 was only one piano in the house, and that was in the drawing- 
 room. Everything in the apartment was neat, it could not bo 
 otherwise when Bertha Campbell superintended, but the room 
 had the same air of poverty as the rest of the house ; a poverty
 
 CLEVE HALL. 41 
 
 contrasting remarkably with the appearance of the persons who 
 inhabited it. 
 
 Bertha was energetic and simple in all she did, and would 
 have dusted a room as willingly as she would have studied a 
 foreign language ; but no one, on looking at her, would have 
 supposed that she was born to such work ; whilst Ella with her 
 indolent, graceful movements, and little Fanny with her slight 
 figure and delicate features, seemed only fitted for the luxury of 
 an eastern climate. Louisa, indeed, was different, but even she 
 moved and spoke with an air of command which would have 
 needed a dozen servants to be in attendance instead of the tidy 
 little girl who did duty as both housemaid and parlour-maid. 
 
 \Vhen Ella returned from the garden, she found Bertha en- 
 gaged in hearing Louisa's lessons, and superintending Fanny's 
 copy. She did not appear to perceive that her aunt had been 
 taking her duties for her. It was so common a circumstance 
 as not, in Ella's eyes, to need ' Thank you,' and Bertha, on her 
 part, made no remark upon Ella's absence ; but Louisa was re- 
 proved rather sharply for a blunder she had just made, and 
 Fanny was told that if she did not hold her pen better she 
 would be sent up-stairs. Ella threw herself into a low seat, 
 and, leaning back, exclaimed that it was tremendously hot, and 
 she was dying with sleep : she wished it was the fashion in 
 England to take siestas. 
 
 ' You can have one, if you like it,' said Bertha, a little satiri- 
 cally. 
 
 ' Very well for you to say, Aunt Bertha, who can manage your 
 time as you like. Oh dear! these tiresome lessons! Fanny, 
 are you ready with your French translation.^' 
 
 ' Not quite,' said Fanny. 
 
 ' Then, why aren't you ? ' 
 
 ' I hadn't time to do it last evening.' 
 
 'You know you would insist- upon going such a distance in 
 your walk, Ella,' observed Bertha. ' The children came in a 
 great deal too late to finish what they had to do.' 
 
 ' I can't hear it, if it is not ready,' said Ella. ' What can you 
 do, Fanny ?' 
 
 ' I can say my dates, and vocabulary, and dialogue, I think.' 
 
 ' Well, come then.' 
 
 ' Had you not better go up-stairs, and put your shawl away, 
 •Ella?' said Bertha, 'and then you will come down quite fresh 
 acrain.'
 
 42 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * No, thank you. It is a great deal too liot to move,' and Ella 
 tossed her shawl into the farthest corner of the room. Bertha 
 put down the lesson-1)ook, took up the shawl, and sent Louisa 
 up-slairs with it, 
 
 ' Now, Fanny,' said Ella. 
 
 Fanny began, and repeated a tolerably correct lesson, or, at 
 least, such as seemed to be so ; for it was one of Ella's theories 
 that it was useless to make children say things exactly as they 
 were in the book. 
 
 ' It can't have taken Fanny much time to learn that, Ella,' 
 observed Bertha ; ' she can't have read it over more than twice 
 or three times,' 
 
 ' She knows the sense very well,' said Ella ; ' and that is all 
 one wants.' 
 
 ' All one wants for to-day, but not for to-morrow. The sense 
 is the spirit, the words are the body ; how can you retain the 
 spirit if you give up the body ? ' 
 
 ' It is too hot to argue,' said Ella. ' But if spirit has to act 
 upon spirit, what need is there of a body ?' 
 
 ' Spirit alone never does act upon spirit in this world,' said 
 Bertha. 
 
 Ella yawned, and closed her eyes. A tingling, irritable bell 
 was just then rung. Bertha gave Louisa her book, told her she 
 had made three mistakes, and hurried out of the room, almost 
 before Ella had time to unclose her eyes, and ask what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Ella certainly exerted herself more when left to herself. It 
 seemed as if a perverse feeling made her determined upon show- 
 ing herself more indolent in proportion as Bertha was energetic. 
 She drew her chair closer to the table, finished hearing Fanny's 
 lesson, then made her go back to her copy, and bade Louisa 
 bring her French History. That lesson was pleasant enough. 
 Ella liked being read to, and she was very fond of history, and 
 had a marvellous memory for dates. 
 
 ' I have finished the ten pages,' said Louisa, as she came to 
 the conclusion of a chapter. 
 
 ' Never niind, go on ; you must hear about Henri Ouatre.' 
 
 Louisa glanced at the clock, ' It is a quarter to one, Ella, and 
 it is my music-lesson day.' 
 
 Ella's sigh might have been that of a martyr. 
 
 'I shall give you your lesson in the evening, go on now,' 
 
 'And shall I say the questions in the evening,?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 43 
 
 *We will see, go on.' 
 
 Louisa was not fond of history, and cared but little for Henri 
 Quatre ; and she was provoked at having all her time occupied 
 and so much added to her lesson hours. She read very badly, 
 and Ella was impatient, and, striking the table in irritation, shook 
 Fanny's hand, and made her blot an exercise which she had 
 begun ; the copy having long since been brought to an end, and 
 put aside with scarcely a glance or an observation. Fanny burst 
 into tears. She was a very untidy writer, and her exercise books 
 were proverbially slovenly, and Bertha had lately endeavoured 
 to stimulate her to carefulness by the promise of a reward when- 
 ever six exercises should be written without a blot. 
 
 ' You shouldn't cry, Fanny,' said Louisa ; ' you will make your 
 eyes red, and then you won't be fit to be seen.' 
 
 And it is so silly, too,' said Ella ; ' crying about nothing ! 
 what does it signify .? Take it up with your l^lotting paper, ani^i 
 it will all be right.' 
 
 She returned again to Henri Ouatre, and left Fanny to mourn 
 in lonely sorrow over the loss of her anticipated present ; for 
 Aunt Bertha had no mercy upon excuses. The blot was there, 
 that was enough. There would be no question of how it 
 came. 
 
 The clock struck one. ' I should have just time for my music 
 lesson,' said Louisa, imploringly. 
 
 'What? yes !' Ella was still dreaming over the history. 
 
 ' Lociisa, hasn't Aunt Bertha got the Henriade 1 Just go and 
 fetch it, there 's a good child.' 
 
 'The what, Ella.?' 
 
 'The Henriade, Voltaire's Henriade ; don't you know?' 
 
 Louisa walked slowly out of the room, and came back with a 
 message that Aunt Bertha was engaged, and couldn't attend to 
 anything of the kind at present. Ella did not seem quite to 
 hear. Louisa went to the piano, opened it, and put up her music- 
 book. 
 
 ' Louisa, it won't take you a minute ; just run across the garden 
 up to the Rectory. Mr Lester has the Henriade. I am nearly- 
 sure I saw it in his study the other day. He will let me have it,' 
 
 Louisa looked excessively discomposed, and did not move, 
 
 * Go, child, go,' said Ella. 
 
 'Shall I go?' asked Fanny. She was very tired of lessons, 
 and much enjoyed the thought of a run across the turf, 
 
 ' Ves i only you don't understand. There, give me a piece of
 
 44 CLF.VE HALL. 
 
 paper and a pencil ; not that one, that is clatc-pencil. Where is 
 the one you were drawing witli last night?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I left it on the tabic. Louisa, it was your turn 
 to put away the things.' 
 
 ' O Fanny ! indeed, if you remember, I took two days to- 
 gether, because you had a headache.' 
 
 ' That was a week ago,' said Fanny, fretfully ; ' it was your 
 turn, I am sure.' 
 
 'Never mind whose turn it was,' exclaimed Ella; 'only fetch 
 me a pencil.' 
 
 ' I don't know where to find one,' said Fanny. 
 
 ' Not know where to find a pencil ? Why, there are hundreds 
 in the house. Louisa, give me one of your drawing-pencils.' 
 
 ' Aunt Bertha said I was not to lend them,' said Louisa. 
 
 Ella's colour rose. ' I can't trouble myself about that. I must 
 have one.' 
 
 Louisa had evidently no intention of obeying. She sat playing 
 with the leaves of the music-book, her face resolutely directed 
 away. Ella took up a pen, and began to write with it instead. 
 
 * There, Fanny,' and she tossed the note to the child, who ran 
 off with it. Ella was too much annoyed with Louisa to take any 
 notice of her ; and the practising was begun and continued whilst 
 Ella sat at the table drawing mathematical figures on a sheet of 
 note paper. 
 
 ' That is the first dinner-bell,' said Louisa, and she jumped 
 down from her seat, and shut up the piano. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Fanny will be late,' she continued, ' she won't hear the bell.' 
 
 ' She has plenty of time,' replied Ella, coldly. 
 
 ' Grandmamma will be angry,' persisted Louisa. 
 
 ' Vou had better go and get ready yourself, Louisa,' said Ella. 
 
 ' Fmust put the room tidy first,' was the answer ; and Louisa, 
 with the most determined spirit of neatness and provokingness^ 
 not only moved away everything which belonged to herself and 
 to Fanny, but also divers little articles of property appertaining 
 to Ella. ' Fanny will be late,' she repeated, as she hastened out 
 of the room, leaving Ella nothing to distract her eye from the 
 contemplation of the tables and chairs, except the sheet of note 
 paper on which she was scribbling. 
 
 The second dinner-bell rang, and Ella was not ready, and 
 Fanny was still at the Rectory. Mrs Campbell was exceedingly 
 annoyed^ for punctuality was her darling virtue, and Louisa
 
 CLEVE HALL. 45 
 
 triumphantly told the history of how and why it all happened, 
 and was informed by her grandmamma that she was the only 
 person in the house to be depended upon ; whilst Bertha reminded 
 Ella that if she had come in in proper time, the lessons would 
 have been all finished by one o'clock. 
 
 Fanny appeared when dinner was half over ; and being re- 
 ceived by harsh words and severe glances, burst into another fit 
 of crying, and was again warned by I\Irs Campbell, as the most 
 conclusive and natural argument for self-restraint, that she would 
 quite spoil her face, and make herself such a figure she would not 
 be fit to be seen. 
 
 That had been a very instructive morning to the children. 
 They had had lessons in unpunctuality, ingratitude, self-indul- 
 gence, procrastination, absence of sympathy, impatience, dis- 
 obedience to orders, ill-nature, self-conceit, and vanity, and all 
 through the medium of French exercises and the life of Henri 
 (2uatre. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ELLA had a tit of the Henriade that afternoon, and could not 
 go out ; so she said. She wanted to compare the great 
 epic poems of different countries, and she had a notion of writ- 
 ing an essay upon them. She had read Dante often, and knew 
 Milton by heart. Homer was familiar to her, and she had a vague 
 idea of the merits of the Lusiad, which, no doubt, was more than 
 half the world could boast of. Not that Ella thought much about 
 the world. With all her wonderful talent, she was free from con- 
 ceit, and had scarcely any wish for admiration. When she talked 
 of writing an essay upon epic poets, it was solely for her own 
 amusement. She had no grand visions of fame and flattery ; and 
 if, now and then, a stray word of astonishment as to her mental 
 powers reached her ears, it was always received with surprise. 
 That which v/as so easy to her, could not, she supposed, be dif a- 
 cult to other people. 
 
 And then Klla never, or very rarely, finished anything. Slie 
 always worked fi^om impulse, and her natural temperament was 
 extremely indolent. Clement could sometimes persuade her to 
 conclude what she had begun, but no one else. And he was very 
 like herself, and seldom fancied to-day what he l>"'l delighted in
 
 46 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 yesterday. They were two very interesting, clever, agreeable 
 companions, when they chose to be ; but the clouds on a windy 
 day were not more changeable, and they always required the 
 stimulus of success to make them pursue any subject. Ella's 
 portfolio was filled with notes from history, unfinished poems, 
 imitations of various authors, problems from Euclid, observations 
 on botany, hints upon geology, copies of Hebrew and Arabic 
 letters, interpersed with grotesque caricatures, clever pencil 
 sketches, or grand designs in some new style of water-colours. 
 The marvel was, that in attempting to know so much, she should 
 succeed in knowing anything. A person with less natural powers 
 would have been utterly crushed by the mountain of mental dust 
 p.ccumulated by these broken ideas ; but Ella's memory was so 
 retentive, and her powers of perception were so keen, that, give 
 her any fragments of knowledge, however broken, and she could 
 put them together, when occasion required, so as to present a 
 very fair semblance of real information. 
 
 ' Ella knows everything,' was Mrs Campbell's proud remark, 
 when some chance observation brought out from the stores of 
 her granddaughter's memory a forgotten or obsolete fact. 
 
 ' Ella does nothing,' was Bertha's mournful observation to Mr 
 Lester, when conversing upon the children's future prospects. 
 
 There are different powers of mind required for knowing and 
 doing. People often cultivate the former whilst they neglect the 
 latter. They do not see that we may know without doing, but 
 we can scarcely continue long in doing without knowing. 
 
 But to give Ella all the excuse possible, she had had very 
 little teaching or training in either the one or the other. After 
 an infancy passed in the enervating chmate of the West Indies, 
 she had been sent to England, and placed under the care of 
 persons who did not understand her, and who, if they had un- 
 derstood her, would not have known how to guide her. Mrs 
 Campbell was in her younger days, the most rigid of discipli- 
 narians. She had tutored, and checked, and warned, and fretted 
 her own daughters, until one in despair rushed into a hasty and 
 unfortunate marriage, and the other became a pattern of obe- 
 dience and self-denial, but with all her warm, natural impulses 
 chilled, her powers of enjoyment deadened, and her notions of 
 goodness, either moral or religious, absorbed in the one Stern 
 idea of duty— duty both for herself and others, but without 
 mercy and without love. 
 
 And Ella had no natural love of duty. Perhaps it may be said
 
 CLEVE HALL. 47 
 
 that we none of us have. Yet, surely, this is not so. There is 
 an innate taste for duty, which goes with the love of order and 
 regularity, and the spirit of perseverance. Some persons like to 
 continue any habits they have commenced ; they like to keep to 
 rules ; they are very particular about punctuality and neatness ; 
 all these things are the germs of duty. When softened by 
 unselfishness and warm feelings they will form a very superior 
 character. But Ella's mind, and Ella's theories — and she very 
 early began to form theories — were all based upon two principles, 
 inclination and affection. If they happened to correspond witli 
 duty, it was so much the better ; if they did not — she really could 
 not do what she felt no interest in doing, she could not work for 
 people who were indifterent to her. 
 
 Mrs Campbell, with the singular weakness which makes the 
 most rigid of parents spoil their grandchildren, had early given 
 v.ay to this argument. Ella did so much when work was her 
 clioice, that she was allowed to do little or nothing when it was 
 not ; whilst Bertha, following the severe reasoning in which she 
 had herself been trained, looked with nearly equal regret upon 
 Ella's doings or not doings, because she said that work pei'formed 
 merely from choice was as little valuable in a moral point of vie\v 
 as idleness. 
 
 Ella's had been a trying, fretting, uncongenial life, and she 
 thought herself a martyr. She was by nature intensely proud, 
 and the moment any accusation was brought against herself, she 
 tried that ready weapon of self-defence, retaliation. If Bertha 
 complained of Ella's being indolent and unpractical, Ella com- 
 plained of Bertha's being cold and harsh. If the one forgot from 
 indolence, the other forgot from over-occupation. If the one was 
 unpunctual because she would not make an effort to be the 
 reverse, the other was so because she was at every one's call for 
 some act of self-denying kindness, and therefore could not reckon 
 her time her own. 
 
 There is nothing so blinding as this spirit of retaliation, this 
 pride which makes us always take the offensive when called to 
 stand upon the defensive. It was the greatest possible effort for 
 Ella to confess herself in the wrong. If she ever did, it was not 
 at the moment of accusation, when acknowledgment would have 
 been gracious and humble ; but on some after occasion, when 
 other circumstances had softened her feelings, and made it 
 a matter of certainty tha^ the affair would be passed over 
 lightly.
 
 48 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 And so Ella Vivian knew nothing of herself, and very little of 
 others, and lived in a world of sclf-indult^ence and self-reliance, 
 all the more dangerous, because her talents made it easy to her 
 to be agreeable, and her freedom from many of the more open 
 and grave faults of her age made it almost impossible to con- 
 vince her that she was not as good or even better than others. 
 
 Mrs Campbell had been at Encombe three months: before 
 that time they had lived at a small country town in the nortli. 
 No exact reason was given for the change, except that the country 
 was beautiful, and the sea air invigorating, and the village in the 
 neighbourhood of Cleve Hall. To be near their grandfather 
 seemed to Ella quite a sufficient cause for the migration, and she 
 had conjured up many visions of grandeur and enjoyment both 
 for herself and Clement, which were all, however, dispersed on 
 their arrival. Cleve Hall was less open to them than any other 
 house in the village. General Vivian was less known to them 
 than any other person. Even Aunt Mildred, the gentle, cheerful, 
 loving Aunt Mildred, whose smile was fascination, and her voice 
 like the echo of the softest music, was as a person tabooed. They 
 rarely saw her ; when they did, their visits were short and un- 
 satisfactory. She evidently wished to keep them with her, but 
 she never did. She wished to make them at home with her, but 
 the mystery which enveloped everything at Cleve mutually 
 repelled them. They spoke of their father, and the subject was 
 diverted. They expressed a desire to see something in a distant 
 part of the house, and an excuse v/as at hand. They asked to 
 run in the garden, and the timepiece was consulted to know 
 whether it would be the hour for Grandpapa to be there also. 
 And if, by any chance, they met the General, the first impulse of 
 every grown-up person who accompanied them seemed to be to 
 avoid him. 
 
 Of course Ella asked the meaning of all this. At sixteen, with 
 a most determined will, and a keen curiosity, who would not 
 have done so 'i And very unsatisfactory were the answers which 
 she received. Mrs Campbell generally began at once to remark 
 upon General Vivian's unbending character ; whilst Bertha, 
 dreading to give confidence where she felt none, used generally 
 to stop her by the observation, 'You will know all about it, my 
 dear, in time.' 
 
 But EUa felt that she did not know all about it, and that she 
 was not likely to do so. Her father ought to be the heir of Cleve ; 
 and Clement was his onlv son. She had heard of some disagree-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 49 
 
 mcnt wiih her grandfalhcr, and she knew that her father had 
 lived for many years in the West Indies in consequence ; but it 
 seemed very hard that the punishment should also fall upon the 
 children. Bertha told her that her father was a poor man, and 
 certainly, from some cause or other, Ella saw they were all 
 poor. But General Vivian had houses, and lands, and carriages, 
 and servants, and all the luxuries of life at command. A very 
 small sacrifice on his part would have made them comparatively 
 affluent. Why was it not asked for ? Ella chafed under her 
 privations. She felt there must be injustice somewhere, and 
 she could not resign herself to it, and when tormented by her 
 own ill-regulated mind, she shared her anger with her twin 
 brother Clement. 
 
 And Clement was a willing recipient of all her complaints. 
 Proud and self-indulgent, like Ella, he could not endure to 
 remain in a position which he believed beneath him. But for 
 the influence of his cousin, Ronald Vivian, he might, like her, 
 have spent his time in day-dreams of grandeur ; but Ronald 
 was fiery and impetuous, and full of the spirit of adventure ; 
 and Clement, feeling the power of his strong will, and admiring 
 the noble points of his character, followed him whenever and 
 wherever he was able, and fancied that in partaking his pursuits 
 he was escaping from boyhood to manhood, and therefore at 
 liberty to be his own master. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs at Encombe Lodge ; most unfortu- 
 nate for all, most especially trying to Bertha Campbell. 
 
 Ella was only sixteen, whilst Bertha was two-and-thirt)-. Re- 
 spect, therefore, was due from the one to the other, if it were 
 only from difference of age. Yet Bertha had great difficulty in 
 exacting it ; partly owing to the fact that when the children 
 first came to live with them, Mrs Campbell took the sole charge 
 upon herself, and spoiled them by over-indulgence, whilst she 
 v.as always blaming Bertha ; and partly owing to Bertha's own 
 defect of manner and Ella's superiority of intellect, which 
 made her at sixteen almost a woman. Now, whenever there 
 was a difference between them, Mrs Campbell was appealed 
 to, and invariably took Ella's part ; and thus the breach was 
 widened. The ill-feeling extended itself to Clement, who always 
 approved Ella's decisions, and never could bear Aunt Bertha's 
 cold way of reminding him of what he had to do. It was better 
 with the little ones. Louisa liked Aunt Bertha because she 
 was always the same. She suffered so much from Ella's moods, 
 

 
 50 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 that it was a perfect luxury to turn to some one who was certain 
 to give her a patient hearing, and never found fault unless 
 there was really a cause. She did not love her. Aunt ISertlia 
 was not attractive to children ; she was so slow and methodical, 
 and so little understood how to enter into their amusements ; 
 but Louisa respected and obeyed her, and made Fanny do the 
 same. It would have been a great comfort to the children if 
 they had been allowed always to do their lessons with Bcrilia : 
 but it was one of Ella's k\v dreams of usefulness, consequent 
 upon rather a long fit of illness, that she would educate her 
 younger sisters ; and in the days of convalescence she wrote two 
 chapters of a work on education, and formed a plan for a new- 
 grammar, which was to make German as easy to learn as French 
 or Italian ; and when pronounced to be quite well, how could 
 she think herself otherwise than competent to undertake any 
 educational task, however important ! 
 
 Ella had imbibed too many high principles not to have great 
 notions of goodness, and she was too clever not to put them into 
 some tangible form ; but she never liked trying virtues upon 
 herself; she preferred rather seeing how they suited others. 
 Her theories for Louisa and Fanny were perfectly admirable ; 
 she talked of nothing but education for a whole month, especi- 
 ally to her grandmamma, who was entirely convinced by her, 
 and believed that she was fully as competent to the work as 
 Bertha, if not more so. The plan had been tried now for three 
 months, — ever since they came to Encombe. Bertha resigned 
 herself to it, for the simple reason that there was nothing else 
 to be done ; and when she found that Ella's want of steadi- 
 ness and perseverance was a stumbling-block in the way of 
 the children's improvement, she quietly undertook all that 
 was left undone, and so, without intending it, increased Ella's 
 self-deception. 
 
 Certainly, if there was a martyr in the family it was Bertha. 
 The trials which she had endured in her comparatively short 
 life might have crushed a less brave and enduring spirit to the 
 dust. Little, indeed, did Ella think when she laughed at, and 
 teased, and disobeyed her cjuiet, cold-mannered, impassive 
 aunt, that thought for her, care for her interests, anxiety for 
 her future prospects, had robbed Bertha's cheek of its bloom, 
 and caused the dark lines of anxiety to shade her forehead. 
 Perhaps it might have been better ior her if she had known it ; 
 better if the veil which was cast over the history of her family
 
 CLEVE HALL. Si 
 
 had been thrown aside, and she had seen herscff the helpless, 
 poverty-striken child of a disinherited man, indebted for every 
 comfort which she enjoyed to the self-denying exertions of 
 one whose daily life was rendered miserable by her thoughtless 
 negligence. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 < A UNT BERTHA, we may put on our old things and go to 
 -t\ the shore, mayn't we ? ' Louisa's voice was heard from 
 the top of the stairs. She had been trying to persuade Fanny 
 that it would be better to wear an old bonnet ; and Fanny was 
 not inclined to agree, because she looked much prettier in a new 
 one. 
 
 ' Yes, to the shore ; I shall be ready in five minutes ; ' and 
 Louisa retired triumphant. Louisa was in time herself, and con- 
 trived that Fanny should be the same ; a circumstance to which 
 she did not fail to draw Bertha's attention, and received as an 
 answer, that punctuality was a good thing, but humility was a 
 better. They set off across the garden to the Rectory, as they 
 were to call for Rachel on their way. 
 
 ' I dare say Clement will be on the shore,' said Fanny ; ' he 
 said he should go there after he had done with Mr Lester.' 
 
 Bertha looked grave. 
 
 ' Is there any reason why Clement should not go ? ' asked the 
 quick-eyed Louisa. 
 
 ' None, if he does what he ought to do,' was the cautious 
 reply. 
 
 ' Old Mrs Clarke, the sexton's mother, says he gets alDout 
 amongst all kinds of people,' said Fanny, ' when he goes to the 
 shore.' 
 
 'When did old Mrs Clarke talk to you upon such subjects ?' 
 inquired Bertha. 
 
 ' Oh ! the other day,' replied Louisa, 'when we went to see her 
 with Ella. She says,' she added, drawing up her head, ' that it 
 is not fit for the hetr of such a place as Cleve Hall to be spend- 
 ing his time amongst smugglers and low people.' 
 
 ' It is not fit for any one who wishes to be a gentleman,' said 
 Bertha, rather sternly ; ' but remember, children, you are not to 
 talk to Mrs Clarke or to any one in that way.'
 
 52 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Wc can't help it,' said Fanny ; ' she talks to lis.' 
 Bertha's conscience a little reproached her. Perhaps, after all, 
 she was wrong in not giving Ella more confidence. She might 
 learn to be discreet if she were trusted. But Bertha had never 
 received confidence, and it was not easy to learn to give it. She 
 walked on very silently and thoughtfully ; and the children, 
 finding she did not enter into what they said, ran along the path 
 together. 
 
 They came in front of the Rectory, and passed the library 
 window, Louisa, of course, looked in ; her curiosity was insati- 
 able. ' Aunt Bertha,' — and she drew near her aunt, — 'there was 
 a stranger with Mr Lester, I am sure.' 
 
 * Perhaps so, my dear ; ' and Bertha only moved on the faster. 
 
 * But who could it be .?' continued Louisa. 
 
 ' It must be one of the shipwrecked people,' said Fanny ; 
 ' perhaps it was the captain of the vessel.' 
 
 ' He looked rather like a sailor,' observed Louisa ; ' do you 
 think it was the captain. Aunt Bertha ?' 
 
 ' My love, how can I tell ? and what does it signify ?' 
 
 ' But if it was the captain, I should like to hear all he has to 
 say, and how it all happened,' said Fanny ; ' I dare say he would 
 tell us ; and we might make a story out of it. Do you know, 
 Aunt Bertha, we began making out a story yesterday, only Ella 
 said it was nonsense,' 
 
 ' I '11 tell you who it was,' said Louisa, with the air of one who 
 has deeply considered a subject ; ' it 's that Mr Bruce whom 
 Ronald saved.' 
 
 ' What do you know about Mr Bruce ? ' inquired Bertha. 
 
 ' Oh ! the dairy-woman from the farm told Betsy about liim, 
 and she told me. He is not very well, and perhaps he may stay 
 at the farm, and perhaps he may be at the Inn at Cleve.' 
 
 ' Then it is not likely he should be here,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' He may be going to Cleve by and by,' said Louisa ; ' I am 
 sure it is Mr Bruce.' She nodded her head with an air which 
 admitted no open dissent from her opinion. 
 
 'Well; we need not trouble ourselves about it; we are not 
 likely to see him,' said Bertha ; ' and here is Rachel,' 
 
 'And Ivlrs Robinson with her,' whispered Fanny; whilst 
 Louisa pronounced decidedly, ' I don't like Mrs Robinson,' 
 
 Rachel ran up to them. Mrs Robinson came slowly behind. 
 She was a very different person under different circumstances, 
 and to different people. Now she was not so much reserved as
 
 CLEVE HALL. 53 
 
 very stiff. She made a respectful curtsey to Ijcrtlia, and would 
 have passed on, but Rachel would not let her go. ' Granny, dear, 
 you must wait, and tell Miss Campbell and the others all about 
 it ; they will like to hear so much. Wouldn't you like to hear all 
 about the shipwrecked people who were taken in at the farm?' 
 she added, addressing Bertha. 
 
 * We wont trouble Mrs Robinson if she is in a hurry,' replied 
 Bertha, civilly, but rather formally : ' you must tell us yourself, 
 Rachel.' 
 
 ' But I can't. Granny tells stories so much better than I do, 
 and I can't remember it all. There were five Americans, and a 
 Frenchman, and a German, weren't there ? And they slept — 
 where did they sleep ? O Granny ! you must tell all about it.' 
 
 'Not now, Miss Rachel; another time, my dear.' 
 
 ' But tell her just about Ronald. Miss Campbell likes to hear 
 about him always.' 
 
 ' The young gentleman was off to the ship by daylight,' said 
 Mrs Robinson, speaking very slowly, ' helping to get the goods 
 on shore ; for there are some left on board, though the ship is 
 likely, they say, to go to pieces. But that's like him, ma'am, as 
 you know.' 
 
 'And Mr Bruce wanted to see him and thank him,' added 
 Rachel ; ' but Ronald is so strange he won't go near him.' 
 
 'And it's Mr Bruce who is in the library with your papa, 
 Rachel ; isn't it ?' inquired Louisa. 
 
 Mrs Robinson answered for her rather ciuickly, 'Yes, Miss 
 Louisa, it is Mr Bruce. He is going into Cleve this afternoon, 
 to look about him. I think, ma'am, if you are thinking of the 
 shore you had best make haste, if you will excuse my saying so ; 
 the tide will be on the turn soon.' She moved away. 
 
 'There now,' and Louisa clapped her hands ; 'didn't I say it 
 was 'Sir Bruce ? I am always right. What is he like, Rachel ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know. I only saw him for a moment. He came 
 into the room with papa, and said how d'ye do; but of course I 
 didn't stare at him.' 
 
 'I should have stared, though,' whispered Louisa. ' I lliink 
 he looks very like a sailor.' 
 
 ' 1 wish I could have asked him how he felt when he believed 
 he was going to be drowned,' said Rachel, very thoughtfully. 
 ' Papa told me once, that some people, wlicn they have been 
 nearly drowned, have had all their lives come back to them,— 
 all they have done.'
 
 54 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 She ^tupped suddenly, as if trying to realise the idea. Bertha 
 lingered also. 
 
 ' Do you think it is so ? Do you think it is possible ?' said 
 Rachel. 
 
 ' Quite possible, dear Rachel.' 
 
 ' But do you think it is so ?' 
 
 ' Yes, if people say it.' 
 
 ' And do they look like other people, and come back and live 
 amongst them, as they did before?' 
 
 ' They look like others, — one may hope they don't live quite 
 like them,' 
 
 'Then, Miss Campbell,' and Rachel clung closely to Bertha's 
 side, and her voice was full of awe, ' I wish that God would let 
 me be nearly drowned.' 
 
 Bertha half-started. 
 
 'It isn't wicked, is it?' continued Rachel, anxiously, as she 
 watched the expression of Bertha's countenance. ' But I would 
 Ijear anything, yes, anything in all the world, to be very, won- 
 derfully good. Wouldn't you ?' In her enthusiasm she caught 
 Bertha's hand, and held it as they walked on together. 
 
 'Yes indeed, Rachel ;' and Bertha's cold, calm eyes sparkled 
 with a lightning flash of animation. 
 
 ' Wonderfully good,' continued Rachel ; ' not a little good, but, 
 oh ! ' and she drew a long breath, ' so very, very, — beyond all 
 thought. Will God make us so, if we wish it ?' 
 
 Bertha hesitated. 'We may hope He will, if we can bear the 
 means.' 
 
 There was a pause; and then Bertha heard, almost in a 
 whisper, the words, ' I would try.' 
 
 Rachel seemed considering something deeply; and after a few 
 seconds, resuming her natural tone, said : ' Is there any harm in 
 thinking about it a great deal, and liking it, in a way ?' 
 
 * What do you mean, Rachel ? ' 
 
 * I can't exactly explain ; but don't you know how Ella likes 
 to read about knights, and tournaments, and persons being 
 brave and generous, — what one reads in Froissart, and those 
 books ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; well : ' and Bertha turned to her with an air of mingled 
 wonder and interest. 
 
 ' Then, when Ella reads about such things, and gets into n, 
 \\ay about them, I never feel as she does ; but I do feel it when 
 1 read about martyrs, and people who have been so good ; and
 
 CLEVE HALL. 55 
 
 it makes my henrt beat fast, and my head seems almost dizzy, 
 ns if I could do anything to be like them. Is it wrong?' 
 
 ' Of course not, dear Rachel ; you can't help it.' 
 
 ' But do you ever feel it ?' 
 
 The answer was low and doubtful : ' I hope I do.' 
 
 ' I don't think all people do,' continued Rachel ; ' and it 
 puzzles me, and sometimes I think that, perhaps, it is being 
 proud and presumptuous to long to be first in anything.' 
 
 'We can only be first by being last in those things,' said 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' No ; and perhaps I am not willing to be last : and yet it 
 
 seems ' she hesitated, and added : ' Aunt Mildred says 
 
 she should not wish for the glory, if she might only have the 
 love.' 
 
 Bertha's eyes glistened. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred would be so glad if she could have you to talk 
 to as I have,' continued Rachel, eagerly. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred doesn't know anything about me,' replied 
 Bertha ; whilst her manner became in a moment constrained. 
 
 ' I talk to her about you,' said Rachel, ' and she very often 
 says she should like to see you. Will you go with me to the 
 Hall some day ?' 
 
 'Aunt Mildred is very kind, and talks about things which 
 interests you, Rachel,' replied Bertha ; ' but I don't believe she 
 would really like to see me.' 
 
 ' Not if she says it ?' exclaimed Rachael. 'O Miss Campbell ! 
 then she would say what was not true.' 
 
 ' She would like to see me, for your sake,' replied Bertha, in 
 the same tone of cold reserve ; 'she would not wish it for her 
 own.' 
 
 The conversation dropped. When Bertha assumed this pecu- 
 liar manner she was impenetrable. 
 
 Rachel was chilled, yet she was very fond of Bertha Campbell ; 
 she had an intuitive appreciation of her excellence, — a convic- 
 tion that upon the points nearest her own heart she might obtain 
 sympatliy from her. Might ! for it was never certain. Bertha 
 was unable to l:ring out her own feelings ; perhaps even she was 
 uncertain that she had them, and often she expressed wonder 
 when Rachel expected sympathy. Yet Rachel's simple, true de- 
 votion, and her open-hearted warmth of affection, often touched 
 a chord in Bertha's heart which seemed to unlock a new source 
 of untold nleasurc. Love in rcli'Mon was vcrv new to her. rSh«
 
 56 CLEVh HALL. 
 
 had been educated with a dread of expressing strong feeling of 
 any kind ; and had known fatal results from the indulgence of 
 what she had been taught to call enthusiasm ; and so she always 
 suspected that evil must lurk under it. 
 
 Yet she could not warn Rachel, still less in any way reprove 
 her. Even when unable to comprehend her, she could see that 
 Rachel possessed something whicli was wanting in herself, and 
 which would make her life much happier. Perhaps the charm 
 was all the greater because it seemed beyond her reach. She 
 felt as though Rachel belonged to a different race, and as if by 
 being with her a vent vv'as opened for the latent poetry of feeling 
 which, unknown to herself, was unquestionably a part of her own 
 character. 
 
 They reached the shore ; the wind had gone down rapidly 
 since the morning, and now the sea was as calm as if the 
 wrathful tempest had never passed over it. The hulk of the 
 dismantled vessel, however, bore witness to its fatal work, and 
 the shore was covered with persons groping about in the hope 
 of picking up something that might be worth carrying away. 
 Bertha had forgotten this possibility, and when she saw the 
 numbers assembled, her first impulse was to go back. Louisa 
 strongly opposed the idea, and Fanny nearly cried with dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 'You know, Aunt Bertha,' said Louisa, 'that if we go back we 
 shall ha\'e had no walk at all to speak of, and grandmamma 
 wishes ' 
 
 ' I am the best judge of grandmamma's wishes, Louisa : theie 
 are too many people here, a great deal. I can't possibly let you 
 go amongst them.' 
 
 Rachel gazed wistfully on the vessel. ' The tide is so far out 
 that we could have gone quite close to it,' she said. ' How un- 
 fortunate ! ' 
 
 'And it will be all to pieces in a day or two,' observed Louisa. 
 ' Goff says there isn't a chance for it.' 
 
 ' Goff, my dear Louisa ! how do you know anything of what 
 he thinks?' 
 
 ' Oh ! because a man came to the back door when Fanny and 
 I were in the garden this morning, and we heard him talking to 
 Betsy, and telling what the people in the village said.' 
 
 'Always listening,' was Bertha's comment: to which Louisa 
 replied, with a blush, that she could not help hearing what was 
 said quite close to her ; adding, however, directly afterwards,
 
 CLEVE HALL. S7 
 
 * That is, I think I might have got out of the way if I had wished 
 it; 
 
 ' I should hke Ronald to be here to tell us where the rock was 
 that Mr Bruce was clinging to,' said Rachel, as they stood upon 
 the summit of the cliff and looked down. 
 
 Bertha had appeared uninterested before, but she woke up at 
 the observation. ' It was the farthest of those great rocks you 
 see out towards the point,' she said. 
 
 ' Oh ! the Lion, and the Benr, and the Fox, wc always call 
 them,' exclaimed Fanny. ' It must have been the Lion, for that 
 has the most sea-v/eed growing upon it.' 
 
 ' Yes, the Lion's mane, as Ella calls it,' observed Louisa. ' She 
 said one day she meant to write some verses about it. I dare say 
 she will, now there has been such an adventure.' 
 
 ' And Ronald will be the hero ! ' exclaimed Fanny, clapping 
 her hands. 'Won't it be fun, Rachel ?' 
 
 Rachel did not answer directly. 
 
 'Shouldn't you like Ella to write something about it.'" again 
 inquired Fanny. 
 
 ' I don't quite know ; I don't think I should like Ronald to be 
 written about, at least not in that way.' 
 
 ' Rachel, how absurd ! ' exclaimed Louisa. ' Why not ?' 
 
 Bertha listened attentively to the repl)'. 
 
 ' I cnn't exactly say ; it is something I feel, but Miss Campbell 
 will know ;' and Rachel turned to Bertha, feeling at once that 
 she was speaking to some one who would understand without 
 words. ' If Ella could write just what Ronald felt, I shouldn't 
 care,' she continued. ' But then how could she ?' 
 
 'She might imagine it,' said Louisa. 
 
 ' But if it were imagination, it wouldn't be true.' 
 
 ' And it must be some one different from Ella to understand 
 Ronald truly,' said Bertha, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Thank you, thank you ; that was just what I meant, only I 
 couldn't explain.' 
 
 Louisa and Fanny moved away, not caring for the explanation. 
 Rachel held Bertha's hand, and drew her nearer to the edge of 
 the cliff. Her eyes were riveted on the rock, and a long time 
 elapsed before she spoke. At last, without any preface, she said, 
 ' Miss Campbell, is Ronald good?' 
 
 Silence was her answer ; and when she looked round a tear 
 was rolling down Bertha's cheek. Rachel asked no more ques- 
 tions, but followed Louisa and Fanny ; and Bcriha was left alone.
 
 58 . CLEVE HALL. 
 
 The children seated themselves on a bench placed on the lop 
 of the cliff. Louisa and Fanny were sufficiently amused by 
 watching what was going on below ; and even Rachel, though 
 she occasionally glanced at the spot where licrtha was standing, 
 soon entered into their interest, and laughed more merrily than 
 cither. 
 
 'A beautiful evening, young ladies,' said a voice behind them. 
 Rachel started, and involuntarily stood up to move away when 
 she saw Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' Come down to see the fun, I suppose ?' he continued. 
 
 * Yes, thank you, I think, — Louisa, had we not better go to 
 your aunt?' 
 
 ' Oh! never mind me ; don't let me interrupt you. How d'ye 
 do. Miss Campbell?' and Captain Vivian held out his hand to 
 Ijertha, who at that moment came up. Bertha greeted him 
 formally, and a sign to the children told them they were to go 
 on ; and w ilh an instinctive terror of Captain Vivian, they ran 
 till they were quite beyond the reach of his voice. 
 
 ' It's along time since we met to talk. Miss Campbell. I've 
 been away a good deal till lately. But you are looking as if the 
 sea air agreed with you.' 
 
 He evidently meant to be courteous ; and though Bertha was 
 so pale as to belie the compliment which had been paid her, she 
 showed no wish to shun the interview. 
 
 ' I scarcely expected to find you at Encombe, when we came 
 here, Captain Vivian,' she said. 
 
 ' You thought I should keep farther from the General's quar- 
 ters. Well, perhaps it might be just as well if I did ; but there 's 
 something in the sight of old ocean after all which tempts a man, 
 when he's been used to it ; and the Grange was empty, and so 
 Ronald and I have e'en taken up our quarters there.' 
 
 ' Ronald is as fond of the sea as yourself,' remarked Bertha. 
 
 ' Perhaps he may be, but he's a strange fellow is Ronald ; one 
 never knows what he will be at.' 
 
 ' His taste for the sea was a taste from infancy,' said Bertha. 
 ' I remember ' 
 
 He interrupted her quickly ; * Yes, yes. You are right ; he 
 always had a taste for it ; but he 's too old.' 
 
 ' For the naval service ? yes,' replied Bertha, timidly. 
 
 ' For any service, unless I choose it ;' and in an instant an 
 angry flush overspread Captain Vivian's face, whilst he muttered 
 to himself, 'Am I never to be left alone?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. . 59 
 
 Bertha stood her ground. ' We have not met for so long-, 
 Captain Vivian,' she said, ' that you must forgive me if I touch 
 upon unwelcome subjects.' 
 
 ' I don 't know what long acquaintance it requires to learn that 
 interference must always be unwelcome,' he replied. ' But you 
 are one of Mr Lester's apt scholars, Miss Bertha.' 
 
 ' ]\Iy interference, if you can call it such,' replied Bertha, 
 'dates long before my acquaintance with Mr Lester.' 
 
 ' Then it is the old story,' he exclaimed. ' I should have 
 thought that years might have taught you wisdom.' 
 
 ' I trust they have in some measure,' replied Bertha ; ' but 
 they have not taught me that there is either wisdom or goodness 
 in looking with indifference upon the child of 
 
 He interrupted her, and his manner changed into patronising 
 indifference. 
 
 ' We won 't quarrel, Miss Bertha ; we have had enough of that 
 in our day. Since we are neighbours, we may as well be friendly 
 when we meet.' 
 
 ' Ouite as well,' said Bertha ; ' if we are to meet at all.' 
 
 He seemed a little piqued, and answered hastily, ' Oh ! then 
 you had thought of cutting me, had you ? The way of the world ; 
 off with old friends, and on with new.' 
 
 ' I could not have supposed that you would look upon me as a 
 friend,' replied Bertha. ' It was scarcely the light in which I 
 ivas regarded in former times.' 
 
 He bit his lip. ' I didn't mean, — of course, I never supposed 
 you would bear malice.' 
 
 ' I have nothing to bear malice for, Captain Vivian,' replied 
 Bertha. ' I was not the person to suffer.' And there was a stress 
 upon the pronoun which made the coarse, rough man whom she 
 addressed, shrink as with the touch of some sudden pain. 
 
 ' I don't know why you are so fond of going back to these old 
 times,' he said. ' Why can't we meet, and forget them ?' 
 
 * Because,' replied Bertha, boldly, ' they are the only grounds 
 upon which our acquaintance can possibly rest. You must be 
 fully aware. Captain Vivian, that if we were now, for the first 
 time, living in the same village, wc could never be anything to 
 each other but strangers.' 
 
 'Too proud!' he exclaimed, in a tone which yet had very 
 little pride in it. 'Aiming at the Hall, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Aiming at nothing, I hope,' replied Bertha, as she fixed her 
 eyes upon him, till his -sank beneath their gaze ; ' but the man
 
 6o CLEVE HALL. 
 
 who has brought exile, and disgrace, and poverty into a family, 
 can little expect to be received as a friend.' 
 
 His face became deadly pale ; twice he tried to speak, and 
 twice the words seemed kept back l.)y some violent inward 
 agitation. 
 
 ' I know more than I once did, you see,' continued Bertha. 
 
 ' Aye ! from that meddling, false-hearted' he was going to 
 
 add a string of violent epithets to ]\Ir Lester's name, but Bertha 
 prevented him. Her cold, quiet, womanly dignity seemed to 
 have a strange power over him. 
 
 ' I\Ir Lester is my friend,' she said. ' If he can be mentioned 
 ill terms of respect, well ; if not, this is the first and last time, 
 Captain Vivian, that I will hear his name from )'Our lips.' 
 
 ' And what has he been telling you, then ?' 
 
 The question was put anxiously, and with a certain tone of 
 deference. 
 
 ' It must be only painful, and quite unnecessary for me to 
 repeat what you already know so well,' replied Bertha. ' It is 
 sufficient, that after having assisted to ruin the prospects of the 
 father, you yet have it in your power to show repentance by 
 your conduct to the son. Edward Vivian's fate would have been 
 ^■ery diflerent from what it is but for your influence. Clement 
 may be restored to all that his father has lost, if only you will 
 not stand in his way.' 
 
 ' I stand in his way !' and the laugh which accompanied the 
 words made Bertha shrink. ' Why, one would think I was the 
 old General's ally, likely to come over him with smooth words. 
 How can I stand in the boy's way ?' 
 
 ' You are the General's enemy,' replied Bertha, 
 
 ' And if I am, what 's that to any one but myself 
 
 ' It may be very much to Clement, if his grandfather thinks 
 that he is your friend,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' Tut, tut !' he exclaimed, impatiently ; ' this is all idle talking, 
 Miss Bertha. The boy 's a fine fellow enough, and likes free 
 air and sea breezes ; and Ronald has taken to him — and where 's 
 the harm ?' 
 
 ' Merely,' replied Bertha, coldly, ' that Ronald's friendship is 
 a sin in General Vivian's eyes.' 
 
 ' But if it is no sin in reality, since you will harp upon the old 
 question of conscience.' 
 
 ' It must be sin to Clement,' replied Bertha, ' when it is against 
 the wishes of all hi§ friends.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 6l 
 
 * What is that to me ?— let his friends take care of him.' 
 
 ' His friends have very little power, as I suspect you know full 
 well by this time, Captain Vivian,' replied Bertha. ' My mother 
 is too infirm, and has indulged him too much for years. Mr 
 Lester is most kind, but he has only authority over his lessons. 
 Clement is left, most unhappily, to himself; and his whole suc- 
 cess in life depends upon the favour of his grandfather. Is it a 
 very hard thing to ask that you should not interfere to mar his 
 prospects V 
 
 ' I have told you before,' he exclaimed, ' that there is no inter- 
 ference on my part. It is Ronald's doings, if there is anything 
 of the kind ; but I don't see it : they are together every now 
 and then.' 
 
 ' And not alone,' continued Bertha ; ' Ronald's companions 
 become Clement's also — Goff, for instance.' 
 
 'Pshaw! if you are as squeamish as that, you must needs 
 shut your boy up in a glass case. But I '11 say one thing to 
 you. Miss Bertha ; you have shown me a bit of your mind, you 
 nuist needs let me show you a bit of mine. Fair play 's a jewel. 
 Don't you interfere with my game, if you want me not to inter- 
 fere with yours. Remember my boy is not to be preached over 
 into a milksop, and his head filled with fancies of merchant ser- 
 vice, and all that nonsense. Ronald will be what I choose to 
 make him ; and I give you warning, that if there 's any attempt 
 to turn him another way, I '11 be your match.' 
 
 Bertha changed colour, but the determined lines of her mouth 
 became more marked as she said, ' Captain Vivian, you mny 
 threaten but you will not Iri-hten me ; the promise which I made 
 to Marian on her death-bed will be kept, God helping me, before 
 all others.' 
 
 A storm of fearful passion was visible in Captain Vivian's dark 
 countenance, but Bertha regarded him with perfect calmness ; 
 and as again her searching gaze rested on him, the exclamatif;n 
 wliich was about to escape his lips was checked, and muttering 
 between his teeth, ' Do your will and take the consequences,' he 
 turned from her without another word.
 
 62 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THREE clays had passed since the storm. The wcatlier had 
 become very warm ; it would have been oppressive but 
 for the soft air, just sufficient to stir the foliage of the trees 
 before the windows of Mildred Vivian's apartment. The flower- 
 beds, disordered by the rush of the tempest, were again restored 
 to their usual appearance of trim neatness ; the lawn was newly 
 mown, and Mildred, lying on her sofa by the open window, 
 appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the luxurious repose of the 
 morning. 
 
 Yes, thoroughly enjoying it ; no one could have doubted that, 
 notwithstanding the thin, drawn look of her features, their habi- 
 tual expression of bodily pain. She was reading, or perhaps, 
 more strictly speaking, intending to read : for although a book 
 lay open before her, her eyes wandered chiefly amongst the 
 flowers or pursued the course of the buzzing insects and flutter- 
 ing birds, following them as they rose in the air, and resting 
 with an expression of longing thankfulness upon the depths of 
 the blue heavens. Such extreme quietness as there was in that 
 secluded garden at Cleve Hall might have been very trying to 
 many, even on a brilliant summer's day ; but it was part of 
 Mildred's home, associated with all that she had ever loved ; 
 and where others would have dwelt mournfully on past joys, 
 she had taught herself to be happy, and to seize on present 
 blessings. 
 
 A little door, leading into the more public part of the grounds, 
 opened, and a tall, gray-haired man, who had certainly reached, 
 and probably passed, the age of seventy, entered the garden. He 
 walked proudly, and with tolerable firmness, and the stick which 
 he carried was no support to him ; his head was raised, his chin 
 slightly elevated— perhaps that added to the self-possessed, self- 
 dependent look, which was the first impression conveyed by his 
 handsome features. For he was strikingly handsome — the fore- 
 head high, the nose just sufficiently aquiline for dignity, the dark 
 blue eyes quick and piercing, the mouth — the real character was 
 inscribed there ; but we will leave it for words to tell. 
 
 He sat down by Mildred's sofa, slowly — he had been suffering 
 from rheumatism — and he bit his lips as if in pain ; but Mildred 
 did not ask him how he was, but waited for him to break the 
 silence.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 63 
 
 ' I have been round the park, Mildred ; the stcrm has done a 
 good deal of mischief.' 
 
 'Has it indeed, sir ? I thought there were no trees blown down.' 
 
 ' Who told you that ? ' he asked quickly. 
 
 ' I forget, sir, who; but I understood it.' 
 
 ' Then they deceived you, Mildred ; purposely perhaps,' he 
 added in an undertone. ' The Great Black Oak, of hve hundred 
 years' standing, is down, child. But what does it matter ?' He 
 tried to laugh. ' It only follows the family fortunes.' 
 
 ' I hoped it was to be the type of their remaining firm,' said 
 Mildred, assuming a lighter tone ; ' but it is best not to think 
 about such things.' 
 
 ' Do you never think about them, then ? ' he continued, regard- 
 ing her with an expression of tenderness which was at variance 
 with the accent of his voice. 
 
 ' Sometimes I do, dear sir ; but I don't think it is wise.' 
 
 ' No, child ; no, it is not at all wise ; but I thought I would 
 tell you myself, lest you should fret.' 
 
 ' It was very kind,' replied Mildred, in an absent tone ; then 
 breaking suddenly into another subject, she asked, ' Did you go 
 beyond the park, sir ? ' 
 
 ' No, I meant to go ; but my back was stiff, so I turned back ; 
 —Prince was troublesome too.' 
 
 ' Prince has not exercise enough, sir ; I wish you would let 
 Groves take him out regularly.' 
 
 ' And throw him down ; that won't do, Mildred. No, if Prince 
 grows too strong for his master, he must seek another.' 
 
 ' I hope not, sir ; you wouldn't bear to part with him.' 
 
 'Would I not?' A smile of resolution almost forbidding 
 crossed his face ; 'then, Mildred, you know nothing about me.' 
 
 ' I don't mean that you would not do anything, or part with 
 anything, that you considered right, sir,' began Mildred. 
 
 He caught up her words — ' Considered right, that is what you 
 ahvays say ; is right — it ought to be.' 
 
 Mildred was silent. 
 
 ' Is right,' he continued, speaking his own thoughts rather 
 than addressing her ; ' I set off in life with that motto, and I 
 have followed it. Who can have done so more? who can have 
 sacrificed more — eh ! Mildred?' 
 
 * Certainly, sir ; no one can doubt your principle,' replied 
 Mildred, keeping her eyes upon the work which she had taken 
 up since her father entered.
 
 64 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Only it is a principle you don't agree with. Wiiat woman ever 
 did?' 
 
 ' Woman's fcclin2[s carry them away, so it is said,' replied 
 Mildred, with a smile. ' But, my dear father, why should we go 
 over the old ground ? ' 
 
 ' Well, as you say, why should we?' and he sighed deeply. 
 
 Mildred laid her thin, white hand upon the scanty gray hairs 
 which covered his head, and as she fondly smoothed them, said, 
 ' If I could make you listen to my principle instead of to your 
 own, I should ask such a great favour.' He would not turn to 
 look at her, but he suffered her to kiss his forehead ; and she 
 added, in a tone so low that it was almost a whisper, ' Would it 
 vex you very much if Ella were to come and see me .'■ ' 
 
 Very striking it was, the change which passed over his face. 
 Its expression had been gentle and sad the moment before, gentle 
 notwithstanding the unyielding determination which was de- 
 scribed by the lines of his mouth, and which broke forth in the 
 tones of his voice ; but even as Mildred spoke, it was gone, con- 
 quered, as it would have seemed, by some sudden mental suffering 
 which he could not control, yet against which he struggled with 
 all the intensity of an ungovernable will. 
 
 Mildred must have known the effect her words would have, 
 yet she seemed neither to watch nor wait, nor be anxious for his 
 reply. She took up her work, and tried to thread her needle, 
 h\\\. her hand was unsteady ; the cotton rolled upon the floor, 
 and she bent over the side of the sofa to pick it up. He saw 
 her movement, and stooped too, but it was an effort ; and as he 
 raised himself again, he said bitterly, ' Your father is an old man, 
 IMildred. Wait but a little while, and you may do as you wish 
 without asking.' 
 
 ' It will be too late to have any wish then, sir,' said Mildred, 
 quietly. 
 
 He leaned back in the arm-chair, resting his hand upon the 
 stick which he laid across it. His tone was still constrained as 
 be said, ' How long have you had this new fancy?' 
 
 ' It is a very old one, dear sir,' replied Mildred : ' I can never 
 see the children by going to them.' 
 
 ' And their grandmother knew that, crafty old woman that 
 she is !' 
 
 ' But the children, sir,' said Mildred, humbly ; ' must they 
 suffer?' 
 
 'I'll tell you what, Mildred' — General Vivian rose from his
 
 CLEVE HALL. 65 
 
 chair with an energy which for the moment conquered the in^ 
 firmities of age — 'there is no more cunning, designing old fox in 
 England than that woman ; but I '11 outwit her.' 
 
 ' We don't like her, certainly, sir, either of us,' said Mildred ; 
 ' but then so much the more reason, perhaps, for taking the chil- 
 dren from her : don't you think so ? ' 
 
 'And so give her cause to triumph over us ! What made her 
 bring them here but the determination to thrust them upon me ? 
 No, r^Iildred, let them alone — Campbells and Vivians — Camp- 
 bells and Vivians,' he repeated, muttering the words ; ' it can't 
 be ! it wasn't meant to be.' 
 
 ' But the children are Vivians, dear sir,' said Mildred. She 
 was afraid then, for she looked up at him stealthily. ' Yes,' he 
 said, pondering upon the words ; and Mildred heard him add, as 
 he turned away from her, 'And so are others.' 
 
 ' Clement is very young,' observed Mildred, replying to his 
 thoughts, rather than his words. 
 
 ' And therefore the more sure a victim,' he exclaimed, im- 
 petuously ; the volcano, which had been working secretly, burst- 
 ing forth, 'Am I blind, Mildred? Can I not see the boy's 
 course as plainly as if it were written in letters of fire before 
 me ? And is all to be sacrificed ? all for which I have striven in 
 life — the inheritance of my ancestors ; the good of my people ; 
 the honourable name, to attain which I have practised the self- 
 denial of years ? But let it go,' he continued, moodily ; ' since 
 even you, Mildred, cannot value it.' He moved to the window, 
 and stood there, listening, it might have seemed, to the note of 
 the v>-ood-pigeon, and the plashing of the fountain in the garden. 
 
 Mildred's hands were clasped together, possibly in suffering, 
 but more probably in prayer. Hers was not a face to betray much 
 internal agitation —perhaps she had been too much accustomed 
 to these scenes to be startled or deeply pained by them — but 
 something of the hopeful expression passed from her face as, after 
 the lapse of a few seconds, she said, very slowly, ' I can see the 
 risk, dear sir ; but I can see the duty to the children also.' 
 
 ' I will do my duty by them,' he replied, quickly. ' I will 
 help the boy. Let him go to college ; I will support him there. 
 L,et him show that there is yet something left in the Vivian 
 blood which I need not blush to own, and I may even do more. 
 And the girls shall not want, Campbells though they are- 
 Campbells in every look and motion— they shall have aid too, 
 as nnd when I see fit. But it shall not be extorted from me, 
 
 Iv
 
 66 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Mildred : it shall be at my own time. They shall see that no- 
 thing has been gained, rather that everything has been lost, by 
 thrusting them upon me.' 
 
 'It was a great mistake of Mrs Campbell, almost wrong in- 
 deed,' said Mildred ; 'but we only give her a just cause for com- 
 plaint, so at least it seems to me, by neglecting our own share of 
 duty to the children.' 
 
 ' I don't acknowledge the duty,' he replied, sternly, 
 
 Mildred hesitated. ' Then, dear sir, if not from duty to them, 
 at least from kindness to me. It would be such a great' — satis- 
 faction she was going to say, but the word was changed into 
 'pleasure.' She looked at him pleadingly, but his head was 
 turned away ; he did not or would not hear. 
 
 ' There is too much draught for you here,' he said, abruptly ; 
 * they must tnove your sofa back.' He put his hand out to touch 
 the bell. Mildred stopped him : ' Only one moment, dear sir ; 
 indeed it won't hurt me.' 
 
 He looked impatient, and his eye wandered to the door, which 
 was open. A light breeze rushed through the room, and partially 
 blew aside a green silk curtain which hung at the lower end. 
 The edge of the curtain was caught by the point of an old oak 
 chair, and the picture which it covered was displayed to view. 
 It represented three figures : one was Mildred, kneeling against 
 a garden seat, her arm thrown around the neck of a young girl, 
 who was seated with a book in her lap, which both seemed to be 
 studying. They were very unlike — Mildred's face so thoughtful 
 even in its youthful happiness ; her sister's — for it was evident 
 they were sisters,— so brilliant, intelligent, inquisitive, joyous, 
 and with something in it of her father's commanding spirit, to 
 which Mildred, as she clung to her, seemed only too willing to 
 submit. Behind them stood a boy, apparently some years older, 
 tall, erect, noble-looking ; with the open forehead, the slightly 
 aquiline nose, and piercing eye which marked him for the son of 
 General Vivian ; but also with the full lip and self-indulgent 
 yielding outline of the small mouth, which showed that in some 
 points, and those perhaps the most essential for success and 
 honour in life, the father and the child could never be one. 
 
 It was scarcely a glance which General Vivian cast at the 
 picture; but it made Mildred's cheek almost livid, whilst she 
 watched him, as he walked to the end of the room, and deliber- 
 ately replaced the curtain, and removed the oak chair, so that 
 the same thing might not happen a second time, and then re-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 67 
 
 turned to seat himself once more by her side, his countenance, 
 perhaps a shade more stern that it was before. Mildred did not 
 wait for an observation from him. She spoke hurriedly, appar- 
 ently saying what she scarcely intended or wished to say. 
 
 * Ella should be very little in your way, dear sir.' 
 
 A pause, and silence — this time not wilful : the old man's 
 eyes were bent upon the ground, his thoughts perhaps wandering 
 back into far distant years. He did not catch her words. A 
 dog's bark was heard. 
 
 ' It must be Clement,' said Mildred, in a timid voice. 
 
 General Vivian started. 
 
 'Do as you will, child;' and he stood up to leave her, just 
 as Clement, rushing through the garden, entered by the win- 
 dow. 
 
 ' Clement, don't you see your grandfather?' Mildred spoke 
 reprovingly, for the boy's first impulse was to rush up to her 
 sofa ; and a smile of displeasure curled General Vivian's lips as 
 he observed the hasty self-recollection, mingled with fear, which 
 made the blood rise in Clement's cheek, whilst shyly approaching 
 he muttered an apology. The excuse was received coldly, and 
 Clement's colour deepened, and he looked at the window, wishing 
 evidently to make his escape. 
 
 ' Reverence to elders is not one of the lessons taught in modern 
 education,' said General Vivian, addressing Mildred, 'so we 
 must not, I suppose, expect too much.' 
 
 Mildred smiled. ' Clement is not generally so forgetful, my 
 dear father; but you did not think of finding any one here except 
 me, Clement, did you ? ' 
 
 ' I thought Mr Lester might be here,' replied Clement, a little 
 sulkily ; 'and I was going to ask him to order me some lishing- 
 flies in Cleve.' 
 
 'He is going over there, is he.'"' asked Mildred, in a tone of 
 interest. 
 
 ' Yes, so he said, to see Mr Bruce.' 
 
 ' Is that the gentleman who was saved in the storm ? 
 
 'Yes, the man whom Ronald saved,' said Clement. 
 
 There was a quick flash in General Vivian's eye, and he snt 
 down. Mildred went on — 
 
 ' And so you want some fishing-flies, do you, Clement ?' 
 
 ' Yes, like some that Goff got for Ronald ; he means to show 
 me how to use them.' 
 
 ' Who ! Goff?' inquired Mildred, quickly.
 
 68 CLEVE HALL 
 
 'Oh ! no, not he ; Ronald. There used to be famous sport at 
 the last place he was at, so he's quite up in it. Goff laughs at 
 that sober kind of work, and says there's no fun like that of 
 catching fish at night, with lights on a river, which is never 
 done here.' 
 
 'That is poachers' work very often,' said Mildred. 
 
 * I don't know where the right is of preserving fish for one 
 man more than another,' replied Clement. ' Goff says' 
 
 Mildred interrupted him. ' Why, Clement, one would think 
 that Goff was your tutor.' 
 
 Clement laughed. ' Well, he is a kind of tutor in some things ; 
 he and Captain Vivian are such knowing fellows; up to so many 
 things.' 
 
 'They are up to teaching you slang,' said Mildred. ' I wish 
 tliey may do nothing worse. What docs Mr Lester say to their 
 instruction ?' 
 
 'Oh! he hasn't much to do with it so long as I am in for 
 hours.' 
 
 Mildred looked at her father, who was leaning back in the arm 
 chair, with his eye fixed upon the carpet. 
 
 ' Hardman, the gamekeeper, fishes too,' she said, timidly, ad- 
 dressing General Vivian ; 'he might be a better master than 
 Ronald. Don't you think so, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Clement chooses his own friends,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Not quite, I think,' replied Mildred ; 'he would not wish to 
 have any friends whom you might disapprove.' 
 
 ' I don't want to make friends,' said Clement ; ' I only want 
 some one to go fishing with, and put me in the way of it.' 
 
 'And if Hardman could teach you as well as Ronald, you 
 would be as well contented to have him,' observed IMildred. 
 
 Clement looked annoyed, and muttered somethmg about 
 Hardman being a bore. 
 
 ' Of course,' observed General Vivian, coldly, 'it is Ronald's 
 society which is the point. I have told you so before,' he added, 
 speaking to Mildred. 
 
 ' Grandpapa doesn't wish you to make friends with Ronald,' 
 said Mildred. 
 
 ' I have no one else to be friends with,' replied Clement, 
 quickly. He did not intend to be impertinent, but he was irri- 
 tated, and his tone was certainly wanting in respect. 
 
 Mildred looked very pained. 'O Clement!' and ("lemon( in 
 a moment recovered himself.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 69 
 
 *I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't mean any harm ; only it's 
 dull going out alone, and not much better with Hardman,' 
 
 'And so you choose Mr Ronald Vivian for a companion. I 
 warn you once for all, my boy ' — and General Vivian leaned 
 forward, and fixed his eager eye upon his grandson with an ex- 
 pression of authority beneath which Clement actually quailed : 
 * There are two roads before you, — one leads to Heaven, the 
 other — I leave you to guess where ; — if you want to travel that 
 way, follow Ronald Vivian.' 
 
 ' It's not true,' exclaimed Clement, impetuously; but he was 
 stopped by Mildred. 
 
 'Clement, Clement, remember he is your grandfather; re- 
 member. Dear sir ! he doesn't mean it.' 
 
 ' Don't be afraid, IMildred, I understand him quite. He has 
 had my warning, let him attend to it.' 
 
 General Vivian left the room ; Clement knelt on one knee by 
 Mildred's sofa. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred, why docs he speak so ? Why does he hurt 
 me so ? What makes him say such cruel things of Ronald ? ' 
 
 Mildred put her hand before his mouth ; 'Clement, you are 
 t.dking of your grandfather.' 
 
 He drew back and stood up proudly ; ' If he were t\vent\ times 
 my grandfather, what he says of Ronald is false.' 
 
 Mildred did not speak ; a pink spot, the flush of mental agita- 
 tion, burnt upon her cheeks. 
 
 Clement's tone softened; 'Aunt Mildred, you know that it is 
 false.' 
 
 ' No, Clement' — Mildred's voice was low, and her breath 
 came with difficulty ; ' it is true, — for you wilfully to follow 
 Ronald Vivian would lead you to destruction, for it would be 
 disobedience.' 
 
 ' But when grandpapa is unjust, unfair — wlien he doesn't 
 knov.- Ronald — when he doesn't even speak to him ! Why Tvlr 
 Lester allows that there is the spirit of a hero in Ronald, if it 
 could but be brought out.' 
 
 ' But you cannot be the person to do it, Clement,' said Mildred, 
 gently. 
 
 ' I don't see that ; I am more of a gentleman. I can tell him a 
 good many things which he never knew of, and he often asks 
 my opinion ;' a gleam of self-gratulation passed over Clement's 
 face as he spoke. 
 
 Mildred laid her hand upon his : ' Dear Clement, at your age,
 
 70 CLEVE HAI.L. 
 
 you have enough to do lo keep yourself straight ; it is better not 
 to think of others.' 
 
 'But Ronald is not what they say!' exclaimed Clement, 
 
 shrinking from the implied censure ; ' if he were ' 
 
 ' That is nothing to the point ; at your age there is only one 
 course open to you— to obey;' and as Clement's expressive 
 mouth showed how his spirit rebelled against the word, Mildred 
 added, ' I know it seems very hard to do so without comprehend- 
 ing why.' 
 
 'Yes, it is very hard, Aunt Mildred ; and no one will talk to 
 me about things plainly, and I hate mysteries. Won't you tell 
 me what it all means ?' 
 
 Mildred hesitated for a moment, and then said : ' I think you 
 must know it all, Captain Vivian and your father were friends 
 once ; but it would have been better for them if they had not 
 been. Captain Vivian led your father to do things which your 
 
 grandfather disapproved, and he was very angry, and ' 
 
 ' Disinherited him,' said Clement. 
 
 'Yes,' The word was uttered very abruptly, and Mildred 
 continued : ' Your grandfather is afraid now that Ronald may 
 have the same influence over you.' 
 
 'And so he is unjust to him ! ' exclaimed Clement. 
 Mildred smiled, and pointed to a seat. ' Clement, may I give 
 you a lecture ?' 
 
 Clement sat down half moodily. 
 
 ' That was just as your father used to look in the old days,' 
 she continued, with a mixture of sadness and playfulness. ' I 
 used to lecture him sometimes, Clement, though he was much 
 older than I was.' 
 
 There was something indescribably winning in her tone, and 
 Clement's face relaxed. ' I hate lectures. Aunt Mildred,' he said, 
 ' and I have such a number.' 
 ' From Mr Lester?' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mind his ; but Aunt Bertha is at me from morn- 
 ing till night, and I can't stand it. It makes me say sharp things 
 when I don't wish it.' 
 
 ' And then she is vexed, and lectures a little more ? ' asked 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' Yes, and then I reply, and then she won't speak, and so we 
 are at daggers drawn. O Aunt Mildred, I wish I had men to 
 deal with. I can't abide women.' 
 Mildred laughed.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 71 
 
 ' I can't bear them in that way — that lecturing way,' continued 
 Clement ; ' they do say such a great deal.' 
 
 ' And the young gentlemen do so many things to deserve the 
 great deal,' replied Mildred. ' But I can really understand, 
 Clement, that it is trying to be kept under a woman's control ; 
 only — you see I am not going to acquit you quite — I think it is 
 the old question of obedience, any how.' 
 
 ' I could obey as well as any one, if they would only be rational,' 
 observed Clement. 
 
 ' That is to say, rational according to your notions,' replied 
 jMildred. ' I don't exactly see how you would be obeying any 
 one but yourself then.' 
 
 Clement coloured a little, and said, quickly, 'Well, but that's 
 what every one must do ; you wouldn't have one a slave, without 
 any judgment of one's own ? ' 
 
 ' Sixteen is rather young to have a judgment,' said Mildred, 
 quietly. ' But,' she added, observing that Clement looked blank, 
 ' at any rate, having a judgment, and acting upon it, are different 
 things.' 
 
 'That is slavery completely !' exclaimed Clement, 'to give up 
 w hen one knows people are wrong.' 
 
 ' What would the world be like if it were not done ?' inquired 
 Mildred. ' How would there be any law or order ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps in public matters it may be necessary,' said Clement. 
 
 'What is good in public matters must be good in private,' 
 continued Mildred. ' If what is ordered is not contrary to the 
 law of God, we are bound to submit to lawful authority.' 
 
 ' And so I am to be kept under grandmamma's thumb all my 
 life ! ' exclaimed Clement, impatiently. 
 
 ' I don't see why we are to trouble about all your life,' replied 
 Mildred. ' It is easy enough, I think, to see what your duty is 
 for the present.' 
 
 ' And what is it ? ' he asked, rather sulkily. 
 
 ' Come when you are called ; do as you are bid ; 
 Shut the door after you, and you '11 never be chid,' 
 
 said Mildred, lightly. 
 
 'And be a baby in leading-strings !' exclaimed Clement. 
 
 'And be what God wishes and intends you to be,' said Mildred, 
 very gravely ; 'that is the real point. If God puts persons in 
 authority over us. He expects us to obey them.' 
 
 ' But, according to that, no one would be at liberty to go
 
 72 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 against the wishes of parents, and such kind of people,' said 
 Clement ; * not if they were ever so old.' 
 
 ' There may be different claims for grown-up people,' replied 
 Ivlildrcd ; 'and they are competent to judge about them. No 
 law of a parent can take the place of God's law, in the Bible, or 
 even of the laws of your country.' 
 
 'Then if people abuse Ronald, and say false things of him, 
 and tell me to cut him, I may refuse to do it,' exclaimed 
 Clement ; 'because they are untrue and unjust, and are going 
 against the Bible.' 
 
 Mildred smiled rather sadly. ' O Clement ! what a quibble!' 
 
 ' It's no quibble ; it is truth ;' he replied, triumphantly, look- 
 ing up with a most self-satisfied air. 
 
 ' I can't argue with you, Clement, in that mood,' said Mildred ; 
 and she took up her work. 
 
 'What mood, Aunt Mildred?' 
 
 'A mood in which you are trusting to yourself, and thinking 
 how clever you are.' 
 
 The colour rushed to his face, angrily, and he muttered, ' But 
 you can't refute what I said.' 
 
 'You are not required to cut Ronald, only not to be much 
 with him,' said Mildred. 'If you were, there is no moral law 
 against it.' 
 
 ' Charity, I should have thought,' observed Clement, quickly. 
 
 'Charity against the fifth commandment,' replied Mildred; 
 and changing her manner, she added more lightly, ' but you are 
 only arguing for the sake of argument, — you agree v>ith me I 
 know, really.' 
 
 Clement's anger was as quickly gone really, as Mildred's 
 vexation was apparently ; he laughed in reply to her words, and 
 owned that he did dearly love an argument. 
 
 Mildred shook her head. 'We shall never agree there, 
 Clement ; I can't endure arguing.' 
 
 'Then you are just exactly unlike Aunt Bertha. She would 
 argue from morning till night.' 
 
 ' And you try to provoke her into it.' 
 
 ' There's no occasion to provoke her ; she comes into it of her 
 own accord, and Ella stands by and listens.' 
 
 'And takes your part ?' 
 
 ' Of course, she is bound to do that. In fact, Aunt Mildred, 
 it is the only thing to be done at the Lodge, to make any fun. 
 It is awfullv dull work there sometimes.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 73 
 
 Clement yawned audibly. 
 
 ' You should find )Our way to the Hall oftener,' said Mildred; 
 'only I am afraid it would not be much better than "awfully 
 dull" here, unless you were to take it into your head to read 
 to me.' 
 
 His face brightened. ' Read to you ? Should you like it ? 
 I read to Ella a great deal, when we can get alone, but when 
 Aunt Bertha is there I don't, because she lectures so about the 
 books.' 
 
 'Byron and Moore, I suppose?' said Mildred. 
 
 ' How do you know that V he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Merely because they are just what all boys of your age like. 
 But, Clement, Aunt Bertha is quite right about Ella.' 
 
 'Perhaps so,' he answered, carelessly; 'but Aunt Bertha 
 preaches up Hallam's " Middle Ages," and that I vow I won't 
 read.' 
 
 ' You might find something between, perhaps,' said Mildred, 
 laughing. ' Walter Scott, for instance.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ella knows Walter Scott by heart, and Byron too, for 
 that matter. In fact, she knows everything, it 's my belief. I 
 never saw such a girl. I can't say Avhat she has not learnt by 
 heart ; all Childe Harold, and the Corsair, and the Giaour, and 
 Darkness' • 
 
 ' .She should come and say them to me,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' She would be afraid ; she would think you thought them 
 wicked.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I don't think them very good,' said Mildred ; ' but 
 still I should like to hear her say them.' 
 
 'That is another thing just precisely different from Aunt 
 Bertha,' said Clement. ' She purses up her mouth just so '— 
 and he made an absurd face — ' if Ella only quotes a few 
 lines.' 
 
 'I shall purse up my mouth,' said Mildred, 'if Ella won't 
 make me a few promises about her reading. You know, 
 Clement, you wouldn't bear to see her grow up anything but a 
 nice, refined person, and she won't be refined if she is not par- 
 ticular about her reading ; that is really what makes Aunt 
 Bertha afraid, and what I should be afraid of too.' 
 
 ' Ella is so clever,' said Clement. ' Clever people don't want 
 to be preached to like dunces.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I think they want to be preached to more ; but any 
 how, Clement, you wouldn't like Ella not to be quite a lady.'
 
 74 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Oh no, of course not ; but she can't liclp herself ; she is born 
 one.' 
 
 ' Yes, she would look like a lady always ; but she need not be 
 so in mind. And one especial mode in which people grow to be 
 unladylike and unrefined is by reading everything which happens 
 to come before them. Young men, and boys, even, may do a good 
 deal for their sisters in that way, by keeping things from them ; 
 there is a little sermon for you, Clement.' 
 
 'Ella never attends to me,' said Clement; 'she looks down 
 upon me. She is quite beyond me in Latin and Greek, too, for 
 that matter.' 
 
 ' I don't think Latin and Greek have much to do with persons 
 looking down upon one,' said Mildred ; ' Ella doesn't look down 
 upon Rachel Lester.' 
 
 ' Aunt Mildred ! how can you tell that ? ' 
 
 ' Merely from little things she has said. It is inconsistency 
 which makes people look down upon one.' 
 
 ' And I am very inconsistent,' said Clement. He sighed ; yet 
 at the very moment he was glancing at Mildred, to see if she 
 would not contradict his words. ' You think me so. Aunt 
 Mildred?' he continued. 
 
 She looked up playfully. ' I don't see that I am called upon 
 to answer. I have only known you a short time.' 
 
 ' I am not so changeable as Ella,' said Clement ; ' she is never 
 alike for two hours together.' 
 
 ' You are twins,' replied Mildred. 
 
 ' I always keep to the same likings,' continued Clement; — 'in 
 books, that is ; and I have been trying to fish every day for a 
 fortnight ; and I have dinned into Mr Lester's ears ever since we 
 came here that I hate College, and want to go to sea, and a heap 
 more things. besides. I am sure I don't change half as much as 
 Ella. Now, do I, Aunt Mildred ?' 
 
 ' I can't say.' 
 
 ' But am I inconsistent ? Do you think I am .-" 
 
 'You told me just now that you were, very,' said Mildred, quietly. 
 
 He blushed a little, and laughed awkwardly. ' Well, yes ; but 
 do you think me so ?' 
 
 There was a little satire in Mildred's tone, as she said, ' Do 
 you really wish to know .'*' 
 
 The hesitation in his manner was scarcely perceptible, yet he 
 did hesitate, and the 'Yes,' when it passed his lips, was by no 
 means hearty.
 
 CLEVE HALL, ^ 75 
 
 'We will wait till another day,' said Mildred. 
 
 He was piqued. * I would rather hear now, if j-ou please ; I 
 don't at all care about knowing what any one thinks of me.' 
 
 ' Because you have such a good opinion of yourself,' replied 
 Mildred, in a tone between jest and earnest. 
 
 ' I don't know that. Aunt Mildred. I don't quite see why you 
 should say it. Mr Lester never told me I had a good opinion of 
 myself.' 
 
 His tone was pettish, and ^Mildred became grave. 
 
 ' We will talk about the inconsistency and conceit another 
 time, dear Clement. By and by, perhaps, you will find out 
 more of yourself than I can tell you ; only just now I am afraid 
 I must send you away, because I am a little tired ; but you must 
 come again soon and bring Ella, and tell me what success you 
 have had in your fishing.' 
 
 Still he stood thinking, rather moodily. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred, what must I do to give you a good opinion of 
 me ? ' 
 
 ' I have a good opinion of you, my dear boy, in many ways.' 
 
 'Yes, but in all ways. How can I make you respect mc ?' 
 
 'A question requiring a long answer, Clement ; but one thing 
 I should respect you for at once, if you would put aside your own 
 will, and follow your grandpapa's, about Ronald.' 
 
 * Oh, that ! but respect has nothing to do with that.' 
 
 ' More, perhaps, than you think.' 
 
 ' But I can't be kept under, like a baby in long clothes.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, dear Clement, you must go ;' and Mildred held out 
 her hand to him. 
 
 He saw she looked pained. ' Well, Aunt Mildred, perhaps, to 
 oblige you, I might.' 
 
 ' Thank you, dear boy ; give me a kiss before you go.' The 
 bright expression was gone from her face, but that was unnoticed 
 by him ; his thoughts were given to his fishing-rod. 
 
 'You would find Hardman, the keeper, at home, if you were 
 to call for him now, I suspect,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' Yes, thank you ; good-bye ! ' and he rushed across the gar- 
 den, as hastily as he had entered it. 
 
 Alas ! for Mildred. Was it not the same character again which 
 she had in bygone years so anxiously watched ? — the spirit of 
 self-conceit, self-justification, rebellion against the least shadow of 
 censure, the .weak pride which could not obey? And all with so 
 fair an exterior! The look, and tone, and manner of a gentleman ;
 
 76 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 the refined taste, the appreciation of excellence, the poetical 
 heroism of day-dreams ! 
 
 She unfastened a hair bracelet, and looked at a miniature in 
 the clasp, covered by a gold lid, and tears dimmed her eyes, and 
 fell down her cheeks as she murmured, ' Father, teach me how 
 to aid him ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CLEMENT pursued his way to the keeper's lodge, humming 
 snatches of songs, as he hurried on swinging a stick in his 
 hand, and knocking down nettles and brambles. He was not 
 disconcerted by anything which Mildred had said ; perhaps it 
 would have been well for him if he had been. Vanity, minified 
 with self-conceit and self-will, was the strongest characteristic ; 
 and now, even when putting aside his own wishes, he soothed 
 himself with the thought that he was yielding rather as a conde- 
 .scension than on a principle of obedience. His grandfather was 
 old and fidgety ; and Mildred was a woman, and had a woman's 
 v/eakness; and so, if they really did fuss about his going out 
 fishing with Ronald, it might be as well to give in. And 
 Clement went on whistling merrily, and looking forward as was 
 his wont to pleasure in one way, if he could not have it in an- 
 other. There was no strength of resolution, no inward principle 
 in this ; it was simply giving in for the moment, because he did 
 not like to be openly rebellious. 
 
 Hardman was not at home ; he was gone to Cleve, so his wife 
 said : and to Cleve Clement determined to follow him, — or if not 
 able to go quite so far, as he was to return for an evening lesson 
 with Mr Lester at a certain hour, he would go part of the way. 
 His mind was bent upon this new fancy of fishing, and he could 
 not bear any obstacle or delay, and fancied he was doing some- 
 thing to attain his object when he was walking in the same 
 direction as Hardman. 
 
 ' Good day to you, Master Clement ! ' called out a rough voice 
 from behind a hedge, as Clement strolled on leisurely through 
 the fields. 
 
 ' Good day to you, old fellow ! What are you doing up here .''' 
 
 ' What are you doing, Master Clement ? is the question.' And
 
 CLEVE HALL. 77 
 
 Goff, slowly unfastening a gate which separated them, joined 
 Clement on the other side of the hedge. 
 
 ' I thought you were never off your post out there,' said Cle- 
 ment, pointing in the direction of the headland near which the 
 shipwreck had happened. 
 
 ' That's according to circumstances, young gentleman. I may 
 have my business inland as well as other folks. I say, you can 
 tell where your master 's gone, can't you ? ' 
 
 ' I have not got a master that I know of,' said Clement, 
 haughtily. 
 
 ' You needn't flush up like that, young gentleman. Master or 
 no master, he keeps you pretty strict.' 
 
 ' He keeps me as I choose to be kept ;' said Clement. ' He 
 hasn't a grain of power over me.' 
 
 'Well! did I ever know such a milksop, then?' And Gott 
 laughed, contemptuously. 
 
 Clement's eyes flashed with anger, but Goff only laughed the 
 more. ' Why, what a pity to throw av.ay such a spirit ! The 
 bov's crot something in him, after all. I sav, mv voung sir, what 
 made you fail me, the other night, in that fashion .'' I 've had it 
 on my mind ever since to call you to account.' 
 
 'What other night? I don't know what you are talking 
 about,' replied Clement, hastily. 'You failed me, if that's what 
 you mean, the night of the storm ; and a good thing too, as it 
 turned out.' 
 
 'Good or not, that's nothing to do with the matter. If a 
 youngster makes a promise to me I expect it's to be kept ; and 
 if it isn't, why I know how to trust him another time.' 
 
 ' You told me to be down at the boat-house by six,' snid Cle- 
 ment, his tone rising with irritation, ' and I was there strict to a 
 moment ; and there were you, oft? 
 
 ' And you only too glad to find me so,' exclaimed Goff. ' What 
 a white face we should have seen if you 'd been nearing the point, 
 as Ronald and I were, when the squall came on. That young 
 fellow is desperate in a storm : he'd have had us stand out and 
 brave it, if I hadn't been fixed against it. And well enough I 
 was I We shouldn't have been left with two shreds together ten 
 minutes after we got back.' 
 
 ' It's time enough to talk of white faces when you have seen 
 them,' exclaimed Clement, proudly. * But that is not what I 
 was thinking of. You were off, you say, yourself; so where 's 
 the fault to find with me?'
 
 78 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' That 'twas your message which sent me off/ said Goff, coolly, 
 
 * Mine ! — my message ?' 
 
 ' Whose else could it be ? Ronald brought it.' 
 
 'Ronald? It was false — it was a lie!' and Clement's face 
 became crimson, whilst, pacing up and down the rough road 
 before the gate, he went on muttering to himself, ' False fellow ! 
 A lie ! Won't I make him eat his words ? False fellow ! ' 
 
 ' Not so false, neither, Master Clement. He only said what 
 he knew was true ; that 'twas likely to be a rough evening, and 
 so we'd best be off without you.' 
 
 'And he said that I said it!' exclaimed Clement, stopping 
 suddenly. 
 
 'Well ! there's no need to take it so much to heart,' replied 
 Goff, evading a direct answer. ' 'Tis but to show that you 've 
 got more pluck in you than he gives you credit for ; and that 's 
 soon done. There 's more to be done in that way, in this part 
 of the world, than idle folks wot of.' 
 
 His familiar wink accompanying the words was very repulsive 
 to Clement's fastidiousness ; and as Goff drew nearer, and even 
 touched him on the shoulder, patronisingly, he drew back. 
 
 ' Oh ! if that's your line, keep to it,' said Goff; and he took 
 up the small telescope, his constant companion, which he had 
 laid upon the ground during his conversation with Clement. 
 ' Of course, I 'm not going to thrust fun on them that haven't 
 spirit for it. There 's enough work for me without that ; and for 
 Ronald, too.' 
 
 The mention of Ronald's name again touched Clement's angry 
 feeling. 
 
 ' I '11 trouble you not to speak of that youngster again,' he ex- 
 claimed, haughtily. ' I have an account to settle with him ; and 
 I mean to see to it.' 
 
 Goff eyed him with a glance of sarcastic superiority. ' I wish 
 you joy of getting your match 1 Why, Ronald — Ronald Vivian ! 
 — he'd make three such as you, my boy ! ' 
 
 ' If he could make fifty such, he should answer for his words !' 
 exclaimed Clement, in a tone which showed that his vanity was 
 stung to the quick. 'So mean! — so cowardly! — to make it 
 appear that I was afraid! — that I wouldn't risk what he did ! ' 
 And again he began to pace up and down the road. 
 
 Goff made no comment upon his words, but, resting his glass 
 upon the gatepost, looked long and attentively in the direction 
 where the headland, suddenly terminating, gave a long line of
 
 CLEVE HALL. 79 
 
 the sea to view. A little vessel was making its way rapidly from 
 the shore, the wind being favourable. 
 
 ' She's a jolly little craft/ muttered Goff to himself; 'how she 
 does cut along ! ' 
 
 The observation attracted Clement, but he tried not to 
 show it. 
 
 Goff continued:— 'A jolly little craft, if there ever was one ! 
 If it had been her, now, the other night, and Ronald in her — 
 instead of that old hulk, with the Frenchman at the helm — she 'd 
 have ridden out the gale like a queen ! ' 
 
 ' Ronald couldn't manage a vessel,' exclaimed Clement, 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Couldn't he, now } Why, just you try— that 's all ! ' 
 
 ' I wouldn't trust myself with him,' said Clement. 
 
 ' Why, no, to be sure; you wouldn't trust yourself in anything 
 but a Lord Mayor's barge, in a river three feet deep ! ' 
 
 ' I 'd trust myself in anything that Ronald trusts himself in,' 
 exclaimed Clement, not seeing his own inconsistency, ' let it be 
 a cockle-shell, or a man-of-war.' 
 
 ' Or a neat little trimmer, like her yonder.^' said Goff. 
 
 * That, or anything,' replied Clement. 
 
 ' Take you at your word, then,' said Goff, quickly. ' Will you 
 go, now, for a lark, some day, and try her ?' 
 
 Clement hesitated ; he felt that he should be wrong in agreeing 
 to the proposal ; but his vanity — his mortified vanity — how could 
 he resist it ? 
 
 ' Good-bye ! and joy be with you, for a land-lubber !' exclaimed 
 Goff. ' You '11 never learn to manage a craft ! ' 
 
 Clement caught at the word. ' Manage t — Yes, I would go 
 directly, if I might be taught to manage it. It would help me, if 
 I go to sea,' he continued, in an undertone to his conscience. 
 
 ' Folks can't manage all at once ; they must learn their trade 
 first,' was Goff's discouraging reply. ' So good-bye to ye ! ' He 
 walked away a few paces, but very slowly ; and then he turned 
 round, and looked again at Clement, and nodded. 
 
 Clement was intensely irritated. ' I say, old fellow ! I "11 be 
 with you, some night, down at the point, when you don't expect 
 me ; and see if I don't find out as much of your afTairs as Ronald 
 knows. He manage a vessel, indeed ! ' and Clement laughed 
 loudly and contemptuously. 
 
 ' You '11 please to wait to be asked before you give your com- 
 pany where you aren't needed, Master Clement,' said Goff,
 
 go CLEVE HALL. 
 
 stopping, and looking at him surlily. 'Meddle with \\]-,at 
 doesn't concern you, and I 'd as soon cudgel your head as I 
 would — this thistle,' and he knocked off the top of one which 
 stood in his way. 
 
 Clement's laugh was neither as loud nor as contemptuous as 
 before. He muttered something about finding Ronald, and 
 making him answer for his words ; and, looking at his watch, 
 turned sharply round, and walked back to Encombe. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR LESTER was not returned when Clement reached home ; 
 that was an excuse for idleness, though there was sufficient 
 work prepared for him to attend to by himself. Ella persuaded 
 him that there were difficulties not to be mastered alone, and 
 accordingly he lounged away his time in an arm-chair, threaten- 
 ing Ronald, and making the excuse that his walk had tired him. 
 So the whole afternoon was wasted ; for, as it happened, Mr 
 Lester did not come back from Cleve till very late. He had 
 been detained, he sent word, by business ; and Louisa contrived 
 to discover, before the evening was over, that he had been seen 
 in Cleve, walking with ]Mr Bruce, and had afierwards returned 
 with him to the farm. This latter piece of information she 
 extracted from Rachel, who appeared at the Lodge in the even- 
 ing with some flowers for Mrs Campbell, which had been sent 
 her by Mrs Robinson. Why Mr Bruce should have gone to 
 the farm, Rachel did not profess to know, but Louisa settled 
 the question without any difficulty. Cleve was an odious place, 
 and the farm was -very quiet and comfortable, and much nearer 
 the shore ; and Louisa had some indistinct idea that Mr Bruce 
 was detained at Encombe by some secret business connected 
 with the wreck. What — she had not fully decided ; having 
 failed, as yet, in determining to her own satisfaction whether he 
 was partly the owner of the vessel, and so interested in its fate 
 merely as a matter of business, or som-e hero of romance, whose 
 story by and by was to astonish them all. The former idea 
 suited the report brought by Rachel, who had just left him at 
 the Parsonage, where he was to drink tea. ' There was nothing
 
 CLEVE HALL. 8 1 
 
 in him very wonderful to look at,' she said ; ' he was as yellow as 
 a bit of parchment ; and somebody had said he had come to 
 England for his health. He spoke like a gentleman, — that was 
 one thing ; but he seemed to dislike talking, and she had not 
 once seen him smile ; ' an observation which drew from Ella 
 the remark that, for that reason, he would be so much the better 
 fitted to live with Mrs Robinson, who was known to have cried 
 so much the day she was born, that she had never got over it. 
 
 This information of Rachel's was but the beginning of specu- 
 lation and curiosity for Louisa ; though there was in reality but 
 little to give rise to either. Mr Bruce certainly settled himself 
 at the farm, but he was a quiet individual, very much out of 
 health, and suffering especially from the cold and shock he had 
 endured the night of the wreck. Moreover, he was always upon 
 the point of departure for London ; so that he could not be 
 looked upon as a resident subject for gossip, and no one pro- 
 bably but Louisa would have thought it worth while to make 
 any remarks upon his comings and goings. She, however, 
 always knew when he drank tea at the Rectory, and when Mr 
 Lester went to visit him at the farm ; and she learned from 
 Rachel a good many details as to the furniture of his apart- 
 ment, and the curious things he had 'put about the room,' as 
 she expressed it, in order to make it look comfortable, — strange, 
 foreign, Indian-looking things,— boxes, and iigures, and a few 
 books,— not a great many, — for Rachel doubted if he were fond 
 of reading. 
 
 Once, however, Louisa came home herself in great triumph, 
 having seen Mr Bruce at the door of the farm garden, and even 
 spoken to him,— that is, as she acknowledged afterwards, he 
 only said, 'How d'ye do?' and she said, 'Very well, I thank 
 you;' but then he looked at her very earnestly, and that was 
 particularly flattering from a person whom no one knew any- 
 thing about. 
 
 Had Louisa been in Rachel's place, Mr Bruce's affairs would 
 have had no chance of remaining private, for Rachel was at the 
 farm constantly. Perhaps Mrs Robinson urged her coming to 
 cheer her lonely guest, — perhaps Mr Bruce himself liked the 
 society of the simple, earnest-minded, affectionate child. Rachel 
 seldom told who asked her ; and in reply to the questions as to 
 how she amused herself when there, replied, tint she read, and 
 talked, and looked at curiosities ; a very natural and rational 
 answer, but not particularly informing to Louisa's inquisitive-
 
 ^2 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ness. A few attempts vvcie made to iiidui;c Aunt Bertha to 
 intrude upon Mrs Robinson's privacy, but there was an anti- 
 pathy feh, though not expressed, which kept Bertha and Mrs 
 Robinson apart. Mrs Robinson evidently did not 'take kindly' 
 to the Lodge. Even though the children were Rachel's friends, 
 she could not bring herself to ask them to come within the gate ; 
 at least when Berlha was with them. If she met them alone 
 it was different ; yet even then there was a restraint ; it was 
 as if she always had a double feeling about them, and was in- 
 clined to give them a kiss on one cheek and a slap on the other; 
 and Bertha's chilling manner never helped to surmount the 
 difficulty. 
 
 Since Mr Bruce had been at the farm, the coolness was still 
 more evident. Mrs Robinson could not well be rude, but she 
 was as nearly so as it was in her nature to be, and almost told 
 them sometimes that she had rather they would walk in any 
 other direction. She said so one evening especially, when 
 Rachel, Fanny, and Louisa, were walking together, and Louisa 
 was rather eager to be allowed to see the garden. Bertha was 
 some little way behind ; if she had been near, Louisa would 
 scarcely have ventured to insist, as she did, upon being allowed 
 to come in just for five minutes. 
 
 'It's too late, Miss Louisa ; another time, if you please/ was 
 Mrs Robinson's discouraging reply to the proposal. 
 
 'But we won't be five minutes; no, not three,' pei'sisted 
 Louisa ; ' we will just run round once, and then be back ; we 
 shall have done it before Aunt Bertha comes up.' 
 
 'May be your aunt wouldn't like it, Miss Louisa,' replied 
 Mrs Robinson, decidedly. 
 
 'Maybe she would,' retorted Louisa, perversely, and rather 
 rudely, 
 
 Mrs Robinson froze into a statue. ' Young ladies should learn 
 to behave themselves, and not take liberties,' she answered. 
 'Good evening, Miss Rachel, my dear. It's my advice to you 
 all to get home.' 
 
 She walked away without any softening word ; but Rachel 
 followed her. 'Granny, dear, you shouldn't mind Louisa ; it''j 
 her nature.' 
 
 'So much the worse, my dear; it's hard to put off nature. 
 But I 'm not troubling about that.' 
 
 'Well, what are you troubling yourself about; it's always 
 ■ something. Isn't Mr Bruce's room large enough for him?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 83 
 
 Mrs Robinson smiled. 'Why, you know, Aliss Racliel, lie's 
 got the old back room looking out upon the elms, and it would 
 hold a regiment.' 
 
 ' Then he is fidgety about his tea, and bread and butter.' 
 
 ' He doesn't take tea ; he always drinks coffee.' Mrs Robin- 
 son's face relaxed a little more, as it always did when she was 
 talking to Rachel. 
 
 'Then it's something I am not to know, so I won't tease you. 
 Granny ; only I wish you would tell me.' 
 
 They were standing by a low door which opened into the gar- 
 den. Mrs Robinson pushed it open. 
 
 'He's in there, you may go and speak a word to him if you 
 will.' 
 
 Rachel seemed doubtful. 'Louisa won't like it; and Miss 
 Campbell too ;— no, perhaps I had better not ;' yet she evidently 
 wished to go. 
 
 ' He has been teaching the parrot to say your name,' said Mrs 
 Robinson. 
 
 That was a very great temptation, and Rachel ran back to her 
 companions. Bertha had joined them now, and was hurrying 
 them away. She did not like them, she said, to be staring over 
 the wall in that way ; it looked so curious. 
 
 'Mrs Robinson wants me to go in one minute. Mr Bruce 
 has a parrot for me ; might I go, do you think ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, to be sure,' exclaimed Louisa ; ' and we will walk up 
 and down the road till you come out.' 
 
 ' Louisa, you forget yourself. Does Mr Bruce want to see you, 
 Rachel ?' inquired Bertha. 
 
 'I don't know that he wants to see me exactly; but he has a 
 parrot for me.' 
 
 Mr Lester will be coming by and by, ma'am,' observed Mrs 
 Robinson, drawing near the gate. ' Miss Rachel may go back 
 with him, if you please to leave her.' 
 
 Bertha's sense of duty was touched : Rachel was under her 
 especial charge, ' I don't know,' she replied ; ' I can't say that 
 I have permission to leave her.' 
 
 *I see Mr Bruce very often ;"papa lets me,' whispered Rachel, 
 pleadingly. 
 
 Bertha still hesitated ; her back was to the garden gate ; she 
 could not see Louisa's glance at Fanny, and the finger which 
 was pointed in that direction. 
 
 'I see him ; don't you ?' whispered Fanny.
 
 8.; CLEVE HA EL. 
 
 Louisa moved a few steps aside. 'Yes, close to the door ; 1 
 do believe he's coming.' 
 
 Mr Bruce appeared in the doorway. Mrs Robinson saw his 
 shadow, she could not have seen himself. 
 
 'Never mind, Miss Rachel, then, to-night,' she said. 'Good 
 evening, ma'am, and she dropped a respectful curtsey to Bertha, 
 which yet plainly said, 'the sooner you go the better.' 
 
 Rachel acquiesced, but with an air of disappointment which 
 brightened into sunshine as she glanced at the garden doorway ; 
 and, hastily appealing to Bertha for permission, she threw open 
 the wicket-gate of the entrance court, and rushing up to her 
 new friend, exclaimed, ' I mustn't stay, but I may just thank 
 you ; it was so kind. I am so very much obliged about the 
 parrot.' 
 
 'And I am very glad you are glad, my child.' Only the tone 
 reached the place where the rest were standing ; the words were 
 unintelligible. 
 
 'You don't look at all well, ma'am,' said Mrs Robinson to 
 Bertha ; 'hadn't you better come in and rest ?' 
 
 Bertha was very pale ; her eye had a wandering, almost vacant, 
 look. ' Thank you, no. I had better go home. Rachel ! I 
 wish she would come.' She moved, apparently intending to 
 enter within the wicket, but Mrs Robinson placed herself so as 
 to prevent her. ' I will call her, ma'am,' and Bertha drew back. 
 
 Mr Bruce has taken Rachel to see the parrot,' said Fanny. 
 ' I wish he would let me go too.' 
 
 ' I can see him, and I can see Rachel too,' said Louisa, stretch- 
 ing her neck, 'just round the walk ; there they are. Now I 
 think they are going in-doors. Mr Bruce's room opens into the 
 garden ; that is — it doesn't open exactly, it is up-stairs, — the 
 large room. Aunt Bertha, you have been in Mr Bruce's room, 
 haven't you ? ' 
 
 Bertha did not hear ; she was resting against the low wall, not 
 seemingly impatient, only very worn and wearied. They were 
 kept but a few moments ; Rachel came running back, Mrs 
 Robinson slowly following, with the parrot in his cage. 
 
 * Miss Rachel would have you see it, ma'am,' she said, apolo- 
 getically, to Bertha. 
 
 ' It will talk, it will say my name ! ' exclaimed Rachel, in 
 delight. ' Pretty Poll ! do speak, Polly ! ' 
 
 Of course the parrot did not speak : what bird ever did when 
 it was told to do so ?
 
 CLEVE HALL. ^<, 
 
 * He will if Mr Bruce tells him,' said Rachel. She glanced 
 wistfully at the doorway. 
 
 ' Miss Campbell wants to'go home. You mustn't keep her any 
 more to-night with the bird,' observed Mrs Robinson, hurriedly. 
 
 The parrot uttered a loud scream, and a short, sharp word; it 
 was not Rachel, though Fanny persisted it was. 
 
 ' He said it quite plainly just now,' said Rachel, in a vexed 
 tone; 'but never mind. There, Granny dear, take it away; 
 never mind. I didn't mean to be troublesome and keep you, 
 dear Miss Campbell,' she added in her most winning manner. 
 
 'I should like to hear it speak again,' said Bertha, and she 
 withdrew her hand, which Rachel had taken hold of. She had 
 no intention of being ungracious, but she was not thinking of 
 Rachel at the moment. 
 
 Rachel thought she was angry, and went up to Mrs Robinson, 
 who was standing apart. 'I am so sorry, Granny; I know it 
 was naughty of me.' 
 
 ' Never mind, my darling ; it is her way.' But even Mrs 
 Robinson was a little quick in her manner, and poor Rachel's 
 sensitive feelings were touched, and tears stood in her eyes. She 
 did not go near the parrot. 
 
 ' It said, " How d'ye do," Aunt Bertha, that was all,' exclaimed 
 Louisa, impatiently. ' Parrots always say, " How d'ye do." ' 
 
 'And a good deal besides, sometimes, Louisa,' replied Bertha, 
 gravely and stiffly. 
 
 Fanny tapped the cage, — the scream followed again, and the 
 word, which Louisa now asserted to be a name — Flora, she 
 thought it was like — at which Fanny laughed heartily, declaring, 
 with vehemence, that it was much more like Charlie, or hungry, 
 cr fetch me. Bertha said nothing ; and as Louisa's proposition 
 of summoning Mr Bruce to be the interpreter was unseconded, 
 the bird was consigned to I\lrs Robinson's care, and the little 
 party moved homewards. 
 
 CHAPTER XTIL 
 
 THEY were at home early ; Bertha had insisted upon it ; she 
 had business in the village, she said ; and so, when the 
 children had set themselves to their evening lessons, and Ella
 
 86 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 \vas reading to her grandmamma, Bertha stole quietly out at the 
 back-gate, and walked leisurely down the lane. Siie still looked 
 pale, but it was not so much from the wear of bodily as of mentai 
 fatigue. That, indeed, was the expression of her features gene- 
 rally; probalily from the consciousness of having the comfort of 
 others depending upon her, and having so many causes for 
 anxiety; but this evening there was not only gravity in her face, 
 but doubt and perplexity. 
 
 • She walked with her eyes bent on the ground, thinking, and 
 then occasionally looked up as though expecting to see something 
 which might startle her, liut the village was very quiet ; the men 
 were still at their work in the fields, the women preparing for 
 their return, and the children, just let out of school, were busy 
 in the play-ground, and only interrupted the quietness of the 
 hour by distant shouts of laughter. 
 
 Bertha pursued her way by the lane which led from the par- 
 sonage to the village, and after passing a few of the principal 
 cottages, ascended a steep path, terminating in a long flight of 
 steps, which was the short way from the village to the church, 
 Encombe Church was at some little distance from the village ; it 
 stood by itself, on the summit of a square hill, Avhich on three 
 sides rose abruptly from the plain, and on the other leaned as it 
 were against the range of lofty downs encircling the village. 
 The ground must once have formed part of an open heath, for 
 gorse, and heather, and fern still covered it in luxuriance, and the 
 wild downs rose immediately above it, and rough land, only in 
 part enclosed, stretched away to the east and west. It was a 
 marvel what the little church should do there alone, looking over 
 the wooded plain to the blue horizon of the ocean. Except at 
 the times of service, it seemed to have no lesson to preach to the 
 poor, nor any word of warning to offer to the rich ; for the busy 
 stir of life had deserted it, and the white grave-stones told their 
 tales to the happy birds and the glad insects, but had no daily 
 and hourly voice for the reckless or the thoughtless of man- 
 kind. 
 
 Yet it was very solemn to worship there : hopeful with the 
 hope of Heaven in the brilliant summer mornings, when dew- 
 drops, sparkling with living light, hung upon the grass, and sun- 
 shine, flickering and quivering, lay in broad masses of burnished 
 silver upon the sea ; and calming as with the repose of the last, 
 long sleep, in the still evenings, when the rush of the v;aves came 
 like a requiem for the dead, moaning over the sandy beach; and
 
 CLEVE HALL. 87 
 
 awful, subduing, crushing to all human vanity and folly, when 
 the harsh roar of the wintry elements thundered around the 
 strong old walls, and told of that Almighty Power which shall 
 one day ' break in pieces the foundations of the earth,' and 
 summon the world to judgment. 
 
 Bertha reached the summit of the hill, and then paused to rest. 
 A stone bench in the porch was her seat, and for a few moments 
 she remained gazing, apparently without interest, upon the lovely 
 view, set as in a picture-frame, in the rough Norman archway. 
 But a shadow, the long shadow of a human figure, fell upon the 
 graves, and she rose up suddenly, and stepped forth into the 
 open air. Ronald Vivian was there to meet her. 
 
 * I hoped you would be punctual/ she said, and her voice was 
 slightly tremulous. 
 
 ' It was hard work to be so,' said the boy, abruptly. But he 
 held out his hand as he spoke, and grasped Bertha's with a 
 heartiness which seemed as if it must at once break down her 
 chilling shyness. ' I\Iy father was off with Goff early, and I am 
 to meet him two hours hence,' he continued ; * if it was not for 
 that, I couldn't have come. But you have been walking, you 
 must be tired.' He brushed away the sand and dust vdiich had 
 collected on the bench, and took off a light upper coat, and laid 
 it for Bertha to sit upon. 
 
 * Thank you, Ronald ; I am glad you came ;' but Bertha's 
 manner was so nervous as to be almost cold. 
 
 He waited, however, for her to begin the conversation, stand- 
 ing at a little distance, and leaning against the archway in an 
 attitude of attention and deference. He looked upon her evi- 
 dently as a superior being. 
 
 ' You did what I wished the other night,' began Bertha, ' in 
 keeping Clement from going with Goff, and I wanted to thank 
 you.' 
 
 * I did what I could ; but I got into disgrace : never mind that, 
 though.' 
 
 ' Disgrace with your father ?' 
 
 ' No, not with him ; he knew nothing about it ; but Goff 
 abused Clement, and Clement abuses me. Yet I said nothing 
 but the truth. It was Goff's misrepresentation ; I couldn't tell 
 a falsehood.' 
 
 ' Clement does not think you did.' 
 
 Ronald laughed shortly. * He says he does ; and he threatens 
 a good deal ; but that won't matter. I shan't notice it.'
 
 88 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' No, indeed, I trust not,' exclaimed Bertha ; ' it would be 
 worse than anything if you were to quarrel.' 
 
 * He would keep aloof from me in that case,' said Ronald, 
 rather proudly ; 'and so you would be satisfied.' 
 
 'The old feeling, Ronald,' observed Bcrlha, quietly, but very 
 gravely. 
 
 * It would be what you ^^•ish, and what Mr Lester wishes,' 
 replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; but we would liave you keep apart from the 
 knowledge that it is best — not because you are too proud to be 
 with him.' 
 
 ' I know I am not fit company for him,' he replied, moodily, 
 *aior for any one,' was added, in an undertone. 
 
 *We will not talk of that, Ronald ; my wishes and Mr Lester's 
 have nothing to do with the question of fitness.' 
 
 ' J5ut you have said as much,' he continued. 
 
 * I said it when I thought it,— but opinions change ; you have 
 tet him a noble example lately.' 
 
 The boy bit his lip, and turned away abruptly. 
 
 ' When Clement shall risk his life to save that of another, it 
 v^'ill be time enough to consider whether you are a fit companion,' 
 continued Bertha. ' Mr Lester thanks you, Ronald ; so do L' 
 
 ' There was no danger ; we could both swim,' he said, grufifiy, 
 and still without looking at her. 
 
 * Perhaps so,' was Bertha's only answer. She understood him 
 thoroughly, and changed the subject. 
 
 'And you will still keep your promise, Ronald !' 
 'As long as it is required ; but Mr Lester says I may be gone 
 shortly.' 
 
 * Two months, it may be, or three, — and we have to gain your 
 father's consent.' 
 
 'Yet he will never ask mine for anything, — he will force me, 
 drag me with him at his will, down, down, down,' and Ronald's 
 voice sank till it was lost in a whisper of awe. 
 
 ' Not against your own will, dear Ronald,' replied Bertha, her 
 tone changing from its usual chilling monotony into the tender 
 interest of an elder sister. ' No one, not even the spirit of evil 
 himself, can harm us against our will.' 
 
 ' It is easy for those to talk,' he replied, 'who are never tempted.' 
 
 ' I am not tempted as you are, it is true. Yet I am in a 
 different way, and when I fall, Ronald, it is my own will which 
 makes mo do so.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 85 
 
 *You!'hc exclaimed, impetuously. 'Miss Campbell, you 
 can never will to do wrong.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not often, — I hope not ; but I may not will strongly 
 to do right, and the end is the same.' 
 
 Ronald was thoughtful; he repeated the word 'strongly' to 
 himself. 
 
 'Yes,' continued Bertha, answering what she believed to be 
 in his mind. 'A weak will must, unless strengthened, end like 
 a sinful will. But you have not naturally a weak will, Ronald. 
 You have great faults, but they are strong faults ; and the same 
 strength which has hitherto so frequently carried you away into 
 sin, may, through God's mercy, lead you far on the road to good- 
 ness.' 
 
 He looked up suddenly, and the gleaming of the sinking sun 
 flashed across his face, and brightened into intensity the glance 
 of his eye. But it was for a moment only, and again his eyes 
 were cast down, and the cloud gathered upon his brow. 
 
 ' And you may have much to keep you upright, a noble object 
 for which to live,' continued Bertha. 
 
 ' When I am pointed at as the son of a drunkard, the comrade 
 of smugglers !' he muttered, scornfully. 
 
 ' Rather,' replied Bertha, ' when you shall be known as the 
 child of one who lived the life of a saint upon earth, and left to 
 you the task to retrieve the name she bore from dishonour. 
 Ronald, have you forgotten your mother?' 
 
 He made no reply — but throwing himself upon the rough 
 bench, hid his face against the worn stones of the porch ; and a 
 sound, as of a sob, escaped him, but it was stifled ; and Bertha, 
 without noticing it, continued — 
 
 ' It is the anniversary of your mother's death, Ronald ; eight 
 years ago, on this night, she died.' 
 
 A shudder passed over his frame, as he murmured, 'And left 
 me to ruin.' 
 
 ' And left you a work which, in her woman's weakness, slie 
 could probably never have performed. She did not then know 
 its full extent ; but now, if it be permitted to the dead to watch 
 what passes upon earth, she would surely long that you may be 
 able to accomplish it. Ronald, your father did a grievous in- 
 jury ; you may retrieve it.' 
 
 'It would take the labour of twenty lives to retrieve his in- 
 juries,' said Ronald, in the moody tone which was natural to 
 him whenever his father was mentioned.
 
 90 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Bertha was silenced for a moment ; she seemed pained, dis- 
 heartened. 'And you do not wish to know what you may have 
 it in your power to do ?' she asked, somewhat reproachfidly. 
 
 He rose up, and there was an accent of haughtiness in his 
 reply. ' I do know it ; to keep away from Clement, that his 
 grandfather may not think him disgraced by having me for a 
 companion.' 
 
 ' Something more than that, Ronald,' said Bertha, sadly. 
 * Would you listen if I were to tell it you V 
 
 The intonation of her voice strangely touclied him. Perhaps 
 it bore him back to other and innocent days, when, seated by 
 his little bed, in tlie home where his best and happiest hours 
 had been spent. Bertha Campbell had soothed him to sleep with 
 the soft monotony of her voice, whilst repeating the hymns which 
 suited his tender age. He placed himself opposite to her ; but 
 his head was still turned aside. It might have been thought 
 that he was watching the course of a vessel dimly seen in the 
 far horizon, — but that it passed on, and still his eye remained 
 fixed upon the same point, where the golden clouds were gather- 
 ing into fantastic masses around the sinking sun. 
 
 There was a silence of some seconds. Much that was to be 
 told would be painful both to relate and to hear, and past events 
 seemed crowded together inextricably in Bertha's mind. ' I must 
 go back,' she said, at length, ' to my early days,— the days when 
 I first hved at Encombe. Perhaps you do not know that it is my 
 native place, the home of my family for many generations. We 
 lived in the old farm ; it was a manor house then ; but we were 
 poor, my father was extravagant, and we could not keep it up in 
 anything like a fitting style. General Vivian was our nearest 
 neighbour, but we were not friends : family feuds, dating almost a 
 century back, had been handed down to us, and General Vivian 
 was not a person to let them sleep ! neither, perhaps, was my 
 father. General Vivian was a careful, cautious, strict man ; he 
 had but one grand object in life— to redeem the family property 
 which his father's extravagance had well nigh wasted : he devoted 
 all his energies, — and he has great energies, marvellous ones, — 
 to this purpose. It would be wrong to judge, but it seems that 
 he made it his idol, and, because it was a noble object, could 
 not see that there might be danger in it. But let that be as 
 it may. General Vivian saved his iniieritance, — my father for- 
 feited his. You may imagine from this how unlike they were, 
 and how little they could understand each other. So, too, Mrs
 
 CLEVE HALL. 91 
 
 Vivian and my mother, tlie Miss Vivians and my sister and I, 
 had no mutual interests ; and distaste became dislike, and we 
 grew up — I don't know how — it was very wrong — but the feel- 
 ing became at last utter aversion in all, except ' • Bertha's 
 
 voice trembled, and the concluding words of the sentence were 
 inaudible. 
 
 She went on nervously, — ' My sister Flora was very pretty 
 and attractive. She was older than myself, and every one was 
 accustomed to defer to her ; perhaps that made her wilful ; my 
 father especially would not check her in anything. General 
 Vivian, as you must know, had one son, a very engaging person, 
 generous and open-hearted, but utterly thoughtless. Notwith- 
 standing the family differences, we met him occasionally in 
 walks and rides ; he was, in fact, almost the only gentleman we 
 ever saw, and perhaps it was natural enough that he and Flora 
 should become attached to each other. But there was nothing 
 understood or acknowledged, except between themselves : the 
 General would have been fearfully angry if the notion had been 
 suggested to him ; his wife, the only person who might have 
 influenced him, was just dead ; and my father and mother were 
 too much occupied with the pecuniary difficulties which were 
 daily increasing, to take heed to any lesser matter. I saw 
 what was going on, but I was too young to interfere. Flora 
 was full of hope, and her affections were very strong, whilst 
 Mr Vivian never allowed his thoughts to dwell upon anything 
 but the gratification of the moment ; and, at length, totally 
 putting aside the possibility of his father's disapprobation, he 
 persuaded Flora to engage herself to him without asking the 
 consent of her own parents or of his. They kept the fact 
 entirely to themselves, and all that I saw was that they took 
 every opportunity of being together, and that when separated 
 Flora's spirits entirely sank. This made me very anxious, and 
 I was secretly glad, for her sake, when at length it was deter- 
 mined that she should leave the Manor House for a time, and 
 go abroad, in the hope of enabling my father to retrieve his 
 affairs. We left Encombe. I thought I was only going for a 
 time ; I fancied that the Manor House was still to be my home. 
 It was a great mercy that I was not able to see the future. Yet 
 I had some presentiment of evil ; I could scarcely help it; Flora 
 was so dreadfully miserable at the thought of tlic long absence. 
 Mr Vivian saw her the last evening, and I believe the promise 
 between them was renewed ; Flora was then, in a degree com-
 
 Q2 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 forted, and \vc set out on our journey in tolerable spirits. Our 
 first rest, for any length of time, was at a German watering- 
 place, small, but just growing into fashion, and filled most 
 unhappily, not only with hotels and boarding-houses, but gam- 
 bling-houses. My father's early habits had accustomed him to 
 think lightly of gambling, and it soon became his chief amuse- 
 ment. He would never play high, and so managed to go on 
 without bringing himself into any great difficulties ; but our 
 home became the resort of his associates at the gaming-table, 
 and amongst others, of— Captain Vivian.' 
 Ronald started. 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Bertha, ' it v,'as there, Ronald, that my first 
 acquaintance with your father may be said to have begun. He 
 was not then what he is now ; '— her voice sank as she said this, 
 and Ronald turned away his face ; he could not bear its change 
 
 to be seen. ' He was young, handsome, agreeable,' she 
 
 hesitated, and repeated, ' in a certain way he was agreeable ; he 
 had seen a great deal of the world, and was very clever ; he 
 could tell amusing anecdotes ; gentlemen especially liked him ; 
 they did not care for things which distressed Flora and me. 
 Dear Ronald ! you must forgive me if I speak too freely.' 
 
 ' Say what you will,' he replied, with a bitter laugh, ' you 
 cannot tell what I can.' 
 
 ' And yet in some way, Ronald, I may be a better, a more 
 charitable judge. I have never suftered as you have ; at least 
 in daily life. In other ways ; — but you must let me go on 
 regularly. I had seen Captain Vivian before, but never to 
 know him ; in fact, I was too inuch of a child to be brought 
 in contact with him. He claimed acquaintance with us as 
 having a connection with our old home ; his father and General 
 Vivian were first cousins. I did not know then that all social 
 intercourse between the two branches of the family had ceased 
 for some years.' 
 
 * For thirty years the General has been too proud to acknow- 
 ledge us ! ' exclaimed Ronald, indignantly. 
 
 ' Think of him gently and justly, Ronald, if you can. He may 
 have feared the acquaintance for his son. If he did, events 
 have proved that he had cause to do so.' 
 
 ' My father might not have been what he is, if his relations 
 had not cast him off,' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Perhaps not ; one cannot say ;' and Bertha's thoughts reverted 
 to Clement, and her anxiety lest he should in like manner be dis-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 93 
 
 carded. 'At that time, when we met in Germany, I fear his 
 habits were too deeply rooted to be altered. We saw a great 
 deal of him. Like every one else, he admired Flora, and to my 
 dismay, I perceived that my father was inclined to encourage him. 
 Captain Vivian had the reputation then of being rich, and pro- 
 bably my father thought that, considering the state of our family 
 affairs, it would be a desirable marriage. At all events, he threw 
 them constantly together, and when, on one occasion, I expressed 
 my dislike to the society which the acquaintance involved, I was 
 reproved and told that I should bring myself into mischief if 1 
 interfered with matters which did not concern me. Things went 
 on in this way for some time. Flora said very little. I was sure 
 she disliked Captain Vivian, but she had not courage openly to 
 thwart my father's wishes. When alone she was very miserable ; 
 when in company she exerted herself so as to be the life of the 
 party. No one really knew anything about her feelings. I was 
 too young to have her confidence, and she was afraid of my 
 mother. Your father was very fond of her ; and when I saw 
 that, I pitied him, for I felt that his affection could never be 
 returned. But I did not know then with how fixed and stern a 
 resolution he can pursue an object when once his will is given to 
 it. Fie was resolved to marry Flora, and if, instead of common 
 coldness, he had been met with open detestation, I believe it 
 would not have made him swerve a hairs breadth from his deter- 
 mination. It was just at this time, after the separation of a year, 
 that Mr Vivian arrived in Germany, on his way to Italy, for a 
 summer tour. What communication had been kept up between 
 him and Flora in that interval I do not know. Some there 
 certainly must have been, for he was the last person in the world 
 to bear silence and suspense. I suspect he came prepared for the 
 state of affairs which I have described, and determined to put an 
 end to it. But it was by no means an easy task. My father's 
 feeling against General Vivian was as inveterate as the General's 
 against him, and Mr Vivian could with difficulty gain admittance 
 to the house. When there, he could in no way compete with his 
 cousin. There were strong prejudices against him, and although 
 he was the heir of Cleve, the property was entirely at the General's 
 disposal ; and he could not offer anything like the fortune at that 
 time possessed by Captain Vivian. Yet I imagine that even 
 from the first moment of their meeting, your father felt that F^lora's 
 choice was made. She was, indeed, too much afraid of her 
 parents, openly to express her preference ; but even when she
 
 94 CLEVE I [ALL. 
 
 strove to conceal it, it showed itself in innumerable everyday 
 triiles. A man of less resolute purpose might have drawn back, 
 
 but Captain \'ivian persisted in his attentions, and' Bertha 
 
 hesitated, and her words came with difficulty. 
 
 Ronald spoke impatiently, — ' Go on, I can bear all' 
 ' I don't wish to give you pain unnecessarily,' she replied. 
 * No pain is like concealment. Miss Campbell.' 
 ' And perhaps in some ways, what I have said may be an 
 excuse for Captain Vivian,' continued Bertha. ' He had great 
 provocation, — some, at least ; but it was hard to take advantage 
 of a character so open and trusting as that of Edward Vivian. 
 Your father gambled, Ronald ; he made Edward do the same; he 
 led him on step by step, till his debts became very heavy. I 
 don't like to think it was done purposely, but it appeared like it. 
 Certainly he made use of Mr Vivian's weakness. They were 
 friends all this time outwardly. I think Mr Vivian was sorry 
 for the disappointment of your father's affections; and having no 
 fear of him as a rival, he gave him his confid'jnce, and consulted 
 him in his difficulties. Immediately afterwards, by some means, 
 no one knew how, tidings of Mr Vivian's gambling debts reached 
 the General. He was fearfully angry. I saw some of the letters 
 uhich passed ; Mr Vivian showed them to Flora. He was full 
 of repentance ; but habit and evil companionship were too strong 
 for him, and after a short interval he returned to his former 
 practices. Everything was made known to the General through 
 some secret channel, and when still more indignant reproaches 
 and threats of disinheritance reached Mr Vivian, they were in 
 the same way communicated to my father. Poor Edward found 
 himself without friends, without support ; it was very much his 
 own doing ; he was sadly, sadly weak, but all turned against 
 him : — even the persons who had first led him into evil, — wdio 
 were still encouraging him in it ; — for I know that at this very 
 time it was Captain Vivian who enticed him again and again to 
 the gaming-table, and laughed at him when he would have 
 drawn back.' 
 
 A suppressed groan escaped from Ronald. Bertha went on 
 rapidly — 
 
 ' Perhaps you can guess the end of all this. Mr Vivian did 
 not venture to propose openly for my sister, knowing the feeling 
 that was excited against him, and fearing that if he said anything, 
 my father would forbid him the house. Flora, too, was very 
 unhappy, from various causes. She had to bear with great
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 93 
 
 absence ofsympathyinher own family, and constant fiis of temper. 
 All her affectionate feelings were crushed and repelled ; and at 
 length, in a moment of desperation, she was persuaded to marry 
 Edward Vivian, without the knowledge or consent of her parents. 
 It was a fatal step, Ronald, and most bitterly punished. I need 
 not repeat all that took place in consequence ; it Avould not be 
 important to you, and it is only miserable for me. My father, in 
 liis anger, refused to hold any communication with them, and 
 would not advance them a penny. They were exiled from our 
 house, and left to depend upon such resources as might be obtained 
 from General Vivian. What his feelings would be, it remained 
 to be shown. Mr Vivian wrote himself, acknowledging his 
 offence, entreating to be forgiven, but he received no answer: he 
 wrote again, and still there was delay. At length, after the 
 lapse of several weeks, the stern decision came, in a few short, 
 cutting sentences from the General, without even a softening 
 word from Edward's sisters, and only one heart-broken, re- 
 proachful Una from his old nurse, Mrs Robinson ; — he was dis- 
 inherited.' 
 
 'But my father?' exclaimed Ronald ; 'he had nothing to do 
 with it ? ■ 
 
 ' He left Germany instantly,' replied Bertha, 'when the fact 
 of my sister's marriage was known. He travelled night and day ; 
 and it was by him that the intelligence was made known to 
 General Vivian. Goff, who had been in Edward's service, but 
 had been dismissed for dishonesty, and had afterwards been en- 
 gaged by Captain Vivian, accompanied him, and was called to be 
 a witness to the truth of some of his statements. All this I first 
 knew a few weeks since, in conversation with Mr Lester. At 
 the time everything was a mysterj^, and there was no one to clear 
 it up. My own family were too proud and too angry to make 
 any eftbrt for reconciliation ; and Edward Vivian had no friend 
 in whom he could confide, except Mr Lester, who had formerly 
 been his tutor, but who, unfortunately, was at that time travelling 
 in the East. No one was surprised at the General's conduct; it 
 was only in keeping with the severity, and what he called strict 
 justice, which had marked him through life. But what did in a 
 measure astonish both Edward and our own family, when the 
 letters were sent to us, was the style of the accusations brought 
 forward. The General spoke of deadly ingratitude, dishonour, 
 disgrace in the eyes of the world, and a false use of that to which 
 Edv/ard had no claim, except at his father's pleasure. Some one
 
 96 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 particular offence seemed alluded to, but what we could in no 
 way discover. Certainly Edward had acted very wrongly, and 
 had shown himself most lamentably weak ; but there had been 
 nothing in the least approaching to baseness. Even as regarded 
 his unhappy gambling debts, they were doubtless Lnrge for his 
 income, but not large for the General's fortune ; and Edward 
 could not be said to be a practised gambler ; he had been led 
 into the sin by the instigation of others; but he had no real 
 taste for it, and always refused when he could meet with any 
 one to support him ; — a weak will was his sLumbling-block. 
 But the General admitted no extenuation. He seemed to me, 
 then, to have a false and most exaggerated view of the circum- 
 stances of the case, and wrote with a bitterness which was ab- 
 solutely unchristian. Mr Lester has talked to me, Ronald ; he 
 has told me some things which took place then ; I fear there 
 was great wrong done by misrepresentation, if not by anything 
 worse.' 
 
 'And by my father?' murmured Ronald. 
 
 ' Mr Lester says so. It is certain that all General Vivian's 
 information came through him ; and — O Ronald ! forgive me 
 for saying it — but I know that a large sum of money, very much 
 larger than the amount of the gambling debts, was paid at that 
 time to your father by General Vivian, under the belief that he 
 was for the last time satisfying the claims of his son's creditors. 
 When Mr Lester told me what the amount v/as, expressing him- 
 self shocked at Edward's recklessness, I knew at once that there 
 must have been some wrong dealing in the matter. The debts 
 were not a fourth part of the sum, and the money never reached 
 Edward, or at least only a very small portion did. So, again, 
 Mr Lester believed that Edward had behaved undutifully, — that 
 he refused to offer an apology, or make the least submission to 
 his father ; — all utterly false. Pie wrote again and again, and 
 received no answer except that which I have mentioned ; till 
 latterly, since Mr Lester came to Encombe, Miss Vivian has 
 been allowed to write to him. Ronald, your father was Edward 
 Vivian's deadly enemy. Can you forgive me for suspecting him ?' 
 
 The poor boy writhed as if under a serpent's sting. Bertha 
 laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder, but he pushed it 
 aside roughly, and, in a hoarse voice, muttered, ' Go on.' 
 
 * It is such pain, Ronald, to give you pain,' said Bertha. 
 
 He did not answer ; his forehead was pressed against the wall 
 with a force which must have been almost torture.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 97 
 
 Bertha seemed doubtful whether she might venture to proceed, 
 but after a moment's consideration, slightly changing the subject, 
 she continued : — 'You may wonder wliy, if there was a misunder- 
 standing of the truth, so many years should have passed, and no 
 explanation be offered ; but at the time neither Mr Vivian nor 
 Flora had any one to help or advise them. They were left to 
 poverty, and what would have been utter ruin, but for the inter- 
 position of an ordinary acquaintance, who became by accident 
 acquainted with their case, and interested himself to obtain for 
 Edward a situation in the West Indies. They sailed without a 
 parting word of kindness from us ; indeed we did not know of 
 their intentions till they were gone. My sister and I never met 
 again ; she Hes in a foreign grave ; ' — Bertha's voice faltered, 
 and Roland stealthily and shyly laid his rough hand upon hers, 
 but without speaking. 
 
 ' We had some comfort before that sorrow came,' continued 
 Bertha. 'Years had softened the feelings of my father and 
 mother, and when a change of cliniate became necessary for the 
 children, they consented to take the charge of them. Clement 
 and Ella came to us first ; then the little ones. There were two 
 others who died. But much of that you know, for your father 
 and mother settled in our village about that time. Your father 
 I hoped had recovered his disappointment. We met as friends ; 
 for I did not then understand all the evil he had occasioned ; and 
 his habits of life were not such as to cause an entire separation 
 between the families. Your mother, too, had been my friend in 
 infancy, and clung to me more and more closely as care and 
 sorrow gathered around her. They were tr)'ing days, Ronald, 
 but they brought their blessing with them, — at least to me. It 
 was my joy to comfort her, and I learned for her sake to bear with 
 much which I could not have borne from any man except your 
 father. My father died about that time, and my mother left me 
 much to myself, so that I was able to be with Marian a great 
 deal ; and though your father openly showed his dislike to me, 
 he never actually forbade our intimacy. This went on for about 
 eight years, till your mother died, and your father left the viUage. 
 Family circumstances have not changed much with us since. M y 
 sister's death was a great trial, but we could scarcely grieve for 
 her ; her lot was a very hard one. They were miserably poor, 
 and I am afraid — marriage beginning wrongly can never end 
 well— I fear she was not happy. Edward Vivian has always 
 been restless ; longing to return to England ; yet feeling that 
 
 G
 
 98 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 the little prospect he has of providing for his children would be 
 gone if he were to do so. And tliey have grown up without 
 knowing him ; I don't think even Ella and Clement can recollect 
 him ; and so there is the want of a father's authority. It is all 
 very sad. But it might be altered; — I think so at least. 
 Ronald,' — and Bcrlha spoke hurriedly yet earnestly, — 'you 
 might do much.' 
 
 He stood up proudly ; the marks of a stern self-control 
 were visible in the slight frown upon his forehead, and the 
 compression of his lips, which scarcely parted as he said coldly, 
 'What duty does Miss Campbell require of a son against his 
 father ? ' 
 
 'Not against your father: God forbid!' exclaimed Bertha. 
 ' But, O Ronald ! if injustice has been done' 
 
 'It shall be undone,' he replied, firmly, 'at any sacrifice.' 
 
 Bertha continued : — ' My words must seem harsh, Ronald ; 
 yet I would ser\e your father rather than injure him. The time 
 indeed is so long past that it might be very difficult to prove 
 what we suspect ; but if the attempt were made, it must be 
 followed up, and that publicly — in a court of justice. It might 
 be madness in us, but it would be eternal disgrace for him. Mr 
 Lester and I have talked over the matter repeatedly. For the 
 General's sake, we dread to bring forward a case which we could 
 not prove. It would recall past griefs, and probably cause some 
 fatal catastrophe. Yet we cannot let the matter rest ; for not to 
 speak is Edward Vivian's ruin. One idea we have had has 
 been that he should himself return to England to sift the matter ; 
 but there are many objections to this. His presence might 
 irritate the General, and I should dread a meeting between him 
 and Captain Vivian ; whilst even to enter upon the subject with 
 the General, in order to obtain information, seems next to im- 
 possible, though we have thought of it. The past is a sealed 
 book : not even to his own daughters would he relate the par- 
 ticulars of all that transpired in that one unhappy interview 
 with your father, although something there was which weighed 
 so heavily upon him that it did the work of years upon his 
 frame. Ronald, your father's own words can alone throw light 
 upon the mystery.' 
 
 Bertha paused, but Ronald stood silent as though some secret 
 power had paralysed him. 
 
 ' I do not see the way to obtain them,' she added; ' yet the 
 time may come, conscience may one dny waken ; and Ronald,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 99 
 
 if you should be near him in that hour, I conjure you, by all 
 that you hold most sacred, i-emember your promise.' 
 
 He sank upon the bench, and sobbed like a child. 
 
 Bertha drew near and spoke anxiously — ' It is not against 
 your father that I would for worlds wish you to act ; but you may 
 lead him, urge him, to acknowledge if he has in any way done 
 Edward Vivian wrong by false words. His own confession would 
 never be turned against him, except so far as it might restore 
 Edward to General Vivian's favour. And you may stand in the 
 way between your father and Clement. He hates Clement. He 
 is the child of the woman who rejected him. Save the poor boy 
 from his temptations, and God may in mercy bless your work, 
 and withdraw the curse which must now rest upon the man who 
 laboured for another's ruin.' 
 
 A convulsive shudder passed over Ronald's frame, and then he 
 became motionless. 
 
 ' Ronald,' said Bertha, as she bent over him, ' it is all but your 
 mother's voice which bids you take courage and be comforted.' 
 
 The words were powerless. She heard him murmur to him- 
 self, — 'The curse; the curse.' And again he groaned in 
 anguish. 
 
 ' To be redeemed by you, as it would have been by her,' con- 
 tinued Bertha. 
 
 ' She was an angel,' he exclaimed, starting up, with a vehe- 
 mence which might have caused a less iirm heart than Bertha's 
 to tremble at the storm of feeling she was awakening ; ' and 
 
 r 
 
 ' You may be one, Ronald, — even more ' 
 
 His bitter laugh rang sharply, hopelessly, on the ear. 
 
 * Go,' he exclaimed ; ' talk to others, preach, labour ; there 
 are hundreds to listen ; your words are wasted on me, — the 
 outcast ! ' 
 
 ' An outcast ? so young, so misled ! O Ronald ! never, 
 never ! ' 
 
 ' You know not to whom you speak,' he continued, his voice 
 assuming a tone of fierce sarcasm, more terrible than the out- 
 burst of passion. ' Have you lived the life which I have lived ? 
 seen what I have seen 1 known what I have known ? Go ! let 
 me be what I am doomed to Ije.' 
 
 ' Ronald, I do not know, God forbid that I ever should know, 
 the secrets of such scenes as you have been accustomed to ; but 
 fhis I know, that were they the blackest and deadliest which the
 
 lOO CLEVE HALL. 
 
 human heart could conceive, there must be hope and the cer- 
 tain prospect of escape, whilst the feeling of liorror at them 
 remains.' 
 
 He covered his face with his hands. 
 
 'It is from God,' continued Bertha, soothingly, 'from His 
 Spirit; it is the call to repentance, — the answer to your mother's 
 prayers.' 
 
 'And to my father's deeds, in which 1 have joined,' he said, in 
 a tone like the underswell of the sea. Then, uncovering his face, 
 he gazed upon her, calmly and steadily, and added — ' Miss 
 Campbell, you need not fear. Whatever may be my own course, 
 justice shall one day be done.' He stood, intending to leave her. 
 Bertha detained him. 
 
 ' Ronald, you must not and shall not go. I have a claim that 
 you should listen to me, for I was your mother's friend, her only 
 one. It was to me she made her last request, — that, as God 
 should grant me the power, I would watch over her boy. In her 
 name 1 require you now to hearken to me.' 
 
 He sat down, not sullenly, but as if in a stupor. 
 
 ' I know your purpose,' continued Bertha, her tone becoming 
 severe in its deep earnestness ; ' you will from this night bend all 
 the energies of your mind to discover and counteract the evil 
 which your father has caused ; most earnestly, most entirely, I 
 thank and trust you. But there are two ways open before you ; 
 — in the one you may accomplish your work and be yourself 
 saved ; in the other you may perform it and be lost. And 
 Ronald, intensely though I long for the reconciliation and re- 
 storation of Edward Vivian and his family, — though it is the one 
 object for which it seems now that I have to live, — I would rather 
 see them struggle on in poverty and sorrow for years, and suffer 
 myself with them, than I would know that any word of mine, or 
 any efforts for them, had led you even one step on the way which 
 must tend to destruction. Ronald, you may labour in proud 
 despair, or in humble hope. If you are proud, you are lost.' 
 
 ' Proud ! ' he repeated, bitterly and doubtfully. 
 
 ' Yes, little though you may think it, pride is your snare. You 
 will work for others ; you will not work for yourself.' 
 
 ' I may save others, I cannot save myself,' he replied, in a 
 softened tone. 
 
 ' You cannot save others except by saving yourself. You wish 
 to aid Clement ; you can have no right influence, you can give 
 nothing but an inconsistent example, unless your actions ar§
 
 CLEVE HALL. loi 
 
 f;rounded upon right motives ; the most deceitful of all motives 
 is pride, and its end is despair.' 
 
 ' Then I have reached the end,' he said, sternly. 
 
 ' No, Ronald, impossible. Let the past be what it may, even 
 in old age it is retrievable, — how much more so in youth ! ' 
 
 ' I have known no youth,' he replied ; 'the sins of my child- 
 hood have been the sins of a man, and my punishment must be 
 the punishment of a man.' 
 
 ' And your strength will be the strength of a man,' answered 
 Bertha ; 'the firm resolution, the unshaken will' 
 
 'Which is pride,' he said quickly. 
 
 * Pride when we rest upon it as our o^vn ; faith, when we seek 
 it from God. Ronald, do you ever pray 1' 
 
 He answered abruptly, and yet not angrily, — ' In storms, on 
 the ocean, in the face of death, yes, I have prayed then.' 
 
 ' But in quietness and solitude 1 In your own chamber ? 
 calmly, thoughtfully, regularly ? ' 
 
 He smiled as in scorn at the question. 
 
 ' Your mother prayed, Ronald ; will not you.' 
 
 ' She prayed because she was fit to pray.' 
 
 * And you will pray because you would become fit. — because 
 there are dangers surrounding you, only to be conquered by self- 
 restraint, watchfulness, earnestness, purity, faith ; and you are 
 reckless, proud, full of sinful memories, bowed down by a burden 
 of past offences. You will pray because you long for pardon, for 
 the knowledge that the love of a Heavenly Father will be with 
 you, to guard you from the influence of an eartldy one. You will 
 pray, because v.iiliout prayer life must be misery, and death 
 despair. O Ronald ! will you not do as your mother did ? ' 
 
 He made no reply : he even moved away, and Beitha was left 
 for a few moments alone. She knelt in the old church porch, and 
 a prayer rose up to heaven in the stillness of that summer even- 
 ing — a prayer for one amongst the lost sheep, the erring and the 
 straying, w'ho had left undone those things which they ought to 
 have done, and had done those things which they ought not to 
 have done, and in whom there was no health ; and even as it was 
 uttered, Ronald stood at a distance, too self-distrustful to own 
 liis feelings, too shy to express them in action, yet praying alno, 
 with uncovered head, and closed eyes, humbly and eirnestly, for 
 grace that might enable him hereafter to live a godly, righteous, 
 and sober life, to the glory of God's holy Name. 
 
 They stood together again in the entrance of the porch. Twi-
 
 I02 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 light was gathering around, though the light yet glowed brilliantly 
 in the far west. 
 
 Ronald broke the silence — ' Miss Campbell, you must pray 
 for me, and your prayers will be heard.' 
 
 'All earnest prayers are heard, Ronald; especially those of 
 the sorrowful and penitent. But you will act too t ' 
 
 ' I don't know how ; it is all chaos.' 
 
 ' But the first steps are plain : no sinful words, restraint o\er 
 your temper, a refusal to join in intemperance ' 
 
 ' Yes, plain ;' — he seemed pondering the word doubtfully. 
 
 'And practicable. What ought to be can be, — only pray.' 
 She smiled, and held out her hand, and he raised it respectfully 
 to his lips. 
 
 He did not see the tear which glistened in her eye as she left 
 him under the old church porch, the faint gleams of the setting 
 sun gilding his tall figure. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 * A NOTE for you, Ella ;' and Rachel Lester ran into the 
 -^^ schoolroom at the Lodge, holding a little twisted paper 
 between her fingers. ' But I beg pardon ; I forgot, I mustn't 
 interrupt. How busy you all are this morning !' 
 
 ' Ella has been strict all the week,' said Fanny, looking up 
 from her writing ; ' and it 's dreadful work, Rachel.' 
 
 ' Oh no, Fanny,' exclaimed Rachel ; and she went round and 
 stood behind the child's chair, and oftered to mend her pen. ' I 
 know you don't like lessons half as well when they are not 
 regular ; I am sure I don't.' 
 
 ' But it won't last,' said Louisa, with a knowing nod, which 
 almost upset the gravity of Rachel's face. 
 
 ' I don't know why you are to say that, Louisa,' said Ella ; 
 ' you know we are always regular when there are no interrup- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' Somehow interruptions come every day,' persisted Louisa. 
 
 * I have brought them to-day, I am afraid,' said Rachel. 
 'This note is from your Aunt Mildred, I think, Ella.' 
 
 Ella read her note with an air of importance, and stood gazing
 
 CLEVE HALL. 103 
 
 tipon it afterwards, as if there was some weighty matter to be 
 determined. 
 
 Louisa held up her exercise book, and said, — ' Just look it over, 
 please, Rachel. Ella won't now, she's busy ;' and Rachel went 
 to the other side of the table. 
 
 ' I will attend to the exercise, thank you, Rachel,' said Ella, 
 looking round quickly. She was very jealous of her own autho- 
 rity ; probably because she felt that it rested on an insecure 
 foundation. Rachel sat down, and began to read ; and Louisa 
 and Fanny glanced at each other, and made a sign intended to 
 show that a storm was impending. 
 
 ' I must go to grandmamma,' said Ella, in a tone of dignified 
 self-consciousness. She moved to the door with her usual lan- 
 guid pace. 
 
 ' When am I to see you again, Ella ? ' asked Rachel. 
 
 ' And what are we to do about our lessons ? we have just 
 finished our exercises,' inquired Fanny, fretfully. 
 
 ' JMy dear, I can't attend to you ; ' and Ella walked out of the 
 room, without answering Rachel's question. 
 
 Rachel could not help feeling annoyed. She had some special 
 messages to give from her papa, and she was not to go back 
 without having them answered ; and this delay would be very 
 inconvenient, for she had several things to prepare for Bertha, 
 who gave lier German lessens three times a week. 
 
 The children were provoked, too. They liked regularity, 
 even when they complained of it ; and although they seized up- 
 on the excuse to go on with some new story books, they were by 
 no means comfortable. 
 
 Ella went to her grandmamma's room. Bertha was there, and 
 she drew back. 
 
 * Come in, Ella ; what do you want ? ' How chilling the tone 
 of voice was ! How utterly unlike the sympathising tenderness 
 which had touched Ronald's better feelings ! 
 
 ' I want to speak to grandmamma, said Ella. 
 
 'Do you, my darling? Oh, then. Bertha, these things can 
 wait ; ' and Mrs Campbell pointed to a pile of account books. 
 
 ' Betsey is going to Cleve, and she ought to pay the books,' 
 replied Bertha. 
 
 ' Not to-day ; she must wait. There will be another opportu- 
 nity, I dare say, to-morrow.' 
 
 * Couldn't you leave what you have to say, Ella, till the chil- 
 dren's lessons arc finished ?' asked Bertha.
 
 I04 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * It won't take two minutes,' said Ella. ' Grandmamma, I 
 have had a note from Aunt Mildred.' 
 
 'We know all about that, Ella,' observed Bertha; 'grand- 
 mamma heard from your aunt yesterday herself.' 
 
 ' Then, grandmamma, when am I to go ? ' 
 
 'There is no hurry about settling the time now, Ella. The 
 accounts must be finished first.' 
 
 ' But I must know, because of getting my things ready ; and 
 Aunt Mildred begs me to write and tell her.' 
 
 'We will talk about it, Ella, my dear ; we will see about it,' 
 said Mrs Campbell, nervously. 
 
 'But by and by will do just as well,' remarked Bertha. ' It 
 is not a matter of consequence whether you go one day or an- 
 other, Ella.' 
 
 ' If I don't go this week the fine weather may be gone ; and 
 Aunt Mildred wouldn't like me to be there when it is wet,' said 
 Ella. 
 
 ' But an hour can't make any difference,' continued Bertha ; 
 ' and Betsey must go to Cleve this morning.' 
 
 'Mr Lester's cook will be going to-morrow, Louisa says,' 
 replied Ella ; ' she would pay the books.' 
 
 Bertha's temper was irritated to the utmost extent of forbear- 
 ance. She gathered the account books together, without trusting 
 herself with another word. 
 
 ' You can tell Betsey to wait, and come back to me yourself, 
 presently, Bertha,' said Mrs Campbell, making a compromise 
 with her conscience, as Bertha was going away. 
 
 The door closed, not quite gently, and Ella sat down by her 
 grandrnamma, and muttered, 'Aunt Bertha is so dreadfully soon 
 put out.' 
 
 Perhaps it was not quite wise in Bertha to do as she did,— go 
 to the schoolroom— it might have been better for Ella's misdeeds 
 to bear their own fruit, — but regularity was her mania, and she 
 felt that the children were becoming irregular. Rachel ran up to 
 her as she entered the room ; ' Dear Miss Campbell ! I wanted 
 to see you so much ; I have a message from papa.' 
 
 Bertha had felt lonely and dispirited just before, but that bright 
 face, and the musical voice, and loving accent, had an influence 
 which she could not withstand. Yet she was cold still ; she 
 would have appeared so at least to those who did not comprehend 
 her. ' Wait one moment, dear Rachel, Children, what are you 
 about?'
 
 CLEVE HALL, 105 
 
 * Reading till Ella comes back,' said Louis.i. 
 
 * Put away your books, and tell me what you ha\-e to do.' 
 
 * I have an hour's music to practise,' said Fanny, mournfully. 
 ' Well, then, set about it at once. And Louisa ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! a great many things,' said Louisa, carelessly. ' French 
 dictation, and geography, and lessons for to-morrow, and reading 
 history, and sums. I shan't have done till I don't know what 
 o'clock.' 
 
 ' Then begin something directly. Where is your slate ? Show 
 me what sum you are doing.' 
 
 'Ella was explaining to me about decimal fractions, last time,' 
 said Louisa. 
 
 * Decimal fractions ! nonsense ! where did you leave off with 
 me ? The rule of three ; — there, take that sum, No. 19, and 
 work it while I am here. Not a word to be spoken, remember. 
 Now, Rachel;' and Bertha opened the window, and stepped out 
 upon the little lawn, followed by Rachel. 
 
 ' I won't keep you a minute, at least not many, dear Aliss 
 Campbell,' began Rachel. 
 
 'Never mind, I have time to spare; Ella won't be back again 
 for the next half-hour ; ' and Bertha sighed. 
 
 ' I wish I could help you, and I wish ' — Rachel hesitated — ■ 
 * I wish Ella didn't trouble you.' 
 
 ' We won't talk about her,' said Bertha, shortly. 
 
 Rachc '• IS thrown back, and ventured upon no more expres- 
 sions ofs\Tnpathy. * Papa says, dear Miss Campbell, that he 
 wants you to come up and see him this evening ; he wanted to 
 know if perhaps you would come and drink tea with me ; but he 
 mayn't be at home till late himself. He has several poor people 
 to see, and he may be kept.' 
 
 'Yes, I will come, certainly.' Quite different Bertha's accent 
 was then ; there was even a tone of excitement in it. 
 
 Rachel's quick ear caught the change. 
 
 'Dear Miss Campbell, may I say one thing more to you? 
 Perhaps it is not exactly the right time, but if you could spare 
 nie a few moments.' 
 
 ' As many as you like.' 
 
 ' And you won't be offended ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think I could be offended at anything you would say, 
 Rachel.' 
 
 ' Because you arc so kind, and make allowances for me ; but I 
 am half afraid of this.' Her colour went and came very quickly,
 
 io6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 and she stopped for some seconds, and at last said, — Miss 
 Campbell ! I do so wish every one was comfortable.' 
 
 ' A universal wish, at least, Rachel.' 
 
 'Oh no!' exclaimed Rachel; 'it can't be; at least — I don't 
 mean to be i-udc — but if every one wished it, every one would 
 be.' 
 
 ' Not quite,' replied Bertha ; ' God sends afflictions.' 
 
 ' But those would not make one uncomfortable, would they ? 
 but unhnppy. And, do you know, I think it is much worse to be 
 uncomfortable than unhappy.' 
 
 Bertha could not help laughing. ' Well perhaps it may be,— 
 though it is not the general view of the case. But you have no- 
 thing to make you uncomfortable, Rachel ? ' 
 
 ' Not at home, and I never used to have anywhere.' 
 
 ' Till we came here,' said Bertha. 
 
 Rachel hesitated a little. 'I suppose, where there are so 
 many people, things must be more uncomfortable ; but I am 
 very sorry about it, and I should like so — it came into my head 
 that perhaps you could tell me something to do to help to make 
 them less so. You know that I am going to be confirmed in 
 October.' 
 
 ' Are you ? I didn't know it ; but what has that to do with 
 your being confirmed ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing exactly ; only thinking about that put the other into 
 my head. Papa says it is a great starting-point in life, and that 
 I am to think over all my duties, and see how I can perform them 
 better than I have done. And he told me to think about what I 
 did and said with my companions, and to consider whether I 
 could make things better in any way. That was what reminded 
 me of being uncomfortable, — for I don't think Ella is comfortable, 
 and I don't think I am when I am with her.' 
 
 ' Ella is a very difficult person to live with,' said Bertha. 
 
 * She is never two days alike,' continued Rachel. ' That 
 puzzles me ; because when I think I know how to get on with 
 her, she turns round and is quite difterent.' 
 
 ' She is a genius,' said Bertha, rather bitterly; 'and so she has 
 been spoiled.' 
 
 Rachel was thoughtful. ' I used to think,' she said, 'that it 
 would be very delightful to be exceedingly clever, but I don't 
 think I do now.' 
 
 ' Cleverness is all very well,' said Bertha ; 'but it is good for 
 nothing if people can't govern themselves.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 107 
 
 ' But clever people always do so much in the world,' said 
 Rachel. 
 
 * I am not so sure of that, Rachel. The hard work of the 
 world is done by straightforward goodness, not by talent. Ella 
 will never do anything.' 
 
 ' You always say that,' said Rachel : 'and it makes me un- 
 happ\-.' 
 
 ' I say it, because I think it,' replied Bertha. ' Louisa is twice 
 as useful as Ella now.' 
 
 'And you don't know any way in which I could help Ella to 
 be more useful?' asked Rachel, the colour rushing to her temples, 
 as she added, — ' It sounds conceited, but papa told me I was to 
 try.' 
 
 ' You will be cleverer than I am, if you can find out,' replied 
 Berthn. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred says,' continued Rachel, 'that if we want to 
 lead people any particular way, we must begin by going two steps 
 with them, and then we may be able to persuade them to go one 
 step with us.' 
 
 Bertha shook her head ; it sounded like a dangerous maxim ; 
 at any rate she was not accustomed to it. 
 
 ' I don't mean two wrong steps, of course,' pursued Rachel, 
 reading the doubtful expression of Bertha's countenance ; 'and 
 Aunt Mildred, when she said it, told me I was not to trouble my 
 head about it now, because I have enough to do to lead myself ; 
 but that it might be useful to remember when I grew up. I 
 could not help thinking about it, though, a little, when papa talked 
 to me about being useful, and setting a good example ; and at 
 last I made up my mind that I would ask you if you could tell 
 me anything in which I went against Ella. I am very nearly 
 sure I do sometimes, without meaning it.' 
 
 ' She goes against herself,' replied Bertha. ' There is nothing 
 to be done with persons who do that' 
 
 ' And you don't think it is my fault ?' 
 
 ' No, dear Rachel, what could make you think it was?' 
 
 ' Because, do you know. Miss Campbell, I can't help looking 
 up to Ella ; and so, when things go wrong, I can't help fancying 
 the fault must be mine.' 
 
 'As to cleverness,' said Bertha, 'every one must look up to 
 her.' 
 
 ' And she has such grand notions,' continued Rachel. * I 
 think sometimes she would have been such a great person if
 
 io8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 she had been a nmn ; and that perhaps the misfortune is her 
 being a woman. Would she have been better as a man, do you 
 
 • hink ?' 
 
 ' Really, dear Rachel, I never troubled myself to think. I be- 
 lieve we are all best as God has made us.' 
 
 • ' But such a great mind seems shut up in a woman's body,' 
 said Rachel, laughing. 
 
 * It is not a great mind, Rachel. Great minds do great things.' 
 
 * Ella begins a great many,' said Rachel. 
 
 ' But she does not finish them. A thing is not done till it is 
 finished.' A smile crossed Bertha's face as she said this, and 
 she added — 'That is a truism ; at least it sounds like one ; but 
 I am sure half the world forget it. And then people go shares 
 with others in their duties, and so deceive themselves. Ella 
 goes shares with you, Rachel.' 
 
 ' How 1 I don't understand ?' 
 
 ' She has grand notions of what is right, and, when the fit is 
 upon her, she forms beautiful plans of duty, and begins them ; 
 but she grows tired of them and leaves you or the children to 
 finish them. Then she has a vague idea that because they are 
 done by some one, it is the same as if they Vere done by her. 
 All this is terrible self-deception. It will be her ruin if it is 
 allowed to go on.' 
 
 ' And I can't do anything, then ?' said Rachel, sadly. 
 
 ' I suppose we all do something ^^hen we attend to our own 
 duties,' replied Bertha. ' Ella would be much worse if it were 
 not for you.' 
 
 ' But, about going two steps with her?' said Rachel, thought- 
 fully. ' Can't you tell me what Aunt Mildred means by that ?' 
 
 ' I don't understand how we are to go two steps with any one 
 who is going the wrong way,' said Bertha, rather shortly. ' 1 
 think, Rachel, you had better leave Ella to herself.' 
 
 Rachels was a very warm heart, and there was an innate truth- 
 fulness in her character, which was her bond of sympathy with 
 Bertha. It kept her now from being utterly repelled ; but it 
 was very trying to give confidence, and seek it, and find nothing 
 in return. She walked on, silent and disappointed. Bertha's 
 heart smote her ; and something whispered to her that she did 
 not care to talk about Ella, or try to improve her, and that she 
 ought to do so. 
 
 ' Don't go, Rachel, dear,' she said, as Rachel turned into the 
 path to the Rectory. ' Have you nothing more to say ?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 109 
 
 'Nothing thank you. Eut you will come and drink tea this 
 evening ?' 
 
 ' Yes, and shall Ella come too ?' It was a great effort foi 
 Bertha to propose this. She did not wish it at all, but it was an 
 amends to her conscience. A few moments before Rachel would 
 have said that it would be pleasanter to have a quiet hour alone 
 with Miss Campbell, but she did not feel that now. She only 
 thought herself very stupid in having mentioned Ella's name. 
 
 ' Yes, if you please,' she replied , ' you know we drink tea at 
 half-past six, so you will be back in time to read to Mrs Camp- 
 bell. Papa has altered the hour, because of having to go across 
 the hills, nearly every day, to see poor little Barney Wood. Do 
 you know. Miss Campbell,' — and Rachel became animated in 
 the consciousness that she was going to say something agreeable, 
 — ' Ronald Vivian has been so kind to Barney ; he has cut him 
 out a little ship, and he goes to read to him sometimes. Isn't it 
 good of him ?' 
 
 Bertha kissed Rachel ; — that was her answer ; and Rachel 
 ran away, feeling that she had, in some unknown way, made 
 her peace. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ELLA deceived herself, but so also did Bertha Campbell. 
 Was that possible ? — so strict as Bertha was in her self- 
 examination, so very rigid both in the theory and the practice 
 of duty, and above all, so very true both by nature and long 
 habit ? 
 
 ' The heart is deceitful above all things.' 
 
 This is, of course, peculiarly true of the affections, especially 
 when the feeling nursed is the one gentle point in a character 
 otherwise unyielding. But the expression must include also the 
 whole bent and disposition of the mind. The one object which 
 welove, or for the success of which we labour, be it ever so pure, 
 ever so disinterested, — human friendship, — a work of benevo- 
 lence, — the carrying out of some noble principle, — that is our 
 temptation. If we do not watch, and strive, and continually 
 balance it by other claims, it will one day be the cause of 
 our fall. 
 
 This seems to be the secret of much of that inconsistency
 
 »*c CLEVE HALL, 
 
 which is a stumbling-block to the young in the characters of 
 those whom they are taught to reverence. Good men devote 
 themselves to the support of a theory, or to the advancement of 
 some deiinite object, and, unconsciously to themselves, it too 
 often takes the place of God. The range of their sympathies, 
 and consequently of the virtues they practise, is narrowed, and 
 others see with surprise, and often consternation, tliat whilst 
 professing the very highest principles, and devoting themselves 
 to the very noblest purposes, they can yet utterly overlook the 
 simplest and most obvious duties. 
 
 Thus it was, at least in a degree, with Bertha Campbell. 
 Naturally warm-hearted, yet painfully reserved, she had early in 
 life been brought in contact with a person who had excited her 
 keenest interest, and, by giving confidence, had in time been able 
 to exact it. This was the beginning of her affection for Ronald 
 Vivian's mother. Reserved people are grateful to those who 
 teach them unreserve. Bertha was grateful to Mrs Vivian. 
 Gratitude, deepened by compassion, became love, — that romantic 
 feeling which is so continually the day-dream of a young girl's 
 life, and which may not be the less dangerous because the world 
 sees in it nothing to condemn. 
 
 And so Bertha's dormant sympathies flowed into this one 
 channel, which she had dug for herself, and found no vent in those 
 which had been formed for her by God. Mrs Campbell, doubt- 
 less, had much cause to blame herself for this, but Bertha could 
 not be said to be innocent. Because she liked to be with Mrs 
 Vivian, and knew that her society was appreciated, and her 
 presence felt as a comfort by one otherwise lonely and desolate, 
 she made excuses to her conscience for the neglect of little home 
 duties, and attributed her mother's reproaches to harshness of 
 temper and want of sympathy with her pleasures. Mrs Camp- 
 bell was in consequence estranged from her, and bestowed her 
 affections upon the children. Bertha w^as hurt at this. She was 
 not exactly jealous ; it was not in her disposition ; but her pride 
 was wounded, and Ella's talents causing her to be brought for- 
 ward far beyond her years, they were continually jarring. So 
 the coldness spread. Bertha knew her faults, and kept a strict 
 watch over them ; but she knew them by their effects, not their 
 cause. She was always doctoring herself for symptoms, whilst 
 she had never reached the root of the disease. And now, un- 
 known to herself, under the guise of the most sacred of all feel- 
 ings,— a desire to save from ruin the child of the friend whom
 
 CLEVE HALL. in 
 
 she had dearly loved, — the same seed of evil was again being 
 nurtured in her heart. To Ronald she could give sympathy, 
 tenderness, and the most untiring interest : he was, in another 
 form, the romance of her early life ; to Ella and Clement she 
 could offer nothing but rules of duty and cold advice. Was this 
 selfishness ? 
 
 By the strictest inquiry as to her faults. Bertha could not have 
 discovered it. The friends who knew her most intimately, and 
 watched her most narrowly, could not have accused her of it. 
 
 Only in one way could she have perceived it : by examining 
 whether the scales of duty were equally balanced, — whether in 
 throwing the weight of her energy into one, she had not, from a 
 secret bias, lightened the other. 
 
 And this kind of self-examination Bertha had not learned to 
 practice. She inquired rather into the quality than the extent 
 of her duties, and as long as those which she had set herself 
 were attended to thoroughly and honestly, she saw no need to 
 ask whether there might not be others neglected. 
 
 Yet Rachel's conversation left an unpleasant impression on 
 her mind ; it touched her conscience, though she was not quite 
 aware of the fact, and, in consequence, made her feel more irri- 
 tated with Ella than before. And certainly, there was much to 
 complain of that morning ; Ella stayed nearly half an hour with 
 her grandmamma, persuading her that it was quite necessary 
 she should go to the Hall the next day ; and when at length, 
 .she had obtained the desired consent, ran up-stairs to consult 
 Betsey about a box for packing her things, taking up the ser- 
 vant's time, so that the bedrooms were not finished till twelve 
 o'clock. The children's lessons might have been scattered to 
 the winds, but for Bertha. As it was, they went on most ener- 
 getically and satisfactorily ; but it was at the expense of poor 
 Bertha's time, and in a certain way, of her health, for she was 
 obliged in consequence to give up a walk before dinner, which 
 had been specially recommended her, in order to write the 
 letters that ought properly to have been finished whilst Ella was 
 with the children. 
 
 Very little trouble and labour this would have been to Bertha, 
 if Ella had been at all considerate or grateful ; but she was so in 
 the habit of letting her duties fall quietly upon Bertha's shoulders, 
 that she really was not aware at last who was bearing the burden, 
 and therefore scarcely ever thought of saying, 'Thank you.' 
 What was still more provoking, it never seemed to cross her
 
 ;i: CLEVE HALI^ 
 
 mincl that it was her duty to provide, in some way, for the chil- 
 dren's instruction during her absence. She was one of those 
 easy-tempered persons who never seem to imagine that they 
 give trouble, because they have never been in the habit of 
 taking it. ' Things will go on somehow,' was a very favourite 
 saying of hers ; the somehow, meaning a/iyhotv, so long as her 
 own plans were not interfered with. 
 
 It is a grievous pity that we do not all learn to call our faults 
 by their right names. Ella acknowledged herself to be indolent, 
 — that she did not object to ; it was rather a refined fault. She 
 would have been deeply mortified if it had been suggested to her 
 that she was selfish, for she was always dreaming of heroism, 
 and heroines are never selfish. 
 
 And on that day particularly Ella was a heroine in her own 
 eyes, for she was indulging a long-cherished romance. She 
 thought it was about her Aunt Mildred, but it was really, as is 
 the case with most persons who give themselves to romance, 
 about herself. Ella believed herself to be, as she expressed it, 
 ' bewdtched with Aunt Mildred.' They had not met above five 
 or six times ; but Mildred's sweet face, her quiet grace, and 
 earnest thoughtfulness, were most attractive to Ella's excit- 
 able imagination. And then the solemn grandeur of the old 
 Hall, the seclusion of Mildred's room, opening into the private 
 garden, her grandfather's dignity, the deference of the servants, 
 and, above all, the mystery which had so long been connected 
 with the home of her father's childhood ; — it was not wonderful 
 that these things should w-ork upon Ella with an influence 
 amounting to fascination. It had 'oeen her dream for the last 
 two months that she should go and stay at Cleve, and a very 
 innocent dream it seemed ; but, unfortunately, though Aunt 
 Mildred appeared in the foreground in Ella's imaginary pictures, 
 she herself was always peeping over her shoulder ; and if the 
 dream had been examined when carried on to its termination, it 
 would have been found that, iX last, Ella was to reign triumphant 
 at Cleve, her grandfather's idol. Aunt Mildred's pet, — safe fi-om 
 grandmamma's nervous anxieties and Aunt Bertha's lectures, — 
 the centre of interest to the whole family. 
 
 With what an instinctive stateliness of manner did Ella leave 
 the house that afternoon, arm-in-arm with Clement, to ramble 
 over the hills ! Bertha had taken the children; Mrs Campbell 
 was inclined to be left alone, probably to sleep. Clement was 
 yawning, and complaining of dullness ; and what better could be
 
 CLEVE HALL. 113 
 
 devised under such trying circumstances than a long walk ? P^Ua 
 ■.vas not fond of mounting the hills : she liked much better to go 
 to the sea-shore, and read poetry ; but she had been taking a 
 mental stimulant, and for once said ' Yes,' when Clement pro- 
 posed that they should try and reach the Beacon, a pile of stones, 
 raised as a kind of landmark, on the top of the highest hill, which 
 rose a little to the north-west of Encombe. 
 
 They set off vigorously over the rough stones of a long lane ; 
 mounted a high gate, made their way across a field of stubble, 
 and emerged upon the fine turf of the hills. Clement stopped to 
 take breath and rest, for the ascent, even as far as they had gone, 
 was tiring. Ella dragged him on : ' For shame ! false-hearted ! 
 to want rest just at the beginning ; how will you hold out to the 
 end.?' 
 
 'As well as you do, I will answer for that. The hare and the 
 tortoise, remember.' 
 
 ' I always admired the hare the most, though 1 respected the 
 tortoise,' exclaimed Ella, hastening on ; and then stopping for a 
 moment, quite breathless, and laughing at Clement's plodding 
 steps ; ' you see, Clement,' she said, as he drew near, tne good 
 of doing things at a start is, that you gain time by it, to find a 
 little amusement with your neighbours. The world would be a 
 very dull world if every one went through it only minding his 
 own concerns, as you do now.' 
 
 ' There is something in that,' said Clement, throwing himself 
 upon the grass ; 'but what are you to do, Ella, when there is no 
 amusement to find .'' 
 
 ' Oh, make it. I should always make it,' replied Eila. ' If it 
 was not in life, I would get it from books ; and if it was not to 
 be had in books, I would invent it.' 
 
 'Very well for you who have brains ; but for a poor fellow who 
 has none ! ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Clement ; I won't have you say that. Now for 
 another start ! ' And almost before the words were spoken, Ella 
 had made a rush, and was several yards in advance. 
 
 Clement followed at a distance. A call from Ella hastened 
 his steps. 
 
 'Mr Lester and Rachel going towards the foot of the Beacon; 
 shall we catch up with them ?' She did not wait for an answer 
 but hurried forward. 
 
 Clement stood still for an instant, and perceiving a short cut 
 up a steep bank, which Ella could scarcely have ascended, was
 
 i-i-t CLEVE HALL. 
 
 about to hasten after her, when, happening to look round, he per- 
 ceived Ronald Vivian coming up the hill, with the firm tread and 
 athletic gait of a mountaineer; not hurrying like Ella, not 
 leisurely and indolently moving on with unsteady pace like him- 
 self, but at every stride making a marked progress, which 
 promised in a few seconds to bring them to the same level. The 
 two boys caught sight of each other at the same moment. Cle- 
 ment stopped. 
 
 They were only half friends, for Clement had not forgiven 
 Ronald for his interference on the night of the storm, and was all 
 the more irritable because he had found that there was really no 
 ground for offence. Ronald had indeed urged Goff to go without 
 him, but he had never pretended to give a message which he had 
 not received. The attraction which drew them together was like 
 that of the rattlesnake ; and it was with an assumption of supe- 
 riority that Clement exclaimed; 'Halloo! what errand are you 
 upon now, Ronald ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing of consequence,' was the reply, shouted forth in 
 Ronald's loudest tones ; and, without pausing, he went on in an 
 opposite direction from that which Clement was taking. 
 
 His indifference piqued Clement, and he called again, * I say, 
 Ronald, stop, can't you ? What on earth does he go on at that 
 pace for ? ' he muttered to himself, as Ronald, either naturally or 
 wilfully deaf, strode forward. 
 
 Another loud, shrill call, so loud that Ronald could not but 
 hear, and stop in answer to it; and Clement, irritated and proud, 
 walked up to him leisurely, taking rather a delight in observing 
 one or two impatient gestures. 
 
 A scowl was on Ronald's face. His temper was by nature 
 very quickly aroused, and had been, till lately, at times, quite 
 ungovernable. 
 
 ' I '11 tell you what, young sir,' he begun, as Clement came up to 
 him, 'you must learn that I have something else to do than to stand 
 kicking my heels together for you. Why don't you make haste?' 
 
 ' Why didn't you stop ? ' inquired Clement. 
 
 'Why should I ? We have nothing to say to each other.' 
 
 *We shall have a great deal, if you can't be civil. Master Ro- 
 nald,' said Clement. ' But there is no need to fret yourself. I 
 only want a plain answer to a plain question. Where are you 
 going?' 
 
 ' Where you are not required to follow,' replied Ronald, 
 'Your course is up the hills, I take it.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 115 
 
 'And yours along them. I am not so ig-nornnt, you see, as 
 you may fancy.' 
 
 Ronald's colour rose ; but some inward tliought checked his 
 anger. ' I was impatient just now,' he said, 'and lam sorry.' 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 The words came out so naturally, that Clement scarcely under- 
 stood that an apology had been offered. Yet he took the hand 
 extended to him, saying, ' You needn't be so close ; I don't want 
 to tell upon you.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to be told,' replied Ronald ; ' but our wa) s 
 don't go together,' 
 
 ' Why not ? Ella and I are only taking an afternoon's walk. 
 Why shouldn't we go with you ? ' 
 
 ' Because I shall be better without you,' said Ronald, bluntly ; 
 ' the road is a rough one.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense for that ! Ella doesn't care for rough roads ; 
 and as for me,' and Clement laughed satirically, ' as if I couldn't 
 do what you do ! ' 
 
 ' That may be. But, Clement, you are not coming with me,' 
 and tossing his stick into the air, Ronald strode onward. 
 
 ' I am not, eh ? ' exclaimed Clement ; ' we '11 see that, young 
 gentleman !' He flung down a few wild-flowers which he had 
 been carrying for Ella, and pressed forward, keeping Ronald in 
 sight, yet not attempting to join him. 
 
 He had forgotten Ella ; he generally did forget everything but 
 the impulse of the moment ; and he had an impression that Ella 
 was going along the foot of the hills in a direction parallel with 
 his own, and would be sure to join Mr Lester. He did not ex- 
 actly say it to himself, but it was a kind of vague conviction, 
 enough to satisfy him ; so he went on. 
 
 The path was winding, occasionally almost dangerous, for it 
 was nothing more than a sheep-track, and the hills were in some 
 parts very nearly precipitous. But Clement had a firm tread and 
 a steady eye ; he kept Ronald in view, except when at intervals 
 a projecting point hid him for a moment from sight, and felt 
 something of the eagerness of a chase, as from time to time he 
 ascended a high mound or a steep bank, to obtain a more 
 general view of the course he was taking. 
 
 Then he did once or twice look for Ella, and at first he saw her 
 hurrying on after two figures, whom he supposed to be Mr Lester 
 and Rachel, and afterwards he observed her stop to rest, and 
 shouted after her to show her where he was, but he did not wait
 
 u6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 to listen whether she answered him. When he looked the third 
 time, she was not in sight, but, of course, he supposed, she had 
 heard him, and, seeing him at a distance, had joined Mr Lester. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE direction which Ronald took, and which Clement 
 followed, led at length into another of those deep gorges 
 with which the Encombe Hills abounded, formed, in all proba- 
 bility, by the constant fretting of some mountain stream, wear- 
 ing away the rocks. 
 
 Greystone Gorge, as it was called, was much narrower than 
 the ravine in which the village of Encombe had been built. 
 The stream, to which it must have owed its origin, had long 
 been dried up, and it was now, for the most part, quite barren 
 and stony, except where some few patches of rank grass had 
 sprung up among the rocks. At the upper extremity, however, 
 a solitary ash-tree, the relic probably of the woods which had 
 formerly clothed the hills, had taken root, and with the cliff 
 behind, formed a shelter for a good-sized cottage, a small cow- 
 shed, and a pigsty. Under the shade of the tree, a party of 
 children were at play, collected around a little hand-carriage, 
 in which a sickly boy, of about five years of age, was lying ; 
 but Ronald's figure was no sooner seen descending the height, 
 than a scream of mingled fear and delight burst forth, and 
 in a moment they were scattered in all directions, hiding them- 
 selves in the house, or behind the cow-shed, and one of the more 
 adventurous climbing up the face of the almost perpendicular 
 cliff. 
 
 Ronald called to them with a rough but good-natured reproof: 
 ' Why, you silly imps ! what are you after ? here Johnnie,— 
 Martha ; here I say. One would think that I was the Black 
 Rider.' They came up to him, and he unslung a basket which 
 he had been carrying on a pole over his shoulder, and, placing 
 it on the ground, told them to take it between them into the 
 cottage. 
 
 * I thought 'tweren't no one but you. Master Ronald,' ex- 
 claimed Johnnie, seizing the basket by one handle, and nearly 
 upsetting it ; ' but Martha declared as how there was two of
 
 CLEVE HALL. 117 
 
 you, and then I said you always come alone, so it couldn't be 
 you.' 
 
 ' What has Martha been doing to see double ? ' exclaimed 
 Ronald. * I shan't trust her if she does that.' 
 
 'There was another, and that's he,' exclaimed Martha, and 
 pointing to the top of the rocks, she added : ' He's a skulking 
 down, but I can see him.' 
 
 ' He shall skulk to some purpose,' exclaimed Ronald, springing 
 up the rocks again with the agility of a wild goat, and in his 
 eagerness not hearing the cries of the sickly boy under the ash- 
 tree, who called after him in a voice of agony, 'that he would 
 break his neck, and then he shouldn't see him any more.' From 
 point to point he swung himself with rapidity which it was pain 
 to follow ; his feet seeming scarcely to touch the rock, his eye 
 giving quick glances around. 
 
 ' He 's got him ; there they be ! ' exclaimed Johnnie ; and draw- 
 ing his little sister towards him, he showed her where, on an 
 overhanging platform, Ronald and Clement stood confronting 
 each other. 
 
 ' Spy ! ' burst from Ronald's lips. 
 
 Clement laughed. 'I was not to come, wasn't I .'' I have shown 
 you now that I will come, when and where I choose.' 
 
 'Not without my consent,' replied Ronald, coolly. 'You will 
 go back.' 
 
 ' Not at your order. Master Ronald ; or we will try which is 
 the strongest.' 
 
 'Ay, try!' and Ronald shrugged his shoulders contemptu- 
 ously. ' I should be sorry, young sir, to have to pitch you 
 over the rocks.' He folded his arms, and nodding his head as 
 he looked up at the cliff's, added : ' If you take my advice, you'll 
 be off.' 
 
 ' I take no advice except from my superiors,' exclaimed 
 Clement. 
 
 Ronald's eyes flashed, he lifted up his hand, and touched 
 Clement's shoulder. 
 
 His grasp was shaken off indignantly, and Clement clenched 
 his fist, and drew nearer to the edge of the rock. 
 
 ' Ronald ! Ronald ! ' screamed a voice from below. The sick 
 boy was raising himself in his little carriage, and stretching out 
 his hands. 
 
 Ronald's hand, which had been raised to ward off the antici- 
 po.ted blow, fell by his side, 'As you will,' he said, quite calmly ;
 
 Ii8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'we arc fools to quarrel ;' and he turned suddenly round, and 
 
 sprang down the cliffs. The next moment he was at the side of 
 
 the child's carriage. 
 
 ' Barney, what made you call ? What frightens you ?' 
 
 'I don't know. You'd have tumbled over,' said the child, 
 
 ' and I wanted you.' 
 
 ' I was coming to you ; you mustn't be impatient.' 
 
 ' He looked as if he would have thrown you down,' continued 
 
 the boy. 
 
 * Perhaps he would, but I should have picked myself up.' 
 'But you couldn't ; God wouldn't have let you; you'd have 
 
 been killed;' and tears of nervous fright chased themselves down 
 the little fellow's cheeks. 
 
 * No matter perhaps for that, if I had been,' muttered Ronald. 
 Barney caught the words. ' It must matter,' he said. ' Father 
 
 says it don't, but the clergyman says it does ; he taught me a 
 hymn about it. I can say it ; ' and without waiting for permis- 
 sion, he began, and went through the verse till just at the end 
 of the last line, when he stopped, and, looking up at Ronald, 
 said with a keenly intelligent smile, ' He's a listening ; he's no 
 business to listen.' 
 
 Clement was close at hand. 
 
 ' Go on,' said Ronald ; and the second verse of the hymn was 
 begun and finished, and then Barney stretched out his wasted 
 hands to Ronald, and said, 'Won't you carry me?' And 
 Ronald lifted him in his strong arms, and bore him a few 
 paces up the rock to a stone seat, and resting the child in his 
 lap, he bade him look down the gorge, and see if any one was 
 coming up. 
 
 ' Father's coming, I think ; no, 'tisn't he, 'tis the black cow. 
 Father won't be home yet. Shan't you have time to stay ?' 
 
 ' 1 don't know ; if I can't, I will come again. But you must 
 wait here a minute, whilst I go and talk with the young gentle- 
 man. You '11 be comfortable if I put my coat down for you.' 
 
 He took off his coat, and, folding it together, stretched it over 
 the stone, and laid the child upon it. 'There, Barney, just for 
 two minutes. You can look at me all the time ; you won't care, 
 will you?' 
 
 Barney's face betokened tears ; but Ronald stopped them. 
 'You told me yesterday you meant to try and be good, and 
 not cry any more.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't if you didn't go awav.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 119 
 
 'But if I do, you mustn't; that's what would be right; and 
 when I come back we will open the basket.' 
 
 'Have you brought them?' exclaimed the child, his eyes 
 sparkling, and the colour rising to his pale cheeks. 
 
 ' Yes, two flags, beautiful flags for the little ship, and some 
 tiny men, and a cake besides, and a picture book. You shall 
 see them presently, but you must let me go now;' and he 
 gently loosened the tight hold with which Barney grasped his 
 sleeve, and, nodding to him, hurried down the bank. 
 
 Clement had not moved from the ash-tree ; he was standing 
 there, moodily, watching Ronald and the child. When Ronald 
 drew near he glanced around, as though he would fain have 
 made his escape. 
 
 Ronald went up to him at once. ' You have seen all there is 
 to see ; now, Clement, will you go ? ' 
 
 'I don't see why you should make such secrets about nothing,' 
 replied Clement, taking up the offensive. ' Why couldn't you 
 tell me at once you were coming to see the child .'' I shouldn't 
 have troubled myself then.' 
 
 'Because I didn't choose to answer impertinent questions;' 
 and, seeing Clement's colour rise, Ronald added, ' I am not 
 going to be angry, Clement, but once for all I tell you that now 
 you must go.' 
 
 * I don't see that,' was Clement's reply. 
 
 'Then you must learn to see it. Mr Lester and Miss Camp- 
 bell would wish it ; you know that as well as I do.' 
 
 ' I am not going to submit to a woman,' exclaimed Clement, 
 'and Mr Lester has no authority.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not. It makes no difference to me.' 
 
 * And you will be a turn-coat, after all,' exclaimed Clement ; 
 ' tied to a woman's apron-string ! Well, then ! ' and his lips 
 curled into a sneer ; ' perhaps you are right ; we had better 
 part.' 
 
 Ronald's hand grasped the knotted head of the stick which 
 he held in his hand, till every muscle seemed strained to suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 'And when I thought we were to be friends!' pursued Cle- 
 ment, his tone softening. ' You told me we should be.' 
 
 ' Yes, when I thought there was no obstacle.' 
 
 ' Obstacle ! When persons choose to be friends, what is to 
 prevent it ? ' 
 
 ' It can't be,' was Ronald's reply.
 
 i:o CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' But it can, and shall be, if I wibh it. \Vc i\re not always to 
 be kept under lock and key : the world will one day be free 
 
 ♦.0 us.' 
 
 Ronald laid his rough hand upon Clement's arm : * Good-bye, 
 old fellow ! It won't do.' The faltering of his voice belied the 
 indifference of his words. ' You'll thank me for it some day,' 
 he added, 
 
 ' Thank you for making me know how to trust in a friend,' 
 exclaimed Clement, the scornful accent again marking his 
 words. 
 
 ' Our paths lie apart,' continued Ronald. ' You don't sec it 
 now, Clement, but you will.' 
 
 'And time enough then to change,' replied Clement. 
 
 ' Too late then,' replied Ronald. He moved a few steps aside, 
 perhaps not to betray his inward feelings, and mounting upon a 
 pile of stones, looked down the gorge. In another minute he 
 returned to Clement, and his voice was altered from stern, 
 eacnestness to eagerness which bordered upon excitement : ' I 
 can't have you stay. There is a short way up the cliff, by the 
 brushwood. Come, we must go— both.' He sprang forward, 
 and Clement, almost frightened by his wild manner, followed 
 him. 
 
 They reached the top of the gorge and paused. 
 
 'There is my father,' said Ronald, coldly. 
 
 A man was seen coming up the gorge, 
 
 ' I must go to him ;' yet he lingered, 
 
 ' Ronald,' said Clement, ' you are so strange ! ' 
 
 ' Am I ? Yes, I know I am. O Clement ! ' and he sank upon 
 the ground, and buried his face in his hands. 
 
 ' Ronald, you won't let me help you, or I would.' 
 
 'Help me by leaving me. Go, go — it is sin to be together. 
 Sin,' he repeated, in an undertone, and then a faint, mocking 
 laugh followed the words : ' why should I care for sin ?' 
 
 ' We must all care,' said Clement, timidly. 
 
 * Ay ! all — while there is time — while there is hope,' He 
 started up suddenly, and grasped Clement's arm : ' There is 
 time and hope for you : keep from me, or there will be none — 
 
 none 
 
 »' 
 
 A child's cry fell faintly but clearly on the ear. 
 
 Ronald leaned back against the rock, and his lip quivered: 
 ' Clement, 1 have been passionate, wicked : forgive me.' He 
 hurried down the cliff, Clement not daring to follow him.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 121 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ROi. aLD stood agiiin by the side of the sick boy, and spoke 
 soothingly, and caressed him as before ; but the child 
 noticed the change. 
 
 * You went away and left me,' he said, fretfully ; ' you told me 
 you wouldn't, and you did.' 
 
 * I couldn't help it, Barney ; I didn't mean to go. Shall I 
 carry you in-doors now? and we will unpack the basket.' His 
 heart was not in his words, for his eye was at every instant 
 glancing down the ravine. 
 
 * I don't want to see the basket ; I want you to stay, and you 
 are going away.' 
 
 ' By and by, not yet. You will like to see the new flags.' 
 'Yes, out here ; if you'd sit down and take me up. It's so 
 
 hard ! ' and the poor child twisted himself uneasily on his stony 
 
 couch. 
 
 * In-doors, on the cushion,' said Ronald, 'it might be better 
 than my knee. Won't you go and try.?' 
 
 No, I don't like the cushion ; I want to be taken up. Oh, it 
 hurts ! ' and the poor little fellow tried to move so as to ease his 
 back, and finding it useless, began to cry. 
 
 Ronald put his arm round him and gently raised him : ' Now, 
 Barney ; there 's a good boy, don't cry. You must learn to be a 
 man. You won't be, if you cry. Now, isn't that better ?' 
 
 ' But you won't take me ; if you 'd let me sit up. I don't want 
 to go in-doors; I want to sit up.' 
 
 *0 Barney, Barney! you've been spoiled; you have had your 
 own way till you are naughty.' 
 
 The fretful, wizen face was calmed directly. ' I don't want 
 to be naughty. Mr Lester says I shan't go to heaven if I 
 imi.' 
 
 Ronald lifted him up fondly, and set him on his knee ; but 
 Barney was not satisfied. 
 
 ' No, I '11 go in, and I '11 see the flags. That 's not spoiled, is 
 it ?' he added, gazing wistfully into Ronald's face. 
 
 Ronald only replied by kissing the little thin cheek; and lifting 
 the child in his arms, held him with the firmness of a man, whilst 
 liis touch was gentle as a woman's, and carried him towards the 
 cottage. 
 
 'Hn: building liid from thorn the length of llie ravine., Iwt a
 
 122 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 sudden angle in the path brought them in front of it, Barnev's 
 liead was resting upon Ronald's arm, and he feebly turned it, 
 for his ear had caught another footstep : 'It's Captain John; 
 ain't it Captain John ? He won't be coming to take me : you 
 won't let him ?' and he clung closely and tremblingly to Ronald. 
 
 ' P'oolish child! what's there to be afraid of?' but Ronald's 
 own voice was not as indifferent as his words. 
 
 ' He said he 'd carry me off one day,' whispered Barney; 'and 
 grandfiither said, if he were father, he'd give me up.' 
 
 ' Because you were good for nothing, I suppose,' said Ronald, 
 good-naturedly. ' But, never mind ; he won't want to do it now ; 
 and grandfather's not with him.' 
 
 ' Are you sure .'' But Captain John will want to have mc.' 
 
 ' He wants me, if he wants any one,' said Ronald, gravely. 
 
 ' Tell him he mustn't ; I can't bear you to go.' 
 
 Ronald smiled grimly. ' There 's no must for him,' he muttered 
 to himself. 
 
 ' I thought every one must sometimes,' persisted the c'nild. 
 
 ' Sometimes, perhaps.' Ronald hurried forward so as to reach 
 the door of the cottage before his father, who was walking 
 leisurely up the gorge, could see and stop him. 
 
 The little room which he entered was neater than the external 
 appearance of the house would have indicated. Fishing tackle, 
 indeed, hung on the whitewashed walls, and the floor was only of 
 stone sanded over, and the ceiling was formed of rafters black- 
 ened by smoke from the large, open hearth, in which wood was 
 the accustomed fuel ; but there was an evident attempt at some- 
 thing even of refinement in the arrangement of a few cottage 
 prints, and the flowers placed in the window-seat ; and Barney's 
 little couch was covered with a bright chintz, whilst a curtain of 
 the same material had been put up to shut out the draught from 
 the window. Evidently a woman's hand had been at work ; but 
 there was no woman to be seen, and Ronald himself laid his 
 little charge gently on the couch and placed the pillows com- 
 fortably for him, and said, ' Now, Barney, that will do, won't it? 
 and I will take out the flags and the picture-book, and you can 
 show them to Martha and Johnnie.' 
 
 'There's Captain John coming, and he wants you,' said the 
 child, in a changed voice. His gaze, as he caught hold of 
 Ronald, was anxious, almost terrified. 
 
 Captain Vivian stood in the doorway : ' Absent without leave, 
 Ronald ! You '11 please to answer for yourself.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 123 
 
 There was a momentary pause, as .it seemed of self-distrust, 
 for Ronald's words came slowly : ' No need for that, father ; 
 you see where I have been without asking.' 
 
 ' Fooling away your time ; but we must teach you better than 
 that. I say, child, where 's your father ?' 
 
 ' Gone out with grandfather,' replied the boy, quietly and 
 timidly. ' Grandfather came and fetched him.' 
 
 ' Umph ! How long ago ? ' 
 
 'A good bit, I think it was;' and the child looked up at 
 Ronald for protection from the rough voice. 
 
 ' And you, sir ! ' Captain Vivian turned to Ronald—' Let 
 me hear what you are after here.' 
 
 * Keeping my word,' replied Ronald. ' I promised to come 
 and see the child, and I came.' 
 
 ' Promises ! Perchance, since you are in the humour for them, 
 I may remind you of others. Where 's the boy Clement Vivian ?' 
 
 ' He is not in my charge,' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' And he has not been here ? You have not seen him ? ' 
 
 ' He has been here, and I have seen him,' replied Ronald ; 
 ' but he is gone.' 
 
 'And you let him go. You dared to disobey my orders.' 
 Captain Vivian's voice was fiercely threatening. 
 
 * You gave me none,' was the reply. 
 
 ' A quibble ! I pointed him out upon the hill, and told you 
 that to meet him and keep him would be doing good service ?' 
 
 ' You said it,' replied Ronald ; ' but I judged that he would 
 not be profited by the meeting.' 
 
 A torrent of fearful words burst from the lips of the enraged 
 father. 
 
 ' Don't be afraid, Barney— don't cry ; ' and Ronald stooped 
 down and stroked the child's head, and pressed his little hand, 
 which was trembling with nervousness. ' Father,' he continued, 
 hurriedly, ' I have not disobeyed you in the letter — in the spirit 
 I have and will. Nay, hear me to the end,' as Captain Vivian 
 would have interrupted him ; * I will, because I must. It shall 
 never be said that by my aid Clement Vivian has become \vhat 
 I am.' 
 
 * Foolish boy ! ' Captain Vivian's tone changed into a soft 
 sneer, more painful even than his violence. ' Who says that 
 Clement Vivian is to become what you are? and if he were, 
 what need to be ashamed of being like a brave boy, who can 
 lord it over the Ijoldcst at his pleasure.'
 
 1:^4 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'But cannot lord it over himself,' murmured Ronald; and 
 then, in a louder tone, he continued, ' Father, I will speak to you 
 plainly. Whilst Clement was my friend only, like any other 
 friend, and you encouraged our being together for that purpose 
 only, it was well : when you urge mc to seek his society for a 
 different reason, you enter upon a course where I will not 
 follow you.' 
 
 * Well learned from the lips of Miss Campbell and Mr Lester, 
 — perfectly learned ; but it shan't last. Listen, Ronald, my boy ; 
 it 's time we should begin to understand each other. Obedience ! 
 — that's the word. Mr Lester himself can't preach it better 
 than I can. What 's more,' and Captain Vivian struck his stick 
 upon the ground, ' he can't enforce it better. Talk to me of 
 shame and sorrow, and all they call religion! There'll be 
 more shame and more sorrow for you in one hour of your 
 father's anger than in all the threats they hold out from yonder 
 pulpit at En combe.' 
 
 * I am ready to endure it,' was the calm reply. 
 ' Then try it ; take your own will, and' 
 
 Ronald's countenance changed to an expression of agony : 
 * Stop ! father, in mercy ; require of me what you will, do with 
 me as you will, only do not ask me to lead Clement to ruin.' 
 
 ' Him ? and why not him ? Why is he to be cared for more 
 than others ? I warn you, boy, that he is a serpent in your 
 path, and one day you will wish that you had crushed him.' 
 
 Instead of replying, Ronald moved again towards the door. 
 
 'Ay, go !' exclaimed Captain Vivian, whilst at the same time 
 he stretched out his arm to stop him ; ' wander where you will; 
 seek your own friends, you will soon have need of them ; for 
 remember, Ronald,' and his voice became sullenly fierce, 'refuse 
 to do my bidding, and your father's doors will be closed against 
 you for ever.' 
 
 As he spoke, Ronald pushed aside his arm, hurried from the 
 cottage, and mounted the gorge by the same path which he had 
 ascended with Clement. 
 
 He hurried on wildly over rocks and bushes, clambering up 
 heights which, in calmer moments, even he might have thought 
 inaccessible. The self-control he had exerted had strained his 
 mind almost to frenzy, and even his better feelings seemed urg- 
 ing him on to despair. His father ! was such a man worthy of 
 the name of parent ? could he ckiim his obedience ? Was it 
 really the act of a merciful Providence which could subject him
 
 CLEVE HALL. 12; 
 
 to such .1 fiend-like power? and if it were not a hurricane of 
 
 thoughts rushed over his mind. Why should he struggle ? — 
 evil was powerful, not good. Evil had been present to him 
 from his childhood — it was his portion, his doom ; and scenes 
 of riot and guilt rose up before him, with their horrible excite- 
 ment ; and it seemed as if a strong hand were forcing him 
 back, to forget his misery in recklessness, and yield himself, 
 body and soul, to the tempter whom he had been striving to 
 resist. 
 
 Weak Ronald was at the very moment of victory — for he did 
 not know that he hnd conquered. So fierce had been the 
 struggle of that inward self-restraint to a spirit long unaccus- 
 tomed to the slightest check, that it seemed as if the effort had 
 only succeeded in breaking up the strong powers of his mind, 
 and rendering it a chaos of bewildering wretchedness. He sat 
 himself down upon the grass, and hid his face between his knees, 
 feeling, though unconsciously, that the clearness of the unclouded 
 sky, and the brilliancy of the glorious sun, added tenfold to his 
 sense of misery ; and faintly from afar came the tinkling of the 
 sheep-bell, and the lowing of the cattle in the valley, mingling 
 with the chirping of the grasshopper, and the whirring of the 
 insects floating in the air; but all hushed to Ronald's ear, which 
 caught nothing but the booming of the ocean, murmuring in its 
 ceaseless tones : ' The wicked are like the troubled sea when it 
 cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt. There is no 
 peace, saith my God, to the wicked.' 
 
 So he sat for minutes, and thought them hours ; and so 
 he might have sat even till night, conscious of nothing but the 
 sense of hopeless weakness and desolation, when a gentle hand 
 touched him, and a childish but most musical voice said, in a 
 low and frightened tone, ' Ronald, is it you ? Are you ill ? ' 
 
 It was Rachel Lester. He started up, and his haggard face 
 confirmed the suspicion she had expressed. 
 
 ' I thought it was you, but I was afraid. You are ill ; I will 
 run and fetch papa : he is just coming.' 
 
 ' No, no ;' Ronald stopped her, as she would have hastened 
 away; 'not Mr Lester; I can't see him ; and I am not ill, not 
 at all, only tired ; I must go.' 
 
 Rachel looked doubtful. ' You are very pale, Ronald ; papa 
 would rather see you, I am sure.' 
 
 ' He can do me no good — good-bye.' 
 
 She looked wistfully in his face, and tears gathered in her
 
 126 CLEVE I FA I.E. 
 
 eyes : ' Ronald, you arc so very unhappy ; I wish I could do 
 anything for you.' Most touching and earnest was the tone ; 
 and Ronald paused as he was about to leave her, and said, 
 ' Thank you, Rachel ; that is more than many would say.' 
 
 ' Papa would do a great deal for you,' she replied, ' if you 
 would tell him what is the matter. May I say it to him ?' 
 
 ' Say what ?— that I am ill .? ' 
 
 ' Yes, if you arc ill ! but if it is only that things vex you, he 
 would like to help you if you would let him.' 
 
 ' And if he could,' said Ronald, bitterly. 
 
 ' But he can help every one ; at least, he can't, but God can, 
 through him.' 
 
 ' Mr Lester can do a great deal, I know that, Rachel,' said 
 Ronald, his moody tone changing into the gentle accent in which 
 he had spoken to the chikl at the cottage ; ' but there may be 
 some things beyond his cure. Don't fret, though,' he added, 
 seeing that Rachel's face expressed her commiseration for feel- 
 ings which yet she was unable to understand ; ' my troubles 
 won't come in your way.' 
 
 ' They will, though,' said Rachel ; ' I can't bear to see you so, 
 Ronald.' 
 
 Ronald's smile passed over his face, as a gleam of sad sunshine 
 at the close of a day of storms. 
 
 ' God made us all to be happy,' continued Rachel ; ' so papa 
 says.' 
 
 ' He made you to be happy, Rachel,' exclaimed Ronald, 
 earnestly. 
 
 ' And you too, Ronald.' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' But we must be happy if we make others happy,' continued 
 Rachel. 
 
 * Perhaps so, if we do.' 
 
 ' But you do. You make little Barney happy.' She paused, 
 expecting his assent, but he did not give it, and she went on. 
 ' He was ci-ying for you the other day, when papa and I went to 
 see him.' 
 
 ' He cries for a great many things,' said Ronald, with some 
 impatience of tone. 
 
 * Please don't say so ; he loves you very much, and he would 
 not at all know what to do without you.' 
 
 ' He will be taken soon,' replied Ronald, mournfully, yet not 
 despondingly.
 
 CLKVE HALL. 127 
 
 'And then he will be hkc an angel, and God will give you 
 some one else to take care of. O Ronald ! can any one be un- 
 happy who can work for God ?' 
 
 Silence followed for a few seconds, whilst Ronald gazed in- 
 tently upon the expanse of the sea, wath its high horizon blend- 
 ing with the sky ; then a sigh escaped him as if some load had 
 passed from his heart. He turned round abruptly ; * Good-bye, 
 Rachel ; you are good, if no one else is.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Ronald ; we are going to see Barney.' 
 
 Ronald walked a few steps slowly away, and then returned to 
 say ; ' Barney wants another little cushion for his head, Rachel, 
 if you could let him have it.' 
 
 * Yes, I will be sure and remember.' 
 
 He walked on again, his step blither and firmer ; and again 
 he came back ; ' I left him in a hurry just now, and could not 
 show him the picture-book I brought. Perhaps you will for me, 
 — and will you say I will try and see him again to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you ; he will be so glad. Are you going up the hills?' 
 
 * I don't know, perhaps so ;' but the tone, sad and indifferent 
 though it was, had lost its accent of despair. Something had 
 changed the current of Ronald's moody thoughts, and led him 
 out of himself. Perhaps he was treasuring in his heart the 
 words, comforting and hopeful as the sweet little face which had 
 just been gazing upon him — ' Can any one be unhappy who can 
 work for God ? ' 
 
 Rachel watched him as he walked away, with that sense of 
 interest and surprise, mingled with awe, which children always 
 feel when brought in contact with the suffering of persons older 
 than themselves ; and at length waking up suddenly to the con- 
 sciousness that she was alone upon the hills, and that her father 
 ought by this time to have joined her, she was about to run back 
 to the place where she had left him, when a faint yet sharp cry 
 of distress broke upon the stillness, followed by another, and 
 another ; and the next instant Ronald repassed her, though at 
 some little distance, making his way in the direction of the 
 rugged cliff of rock and shingle, which formed the highest point 
 of the beacon.
 
 12S CLEVE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTiai XVIII. 
 
 ' A RE you going far, sir, this aficrnoon?' Mrs Robinson 
 A~^ stopped Mr Bruce, as his hand was upon the fastening 
 of the httle gate in the courtyard. 
 
 'To the church ; I may go further, but I liave not much heart 
 to go anywhere.' 
 
 Perhaps it was illness which made Mr Bruce speak so de- 
 spondingly. He did appear very much out of health ; his com- 
 plexion had the yellow parchment look common to persons who 
 have lived long in a hot climate. 
 
 ' You haven't been into the church yet, sir.' 
 
 * Not yet. Mr Lester forbids the week days, and sent me last 
 Sunday to Cleve.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, yes ; I remember. Perhaps it might be as well if I 
 went, too, for the keys. Jacob Clarke is an odd man.' 
 
 ' There is no reason. I have met Jacob at the Parsonage.' 
 
 * He's very blind,' said Mrs Robinson, in a meditative tone ; 
 ' and deaf, too, sometimes.' 
 
 * I shall do very well ; don't trouble yourself. I shall go to 
 the Parsonage to drink tea.' 
 
 His manner was that of a man whose mind is quite pre- 
 occupied ; and it might have appeared unkind to persons who 
 only knew him slightly. But Mrs Robinson did not take it to 
 heart much, certainly not as much as Mr Bruce himself, when 
 a momentary self-recollection reminded him of his tone, which 
 had been sharper than his words. He looked back at her, and 
 nodded; ' Good-bye, Granny ! '—he must have learned to call 
 her that from Rachel Lester — don't expect me till you see me ; 
 but don't worry about me.' 
 
 The sober, melancholy-visaged woman shook her head : 
 'Thoughtless — always the same! But 'tis to be expected!' 
 and with a resigned air she repaired to the farm-kitchen, to 
 superintend some arrangements for her guest's comfort. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards she was at the gate again, for she had 
 heard it open, and thought he must be returned. It had been 
 opened, but by Gofi", the fisherman, not by Mr Bruce. He came 
 up to her with a swaggering air. 
 
 ' Your friend at home, eh ?' 
 
 ' Not at home,' was the short answer. 
 
 * Gone up the hills, I suppose ?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. S29 
 
 * Perhaps so.' 
 
 ' But you can't say for certain, if your life depended on it ! ' 
 
 ' Mr Bruce doesn't trouble himself to tell me for certain where 
 he 's going.' 
 
 ' And you don't trouble yourself to ask, of course ! And you 
 don't know, either, I suppose, how long he means to be staying 
 in these parts ? ' 
 
 ' He doesn't tell me.' 
 
 ' Nor where he comes from, nor where he is going to ! nor 
 nothing about him ! Before I 'd trust such a man !' 
 
 ' You aren't asked to trust him,' was the quiet reply. 
 
 ' He'd find it mighty different if I was ! I suppose, now, he 
 gives a load of trouble .''' 
 
 ' As much and as little as most people.' 
 
 ' A sort of chap who 's made to melt in your fingers, I should 
 say ! ' continued Goff. 
 
 ' He 's a gentleman who does not trouble himself about other 
 people, at all events ! ' said Mrs Robinson, indignantly. 
 
 'Ay! a gentleman ! I should have said, now, he was that ; 
 though 'tisn't all gentlefolks that's to be trusted. But he's true 
 blood, is he ? I learned to know the difference, in the old days, 
 when you and I lived up at the Hall together.' 
 
 ' I don't remember when you and I ever lived at any place 
 together, Mr Goff,' said Mrs Robinson, haughtily. ' I recollect 
 when you were a farm-youth upon the estate ; and perhaps it 
 might have been as well for you if you had kept to your calling.' 
 
 'That's as folks think. Every one to his liking. Your 
 friend, now, I should say, would never have had a sea fancy, 
 like mine ?' 
 
 ' I never asked him.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 but you can find out fast enough, from what a man talks 
 of and goes after. Why, there 's the Captain ! you couldn't be 
 with him five minutes, before you'd know he was a sailor.' 
 
 ' If all sailors are like Captain Vivian,' rephed Mrs Robinson, 
 * the fewer the better ! ' 
 
 ' Then your friend's not a sailor. I thoui^ht as much as that 
 the night of the wreck. He 'd never have let himself be cap- 
 sized, if he'd had an ounce of old ocean in him. He's from 
 foreign parts, though?' 
 
 ' The vessel came from America, as you know.' 
 
 * Yes, sure, I do know. Who should better ? for I 've had more 
 to do with her than most folics. But 1 should say it might have 
 
 I
 
 I30 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 touched at other places — Jamaica, now ; I 'm downright certain 
 somebody said it had touched at Jamaica.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it might. Have you anything more to say, particu- 
 lar, Mr Goff ? I must go in-doors.' 
 
 ' Only that I 've got a nephew living in Jamaica ; and I should 
 just like to know whether this gentleman knows anything about 
 him.' 
 
 ' Not likely, I should think.' 
 
 * I don't know. 'Tisn't such a large place. I 've had a good 
 many thoughts about my nephew lately. Possibly you'd do a good 
 deed, and ask about him ? ' 
 
 'I can't trouble Mr Bruce about anybody's nephew!' ex- 
 claimed Mrs Robinson. ' He has enough to do to take care of 
 himself.' 
 
 * Umph ! — and his children, I suppose. You wouldn't have 
 him not take a care for them ? ' 
 
 * Not if he has any. But 1 can't stand here any longer. If you 
 want to see Mr Bruce, you'll please to leave a message.' 
 
 'No, I can't say I wished particularly to see him; only I 
 thought that, being, as I supposed, fi-esh from Jamaica, he might 
 be able to give me a word or two about my nephew. Or per- 
 chance, when he writes, he 'd make an inquiry for me. When 
 will he be in ?' 
 
 * I can't say.' 
 
 * Somewhere before eight, I suppose ? * 
 
 ' I don't know ; he is likely to be out all the evening.' 
 
 * Ay ! gone up to Parson Lester's ; I could have guessed so 
 much.' 
 
 * I didn't say he was gone there.' 
 
 'Only if he's to be out all the evening, he's not likely to be 
 gone anywhere else. There's a way, you see, of putting two 
 and two together. But never mind, I 'm not going to trouble 
 him nor you neither ; so good afternoon to you.' 
 
 He Avent out at the wicket-gate. Mrs Robinson's countena ce 
 was wonderfully imperturbable ; but certainly, after that inter- 
 view, a s'nade of restless anxiety might have been traced in it. 
 
 And Mr Bruce pursued his way to the cottage of Jacob Clarke, 
 the sexton. It stood alone, at the end of the lane leading to the 
 church hill ; and some might have thought it a desolate home 
 for the sickly man who inhabited it ; but Jacob would not have 
 exchanged it for the most spacious dwelling-house in the village. 
 It was a palace to him, for it was in full view of the church; and
 
 CLEVE HALL. 131 
 
 in the church, since its restoration by General Vivian and Mr 
 Lester, all the pride of the sexton's hcait seemed to have con- 
 centrated itself. 
 
 He was working in his garden when Mr Bruce came up ; but 
 the moment he saw him the spade was laid aside, and he was 
 feeling in his pocket for the heavy keys, which were his insepar- 
 able companions. 
 
 'You'll be for going up, I suppose, sir/ he said, almost before 
 Mr Bruce came within hearing. 
 
 ' I was thinking of it, Jacob ; but I won't trouble you, if you '11 
 just let me take the keys. You are busy, I see. How are your 
 eyes this afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' Baddish ; this left one, special. They say I shan't get any 
 better till I get worse, and then I can have something done to 
 them ; but I rub on with hoping.' 
 
 ' Happy for you that you can. Just let me have the keys, and 
 I will bring them back quite safely. You can trust me.' 
 
 ' I trust your voice more than your look,' replied Jacob, with a 
 grim smile. ' I 've learned a good deal to know people of late by 
 their voices ; and there's a sound in yours that somehow comes 
 home to me natural.' 
 
 Mr Bruce stretched out his hand for the keys. 
 
 Jacob hesitated. ' I 'in thinking, — I '11 tell ye what, I '11 e'en 
 go up with ye ; the digging will do well enough to-morrow, and 
 I should just like to know what you '11 say to the old place. 'Tis 
 a beautiful one outside now, ain't it ? ' 
 
 'Yes, very beautiful. The old walls, I see.' 
 
 'Ay! sure; we should all have broke our hearts if the old 
 walls had been down. It's the windows that's new chiefly — 
 outside, that is ; inside, you '11 see it 's wonderful.' 
 
 'And all done by Mr Lester?' 
 
 ' No, no ; Mr Lester helped, as a good man would ; but 'twas 
 the General, chief. He'd been thinking of it, they say, for a 
 long time, and 'twas the first thing that seemed to cheer him up 
 after all his troubles.' 
 
 They were ascending the slops together as Jacob said this. 
 Mr Bruce stopped. 
 
 ' You 're out of breath, sir.' 
 
 ' No, scarcely ; but 1 am not very strong. How long ago did 
 you say it was since the restoration of the church .'" 
 
 ' Some twelve years now, sir, since it was finished; but it took 
 a long time about. I declare now I was sorry, in a way, when
 
 J33 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 it came to an end ; and so, I suspect, was the General ; he was 
 up here most every day, watching how it went on.' 
 
 ' He began it after his troubles ; he has had a good many, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 ' You may say that ; a hard life, poor old gentleman ! And 
 now between seventy and eighty, and no one near him but Miss 
 Mildred ; and all the old feuds as bitter as ever ! Somehow it's 
 strange when a man's travelling to his grave. But there! it's 
 the way of the world.' 
 
 ' There have been family disputes, then ?' 
 
 ' Not so much disputes ; but the General's uppish, — bent on 
 his own ways. It's been the fashion of the Vivians from father 
 to son.' 
 
 * And the General is very determined ?' 
 
 ' Firm as an old oak. He'd break, but he'd never bend. I 
 can't help thinking sometimes, on looking back, that 'twould 
 have been better for him if he could. But now, sir, just take 
 your seat here, and look round. You won't get a finer sight 
 than that all over the country.' Jacob pointed to a wooden 
 bench placed at the top of the steps for the accommodation of 
 the old people. ' You '11 not be sorry to rest, I dare say, after 
 this pull up the steps ; and you '11 get a notion of the countiy 
 which may help you. There's not a bit of the village, as you 
 see, to be seen; only the hills. But on to the right there are 
 the woods— the Cleve woods. That is the beginning of General 
 Vivian's property.' 
 
 ' How far docs it extend.?' inquired I\lr Bru-cc. 
 
 ' Extend ! Why, he 's got the whole of Encombe, not a cottage 
 in the place but belongs to him. Only one farm— the Granite 
 they call it— which is not his ; and sorrow's the day that Captain 
 John ever went to live in it.' 
 
 * Captain Vivian, I suppose you mean. I have heard some of 
 the poor people speak of him as Captain John.' 
 
 'They call him that, I can't say exactly why. He's not a 
 regular captain, though he's had a good deal to do with the sea, 
 they say, of late years. He likes sailor fashions, and so he goes 
 by the name : but he's not fit to be a Vivian.' Jacob lowered 
 his voice, as if communicating this fact confidentially. 
 
 Mr Bruce turned away his head— the sexton's face seemed 
 peering into his. Jacob continued in the same undertone : ' The 
 long and the short of the matter is, he's a disgrace to the family, 
 and the ruin and the curse of every one that ioins with him.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 133 
 
 And he's been so for years, and his fathers before hum ; and no 
 wonder the General can't abide him, when he's been working 
 against him and his set from a boy.' 
 
 ' From a boy ? I thought the great quarrel had been of late 
 years, about — about — General Vivian's son.' 
 
 'Oh! you've heard of all that, have you.'" said Jacob, with 
 some disappointment in his tone. Sure enough, there was a 
 great quarrel about Master Edward ; but 'twasn't that was the 
 beginning, as who should know better than I ?' 
 
 ' Because you lived in the family, I suppose,' said Mr Bruce, 
 rising from his seat. 
 
 ' You'd best rest a minute or two longer, sir ; your voice is 
 quite shaky now; and there's no hurry. What were you saying? 
 Oh ! about my having lived in the family. Well, I did live 
 there, or, at least my father did, which was much the same thing. 
 He was the butler, and I worked in the garden, and about iu 
 different ways, making myself useful ; and so of course I came 
 to know a good deal of the goings on ; and sad enough they were 
 at times.' 
 
 'But General Vivian always lived a very steady life,' said 3.1r 
 Bruce, quietly. 
 
 ' Oh ! steady as old time, tor that ; too steady perhaps ; at least, 
 somehow it didn't seem to turn out well. But you sec, his father, 
 and his grandfather before him, had been just acting different ; 
 — spending here, and throwing away there, till at last, when the 
 General came into his property, I 've been told, there wasn't fifty 
 acres of it strictly his own, 'twas all so hampered with debts ; 
 and Captain John's friends having a pretty large share of the 
 claims. Theirs was the younger branch of the family ; and they 
 lived in the neighbourhood, and were always quarrelling, and 
 bringing lawsuits, and these and the extravagance had just 
 ruined the property. 
 
 'Well ! the General, as I said, was a firm man, not a bit like 
 those that had gone before him. Where he got his character 
 nobody could think; but 'tis said that his mother was something 
 of the same kind. If she was, she hadn't power to keep her hus- 
 band from ruin or next to it. Perhaps she may have tried most 
 with the children ; for certain it is, that when the General came 
 into his property — and that was when he was very young, only 
 twenty-five, after his elder brother's death — he set his mind to 
 one tliought, and only one, how to get matters straight. My 
 father was in his service then, and for old love's sake — for he'd
 
 134 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 known him from a boy — helped him right and left. But 'twas 
 hard work ; and there isn't many tint would have borne to live 
 as they did in those days — tlic General still keeping to be a 
 soldier, and scrimping and pinching : and no servants scarce at 
 the Hall; no company when h^ was at home; no carriages — 
 scarce, indeed, butter to your bread. But it answered : what, 
 indeed, wouldn't answer which the General set his mind to ? 
 First one thing was paid off, and then another ; and the rumour 
 got abroad that Cleve Hall was looking up in the world again : 
 and, sure enough, 'twas true. No thanks, though, to any of the 
 other Vivians, who did all they could to stop matters, and nearly 
 sent the General frantic; for with all his close ways for himself, 
 he w asn't a bit so with others ; and when claims were made, if 
 there was but a shadow of honesty in them, he was ever for 
 paying them ; being honourable, he called it. As my father 
 used to say, he was always riding his virtues to death ; and 'de 
 my belief, the other Vivians would have been much more hon- 
 ourable, if they hadn't known that what they set up for they 
 were sure to have.' 
 
 'And they were living in Encombe, then?' inquired IMr 
 Bruce. 
 
 'Near it, sir. I hope I ain't tiring you. I thought you 
 seemed to have a care to know about them. They had a house 
 the other side of Cleve, and a good bit of property in the neigh- 
 bourhood. The General would have given anything they asked 
 for the land, but they never would part with it. 'Twas their 
 pleasure to be close to him, to spite him. I don't think, though, 
 he took it much to heart then ; he didn't see the trouble it was 
 hke to bring upon him.' 
 
 ' But he married at lasv, — 'twas after a good many years. 
 His lady v.'as very young, and wonderfully pretty : not a bit like 
 what you'd have thought he'd choose. I don't mean as to being 
 pretty, but as to lightheartedness, and not thinking. As for him, 
 he'd never been young, care had come upon him so early, and his 
 stiff ways and set notions weren't to be broken. And so when 
 they came to live at the Hall — that was directly he married — for 
 'twas one of his notions never to marry till he could bring his 
 wife to her settled home — things were not so very much changed 
 from what they had been before ; I mean as to servants and 
 housekeeping. I know even in my own father 'twas to be seen. 
 He'd been so taught to be particular, that he couldn't for 
 the life of him abide a penny's being spent where there wasn't
 
 CLEVE HALL. 135 
 
 strict occasion. And very good of course it was, only now and 
 t'nen it struck me that he didn't see where there was occasion. 
 The lady, as I said, was difterent. She liked to have things 
 handsome about her, and to see her friends, and to be gay ; and 
 the General was desperately fond of her, and indulged her in 
 her fancies as much as 'twas in his nature. But 'twasn't done 
 with a hearty good-will ; and specially it used to fret him — so 
 1 "ve heard — to see Master Edward turning after his mother's 
 fashions rather than after his own. Are you in a hurry, sir ?' 
 for Mr Bruce moved impatiently. 
 
 ' No, no ; go on. Master Edward, you say, turned after his 
 mother ?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, in a way ; but I don't think he ever had her thought 
 -^for Mrs Vivian, with all her merry ways, had a care for every 
 one about her. But perhaps it wasn't to be expected of Master 
 Edward. He was young, and an only son, and the property was 
 all to be his ; and so he looked upon it as his own too early, it 's 
 my belief. Anyhow, from time to time there was black locks at 
 the Hall, and 'twas well seen things weren't going on smoothly. 
 Captain John was at the bottom of a good deal then, as he has 
 been since. He was much about Master Edward's age, and 
 spite of all the General could say, they made friends together. 
 Not so strange that, as you may think,' continued Jacob, ob- 
 serving that i\Ir Bruce gave a start, as he supposed, of surprise. 
 ' I remember Captain John myself in those days ; and there was 
 a good deal that a man might like, particularly a young man, 
 not very knowing of the world, like Master Edward. He was 
 very free-spoken and hearty ; and that took with Master Edward 
 all the more because his father thwarted him, and his life up at 
 Ihe Hall was too set up and stiff for a young man's mind.' 
 
 ' Mr Vivian had sisters, though,' observed Mr Bruce, with 
 something of reproach in his tone. 
 
 ' Well, he had ; and a prettier, nicer pair of young ladies there 
 wasn't to be found in all the country round. But, you know, 
 sir, we see it every day ; women can't make up all to men, any 
 more than men can make up all to women. There 's a need of 
 their own kind ; and so, when Master Edward came from school 
 and from college, he must needs take to Captain John, just 
 because he hadn't any one else to go to. And this made the 
 General desperate. His mother and the young ladies, I believe, 
 tried a good deal to stop it. I know my father said, that many 's 
 the time he has come into the room and heard them begging
 
 136 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Master Edward, for dear life, just to keep away from what the 
 General didn't approve. But he was strange, Master Edward 
 M'as ; — somehow strong and not strong — strong for his own will, 
 and not strong for anything else ; and so he 'd promise for a 
 time, and then, when Captain John came in his way, it was all 
 the same as before. And you see, sir,' and Jacob lowered his 
 tone as if knowing that he was approaching a dangerous topic, 
 ' he was afraid of his father ; so, in fact, they all were. It was 
 at the bottom of a deal of mischief If a thing was wrong, 
 'twas always to bo kept from the General, because he 'd no 
 mercy.' 
 
 ' But I thought the General was gentle to women,' said Mr 
 Bruce ; ' you said he was so to his wife.' 
 
 ' Gentle in his own way, but 'twas a lion's gentleness. Cross 
 him in his fancies once, and you'd never do it a second time. 
 Not that he went off in a passion — 'twas all cold and stony ; but 
 knocking at his heart, when he was offended, was like knocking 
 at a wall. He was wonderfully proud, though, of his daughters, 
 specially of Miss Edith, the eldest. Folks said that 'twas be- 
 cause she was so like her mother. And certain she was very 
 like her ; not quite so pretty, perhaps, and yet with a face that 
 did one's heart good to look upon : and always a pleasant smile 
 and a merry word — and such a laugh! Ah, sir, the Hall's a 
 different place now from what it was when she was living ! She 
 lies now ' 
 
 Mr Bruce rose suddenly. ' We will go into the church ; give 
 me the keys.' He held out his hand for them, but without 
 staying to receive them, hurried along the little paved path 
 leading to the porch. 
 
 Jacob followed him with a wondering gaze. ' Poor gentle- 
 man ! Then what they say of him is true, and he 's daft, sure !' 
 With a slow step he plodded along the strip of worn pavement, 
 murmuring as he went, ' He 'd have heard to the end for certain 
 if he wasn't daft.' 
 
 But Mr Bruce was standing composedly in the porch now ; 
 and conscious, probably, of his own impatience, he addressed 
 the sexton with something of an apology for his abruptness : ' I 
 was feeling the cold ; it is cold in the wind. Let iTie have the 
 keys, and, thank \ou, I won't keep you.' 
 
 'By your leave, sir' — Jacob's self-love was a little wounded, 
 for he had been wasting his words — 'the keys are my chief 
 charge, as )ou may say, and 1 'd best look after them ; so 1 11
 
 CLEVE HALL. 137 
 
 Just open the door and wait, for it seems you 'II not be wanting 
 to have much told you.' 
 
 His tone of annoyance was evident, and Mr Brace's manner 
 softened into consideration. 
 
 ' You shall tell me more, Jacob, only not now — not now,' he 
 repeated to himself, and he took the man's hand and wrung it 
 heartilv. ' Thank vou, vou loved them all ; ves, I know vou 
 did.' 
 
 'Daft!' was again Jacob's comment to himself; but he 
 changed his intention, and instead of resting himself in the 
 porch, followed Mr Bruce into the church. 
 
 It was of moderate size, and consisted of two aisles. The east 
 end of the south aisle was a kind of chapel for the Vivian family, 
 divided from the chancel by an oak screen, but open to the rest 
 of the church. Three large, exquisitely-worked monuments, of 
 the date of the fourteenth century, the carving of which had been 
 cleaned, and in part coloured and gilded according to the original 
 design, filled up the centre. The deeply-cut letters engraven 
 upon them, told that the recumbent figures, so meekly lifting up 
 their hands to heaven, were the effigies of William and Everard 
 Vivian, and of Walter and Eleanor his wife, the first of the name 
 who were the possessors of the manor of Cleve. 
 
 The stranger did not pause to examine any part of the church 
 in detail. He stayed not to mark the beauty of the decorated 
 chancel-screen, nor to marvel at the exceeding richness of the 
 stone reredos, nor the gorgeousness of the east window. He 
 passed without notice the long flickering lines of fairy light 
 streaming across the marble tombs ; but his eye wandered over 
 the walls, and the pavement, marked with quaint figures of the 
 honoured of olden time, and more modern yet already half- 
 defaced inscriptions, till it rested upon a small plate, let into the 
 floor of the Vivian chapel, and inscribed with the name of Edith 
 Vivian. 
 
 ' Yes, that 's where she lies, sir.' 
 
 It was a ghastly face which met the sexton's gaze, but he 
 could not see its change; and the voice which answered him 
 was unaltered, save perhaps that the tone was lowered, to suit 
 the sacredness of the building. 
 
 ' I see — I know it is the Vivian chapel.' 
 
 ' The place where they all rest, sir, from father to son, from 
 generation to generation. But there '11 be none to follow now.' 
 
 The stranger gazed upon tliat small brass plate with a fixed-
 
 138 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 ness which seemed fascination. 'Seventeen years ago/ he mur- 
 mured to himself. 
 
 'Just seventeen, come Michaehnas — the year after the 
 troubles ; they broke her heart.' 
 
 The words were heard, for a tremulous shudder passed over 
 the stranger's frame ; and seizing Jacob's arm, and holding it by 
 a grasp which it was impossible to resist, he led him again into 
 the porch. There, standing before him, quietly, yet with a 
 sternness, the result of strong self-control rather than of anger, 
 he repeated ; ' They broke her heart, did you say ?' 
 
 ' Why, yes, yes, sir,' Jacob looked around him in alarm. 
 
 ' You were telling me about it before, — let me hear.' 
 
 The tone was too decided to be disobeyed ; yet Jacob's voice 
 shook as he began, and his words were uttered unequally, whilst 
 stealthily he raised his dim eyes to catch, if possible, the impres- 
 sion which he was making upon the moody, sullen, withered- 
 looking man, whose excitable feelings he had evidently, but 
 unexpectedly, from some unknown cause, aroused. 
 
 ' They said it was caused by the troubles,' he began, 'and I 
 never heard there was reason to doubt it. Sure enough, before 
 they came, she was blithe as a bird ; and the day she heard of 
 them she fell sick, — and the same day twelvemonth they laid her 
 in her grave. Would you wish to hear more, sir?' 
 
 There was neither assent nor dissent. It seemed that the 
 stranger could not trust himself with vi'ords. 
 
 Jacob went on : ' You know about Master Edward, sir ; per- 
 liaps there's no need to go over the story ; and who can tell the 
 rights of it .'"' 
 
 ' Ay ! who ?' exclaimed the stranger, impetuously. 
 
 'It's my belief there's more to be known about that matter 
 than people think for,' continued the sexton, more heartily, feel- 
 ing encouraged by even a word of sympathy ; 'my father always 
 said so, and he was like to know the truth, seeing he lived so 
 long in the family ; but the General was never one to be dealt 
 witli like other folks. You know, sir, Master Edward went 
 iiljroad.' 
 
 ' I have heard so.' 
 
 ' That was after he left college, and after his mother's death. 
 Poor lady ! if she had lived, no doubt things would have been 
 different. As it was, he only got into mischief when he was at 
 home ; and the General, 'twas said, thought that a new country 
 might give him new notions. To say the truth of him, he had
 
 CLEVE HALL. 139 
 
 not got any that were A\hat you may say bad, only quite difi'erent 
 from his father's ; the General being set upon keeping up dignity, 
 as he called it, and getting back more and more of the estate, and 
 setting off his family upon a new footing ; and Master Edward 
 not thinking a whit about it, but only mindful to take things 
 easy himself, and let every one else do the same. I 've heard tell, 
 too, that one of the causes why the General was so bent upon 
 getting his son out of the country just then, was because of the 
 young lady, one of the Campbells, — they lived at the Manor 
 Farm ; you '11 know Mrs Campbell of the Lodge now, sir ? She's 
 the mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ;' the quick tone was not impatience, but agony. 
 
 ' The truth of that, sir, is what I can't vouch for. If there was 
 anything going on, they managed to keep it wonderfully close ; 
 but the General might have found it out ; and if he did, he was 
 sure to make the most of it, I 'II warrant you. He hated the 
 Campbells like mad. They had always sided with the other 
 Vivians ; and there was some old, family difference from I can't 
 tell how many years back; and of late the Campbells had gone 
 down in the world, and there had been some bad marriages, which 
 had brought them still lov/er. Old Mrs Campbell — she that's at 
 the Lodge now — was the daughter of some man quite nothing 
 compared with the General, and so there were relations and con- 
 nections whom he didn't choose to have anything to do with ; in 
 fact, I 've heard my father say that it was quite a cat-and-dog life 
 the two families lived ; and you may well think, sir, how troubled 
 the General would be when he thought his only son was likely to 
 mix himself up with thcin. Anyhow, Master Edward went abroad. 
 And glad enough he was to go, 'tis my belief, except for the 
 thought of parting with his sisters, 'specially Miss Edith. She 
 was, in a way, his favourite. I saw them as they stood together 
 before the door, just as the carriage was coming up to take Master 
 Edward away. She was like an angel, so loving and pretty, and 
 putting her arm round his neck, and kissing him, and telling him 
 that 'twouldn't be home till he came back ; and he smiling, and 
 trying to comfort her, and saying how he was going to enjoy 
 himself; and then, looking up at Miss Mildred, who was lying 
 on her sofa by the window — for 'twas just then she began to get 
 ill— and nodding to her, and promising to bring her all kinds of 
 fine things from abroad. Ay ! they wxn-e mainly set upon one 
 another, these two sisters and Master Edward.' 
 
 ' And the General ? '
 
 I40 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * He looked on upon ihcm, stern-like, with his arms crossed ia 
 his fashion, saying the young ladies were silly, and would make 
 any one a fool, with their care ; yet pleased too, for he patted 
 Miss Edith on the cheek, and called her Sunbeam, which was the 
 name some of the villagers gave her ; and then he shook Master 
 Edward's hand heartily, and said, " God bless you, my boy ;" and 
 it's my belief there was a tear in his eye. If there was, it's the 
 first tear that ever mortal saw there. Miss Edith had the last 
 word. Master Edward put his head out of the carriage-window 
 and said, — the words stayed in my mind for days after, — " Edith, 
 darling ! keep up ; you'll soon learn to live without me." 'Twas 
 a man's mistake, sir. She tried to live without him, and she 
 died.' 
 
 The sexton paused, for his voice had grown tremulous and 
 husky ; and Mr Bruce, too, passed his hand over his eyes, and 
 sat down, his hands firmly clenching the stick on which he 
 rested, 
 
 Jacob continued — ' Soon after Master Edward's departure, 
 the Campbells went, and then Encombe and Cleve were quiet 
 enough, with no gentry about, but the General and the two 
 young ladies. Tiiat is the time I can remember best myself. I 
 had work in the garden : and ray father having, as I told you, 
 been butler for so many years, I was pretty often in the house, and 
 got a tolerable glimmering of how things went on.' 
 
 'And Edith?' — the words escaped hurriedly, and were im- 
 mediately corrected, — 'Miss Vivian? was she well then and 
 liappy ?' 
 
 ' She took on sadly at first,' replied the sexton ; ' but 'twasn't 
 a heart to live upon trouble ; and when news came that Master 
 Edward was well and happy, and likely to return before long, she 
 cheered up mainly, and for the first part of that year she was the 
 life of the house. 'Twould have been rather a dull one but for 
 her. Miss Mildred was very cheerful, but quiet-like; and the 
 General never seemed so proud of her as he was of Miss Edith. 
 He would go to her when there was business to be done, for she 
 was more clear-headed, and ready to do everything for every- 
 body, and a kind word for all ; but she wasn't blythe, like Miss 
 Edith, who was always singing and dancing about the house. 
 And then Miss Mildred was sickly ; and somehow the General 
 was one who didn't take to sickly folks ; he didn't understand 
 them, and was always thinking they could get up and do just the 
 same as others. The two young ladies, though, were marvellous
 
 CLEVE HALL. 141 
 
 fond of each other ; 'twas quite a sight to see them together, 
 they were so one-hke ; and so, upon the whole, it was a very 
 happy home.' 
 
 'Till the storm came.' — It was a voice like the rising of a 
 storm which spoke, Jacob stopped for an instant, startled 
 by it. 
 
 ' Ay, sir, as you say, till the storm came ; and that was soon 
 enough. Master Edward had been away some months when it 
 began to brew ; how I don't quite know, but when the letters came 
 of a morning, I used to hear my father say, he'd rather face a 
 cannon-ball than carry them up to the General ; he was so put out 
 by the news he had. Some rumour was afloat that ]\Iaster Edward 
 had been spendingadeal of money; and that seemed likely enough, 
 seeing that 'twas always his way ; but no one knew for certain. 
 At last one morning, I 'd been in the garden, weeding the flower- 
 beds, and then I was sent into the park to give some help about 
 a fence that was to be moved ; and as I was hard at work, not 
 thinking of anything, one of the boys working with me looked up, 
 and, says he, "Jacob, who's that coming across here?" 'Twas 
 a tall, swaggering-looking fellow, walking quite as if he was some- 
 body, and was to be obeyed ; and behind, a short, bluff man, a 
 kind of ser\'ant. The first I knew directly, for I 'd seen Captain 
 Vivian often enough, and had a full remembrance of him, and his 
 doings. The other I 've learned to know better since ; you may 
 have seen him yourself, sir, whilst you 've been here, — a rough- 
 looking fellow, a fisherman he is now, or a smuggler, as most 
 people say, he's always out upon the Point.' 
 
 'Goff! yes, I know him well, very well ;' and there was a 
 marked emphasis upon the words. 
 
 ' He had work about the place out-of-doors, as a boy; and then 
 he was taken into the house, and made a servant for Master 
 Edward, and he had carried him abroad ; but it seems somehow 
 they hadn't suited, and he had been turned over to the Captain. 
 So it was they were together that day. I learned all that, though 
 afterwards.' 
 
 ' Yes, well ! But that day ? ' 
 
 'Ay, that day, sir ; you needn't think I'm likely to forget it. 
 I taw the Captain and the other fellow go straight up to the house, 
 and, said I to myself, there 's mischief coming with that man, as 
 sure as summer comes with swallows. I didn't exactly think 
 what kind of mischief, for I hadn't heard much about where he'd 
 been lately; else my thoughts would surely have turned to Master
 
 142 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Edward. But something led me to go into the house, and wait 
 to hear what was going on. I followed them up to the door, and 
 the Captain, he gave a tremendous pull at the bell, and such a 
 peal there was sounding through the house ! And when the door 
 was opened, it was a kind of king's voice that said he must see 
 General Vivian directly. My father happened to be in the library 
 at the time, where the young ladies were silting. It was close to 
 the front steps, and you could hear quite plainly what any one 
 said. He told me afterwards that Miss Mildred turned very pale 
 when she heard the Captain's voice, and, said she, " Edith, you 
 go to my father and tell him who's here." She couldn't go her- 
 self and she wouldn't trust anybody else with the message, know- 
 ing how the General would hate it. Miss Edith went up to her 
 chair and kissed her, and said "Never mind, Mildred, we'll hope 
 on," or some words of that kind ; but she was cast down herself 
 seemingly, for she walked quite slowly out of the room. 
 
 ' Captain John was shown into the little drawing-room, and a 
 good long time he was kept waiting ; and my father heard him 
 storming away because of it with Goff ; — for he would make him 
 go with him ; he wouldn't have him sent into the servants' hall, 
 as was the custom. At last the General rang his study bell, and 
 my father answered it, as he always did. Miss Edith was be- 
 hind the General's chair, smoothing his hair, and fondling him ; 
 and, to look at them, I dare say you might have called them 
 brother and sister instead of father and child ; for he was a won- 
 derfully fine-looking man in those days, was the General, and 
 bore his years bravely, " Captain Vivian 's waiting to see me, 
 Clarke, I hear," said the General ; " he may come up. Edith, you 
 must go." His voice was as firm as mine is now, and you wouldn'/ 
 have known that he thought or cared for the man a straw; only 
 that he had a trick of crossing his legs and moving his left foot up 
 and down when he was sorely pressed, and the less he said the 
 faster his foot went ; 'twas his way of venting his passion. The 
 foot went like a see-saw that morning ; and Miss Edith said to my 
 father when she left the room, " Clarke, don't you let the General 
 be tired out." That was as much as to say, you be on your watch 
 for what's going on ; for my father was a trusty and knowing man, 
 and many a time when the young ladies had been troubled with 
 persons coming to worry the General, they had got hirn to go in 
 and interrupt them. So my father showed Captain Vivian into 
 the study, and he saw the General stand up and bow, which was 
 all the greeting he gave ; and any one but Captain John might
 
 CLEVE HALL. 143 
 
 Iiave been cowed by his manner. But not a bit he ; before my 
 father was out of the room he began, saying that he had come 
 from a long distance, and he thought it hard he should be kept 
 waiting, and all in such a rough way that the General was put 
 askew almost before a word had been spoken. 
 
 ' My father went back to his work. Not a word did he tell 
 me or any one, then ; such a cautious man he was about every- 
 thing which concerned the General's interest. But I was mainly 
 curious ; and, as I could get nothing out of him, I made friends 
 with the housekeeper, as was my custom sometimes, and got a 
 permission from her that I might come into the house and dine. 
 I was standing in the servants' hall, waiting about a little, and 
 doing just what few things there was to be done, when my father 
 came in, and says he to the footman, "Here's a stranger come to 
 dine with you, Charles ; " and with that he brought in Goff. 
 Twasn't a pleasant hearing, exactly, for in former days no one 
 had ever taken much to the man; but he had come from foreign 
 parts, and he'd seen Master Edward lately ; and so there was a 
 good deal to say and to hear, and we all got round him and 
 began asking him questions. I 've often thought since how 
 cjueer he was on that day, — not a bit like what he 's turned out 
 since,— no blustering^ and storming, but a sort of creep-mouse 
 look, which somehow turned Cjuite against me ; and every now 
 and then stopping to hear if there was a bell, or a sound. But 
 he wasn't likely to hear that with the clatter which was going 
 on in the hall, and after a while he seemed to give up listening, 
 and began to talk very fast, telling heaps of odd stories, and 
 hinting things now and then about Master Edward which nearly 
 made my hair stand on end. Yet he never spoke out ; and 
 when my father taxed him once with what he had been saying, 
 and asked him to explain, he caught himself up quite short, and 
 looked for all the world as if he knew he was telling what wasn't 
 true. Certainly, I fancied him less than ever, specially when I 
 saw what a friend he was to the ale flagon. Why he drank it 
 as if 'twas water ! 
 
 ' There was dinner in the housekeeper's room for my father, 
 but not a bit did he seem to trouble himself to eat. I had a 
 notion that he couldn't make up his mind to let Goff out of his 
 sight, for he was in and out of the hall continually ; and, said he 
 once to Goff, "Your Master's holding a long story up-stairs." 
 "There's plenty to say, wncu folks have been so long parted." 
 caid Goff j and with that he gave a kind of inside chuckle, an 1
 
 T44 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 laid down his knife just as he w.is cuttincj a bit of cheese, a:M 
 set himself again to Hston. Sure enough at that moment there 
 was a bell, a quick, ringing one, from the General's room. I 
 chanced to be looking at the man at the moment. His face — 
 you wouldn't scarce believe it, for he's all over hard and brown 
 now, as if he was made of mahogany — but he hadn't seen such 
 rough times in those days, and, as I sat opposite to him, I noticed 
 that it turned of a sudden, not white, but a sort of grayish 
 colour, just for all the world as if he was going off into a fit. 
 'Twas only for a moment, though. He seized hold of the ale 
 jug, and such a drink as he took ! it seemed all to go at a gulp ; 
 and then down went the cup on the table, and he stood up, and 
 it crossed my mind that he 'd had enough to make him un- 
 steady. But not a whit that ! It had only brought back the 
 right colour to his cheek; and says he, quickly, "That's for 
 me." My father caught him up with, " How do you know it's 
 for you ?" He was taken aback, and his eyes quite flashed out, 
 but he only laughed and said, oh ! he supposed it was, and he 
 must be ready ; and, strange enough, when my father went up- 
 stairs he brought down word that Goff was to go up directly. I 
 didn't dare ask if anything was the matter, so many being about ; 
 but I was certain that something was wrong, for my father had 
 a look on him which I 'd seen often enough to understand. 
 But dinner went on, and was finished, and every one went to 
 his work; and I was to have gone to mine, only my father had 
 something for me to do in his pantry. It wasn't so far from the 
 hall but that I could hear people go in and out, and up and 
 down-stairs; and, after a while —two hours I'm sure it was 
 from the time I first saw the Captain come — he and Goff took 
 their departure,— not blustering and noisy, as they had come, 
 but stealing out and walking off to the village, without a word 
 of good-bye to any one. 
 
 ' There was no sound in the house for near half an hour after- 
 wards. The young ladies had had their lunch ; and where they 
 were, or what they were doing, I couldn't say, only I missed Miss 
 Edith's voice, for she used to go singing about like a bird. It 
 came over me, I remember, as something awful that, with so 
 many near, there shouldn't be one to be heard ; but before long 
 a heavy door slammed to, and then came the General's step 
 along the open gallery over the hall. He was going the way to 
 the young ladies' sitting-room. 
 
 * My father called me then, and I stood talking with him in
 
 CLEVE HALL. 145 
 
 the hall, about some errand he wished me to do for him in Cleve. 
 It might have been three minutes, or not so much, we were 
 there. I was just asking him where I should find the man he 
 wanted to see ; and I remember he bade me attend, and laid 
 his hand on my shoulder, in his kind way, when a scream — 
 sharp and piteous, scarce like a human scream — rang through 
 the old house. 'Twas Miss Edith's voice ; and my father and I 
 glanced at each other in horror, and rushed up'-stairs.' 
 
 'She was dead!' escaped from Mr Bruce's lips; and he 
 covered his face with his hands, and sank, shuddering, upon 
 the bench. 
 
 * No, sir. She had had her death-stroke ; but she was not to 
 die then. She was lying on the floor insensible. Miss Mildred 
 kneeling by her ; quiet — you wouldn't have known there was 
 aught strange, save that her face seemed all of a sudden changed 
 into stone. And the General was there too; standing up before 
 them, stern as on a battle-field, but his eyes fixed with a horrible 
 stare straight before him. They did not let me stay more than 
 a moment. Mrs Robinson was called, and I was sent off to Cleve 
 for a doctor. I came back in less than an hour. The General 
 had shut himself up in his room ; Miss Mildred was with her 
 sister. No one could tell anything that had happened for 
 certain ; only that Captain John and Goff had gone off from 
 Encombe like a shot, and somehow — the news was about, that 
 Master Edward and Miss Campbell were married.' 
 
 'And that was all ?' exclaimed Mr Bruce, standing up, and 
 grasping the sexton's arm. 
 
 ' Bad enough 'twould have been, sir, if it had been all,' replied 
 the sexton, hastily ; ' but worse there must have been, far worse 
 than that. 'Tisn't for me to say, when no one knows for sure ; 
 but a part of the truth was abroad quick enough. Master 
 Edward had done something very dreadful, and was disinherited. 
 What his sins were, it had been left for Captain Vivian and that 
 fellow Goff to tell.' 
 
 A groan was the only reply. 
 
 ' My story will soon enough be ended now, sir,' continued the 
 sexton. ' The beginning of troubles was the end of the family 
 history. They laid Miss Edith on her bed, and for weeks she 
 never rose up from it. And day after day the word came tliat 
 she was growing weaker and weaker, and that her brain was 
 wandering ; and doctors came from London, and nurses ; and they 
 talked, and ordered, and watched, and at la«t they got her round
 
 146 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 in a way; and she came down-stairs, and moved about, and went 
 into the garden. But it was her ghost only, not herself. She 
 could never be kept still, but was always dragging herself up 
 and down the shrubbery walk by the great road, listening for a 
 carriage, if it might draw up ; or, when she was in-doors, stand- 
 ing before a picture of Master Edward, that's now in Miss 
 Mildred's room, or pacing the gallery over the hall. But she 
 never mentioned his name ; no, not even to Miss Mildred. 
 And at last, all of a sudden, the cloud came over her again, and 
 she gave way, as it were, in a moment ; and once more they 
 took her to her bed, and ne\'er moved her from it till they 
 carried her to her grave.' 
 
 The sexton paused, to dash away a tear. ' There was peace 
 for her,' he added, in a tone of deep reverence. ' She had lived 
 an angel's life, and she was ready for death. The sorrow was 
 for him that had killed her.' 
 
 He was silent for a moment and then continued — 
 
 * 'Tis a heavy word to say of a father against his child, and he 
 loving her as he did. But 'twas the General's way ; there was 
 no mercy. He 'd have given his son to be shot, if it had come 
 in the way of duty, and been the first to pull the trigger ; and 
 so, when he thought himself called on to give him up, he cast 
 him off in a moment, and fancied that others could do the same. 
 But they who said the General was a hard man, spoke of things 
 they didn't understand. The day that Captain John brought 
 the ill news, the General was hale and strong as the strongest 
 man of his age in England. When he came out of his room 
 three days afterwards to go to church, his hair was silvery gray, 
 and he had the look and gait of a man of seventy. There, sir, 
 I 've done now ; and I 've tired you, no doubt ; and my digging 
 will be waiting for me. Will it please you to go into the church 
 again ? ' 
 
 No answer came. The question was repeated, and Mr Bruce 
 spoke as in a dream. 
 
 ' The church, did you say ? But the mystery — has it never 
 been cleared up ? ' 
 
 ' The mystery, sir ? Oh ! Master Edward's ; yes, I understand. 
 Cleared up, I can't say it has been, for no one can say for certain 
 what passed between the General and Captain Vivian ; but, of 
 course, the marriage and the notion of Master Edward's 
 gambling, was at the bottom of it ; and cause enough for his 
 being disinherited, according to the General's principles. He
 
 CLEVE HALL, 147 
 
 who'd been all his life striving to redeem the property, and 
 making it the one thing he worked for — it was natural enough, 
 perhaps, that he should take fright at the notion of its falling 
 into hands which would scatter it. But what he really thought 
 and felt, it isn't for such as I to guess at ; and indeed I don't 
 fancy there's any one that can tell, except, may be, I\Ir Lester. 
 He came to live at Encombe just afterwards; and he'd been 
 rdaster Edward's tutor, and often staying at the Hall, and had 
 worked hard, I 've heard, to make the General and his son 
 understand each other, I believe the General did open his 
 mind to him at first, but when Mr Lester didn't quite agree, he 
 closed up again, and lived for all the world as if shut up in a 
 shell. That is to say, on that subject he's shut up, not on 
 others. He gave himself much more to the poor people about 
 that time, and set to work at the church, and grew more thought- 
 ful for Miss Mildred, and took to petting and making much of 
 her. Somehow, it seems to me, when I 'm thinking over it all 
 awhiles, that he's been for years like a man who knows he's 
 very wrong in one way, but won't for the life of him give up, and 
 so tries to keep his conscience clear by being good in all others. 
 Mayn't it be so, sir?' 
 
 The sexton looked up at his companion inquiringly. 
 
 His answer was a half-crown, thrust into his hand ; and with- 
 out a word, Mr Bruce turned away, and in a few seconds was 
 seen striding up the pathway to the hills, with the speed of a 
 maniac. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ELLA had left Clement behind, without a thought. Mr 
 Lester and Rachel, she imagined, were before her, and her 
 inclination was to hasten after them. They were, however, at a 
 considerable distance; and she went on, with her usual impetu- 
 osity, when interested, gaining ground upon them, but heeding 
 little the direction she was taking, and without considering how 
 she was to return. Once she heard Clement's call and answered 
 it ; but her voice was weak, and the sound did not reach him. 
 So she must have proceeded half-walking and half-running, for 
 more than a mile, but she was drawing nearer and nearer her 
 object, and her efforts would soon end. The two figures sat
 
 1 48 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 doun for a moment to rest, and a most uncomfortable misgiving 
 crossed Ella's mind. The man was taller than Mr Lester, he 
 looked unlike a gentleman, now that she could see him more dis- 
 tinctly, and the girl was dressed differently from Rachel. Ella 
 could not recognise them at all ; they were not even Encombe 
 people : probably they belonged to Cleve, and were going 
 thilher by the short way, over the hills. That was quite out ot 
 the direction of the Beacon, and Clement would miss her. She 
 looked round for him, and called. There was no answer ; but 
 the man who was sitting down heard her, and approached. 
 
 Ella was not frightened, but perplexed. The hills were very 
 lonely, the paths in some parts confusing. One thing, however, 
 was clear, — at least she thought it so, — that Clement would 
 follow her in the direction of the Beacon ; and when the stranger 
 came up, Ella answered his question as to what she wanted, by 
 begging to be told the nearest road to it. 
 
 ' A good way off from the Beacon it is,' replied the man ; ' a 
 mile at the least. You aren't thinking of going up there by your- 
 self. Miss?' 
 
 ' I was going: I want to meet my brother,' was Ella's reply. 
 
 ' Oh, your brother ! that 's difterent. Well, you must keep 
 along under the hollow now, till you get to the pile of stones 
 yonder, and then take the path to the right, and that will bring 
 you into Crossdell ; and from thence you may scramble up till 
 you get to the foot of the Beacon. But, dear me !' — and he 
 looked at Ella's slight figure with a kind of patronising compas- 
 sion ; ' you '11 never get up, anyhow ; and if you do, you '11 never 
 find your way down again ; or you '11 get upon the Croome ; and 
 there '11 be a business ! ' 
 
 ' The Croome ! ' repeated Ella ; ' that is where the cliff falls 
 away so, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, the steep side of the Beacon, away to the east,' was the 
 answer. ' Folks that don't know much about it are apt to set 
 foot upon the Croome, taking it all for firm ground ; and then, 
 ten to one, if they don't go down and down, till they 'd give half 
 they're worth to stop. However, I dare say your brother knows 
 all about that, and he won't take you the dangerous side.' 
 
 A little fear there was in Ella's mind, but with it a good deal 
 of excitement. Yet she could not at once decide whether to ad- 
 vance or go back. She asked how far it was from the point she 
 had now reached to Encombe : about a mile and a half That 
 really seemed nothing; and to have had a tiresome walk all by
 
 CLEVE HALL. 149 
 
 herself, for nothing — it would be too absurd ! And then she 
 should certainly miss Clement, and he would find his way to the 
 Beacon, and she should be outdone. In Ella's chivalrous moments, 
 when she was mistress over her natural indolence, there was 
 nothing she disliked more than being beaten in anything, even in 
 a walk ; and moreover she had an innate love of adventure, 
 nearly allied to her poetical tastes, all of which urged her to the 
 side of boldness. Without acknowledging to her new acquaint- 
 ance the fact of having lost Clement, lest he should dissuade her 
 from her intention, she thanked him, wished him good-bye, and 
 proceeded on her upward way with a springing step and an eager 
 spirit, and had reached the other extremity of the hollow before 
 he had disappeared along the downward path which led to the 
 town of Cleve. 
 
 Her heart did sink a little when she looked up and saw the 
 height still above her, the summit of the Beacon being even then 
 not visible. But it required only an eflbrt ; she was strong, and 
 there was quite sufficient time, and Clement might miss her if 
 she turned back ; and Ella, who would have lounged for hours 
 in an easy chair, dreaming over poetry, and thinking the 
 smallest exertion too great, now, once roused, was willing to 
 risk any amount of fatigue, or even danger, rather than fail in 
 her purpose. 
 
 She began the ascent ; at first an easy one, for the sheep-track 
 was her guide, and offered a sure footing ; but after some distance 
 it ceased, and she was obliged to make her way as she could over 
 the slippery turf. The Beacon point was before her, however, 
 then, and this gave her confidence and energy. Yet she did not 
 trust herself to look round, lest she should turn giddy; for the 
 hill was becoming more and more precipitous, and from not 
 knowing the right direction to take, Ella had chosen the steepest 
 site that was accessible. At last, however, having reached a 
 little hollow, where she could find a firm footing, she turned, and 
 sat down to rest. The view beneath her was most lovely, com- 
 manding the slope of the hills, and the Encombe ravine, with the 
 Cleve woods and the town of Cleve in the distance ; and beyond 
 a wide expanse of the sea, changing at every instant, now glitter- 
 ing with islands of light, now dark with deep purple shadows, as 
 the sun escaped from, or was hidden beneath, the heavy clouds 
 which were crossing the sky. Perfectly enjoyable it would have 
 been, if only she had been sitting on the summit of the Beacon, 
 with Clement by her side. As it was, the exquisite beauty, added
 
 ISO CLEVE HALL, 
 
 to the comfort of rest, induced her to linger minute after minute ; 
 and it was not till a sensation of cold and dampness stole over 
 her, that she thought of proceeding. 
 
 A slight mist rested on the summit ; that was provoking, it 
 would prevent her seeing the view to perfection. But it might 
 pass away ; at any rate, she felt it would be wise to hasten, lest 
 it should increase. Once more she was ascending, rather more 
 cautiously, for she was no longer stepping upon turf, but upon 
 loose shingles and rough stones, which hurt her feet. It crossed 
 her mind whether she should go back, for the mist was thicken- 
 ing very rapidly. But to be so near the top, and not to reach it ! 
 It was out of the question ; it would be ignoble ; and, after all, 
 what harm could happen to her ? She had but to step care- 
 fully ; and, once at the top, her descent would be rapid and 
 easy, and she should soon escape from the mist, which was 
 always thicker on the hills than in the valleys. Enterprising 
 Ella was, certainly ; hers might have been the spirit of a crusader, 
 could it always have felt the same stimulus. A steep, high 
 bank, almost a cliff, was before her ; the damp, heavy mist was 
 gathering around her ; she was weary and breathless ; sharp 
 flints had torn her boots, and one had wounded her foot so as 
 to make it painful for her to walk ; but she would not yield. 
 One more great effort. Scrambling, slipping back, clinging to a 
 stone which gave way, seizing upon the stem of a juniper-bush, 
 and finding a footing for a moment, and tl\en grasping the edge 
 of the bank, and dragging herself up almost in despair, and Ella 
 had achieved her object, and stood upon the narrow platform of 
 the highest hill, and touched the pile of stones which formed the 
 Beacon. 
 
 She was very triumphant — very excited. The toil was a 
 hundred-fold repaid by success ; so she felt, for the first minute. 
 The second, a chill came over her, mental as well as physical ; 
 but the latter was predominant. A cold blast was sweeping over 
 the hills ; and sadly and ominously it moaned through the hollows 
 below her. View there was none ; the mist covered the country 
 like a garment, and, gathering around Ella, ci"ept, as it seemed, 
 into her frame, numbing her fingers, and bringing that indescrib- 
 able sense of blind dreariness which makes one fancy, for the 
 moment, that warmth and light have disappeared from the earth 
 for ever. 
 
 Of course there was but one thought in Ella's mind — descent 
 as c^uick as possible. She again called Clement, though with
 
 CLEVE HALL. 15 1 
 
 little expectation of being heard ; and, receiving no answer, set 
 herself to her task. The cliff was her first difficulty ; she could 
 not trust it in going down, as she had in ascending, so she felt 
 her way cautiously along the edge of the platform, till she 
 reached a less precipitous bank, and, sliding down without dil- 
 hculty, found herself standing on what seemed a beaten track. 
 This must, of course, she thought, be the right path, which she 
 had missed through ignorance ; and she went on boldly and 
 cheerfully, congratulating herself on her success. Yet it was 
 rather bewildering, to be wandering on in this way, without 
 being able to see more than a i^w yards before her ; and once it 
 crossed Ella's mind that the track was leading her rather away 
 from the direction she had taken in ascending. Very far away, 
 however, it could not be, for she was quite sure that she was 
 going towards Encombe ; and every now and then she stopped 
 and called Clement, again hoping that he might be near, and 
 join her. 
 
 The path which Ella had entered upon was broad at first, 
 sloping along the side of the hill; then it grew narrower and 
 steeper, and occasionally it ceased altogether for a few paces ; 
 but a path there certainly was, so that she did not feel any mis- 
 givings. At length, however, it became very perplexing ; there 
 seemed to be two tracks — one to the right, broad, but exceed- 
 ingly precipitous, almost indeed perpendicular, leading, as she 
 supposed, towards Cleve ; the other very narrow, but more eas)', 
 carried round the hill, and therefore leading away from Encombe. 
 Either seemed an evil, and Ella paused to consider, and for the 
 first time felt sufficiently uncomfortable heartily to repent her 
 expedition. To descend by any means was still the only thing 
 to be done, for there was no time to be lost. It was growing late, 
 and the mist was thickening into rain ; and after a moment's 
 consideration she chose the narrow path, as leading, she believed, 
 more directly to Encombe. 
 
 It was tolerably level, and therefore easy at first ;' and Ella 
 congratulated herself upon this, and went on hopefully, yet not 
 very quickly. It was not quite as firm as that which she had left ; 
 the soil was loose, and the stones rolled away under her feet. 
 This did not signify, as long as the slope was gradual ; but it be- 
 came steeper, — the path was scarcely to be called one. Ella was 
 obliged to throw herself, in a manner, from one projection to 
 another : yet it was still descent, and descent was her object. 
 She was forced to move on : the stones gave way as she touched
 
 152 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ilicm ; and there were no large ones to grasp. It became not 
 walking, or jumping from point to point, but one perpetual slide, 
 slide ; above, below, around her — all was sliding \ and when she 
 tried to stop, the very effort to sustain herself gave an impetus to 
 the stones on which she rested ; and down they went, rolling on 
 and on, and making all they touched roll with them, till the rush 
 was as the crash of pcl)bles on a beach ; and at length— was it 
 the splash of water which reached Ella's car ? 
 
 The black tarn was beneath her. She was clinging to the side 
 of the Croomc. 
 
 The cry which echoed through the hills reached the ears of 
 Mr Bruce as he wandered beneath the Beacon, and was heard 
 by Rachel Lester as she stood at the head of Greystone Gorge, 
 and startled Ronald in his lonely wretchedness ; — it was the cry 
 of extremity of peril. To go back was impossible ; the very effort 
 to grasp the cliff would but precipitate Ella into the lake. To go 
 forward was equally impossible ; the end might approach more 
 slowly, but it would not be the less certain. To stand motionless 
 upon the spot where for the moment she had found her footing, 
 was the only safety ; and this security was but the verge of de- 
 spair ; for even the sound of Ella's voice, as in her agony she called 
 Clement, Clement, seemed to precipitate the rush of the restless, 
 shivering cliff, and increase the perpetual quick plash, the knell 
 of the dark waters, as they closed over the stones which sank into 
 their depth. 
 
 Years were gathered into those moments, — the years of Ella's 
 life ; the tale of her wilfulness, her folly, her pride, her indolence 
 —not passing before her in detail, but all concentrated into one 
 feeling of despair. 
 
 Again, one last effort ! But Ella's voice was feeble with horror, 
 and it was but the wailing wind which took up the lingering notes 
 and prolonged the ineffectual cry. Yet a change came. A gleam 
 cf sunshine was struggling amidst the vapour that floated over 
 the tarn. A few moments more, and the mist rolled away ; whilst 
 heavy wreaths gathered together upon the summit of the hill, 
 leaving clear below a narrow sheet of water, unruffled save by 
 the falling stones, dark with almost unfathomable depth, and 
 coldly throwing back the lines of light which crossed its bosom, 
 as if too conscious of the dread secrets which it hid to permit 
 lliem to penetrate its surface. 
 
 It was but a little distance across from the spot where Ella 
 rtood. She could see a small hovel on the opposite bank, soniC'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 153 
 
 times used for shelter by shepherds, and distinguish the rocks 
 scattered along the margin of the tarn, and the sheep grazing 
 upon the scanty foliage. She could even look beyond, and trace 
 the path which would lead her to the village ; and very far away 
 she fancied that she could perceive the tower of Encombe Church, 
 though it was very indistinct. Life, safety, happiness, were 
 u ithin her sight, almost within her grasp ; but so also were the 
 crumbling rocks, and the waters of the dark tarn, and the valley 
 of the shadow of death. 
 
 There was a sound on the lake ; not the falling of stones ; it 
 was a steadier, softer, more even plash. It was behind her, and 
 she dared not look round ; the pressure of her foot might be death. 
 She called again, and a voice sounded from below, and a little 
 boat with a man in it glided into sight. Ella stretched out one 
 hand; her impulse was to throw herself into the water. A hasty 
 gesture warned her to pause. 
 
 ' Be still ; if you value your life, ntiiher move nor speak. There 
 is a rope itr the boat ; I v/ill throw it to you,' shouted Mr Bruce 
 from below ; and the boat glided away again out of sight, and 
 she was left to loneliness, and the ceaseless plash of the falling 
 stones. 
 
 Minutes passed away ; her strength was failing ; the position 
 in which she stood was becoming unbearable ; and there were 
 no signs of the promised help. She could not have been left; it 
 was madness to think so ; yet Ella's mind was in that state in 
 which reason has lost its power; and the dreams of a maniac 
 are not more wild than the suggestions and misgivings which 
 llashed across her, checked only by the strong instinct of self- 
 preservation. 
 
 But a voice came at last from above, a man's voice. ' Are you 
 there ?' was shouted ; and Ella's answering scream was sharper 
 than the cry of a dying animal. A pause followed ; two persons 
 seemed to be holding a consultation. Ella could hear their mur- 
 murs. The delay was agony ; in another minute her power of 
 endurance would be gone. They called again, for they could not 
 sec her, and could only be directed by the voice to the spot which 
 she had reached. Then she heard in louder tones, a debate which 
 seemed almost angry in its eagerness. ' Throw the rope.' ' No ; 
 it will not reach her, and she will go down.' ' If we could but 
 sec her ! ' Another shout and another answer. ' Fasten the 
 rope round me first.' It was Mr Bruce who spoke. The sug- 
 gestion seemed to be approved, for then- was a momentary
 
 154 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 silence. Then came the noise of the stones disturbed from their 
 resting-place, and rushing faster, faster, falling behind and 
 around Ella. But i\Ir Bruce was drawing near; she could see 
 him ; he was moving very cautiously, and, as it appeared, with 
 some instinct or fore-knowledge, which taught him where to 
 place his foot on the firmest spot. The rope also held by his 
 companion secured him ; but even with that aid he dared not 
 approach very close. The movement of the stones might loosen 
 those on which Ella was standing. ' Now, catch it.' He flung 
 the end of the rope towards her. She moved,— caught it for an 
 instant,— lost it again, — felt herself sliding, — once more caught 
 it, and clung to it, and was dragged upwards. 
 
 'Fasten it round your waist,' shouted Ronald, from above. 
 
 Impossible ! Ella's strength was giving way. The rope was 
 large ; she could not twist it. She felt her hold lessening, yet 
 despair was life. One instant more, and she was within reach 
 of Mr Bruce's arm, supported by him with one hand, whilst he 
 threw the rope around her with the other ; and at that moment 
 she fainted away. 
 
 It must have been almost a superhuman strength which up- 
 held her ; but Ronald Vivian stood above, with his giant power, 
 his indomitable resolution ; and another — weak indeed, com- 
 paratively, in body, but urged by the overwhelming impulse of 
 a father's love— was straining every nerve for her preservation ; 
 and when at length she was laid on the firm ground, Edward 
 Vivian bent over his daughter, and forgetting every necessity for 
 concealment, exclaimed, ' My Ella, my precious child ! Thank 
 God, she is safe ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THAT night Mr Vivian sat in a large, low, old-fashioned 
 room at the Manor Farm, his chair drawn in front of the 
 fire, which Mrs Robinson had insisted upon lighting when he 
 returned, cold, damp, and far from well, after an expedition 
 over the hills, which had been longer, he said, than he had in* 
 tended. With him sat Mr Lester, his grave countenance 
 w-caring a look of disquieting thought, as, leaning his elbow 
 upon the table, he gazed fixedly before him. Tea was just over ; 
 it had been but a scanty meal ; though Mrs Robinson, in her
 
 CLEVE HALL. 155 
 
 hospitality and affection, had provided largely for the weary 
 wanderer, and urged upon Mr Lester the duty of making him 
 lake care of himself. ]\Ir Vivian was not to be persuaded ; his 
 cup of tea had been swallowed hastily, and scarcely anything 
 else on the table was touched ; a question was pending, which 
 was food sufficient for the mind, and, for the moment, for the 
 body also — What is to be done next ? 
 
 ' I can trust Ronald implicitly,' was Mr Lester's observation. 
 
 ' Yet you were vexed when I told you I had betrayed myself 
 
 ' Vexed for your own want of caution. Are you never to learn 
 prudence, Vivian ?' 
 
 ' When my child had just been saved from death ! ' he ex- 
 claimed. ' Lester, you will one day drive me to hate you.' 
 
 'A man who puts himself in a position where self-restraint is 
 necessar)', ought first to be certain that he can practise it,' re- 
 plied ]Mr Lester. ' But it is useless to waste time in lectures 
 which will not be listened to.' 
 
 ' Spare me at least till you have had experience,' was the 
 answer. ' Live for eighteen years in a foreign land, separated 
 from your children, bound to work which you hate, your consti- 
 tution worn by a horrible climate, and then talk to me of pru- 
 dence, if you can.' 
 
 ' Most true, my dear Vivian ; none can feel it more strongly, 
 than myself. But a few months more delay ; — and the claims of 
 the children, your sister's influence, my own inquiries as to the 
 past, might have opened a door for your return honourably and 
 openly.' 
 
 ' Never, never; in that opinion at least we cannot be agreed ; 
 and remember that my knowledge of my father is more intimate 
 than yours.' 
 
 ' I am not saying there would be hope if you took him by 
 surprise. All I contend for is, that, with patience and prudence, 
 we might at least have worked upon him.' 
 
 Mr Vivian shook his head doubtfully, and his tone was irrit- 
 able, as he said ; — ' It is no good to discuss what might have 
 been. I am here ; — I am known to be here. Now for the next 
 step.' 
 
 ' To leave the neighbourhood before your secret has spread 
 further, would be my advice,' replied Mr Lester. 
 
 'And live the same life that I have been living for so many 
 years, — lonely, hopeless, and with the aggravation of bcir.j; 
 within reach of my children, and yet unable to approach them.'
 
 IS6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * So it must be till we have discovered the full exlciU of youi 
 cousin's villany.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! I'orgive me, Lester ; you rest upon that point as if 
 it would at once change the whole tone of my father's mind. 
 Let John Vivian be what he may, let him hiive injured and 
 calumniated me as he may, I tell you there are sins enough at 
 my own door, for which I alone am answerable, which, in my 
 reasonable moments, must, I feel, shut up every avenue to 
 reconciliation.' 
 
 Mr Lester looked very pained. 
 
 ' I know what > ou would say,' continued Mr Vivian. * Why, 
 if I had no hope, should I have returned to England 1 That is 
 the question of a man reasoning upon feelings which he is too 
 fortunate to understand. Say, I had no hope, — it is true ; }et 
 can you not imagine it possible to act without it, when the 
 object is restoration tu a father's affection? Lot him do with 
 my inheritance as he will ; if he will see and bless me, I shall 
 die happy.' Mr Vivian's voice faltered, but he recovered him- 
 self, and added — ' Besides, if I have no hope for myself, I havo 
 for my children.' 
 
 * And so had I,' replied Mr Lester. 
 
 ' Yes ; and your hope was fed by everyday events, by inter- 
 course with Mildred ; and it was not the hope of one whose all 
 lay trembling in the balance ; whilst mine— Lester, death would 
 have been preferable to the life I was leading ; and if the step I 
 liave taken should bring me to it, 1 could scarcely repent that I 
 had yielded.' 
 
 'Who is to say that it will not bring you to it?' replied Mr 
 Lester, earnestly. * You have to deal with a desperate man.' 
 
 ' We have been pitted iigainst each other before this,' was ilie 
 leply. ' Let him do his worst ; I don't fear him.* 
 
 ' There would be comparatively little cause to fear, if every- 
 thing were open,' replied Mr Lester. ' If you had appeared at 
 Encombe in your own character, John Vivian would have been 
 powerless, for all eyes would have been upon him. Now, on the 
 contrary, no one notices either him or you, and he can carry on 
 his machinations unperceived.' 
 
 * You speak as if it was my own choice which brought me to 
 Encombe,' replied Mr Vivian. ' But for the wreck, I should 
 never have ventured to visit the place without your sanction.' 
 
 * We will w^^ive the point of your returning to England at all,' 
 replied I\Ir Lester; 'it is onlv a vexatious one. But when vou
 
 CLEVE HALL. 157 
 
 were here, you must acknowledge that you insisted upon re- 
 maining. You disbelieved me when I said that it was impos- 
 sible to keep your secret.' 
 
 ' Yet you declare I am safe, and that Ronald Vivian is to be 
 trusted.' 
 
 * As surely as I am to be trusted myself; but you forget, my 
 dear Vivian, the possibility of exciting suspicion in your cousin 
 or his wretched ally, Goff.' 
 
 ' I trust to Mrs Robinson for that ; she knows everything that 
 goes on, and has cars and eyes in all parts of the village. And 
 as to being known, remember that even she did not recognise 
 me. Eighteen years in a West Indian climate, with two attacks 
 of yellow fever to boot — there can be no safer disguise than such 
 a change ; even if I had not been most careful as to concealment 
 in other ways.' 
 
 * Still look at the possibility ; it must always be wise to fear 
 the worst.' 
 
 ' Well, then ; my hopeful cousin knows me, and publishes the 
 news, and what is to follow ? ' 
 
 ' That is the point ; he will not publish it.' 
 
 ' But, for the sake of argument, suppose he does ? My father 
 will hear of it ; and how will he take it ? ' 
 
 * So as to ruin every prospect, both for you and for the chil- 
 dren,' exclaimed Mr Lester. ' Eighteen years have done their 
 work upon him, as they must upon all, in sharpening and har- 
 dening the edges of character. The principle upon which he 
 first acted was what he believed to be a right one ; but he 
 carried it out without check or balance from other principles, 
 and now it has become prejudice. If at this moment you 
 were to appear before him, he would turn from you as from a 
 stranger.' 
 
 Mr Vivian shuddered, and his voice sounded faint and hollow, 
 as he said : ' My father ! is it possible ?' 
 
 * Quite possible. There is nothing in this world so stern as a 
 petrified affection.' 
 
 * Yet you would have given mc hope if I had remained in 
 Jamaica?' 
 
 * Yes, hope in your father's justice ; he is still open to that, 
 and if we weaken him upon one point, we weaken him upon all. 
 I f we could place before him the proofs of your cousin's treachery, 
 for treacherous I have not the smallest doubt he was ; if we could 
 show him that you were not guilty to the extent which he believes,
 
 158 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 liis strong sense of honour would be touched, and he would feel 
 himself bound to redeem the injury he has done you. But there 
 has, as yet, been no time for this. The letter which you wrote in 
 answer to my first communication of our suspicions, has only just 
 leached us ; and we must deal with your father cautiously, even, 
 for the sake of his age. Once, however, as I said, touch his 
 sense of justice, and I should have hope. IMildrcd and I would 
 place your character in its true light. We would make him feel 
 how nobly you have borne your exile ; how devotedly you have 
 laboured for your children.' 
 
 Mr Vivian interrupted him impatiently :— ' I tell you, Lester, 
 as I have told you before, you are mistaken. The amount of my 
 offence is not the question. When I lost five pounds at the 
 gaming-table, I sinned in my father's eyes as if I had lost five 
 thousand. When I married without his consent, I grieved him 
 as if I had chosen my wife from the very dregs of the people.' 
 
 ' True, in a certain sense ; but there is one thing which you 
 forget. When a man sins against the virtue which he holds 
 most dear, his repentance is keen in proportion to the estimation 
 with which he regards it. Justice has been your father's idol. 
 If we can show him that he has been unjust, I can scaixely 
 doubt that, in his eagerness to atone for the wrong he has done, 
 he may be induced to overlook what, under other circumstances, 
 he would have considered unpardonable.' 
 
 Mr Vivian considered for a few moments — then he said — 
 ' Perhaps you are right. I have known him so influenced in 
 former days. But how to obtain the proofs of injustice ? ' 
 
 ' There, of course, Hes the difficulty. The lapse of time is one 
 very great obstacle. If I had known, years ago, what I know 
 now, I should have had every hope of bringing the matter to a 
 speedy conclusion ; but, as you are aware, it was not till I be- 
 came acquainted with your sister-in-law, and learned from her the 
 particulars of what took place at the time of your marriage, that 
 I had any idea of the falsity of your cousin's statements. Un- 
 questionably he swindled your father out of a large sum on that 
 occasion. General Vivian once told me that he paid him more 
 than five thousand pounds, on a solemn condition that he was 
 never to be applied to for a similar sacrifice again. That was 
 the result of his feelings of honour, added to his hasty pride. 
 U he had but condescended to make inquiry of you, instead of 
 receiving John Vivian's statements, he would have known that 
 the utmost extent of your debts was not'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 159 
 
 'One thousand; — a much larger sum, I confess, than I had 
 any right to risk ; or as you Avill say, and as I say now, I had no 
 right to risk a penny. But on what pretence John Vivian coukl 
 have extracted five thousand from my father, is utterly beyond 
 my comprehension.' 
 
 ' Then, as to the letters,' continued Mr Lester, ' none reached 
 Cleve, though you say you wrote constantly. He must have 
 stopped them for his own foul purposes. There is no want of 
 charity, I trust, in thinking so.' 
 
 ' Whatever may have been my offence against him, he has 
 had his revenge,' said Mr Vivian ; and a heavy sigh escaped 
 him. 
 
 * No, Vivian, he has not had his revenge, whilst a chance 
 remains of seeing either you or your boy restored to the inherit- 
 ance you have lost. The injury he has already done has quick- 
 ened and goaded his revenge, because it has placed himself in 
 danger. The man is twice your enemy whose hatred has led 
 him to degradation.' 
 
 ' Twice my enemy, indeed !' repeated Mr Vivian ; ' first to 
 myself ; but, O Lester ! far more terribly, it may be, to my 
 boy!' 
 
 Mr Lester's face showed some painful thought ; perhaps it 
 crossed his mind that the sins of parents are punished in the 
 faults of their children. But he shook oft" the feeling, whatever 
 it was, and answered, ' Our trust for Clement must be in a 
 Higher Power than our own.' 
 
 ' And you don't think it would influence him for good to know 
 that I was at hand.' 
 
 ' It might do so, if the secret could be made known without 
 risk. But we come back always to the same point ; not so much 
 v.hat we are to do, as when. It is the Gordian knot of many 
 difficulties in life besides ours.' 
 
 ' Then cut it !' exclaimed Mr Vivian, impetuously. 
 
 •That is the principle upon which you have acted through life, 
 my dear Vivian ; and what has been the result ?' 
 
 The look of self-reproaching anguish which followed the ques- 
 tion, almost made Mr Lester repent that he had put it. Yet it 
 had done its work. 
 
 ' Yes, you are right ; impatience has been my ruin !' and Ed- 
 ward Vivian's head was bowed upon his hands, as if, even to his 
 truest friend, he dared not show the extent of his remorse. 
 
 Mr Lester spoke more gently. 'There is no ruin, Vivian,
 
 i6o CLEVE HALL. 
 
 while there is hope ; and no one but yourself need destroy your 
 hope. You have made, I fear, a false step ; but it is not irre- 
 trievable. Leave this place ; hide yourself in London, and suffer 
 your sister, Bertha Campbell, and myself, to work out our own 
 plans. You may safely trust us to use our utmost efforts ; and 
 from time to time you will hear of our proceedings, whilst you 
 will have the comfort of feeling yourself within reach of your 
 children. Content yourself with this life for a while. You say 
 that you can remain in England for a year. \Vc will not look 
 forward beyond ; before it is over, I trust — nay more, 1 
 sincerely believe — that we shall once more see you restored to 
 Cleve.' 
 
 'And go from Encombe without seeing Mildred.?' exclaimed 
 Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' It may be necessary. I will not, at this moment, absolutely 
 say that it is. But if John Vivian's suspicions are aroused, you 
 have not a day to lose : either he will quit the place himself, 
 and so we shall lose all chance of substantiating our charges 
 
 against him ; or you will laugh at my fears ; but a desperate 
 
 man will do desperate deeds.' 
 
 Mr Vivian considered for a few seconds : ' I cannot see the 
 necessity. Let me be brave, Lester ; let me go at once to my 
 father: severe, prejudiced though he is, I am still his son. Let 
 me say to him that John Vivian deceived him : you yourself own 
 that there would be hope then in his justice.' 
 
 ' But the proofs of the deceit, where are they .'' ' 
 
 ' My own word !' exclaimed Mr Vivian, haughtily. 
 
 ' The word of one man against another,' was Mr Lester's cjuiet 
 reply. 
 
 'John \'ivian's word against mine ! — Lester, you dare not say 
 that my father would take it.' 
 
 ' I say that he would pride himself upon weighing both equally 
 in the balance ; and the stronger was the leaning towards you, the 
 more hope there would be for your enemy. Yet I own it may 
 come to this — it may be our last and only resource ; and if it were 
 so, I would run the risk, and trust to God for the issue. But 
 before I attempted it, I would use every effort to put the matter 
 in so clear a light that the strongest prejudice — even General 
 Vivian's — must own itself conquered. Remember, you will come 
 before your father, not as the son whom he has always loved, but 
 as the spendthrift gambler — I am using harsh words, but I know 
 full well your father's feeling — v,'ho wounded him in the tenderest
 
 CLEVE HALL. i6i 
 
 ])oint, and brought sorrow, and what he considers disgrace, upon 
 his house.' 
 
 A silence of some moments followed. The words had indeed 
 been severe, and Mr Vivian's proud spirit could little brook 
 them. 
 
 Mr Lester spoke again : * My dear Vivian, if I did not know 
 the exaggeration of your father's mind, and if I were not certain 
 that years of true repentance had followed upon the offences of 
 youth, I could not speak as I do ; but it is the very consciousness 
 of the prejudice against which you have to struggle which makes 
 me fearful lest you should begin the combat at a disadvantage. If 
 you were what your father thinks you, I could not raise a finger 
 to help you. Being what I know you are, I would sacrifice fortune 
 and happiness, and even life, for your sake.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it, my truest, kindest friend. I was wrong ; ' 
 and Mr Vivian stretched out one hand in reconciliation, while 
 the other vainly strove to hide the tears which gathered in his 
 eyes. 
 
 * But,' continued Mr Lester, more lightly, ' I must not have 
 to deal with wilfulness and impatience. So far, Vivian, you 
 are unaltered : endurance is the lesson which you have yet to 
 learn.' 
 
 'Eighteen years! — latterly years of utter loneliness. It was 
 not possible to endure longer.' 
 
 'AH things which God gives us to endure are possible,' repHed 
 Mr Lester ; ' that is, of course, if we look at them in the right 
 \\ay.' 
 
 'And to bear the same life still,' continued Mr Vivian, 'with 
 no fixed hope or limit. Can it be necessary .■^ ' 
 
 ' I think it so ; but the decision must be left to yourself.' 
 
 'And if it should be right ! if it should be necessary! O 
 Lester ! my heart grows sick with the prospect.' 
 
 ' My principle of endurance might sound too stern for you,' 
 said Mr Lester. ' You would rather hear me speak of hope.' 
 
 ' I would hear you speak of that which would be your own 
 comfort.' 
 
 ' My comfort would be in punishment,' replied Mr Lester, 
 ' with love and hope to soften it, yet still unmistakeably and 
 undeniably punishment. I have found it so myself,' he continued, 
 earnestly. ' There are sufferings which come upon us imme- 
 diately from the hand of God, without, as far as we can discover, 
 any fault of our own. Such, we may believe, are trials of our 
 
 L
 
 1 62 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 faith, sent in mercy, to give us the opportunity of victory. But 
 there are others, the consequences of our sins, and which we can- 
 not fail to trace directly to that source. These we too often look 
 upon as the natural effects of our own folly, and so weary our- 
 selves with fruitless regrets, vain longings to undo the past; till 
 at length we grow despairing, and the feelings of God's love, 
 which can alone uphold us in our suffering, is lost in the con- 
 sciousness of our own wretchedness. From your letters, Vivian, 
 I am sure you understand that state of mind too well.' 
 
 ' Understand it, yes ; it was the spirit of my existence for 
 years.' 
 
 'So once for a time was it mine, and I thought it was repentance, 
 and dreaded to discourage it ; but repentance is love, and in this 
 feeling there is no love.' 
 
 ' Not when we think of the love which has borne with us 
 through all our wanderings ?' 
 
 * That thought will not come when we are writhing under the 
 consequences of our transgressions. We are then thinking only 
 of ourselves. In such a state of mind there is but one thing 
 which I find will calm me — to accept the suffering, whatever it 
 may be, as coming at once from God as a punishment, or per- 
 haps, more truly speaking, a correction ; not to try to escape 
 from it, nor even to allow myself to wish that I had not incurred 
 it, but humbly and thankfully to submit to it. There is a sense 
 of dignity and energy in this willing acceptance of our lot, which 
 I believe to be absolutely essential to save us from the loss of 
 self-respect, that must otherwise accompany sufferings resulting 
 from past sin. Our will becomes one with God's will, and love 
 must follow necessarily. My dear Vivian, am I wrong in speak- 
 ing to you as I have often written .'" 
 
 ' Right, and most kind ; but I must think of what you say 
 another time. If I follow your advice, I shall have full leisure.' 
 
 ' I trust not for long. Miss Campbell has already enlisted a 
 champion in your cause.' 
 
 Mr Vivian heaved a deep sigh : 'Poor Bertha, I longed to 
 see and talk to her also. There are some things in which she 
 alone can sympathise. Yet she was little more than a child 
 when we parted.' 
 
 * She is a woman now, and a noble one ; with faults indeed — 
 who is without them ? — but with a spirit of devoted unselfish- 
 ness, which fits her for any work that may be given her. If it 
 had not been for this afternoon's adventure, I was going tg
 
 CLEVE HALL. 163 
 
 suggest, what perhaps would have startled you, that you should 
 meet her at the Rectory, and make yourself known to her.' 
 
 '■ Before I see Mildred : is that fair ?' 
 
 ' We must take circumstances as they come before us. You 
 could not possibly go to the Hall without the greatest risk, and 
 IMildred cannot come to you. Besides, I have an idea that Miss 
 Campbell already suspects the truth. It is one thing which has 
 made me especially uneasy.' 
 
 ' How ? I have most carefully avoided her.' 
 
 * Rachel gave me the hint, though unintentionally. Yout 
 present to her excited Miss Campbell's interest and curiosity 
 strangely.' 
 
 ' My poor bird ! It belonged to the child of a friend in 
 Jamaica, who was named after my dear wife. I thought no one 
 but myself would recognise the name in its uncouth notes.' 
 
 'Bertha did; and she has asked many questions about you 
 which Rachel repeated to me. We should do wisely to trust 
 
 Mr Vivian's countenance changed: 'You will think me a 
 coward, Lester. One moment I long for the meeting — the next 
 I dread it. The remembrances which the expression of her 
 face, the sound of her voice, will recall, are so intensely painful, 
 I should but make a fool of myself.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless it is due to her, when she is working for you 
 in every way, with all her heart.' 
 
 ' And my precious Mildred to be left,' continued Mr Vivian, 
 musingly. 
 
 ' We will not say that absolutely. I desire almost inore than 
 you do to put Mildred in possession of the truth ; but it would 
 be agony to know you were here, and not to see you. And 
 indeed, Vivian, you must not remain even for another day, if 
 you wish to make your secret safe.' 
 
 'My own folly again!' exclaimed Mr Vivian. 'Yet how, at 
 such a moment, could I remember the boy was near ?' 
 
 'That is your least danger. Honourable as he is, he would 
 die rather than betray you. But Mrs Robinson tells me that 
 Goff has been here asking curious and impertinent questions. 
 If his suspicions are in the most remote degree excited, it would 
 be madness to delay your departure.' 
 
 'To-morrow, then, — must it be .''' 
 
 ' To-morrow I would advise ; but I would not go voo sud- 
 ilcnlv or secretly. Come to me early at the Rectory. Let Mrs
 
 i64 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Robinson give out publicly that you have business in London 
 for a few days. In the middle of the day you can set off, and nil 
 will seem to follow in the natural course. It will be supposed 
 you are to return, and wc may hope to escape observation.' 
 
 Mr Vivian was thoughtful. 'That boy Ronald,' he said, 'to 
 have saved my own life, and the life of my child, and yet to be 
 my deadly foe ! ' 
 
 'Ronald is no one's foe,' replied Mr Lester. 'He has that in 
 him which would make liim every one's friend, could the check 
 once be securely placed upon his ungoverned feelings. Throw 
 yourself upon his honour, and you are safe.' 
 
 ' I was afraid to do so at the time. The words escape me at 
 a moment when he was not, I hoped, near enough to catch 
 them. Nothing in his manner showed that he had done so ; 
 and when my presence of mind returned, 1 felt it might be better 
 to leave them without comment.' 
 
 Mr Lester looked a little anxious. 
 
 ' You don't thoroughly trust him,' continued Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' I could do so entirely if I cared less. He already knows. 1 
 believe, something of the position of affairs, so far as his father 
 is concerned. Miss Campbell is his friend — she was his mother's 
 friend — and she has great influence with him. Last evening she 
 had a long interview with him, and to-night she Avas to tell me 
 what had passed. It might be wise to return with me to the 
 Rectory. We shall find her there probably ; and we could see 
 our way more clearly, if we knew exactly how far Ronald would 
 go with us or against us.' 
 
 Mr Vivian hesitated. 
 
 ' Have you any other plan "i ' 
 
 'A mad one ! To go to Mildred, and then throw myself upon 
 my father's mercy. The impulse is almost uncontrollable.' 
 
 ' So have been all your impulses through life. A false step at 
 this moment, and farewell to hope for ever. 
 
 Mr Vivian paced the room in extreme agitation. 
 
 'Your hat! Vivian. You will come?' That firm yet gentle 
 voice had controlled him before, in his most excited moments, 
 and now he obeyed it as by an instinct. They went down-stairs 
 together. Mrs Robinson met them. 
 
 'Only to the Rectory,' said Mr Lester, smiling as he saw her 
 disturbed face. 
 
 'And you won't return home late by yourself. O Master 
 Edward ! you will be careful. Sir, you won't let him.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 165 
 
 ■Mr Vivian took her liand affectionately : 'Dear Granny, you 
 mustn't be afraid for nic. These are not days for robbery and 
 murder in the highways. 
 
 ' But that fellow Goff, Master Edward, — I beg your pardon, 
 — -Mr Bruce,' and she drew back respectfully, as one of the farm 
 servants crossed the passage. 
 
 ' Don't fear, I won't keep you up late ; ' and Mr Vivian nodded 
 a kindly good-bye. But Mr Lester lingered behind. 
 
 ' I have hope,' he whispered. ' He will consent to go for the 
 present ; and for the future we must trust all to God.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir. Yes, we must all do that, indeed,' and Mrs 
 Robinson dropped a formal yet reverent curtsey, and retired. 
 
 CHAPTER XX r. 
 
 IT was about nine o'clock, and Bertha and Rachel were together 
 in Mr Lester's study. Bertha was only just come, and she 
 still wore the shawl which she had thrown over her shoulders as 
 she crossed the garden ; she looked fagged but excited, 
 
 'And you are quite sure Ella will be pretty well to-morrow ?' 
 said Rachel. 
 
 'Yes, 1 hope, — I think so. But, O Rachel 1 such a fearful 
 situation ! If Mr Bruce had not tried to cross the tarn in the 
 tiny boat, when he heard her scream, he would never have dis- 
 covered her as quickly as he did.' 
 
 Bertlia sank down trembling in the arm-chair. 
 
 Rachel drew a footstool towards her, and sat down at her 
 feet. * I was afraid to ask to see her,' she said. 
 
 ' She was better alone,' replied Bertha ; ' Mr Hargrave told 
 me that perfect quietness was indispensable. I think the fainting 
 was good for her in some ways. 1 dread what it will be when 
 she can recall it all more distinctly. Yet one ought to be 
 so thankful ! ' and Bertha heaved a sigh, which ended in a 
 shudder. 
 
 ' I don't think Ella can forget it,' said Rachel, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' It is not meant she should ; but she is very slow in learning 
 her lessons.' 
 
 Rachel's faced expressed a little wonder.
 
 i65 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Everything that happens gives us some lesson, if we choose, 
 said Beitha ; 'but you don't understand that yet, Rachel.' 
 
 ' Don't I ? dear Miss Campbell. Isn 't it like what papa says, 
 " That crosses cease to be crosses when we take them up instead 
 of looking at them."' 
 
 'Yes, something like it ; but, Rachel, it is so odd, I can't think 
 to-night.' Bertha put her hand to her head, and rising, walked 
 up and down the room, and then sat down again. 'Would you 
 fetch me a little sal volatile, Rachel ? ' and Rachel, rather fright- 
 cn'jd, left the room. Bertha leant her head back in the chair. 
 That swimming, faint, weak feeling which made her so ashamed 
 of herself must surely be hysterical, and she must struggle against 
 it. She seized a book, — the page was all in motion before her. 
 She saw no letters, — only a phantom scene of a steep cliff, and 
 rolling, shivering pebbles ; and Ella sliding — sliding, — and the 
 dark gulf below. She was upon the verge of giving way, when 
 Rachel held out to her the glass of sal volatile. Bertha drank i( 
 off : ' Thank you, dear ; now I am better. Oh, that horrible 
 cliff! ' and she shook again from head to foot. 
 
 Rachel held her hand, ' Dear Miss Campbell ! she is safe.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it ; it might not have been : we must thank God. 
 
 Rachel dear, would you mind 1 think, if you would read to 
 
 me, I could try and listen.' 
 
 * The Bible ?' said Rachel, timidly. 
 
 ' Yes — St John ; the seventeenth chapter, if you don't 
 mind.' 
 
 Rachel brought a Bible ; but she felt shy. She had never had 
 to comfort or help any one older than herself before, at least in 
 that way. And Bertha was so above her — so shut up from her ! 
 She turned over the leaves slowly. 
 
 Bertha's eyes were shut ; she looked quite ill. Rachel felt as 
 if she could not begin. If it had been little Barney Wood who 
 had asked her, she would have had no hesitation. Her voice was 
 quite low from nervousness when she spoke the first sentence ; 
 but as she went on, her own feelings were carried away by the 
 words, and the rich, musical tones grew deeply earnest, and act- 
 ing with a soothing charm upon Bertha's over-worked tempera- 
 ment, gradually lulled her into tranquillity. 
 
 Rachel's hand was resting on Bertha's lap ; Bertha stroked it 
 fondly as the chapter was ended, and the book closed. 
 
 ' Thank you, dear Rachel, you have done me good ; you do 
 me good always.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 167 
 
 ' Because you are so kind, you say that, dear Miss Campbell. 
 It is very easy to read.' 
 
 ' Yes, only I could not bear some people's reading, O Racliel ! 
 I wonder who made you v/hat you are?' 
 
 ' God made me,' said Rachel, quietly. 
 
 Bertha smiled. ' God makes us, and wc unmake ourselves,' 
 she said. ' But you have had a safe childhood, Rachel.' 
 
 * I know persons think so,' said Rachel, thoughtfully. 
 
 * And don't you ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell ; if I was good, I dare say I should feel it so. But 
 sometimes — it is very wrong, Miss Campbell .?— J think it is like 
 Paradise with the serpent in it.' 
 
 ' Yes, the safest home on earth must be that,' said Bertha. 
 ' But, Rachel, you must be thankful still that yours is not what 
 other homes are,' She spoke with an earnestness which showed 
 that the difference had lately been peculiarly brought before 
 her. 
 
 ' I try to be thankful,' replied Rachel ; ' but you know,' — and 
 she smiled shyly — ' when the serpent comes I am not ; and that 
 makes me unhappy — very unhappy sometimes.' 
 
 'Ah, Rachel! so you fancy; but you can't really know what 
 unhappiness, or, at least, sorrow, means.' 
 
 ' I did know it once,' — Rachel's colour went and came quickly 
 — ' when dear mamma died, and my little sister ; I thought then 
 I was never to be happy again.' 
 
 * Only papa taught you how,' said Bertha, kindly. 
 
 ' Yes, he teaches me always ; and he lets me tell him my 
 difficulties. Do you know, Miss Campbell,' — and she moved 
 her stool so as to look up in Bertha's face — ' I have some great 
 
 ones.' 
 
 Bertha's hand rested affectionately upon Rachel's head, as she 
 replied : ' Yes, dear child, great ones to you, no doubt.' 
 
 ' Such wonderful, puzzling questions come into my head,' con- 
 tinued Rachel ; ' and it seems as if I could do nothing till they 
 were settled. But I must not stop for them, must I ? Papa tells 
 me,' she added, her voice sinking, ' that they are the serpent's 
 questions, and if I stay to answer them, they will keep me back ; 
 and what I want is to go on and on, never to grow tired, or to fall 
 
 back; because' she hid her face in Bertha's lap. ' O Miss 
 
 Campbell ! papa says, those who strive the most, will stand near, 
 and have a bright, bright crown ; and I could not bear to be 
 far off 1'
 
 1 68 CLEVR HALL. 
 
 I^ertha's eyes were full of tears ; she could but kiss Rachel 
 and say: 'Ah ! Rachel, if it were possible to make Ella think 
 as you do ! ' 
 
 ' Ella will be sure to try more after to-day,' sr.id Rachel. 
 
 Bertha was very grave : ' I hope so. She ought to remember 
 the warning. But she has had many. One moment more, and 
 it would have been all over.' The shuddering feelings seemed 
 about to return, 
 
 * Don't talk about it, dear Miss Campbell,' said Rachel, 
 anxiously. ' It makes you ill again.' 
 
 * I try not, but I feel as if I must. It haunts me so ; and when 
 I close my eyes, it all comes before me again.' 
 
 'It was very dreadful,' said Rachel, 'when papa came and 
 told me of it ; and it must have been much worse for you.' 
 
 ' I longed so very much for your papa,' continued Bertha. ' I 
 thought at first, when I saw Ronald and Air Bruce at a distance 
 with Ella, that Mr Bruce was Mr Lester, and my heart sank 
 terribly when I found he was not.' 
 
 * Papa says, Mr Bruce did more for her than even Ronald,' 
 observed Rachel ; ' did Ella thank him very much .' ' 
 
 * He would not stay to be thanked,' replied Bertha. ' You 
 know they brought her home in Farmer Corbin's little chaise, 
 and Mrs Corbin came with her. She was so dizzy, she scarcely 
 knew what was going on ; and when they came to the shrubbery 
 gate, Mr Bruce said, that now she would be in such good hands, 
 he would leave her. He was gone before Ella could know it, and 
 without even waiting to see me. Very strange ! ' Bertha fell 
 into a reverie. 
 
 Rachel also was thoughtful, and once she seemed about to 
 make an observation, but she checked herself. There was a 
 silence of some moments. When they spoke again, the subject 
 was changed. 
 
 * How httle papa and I thought what was going to happen 
 when we set off for our walk this afternoon !' said Rachel. ' I 
 was so happy. It was such a delicious afternoon ; and we went 
 above the hollow, instead of under it, which is just what I like. 
 And then I had to look forward to coming back and drinking tea 
 with Ella and you. And now it is all so different I f It seems as 
 if I never could trust to anything again.' 
 
 Bertha smiled : ' You will, though, Rachel ; in a day or two — 
 a week at the utmost — you will feel just as you did before, or, at 
 least, very nearly so.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 169 
 
 'But that will be wicked,' said Rachel. 
 
 ' Not exactly. We are so formed by God that we can't help 
 it ; and the world would stand still if it were not so.' 
 
 * I don't understand that ; it does seem wTong.' 
 
 ' Just think,' replied Bertha, ' what the state of the world would 
 be if we did not believe that things were to be to-morrow as they 
 are to-day. No one would form plans, or make engagements, or 
 provide in any way for the future ; all business would be at an 
 end, and universal confusion would follow. It always seems to 
 me one of the most astonishing things in human nature that, 
 with our great experience of change, we yet should have such 
 untiring faith in continuance. Sometimes,'— Bertha paused and 
 glanced at Rachel, doubting whether she might venture to carry 
 out her own thought ; then, as the eager, inquiring eye was beni 
 upon her with evident interest, she added, 'sometimes I think 
 that it must be a relic of the higher nature in which we were 
 lirst created, and in which there would have been, we may be- 
 lieve, no sudden change, but only a gradual transition from one 
 state of existence to another. If one may say it without irrever- 
 ence, it seems like all our deep instincts — such as the craving 
 lor perfection, and the inextinguishable love of life — to belong 
 properly to Him, who, as the Bible says, " is tlie same yesterday-, 
 to-day, and to-morrow." But, Rachel, 1 don't know why I should 
 talk in that way to you.' 
 
 ' I like it,' said Rachel, quickly — ' it is the way papa talks — 
 and it makes me feel as I do sometimes when I am left all alone, 
 and I stand still and think how wonderful it is to live.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Bertha, ' so wonderful, that if we believe in our 
 own existence, there is nothing else which need surprise us.' 
 
 Rachel put her hand to her forehead. ' It makes one dizzy,' 
 she said ; 'and do you know, Miss Campbell, all the thoughts 
 and the feelings come upon me, now and then, in such a strange 
 way, just as if they were the only things worth caring for, and 
 as if I could do nothing but sit in the middle of the world and 
 think.' 
 
 ' The feeling must be good and useful occasionally,' said 
 Bertha ; 'but, dear Rachel; you must not let yourself become a 
 dreamer.' 
 
 ' No' — Rachel's face grew sad. ' Papa says it is my tempta- 
 tion, and that I shall never conquer it, except by learning to live 
 out of myself, — living, as he calls it, in the life of others.' 
 
 ' Being unselfish. I am sure I think you are that ; ' and
 
 I70 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Bertha bent down and kissed the lovely little face, which was 
 gazing up at her with its marvellous expression of inward 
 thought. 
 
 Rachel blushed deeply, whilst a watery mist for the moment 
 dimmed the brightness of her deep blue eyes, 'Dear Miss 
 Campbell, I like you to say that ; but I ought not to like it, 
 because 1 am not unselfish ; but I do long to be so, more than 
 I can tell. Something which papa said, has helped me though 
 when I have been inclined to despair because the dreamy fits 
 have come upon me, and I have felt ns if I must give way to 
 them.' 
 
 ' Papa has helped you then, as he has me,' observed Bertha ; 
 ' he has given me a number of useful hints,' 
 
 ' He seems to understand so well,' replied Rachel. ' One day 
 when I was talking about persons' natural dispositions, and how 
 strange it was they were so different, he said to me, that if we 
 look into our own characters, we shall find that God has given us 
 all some quality to counterbalance our natural faults. A pas- 
 sionate person generally has energy, and an indolent person kind- 
 heartedness, and a selfish person perseverance. There is always 
 something, which, if we use it properly, will be a great assistance 
 to us. Of course he meant with God's help. And then he said 
 to me that my disposition led me to dream away my time, and to 
 think of puzzling questions, instead of being really good ; and 
 that if I gave way to it too much I should grow up to be selfish ; 
 but he said that I had something in me which would counteract 
 it, if I tried very hard and prayed very earnestly ; he called it 
 benevolence.' Rachel stopped, and a smile passed over her face 
 as she added, — ' That seems a grown-up virtue. I never can 
 fancy a benevolent child ; it seems so very droll.' 
 
 Bertha smiled too, as she exclaimed, ' Go on ; tell me what 
 else papa said.' 
 
 ' He explained what he meant afterwards,' continued Rachel. 
 ' He said that when people are benevolent they dislike to see 
 others suffer, and can't bear to give pain. It is not any good in 
 them exactly, they can't help it. And, Miss Campbell' — Rachel's 
 colour rose, and she rather hesitated — ' I think perhaps he may 
 be right ; for it does make me so exceedingly uncomfortable to 
 see other persons so. He told me then that I was to act upon 
 the feeling whenever I possibly could, and that it would help me 
 to keep myself what he called practical. And so I have tried to 
 do it ; but sometimes it is very difficult; only I think it is easier
 
 CLEVE HALL. 171 
 
 than it was. You know it is a good \\\\\vg to be told what one 
 ought to encourage most in one's self.' 
 
 * And did not papa tell you that benevolent people are very 
 often in danger of becoming weak ? ' said Bertha, following out 
 her own ideas, without considering what effect they might have 
 upon her little companion. 
 
 Rachel looked distressed. ' He did not tell me so : but is it 
 true ? must I be weak .?' 
 
 ' I don't say you must, but I know that a great many persons 
 who set up for being benevolent are very weak.' 
 
 ' Perhaps they are nothing else except benevolent,' observed 
 Rachel, after a moment's thought. * Papa declares that virtues, 
 vvhen they stand alone, become vices.' 
 
 ' Yes.' Bertha considered a little. ' That may be.' 
 
 ' It Avas rather difficult to understand it all, that day he talked,' 
 continued Rachel ; * but I think he said, that perfection— God's 
 perfection' — and her voice changed into awe — 'is because all 
 His great attributes (that is what I ought to say, isn't it ?) are 
 equal— equally balanced, papa called itj that He is not more 
 just than He is merciful, and not more merciful than He is just ; 
 and therefore we ought to try to be the same ; and when we 
 pride ourselves upon any one virtue above others, we may be 
 quite sure we are likely to go wrong. It made me rather unhappy 
 to hear him say so, because he spoke as if the very best people 
 must be so imperfect.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed they are,' said Bertha. 
 
 * I suppose they must be. But, dear Miss Campbell, it does 
 not seem so to me.' 
 
 ' You are so young, Rachel. But certainly you must take care 
 not to pride yourself upon benevolence.' 
 
 ' Else I shall become weak ; but you know there is my love of 
 standing still and thinking to check it. O Miss Campbell ! 
 doesn't it seem very hard sometimes, to think that we must go 
 on always in that way, first at one thing and then at the 
 other?' 
 
 ' Trying to make the scale equal,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' Yes. Do you know, papa says that when we have learned 
 to keep our faults under, our next work is to keep our virtues 
 even. And he told me that he had known some good persons 
 do such wrong things because they did not attend to this. One 
 very generous person would give away sums of money, and 
 never cared in the least for his own comfort ; but he did not
 
 172 CLEVE HALT., 
 
 check liimself properly, and at la^^t he had nothing left tn p.iy 
 his debts, and so was dreadfully unjust ; and another very just, 
 particular person was so careful not to owe anylhinj^, and so 
 determined to provide for everythinjj which mii^ht be a claim 
 upon him, that at last he would not give away at all. That was 
 the difference, papa told me, also, between large and narrow 
 minds. I didn't know what was meant by them before. He 
 said that if persons try to keep their virtues evenly balanced, 
 they have large minds ; but if they allow one to weigh down the 
 rest, then they have narrow minds.' 
 
 A large subject, and one which opened a wide field of thought 
 to Bertha Campbell. Rachel was unable to read her friend's 
 countenance ; she even doubted whether she had listened ; she 
 could not feel that she was interested. Reserve was creeping 
 over them. But the hall bell rang, and iNIr Lester and Edward 
 Vivian entered the room. 
 
 Rachel's greeting hid Bertha's start of surprise. She ran up 
 to Mr Vivian with the simple affection natural to her, and ex- 
 claimed : ' Oh ! is it you, sir "i and are you hurt .'" 
 
 ' Not hurt, my child ; how sihould I be ? I was in no danger ; 
 but' — and he turned to Bertha, and his manner became very 
 stiff and awkward — ' I hope Ella — Miss Vivian' he did not seem 
 to know what inquiry to make, and sat down in the nearest chair, 
 turning his head away from Bertha. 
 
 ' Rachel, my love, your bed is waiting for you,' said Mr 
 Lester. 
 
 Rachel knew quite well what that meant. Business was going 
 on which she was not to hear. But curiosity had been checked 
 in her from infancy ; and the instinct of refined feelings made her 
 at once ready to go without asking, as she might have done at 
 another time, to be allowed to learn more of the accident. 
 
 'Good night, dear Miss Campbell.' 
 
 Bertha's kiss was icy, so also was the touch of her fingers ; it 
 did not appear that she was quite conscious of Rachel's presence. 
 
 * Good night, little one,' said Mr Vivian. He laid his hands 
 upon her shoulders, and gazed at her intently. 
 
 ' I am so glad you were not hurt,' whispered Rachel ; and she 
 went up to her father, always under all circumstances the 
 claimant of her last words and thoughts. 
 
 ' God bless you, my precious child ?' 
 
 'Good night, darling papa ! You will come and see me the 
 last thing ;' and Rachel ran away, happy in the consciousness,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 173 
 
 that even if she should be asleep, a fond kiss and an earnest 
 prayer were in store for her again before the night should pass. 
 
 The door closed. Mr Lester placed himself between Bertha 
 and Mr Vivian. There was a painful, awkward silence. Then 
 Mr Lester asked a few questions about Ella. Bertha answered 
 in a tone of nervous confusion. After a few moments she said 
 that she must go. 
 
 ' Not just yet.' Mr Lester touched the arm of the chair to 
 prevent her from rising. ' Mrs Campbell will spare you a little 
 
 longer. There is, — we have' he broke off suddenly, and 
 
 glanced appealingly at ^Ir Vivian. 
 
 Bertha turned very pale ; her eyes moved uneasily from one 
 to the other. Mr Lester seemed about to speak again ; his lips 
 even framed the words ; yet he hesitated. 
 
 Bertha broke the spell ; and, gently pushing aside Mr Lester's 
 hand, rose, and approaching Mr Vivian, said, in a firm, calm 
 voice, ' Edward, you cannot deceive me.' The struggle was 
 over, and she sat down and burst into tears. 
 
 ' Leave her to me, Lester.' Mr Vivian knelt on one knee by 
 Bertha's chair, and holding her hand in his, said, ' Bertha, you 
 nre not grieved to see me.-* My Flora's sister; the adopted mother 
 of my children ! you don't think it wrong in me to be here ?' 
 
 Bertha's voice was choked, but she returned the kindly pres- 
 sure of his hand. He went on — 'You must not say I have 
 deceived you, Bertha, I have deceived no one. I acted upon 
 an impulse: the opportunity offered ; — I was unable to resist it. 
 I will be true ; I did not try to do so ; I was so wretched. 
 Lester did not know it ; no one knew it. I meant to have gone 
 to London. I could have hid myself there ; but it was accident 
 — Providence — which brought me here ; and I am going ; — 
 don't be frightened at what may seem my recklessness ; I am 
 not reckless now, I have learned prudence ; and I am going ; — 
 but I could not leave you in ignorance.' 
 
 ' Going again !' repeated Bertha, in a tone of bewilderment, 
 whilst her eyes were still fixed upon him, as if she scarcely be- 
 lieved in the reality of his appearance. 
 
 ' He is going, because it is best and wisest that he should, for 
 a time at least,' observed Mr Lester. ' But, dear Miss Camp- 
 bell, you must hear him tell his own tale. I will leave you, 
 unless you think it might be better to delay what must be said 
 until to-morrow.' 
 
 ' If you would tell mc what it all means,' said Bertha, her
 
 174 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 manner recovering itself, and returning to something of its 
 former composed self-restraint. * Edward, have you really done 
 wisely ?' Her tone was a little severe. 
 
 He answered quickly, — ' Not wisely in Lester's eyes, nor per- 
 haps in yours ; but wisely in my own. Bertha, you were a child 
 when we parted, yet I should have thought that events had 
 taught you to feel for me.' 
 
 Her lip quivered. ' Our love lies buried in the same grave. 
 Your children are as my children; your interests as my in- 
 terests.' 
 
 ' Then your feelings must be my feelings,' he exclaimed, with 
 impetuosity ; ' and from you at least I shall meet with sympathy. 
 Ten mournful years of solitude, Bertha, may and must be my 
 excuse.' 
 
 'Yes ; but if all is marred in consequence.' 
 
 * It shall not be. I put myself into your hands. I trust you 
 as' — his voice faltered — 'as my Flora's sister deserves to be 
 trusted. You and Lester shall decide for me. To-morrow I 
 leave this place ; I will hide myself in London, and appear again 
 only when I am summoned. Let me but have the blessing of 
 feeling that I am within reach of my children ; that I may, 
 though at a distance, watch over my boy. O Bertha ! is he 
 also to bring care upon us.-" 
 
 Bertha hesitated. 
 
 'Tell me truly. I would know the worst. Are my children 
 to bear the curse of their father's sins !' 
 
 * It is early to judge,' replied Bertha. ' Clement requires a 
 father's authority.' 
 
 'And he cannot have it ; he might have had it if his father 
 had not been the fool— the madman — he was. To be deceived, 
 entrapped, by that man !' He paced the room angrily. 
 
 ' You could not have been prepared for treachery/ replied 
 Bertha. 
 
 * I ought never to have given him power over me,' was the 
 reply. ' Yes ; I can trace it all now ; I have gone over the steps 
 again and again. It has been the occupation of my leisure for 
 years,' he added, with a bitter smile, ' When first I went abroad, 
 Bertha, I was innocent, innocent as the child who has just left 
 us — at least of every grave oftence ; my heart, my thoughts, 
 were all given to one object, — an earthly object, — and God took 
 it from me ; ' and his voice trembled : ' but 1 shrank from gam- 
 bling ; I abhorred low company ; my impulses were noble. I
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 I7S 
 
 might have been — O weakness ! weakness ! surely it is more 
 fatal than sin.' 
 
 ' The weakness which is conquered may become doubly 
 strength,' observed IMr Lester, gently. 
 
 'Yes, when it is ; but is it ever conquered? I feel it still in 
 myself. I struggle with it ; but too often I yield. I tremble to 
 think that it may be so with my boy.' 
 
 'Vivian, you must deal with yourself justly,' rephed Mr Lester. 
 * You have laboured and suffered patiently ; you have risen from 
 ruin which might have been the death of every better feeling. 
 Eighteen years of probation have made you, if not a good and 
 wise man, in your own eyes, at least one whom the world may 
 respect, and friends love, and whom — from my heart I believe 
 it — God will approve. It is vain, therefore, to look back upon 
 the past with self-reproach, which is unavailing. Rather rouse 
 your spirit for the future ; hope, and if you cannot hope, trust. 
 The God who has not deserted you will not forsake your 
 children.' 
 
 ' But to have brought evil upon them ! to have injured them ! 
 O Lester ! the long lingering train of sorrow which the fiery 
 comet of sin drags after it ! ' 
 
 * Even so, for us all,' replied Mr Lester. 'Yet there can be no 
 cause for despair, especially as regards Clement.' 
 
 ' But is there the power in him to improve ? that is what I 
 doubt, and dread.' 
 
 'Power lies with God, not with us,' replied Mr Lester. 
 
 ' Clement has great faults,' began Bertha. 
 
 'But he has very noble qualities,' interrupted Mr Lester. 
 
 Bertha looked annoyed. 'It is quite true,' she said, 'that 
 Clement has many points which would, in themselves, form a fine 
 character ; but he has one great foible,— I think his father was 
 always free from it, — he is vain.' 
 
 Mr Vivian showed by his face that he shrank from the 
 suggestion. ' Vanity ! ' he muttered, ' in a man ! — it must lower 
 him.' 
 
 'It must, and does lower everyone; does it not.'" inquired 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' But Clement has sense and conscientiousness,' observed Mr 
 Lester. ' He is a gentleman, too, with the refined feelings of a 
 gentleman, and a keen sense of the ridiculous. All these things 
 will be, humanly speaking, aids.' 
 
 'And I suppose we may believe,' continued Bertha, 'that his
 
 176 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 position, as comparatively poor and unknown, may have been 
 better for him tlian if he had been brought up as the heir of 
 Cleve. He at least has not been petted and spoiled by the flattery 
 of servants.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; yo j are very good, very kind. And Ella, too, is 
 she vain ? ' The question was asked with some bitterness. 
 
 * Not exactly. Not at all, I think ; at least ' Bertha looked 
 
 at Mr Lester for assistance. 
 
 ' We will talk over the children's faults to-morrow,' he said. 
 Miss Campbell will come to us in the morning.' 
 
 Bertha rose ; she seemed conscious that something of uncom- 
 fortable restraint had crept over them ; and remarked that it was 
 growing late, and they had talked of nothing definite.' 
 
 * Because there is little to be said as yet,' replied Mr Lester. 
 'Vivian leaves us to-morrow for London. That, at least, you 
 will consider a safe step.' 
 
 * Safe, if it is always so to act against inclination, as moralists 
 contend,' observed Mr Vivian, with an attempt at ease. ' Lester 
 has fears for me, Bertha, which I can't share.' 
 
 * Miss Campbell will understand them, I am sure,' observed 
 Mr Lester. ' She has as little faith in John Vivian as I have.' 
 
 'Less,' replied Bertha; 'for I have known him longer and 
 better ; but, Edward, you won't content yourself with remaining 
 in London.' 
 
 ' He will content himself with doing whatever we think best 
 for him, at the present,' said Mr Lester. ' In the meantime, Miss 
 Campbell, we must trust to you to find out, as soon as possible, 
 whether Ronald suspects our secret ; and if he does, to caution 
 him as to keeping it.' 
 
 ' Ronald ! impossible ! ' 
 
 ' Scarcely impossible, when a man betrays his own counsel. 
 Perhaps it was not to be expected that Vivian should be master 
 of himself at the moment he saved Ella,' 
 
 Bertha looked at her brother-in-law for explanation, 
 
 'It is very true,' he said ; 'I was thrown off my guard, and 
 forgot the young fellow was near. Whether he heard or not, 
 I can't say. He looked unconscious ; but I would not trust 
 him.' 
 
 ' Not trust Ronald ! ' exclaimed Bertha, quickly. ' Noble, 
 true-hearted, unselfish, he would sacrifice his life before he 
 Nvould betray you.' 
 
 ' Mr Vivian glanced at her in astonishment. Her manner
 
 CLEVE HALL. 177 
 
 was singularly unlike what it had been when she spoke of his 
 own children. 
 
 I\Ir Lesler read what was passing in his mind. 'Miss Camp- 
 bell has reason to trust Ronald,' he said ; ' she has kno\\ n him 
 from infancy.' 
 
 * Oh ! ' But the explanation did not seem thoroughly satis- 
 factory ; and Mr Vivian's manner was cold, as he added, — 
 ' Bertha must forgive me for distrusting the sou of my greatest 
 enemy.' 
 
 ' I know that every one must distrust him/ said Bertha. 
 
 'Everyone but myself,' observed Mr Lester. 'I had used 
 almost the same words as yourself, when speaking of him to 
 Vivian, a short time since. All that we have to fear is, that he 
 may incautiously reveal the truth before he knows that it may 
 do mischief. That is, always supposing he heard Vivian's ex- 
 clamation. You, perhaps, will find that out more easily than 
 any one.' 
 
 ' We are safe either way,' replied Bertha, still with the same 
 cold reserve of manner. ' Ronald knows enough of his father's 
 proceedings to be on his guard. If you have nothing else to 
 fear, Edward, I congratulate you.' 
 
 Mr Vivian's countenance was moody, and he made no reply. 
 
 Bertha gathered her shawl around her. ' My mother will be 
 surprised at my being out so late. What time shall I see you, 
 to-morrow, Edward?' 
 
 Mr Lester answered, — 'He will be here to breakfast. My 
 study will be at his service, and at yours, all the morning. In 
 the afternoon I will myself drive him into Cleve, and see him 
 fairly on his journey. Starting so late, he will not reach London 
 till the next day ; but that will be better than any very rapid move- 
 ment, which might excite observation.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Then to-morrow, Edward,' — she offered him her 
 hand, and he took it mechanically, but turned to Mr Lester — 
 
 ' Must I be denied the sight of my children } May I not say 
 one word to Clement ? ' 
 
 ' You can answer your own question, my dear Vivian. Do you 
 think it safe?' 
 
 ' Clement could not possibly be trusted to keep your counsel,' 
 observed Bertha. 
 
 Mr Vivian dropped her hand coldly, but something seemed to 
 reproach him for it, and he spoke kindly : * Good night, Bertha, 
 and a father's blessing for your care of his children.' 
 
 M
 
 178 CLEVK 1 1 ALL. 
 
 Bertha was touched and softened. ' Good night, Edward. If 
 I don't think your children perfect, it is not from any want of 
 love for them.' 
 
 She hurried from the room. IVIr Lester followed her. ' I must 
 walk with you across the garden, Miss Campbell;' and he 
 offered his arm, which she took silently. Mr Lester felt tliat she 
 trembled. ' This has been a most trying, exciting day,' he said. 
 ' I would, if I could, have spared you the discovery of to-night ; 
 but I doubted what to-morrow might bring, and feared that 
 Vivian might be obliged to go without seeing you.' 
 
 ' It was no discovery,' replied Bertha. * I was certain before, 
 — that is, nearly. O Mr Lester ! it seems such a dream ! ' 
 
 *Yes.' He seemed considering what to add. 
 
 ' He is not altered,' continued Bertha ; then, in a lower tone, 
 she added : * I had hoped he might be.' 
 
 * He is altered, I trust,' observed Mr Lester. ' He looks at 
 things very difterently from what he did.' 
 
 ' He cannot bear truth,' said Bertha. 
 'Not under some forms.' 
 
 * Not under any form, I fear,' continued Bertha : ' at least 
 when it is unpleasant. In that, Clement is so like him.' 
 
 They had reached the gate between the two gardens ; Bertha 
 was going to cross the little bridge, but Mr Lester stopped her. 
 ' May I give you one warning?' 
 
 ' As many as you will ; I am always grateful for therh from 
 you.' 
 
 ' It can never be right to say what we don't think ; but iS It 
 always necessary to say what we do ? ' 
 
 ' You mean about the children ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I fear you have pained him, and he is already suffering 
 greatly.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry ; I meant no harm. He must know it in time.' 
 
 ' In time, yes ; but not at this time ; or at least not without 
 some softening words.' 
 
 The change in Bertha's voice showed her vexation. *I am 
 always doing wrong,' she said ; 'how can I help it ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps, if you had put yourself in his place, you might have 
 understood.' 
 
 Silence followed till they reached the door of the Lodge. 
 Then as Bertha rang the bell, and wished Mr Lester good night, 
 she said : ' You may be right, but I cannot speak in a way 
 which I don't feeL'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MR LESTER returned to find his stud}' empty. Mr Vivian 
 was gone. That impulsive, irritable nature which had 
 led him into so much evil in earlier years, was, as Bertha had 
 said, in some measure, unchanged. Still, if thwarted, he was, for 
 a season, moody ; if forced to listen to unpleasing truths, he was 
 disheartened. The child was father of the man, and the faults 
 ^^•hich had grown up unchecked till he was four-and-t\vent\', 
 would yet too often be his tyrant at two-and-forty. He wandered 
 forth now, desolate and dispirited to a degree greater than even 
 his situation might occasion. He had gone to the Parsonage, 
 excited, sanguine, longing and hoping for sympathy; but he had 
 been disappointed. He felt as if he had been repelled, and by 
 one to whom he ought to have been especially dear. The sister 
 of her for whose sake he had .sacrificed home, fortune, all that 
 could render life precious. If Bertha had educated his children 
 to be what she was herself, there could be but little union be- 
 tween them ; and he might now be wearing away his life in a 
 distant land with as much prospect of happiness as he could 
 hope for in a restoration to his own country. 
 
 Very unreasonable, perhaps, such thoughts might seem at such 
 a time ; but whatever may be the romance, or poetry, or even 
 danger of our position, we are still, except at the very moment of 
 excitement, subject to the everyday impressions, which, for the 
 most part, make up our existence. 
 
 The prejudiced, unbalanced tone of Bertha's mind, which 
 stopped the current of her natural sympathies, had thrown her 
 brother-in-law from her at the very moment when it was most 
 necessary that he should be drawn towards her. 
 
 And Edward Vivian could not be what Mr Lester was — im- 
 partial. He knew little of Bertha's character, except from letters ; 
 and those had been generally kind, but formal. He did not 
 doubt her right principle, but he did her spirit of self-devotion ; 
 and with the impatience natural to him, which made him chafe 
 against every impediment to his wishes, he fancied that he was 
 about to place himself in the power of one who looked coldly 
 ujjon his interests, cared little for his children, and would allow 
 liim to linger week after week in exile, whilst waiting for the 
 opportunities which a hearty determination would at once have 
 fuund.
 
 I So CLEVE HALL. 
 
 It was a grievous injustice to Bertha, whose chief thought was 
 to see him restored to his inheritance, and her one object that 
 his children should be educated to be an honour and comfort to 
 him. But the thought and the object were the results of duty 
 rather than affection, and with this Mr Vivian's susceptible feel- 
 ings could not be satisfied. 
 
 He lingered on his way, for motion was soothing to his chafed 
 spirit ; and a thousand busy thoughts were passing through his 
 brain. Why should he have returned to England? Why strive 
 for that which, ever as he drew near, receded from his grasp ? 
 The hope of restoration, how bright and dazzling had it seemed 
 when viewed across the distance of the far ocean ? Now, in his 
 native village, within sight of his father's Hall, within reach of 
 his sister's voice, and the influence of his friend's counsel, it was 
 dwindling, fading, till nothing seemed left but solitude, comfort- 
 less and dreary ; with coldness where he had expected warmth, 
 prudence where he had looked for energy. 
 
 It might have been an unreasonable, an unthankful feeling, 
 that rose up in the heart of the weary exile, for, alas ! sorrow 
 tends to exaggerate our faults, as well as to strengthen our 
 virtues ; but it was Bertha's work — Bertha the unselfish, the 
 pure-minded, the devoted — her work, because she had never yet 
 learned to heal the wounds of truth by the oil of sympathy. 
 
 It was a beautiful starlight evening, and the moon, though not 
 full, gleamed clear in the cloudless heavens, and brought out 
 every near object distinctly. The path through the village was 
 the nearest to the farm, and Mr Vivian pursued it without 
 thought, or rather with that engrossing thought which blinds us 
 to the external world. He did not see the figure of a man stand- 
 ing below the porch of the first cottage which he passed ; neither 
 did he hear tli«e footsteps which slowly and cautiously followed 
 his. He went on, with his usual rapid, irregular pace, every now 
 and then pausing, as some fresh idea struck him, and occasion- 
 ally raising his arm high in the air, following out in action the 
 feelings either of hope or despair which were at the moment 
 paramount in his breast. The figure which followed him kept 
 at a certain distance, stopped when he stopped, advanced when 
 he advanced, still keeping in the shade, or, when obliged to 
 emerge into the light, hurrying on, and then delaying, evidently 
 with the wish not to approach too near. 
 
 The upper and open part of the village was passed, and they 
 entered the ravine. The shadows there were deeper, the light
 
 CLEVE HALL. i8i 
 
 planced through the foh'age of the trees more stealthily. Occa- 
 sionally the barking of a dog broke the stillness, but, for the most 
 part, all was silent save the quick, dashing murmur of the brook, 
 tossing its way over rocks and pebbles to the ocean, 
 
 Mr Vivian quickened his pace ; he seemed to feel the chilli- 
 ness of the evening air, and presently he stopped to button his 
 coat more closely around him. He was opposite to a cottage, 
 standing high upon the bank, the only one in which a light still 
 gleamed below. The door was open, and a man was standing 
 on the threshold, his form clearly defined by the brightness of 
 the light behind him. As Mr Vivian passed, a sharp, shrill, and 
 \ery peculiar whistle was heard. It must have been an instinct, 
 certainly it was not fear, which induced Mr Vivian to quicken 
 his step, keeping close against the garden-wall, so that he might 
 not be perceived. The figure behind also crept back farther 
 into the shade. Mr Vivian was out of sight ; the whistle was 
 heard again, and answered ; and Goff, the fisherman, stealing 
 rait of his cottage, met Ronald Vivian at the foot of the rough 
 llight of steps which gave admittance to the garden from the 
 road. 
 
 ' I saw you, youngster. Why didn't you answer ? I thought 
 you had given me the slip !' was the insolent greeting ; to which 
 Ronald replied by striding over the little stile, and leading the 
 way up to the cottage door, where he placed himself so as to 
 intercept the view of the road. 
 
 GolT followed impatiently. ' Twenty steps where one would 
 do !' he muttered to himself, and then added aloud, 'You've no 
 need to go so far to learn your duty.' 
 
 ' My father bade me come to hear the result of your inc^uiry,' 
 said Ronald, haughtily. ' He spoke mysteries, so do you ; but 
 I am used to them. Only let me hear what you would say 
 quickly.' 
 
 ' The Captain's been out all day, I suppose?' 
 
 * Yes, at Cleve, He has only just returned. If the inquiry 
 was not satisfactory, I was to say that he expected you to-night 
 at the Grange.' 
 
 'High and miglUy ! but he'll learn differently some dciy. 
 You passed no one on the road — eh, Ronald .'" 
 
 ' I came by the Ijack lane till I was in the village, and there I 
 saw a pedlar man at the door of a public-house. Is that part of 
 your mystery ?' 
 
 ' The parson went home an hour since,' said Goff, carelessly,
 
 iS2 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'and the man at the farm— Bruce they call him— with him. 
 lie 'd be back about this time. I Ve a notion he 's friends with 
 the Preventives ; so we 'd best not meet him.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; what message am I to take to my father ?' 
 
 Instead of answering, Goff went again down the flight of steps, 
 and looked up and down the road, ' I thought I heard a tramp; 
 and it 's time to be on our watch for those Preventive fellows.' 
 
 ' My father is gone to the Point, and he bade me follow him ; 
 . what message am I to take him.?' repeated Ronald. 
 
 ' Tell him I 've an inkling I was right as to the cargo, but the 
 craft was too far off to be searched. I may know more before 
 to-morrow. Your father is at the Point, you say ?' 
 
 ' He expects his vessel in,' replied Ronald. 
 
 'I doubt whether they'll try the landing to-night; the tide 
 doesn't serve.' 
 
 ' He will be back at the Grange soon, then,' said Ronald ; 
 * and is he to see you there ?' 
 
 ' Umph ! that's as may be. Say I 've business at home, both 
 for him and for me. If he doesn't hear to-night, he will in the 
 morning. And now, my young scamp, you may depart.' 
 
 He went down some of the steps, beckoning to Ronald to 
 follow. But one bound, as it seemed, had brought Ronald to 
 the stile. He vaulted across it, hallooed a hasty 'Good night' 
 to Goff, and ran with his full speed, taking short cuts and by- 
 paths, in the direction which Mr Vivian had pursued, whilst Goff 
 seated himself on the garden-wall, and occupied himself with a 
 pipe. 
 
 The end of the ravine was reached ; Mr Vivian was about to 
 emerge from it into the open space in front of the farm. The 
 night was so calm, the effect of his walk so soothing, that he was 
 doubtful whether to stop or proceed farther, and his step 
 lingered as he gazed upon the old building, standing gray and 
 ghost-like in the moonshine, and revolved in his mind the 
 changes and sorrows associated with it. 
 
 ' If Mr Vivian is Avise, he will rest when others rest,' was 
 uttered in a low, deep voice by some one at his side. He 
 started, scarcely conscious at the first moment that he had been 
 addressed by his true name; yet his hand grasped his stick 
 with the quick perception of possible danger, and he turned 
 sharply round with an indignant ejaculation. 
 
 'Those who betray their own secrets have no right to be 
 angry when they are reminded of it,' continued Ronald,
 
 CLEVE HALL, 183 
 
 ' Ronald Vivian I Speak plainly, young fellow. Let me hear 
 your object.' 
 
 ' That you should know I know you/ said Ronald, boldly. 
 ' We meet, then, upon equal ground.' 
 
 * John Vivian's son can never stand upon equal ground with 
 me,' was the reply. ' You have aided me in danger, and I thank 
 you for it, heartily. Name your recompense; you shall have it. 
 For my secret, do with it as you will; I am indifferent to it.' 
 Yet as he spoke, IMr Vivian's eye glanced quickly round, fearing 
 apparently that the boy's approach was to be followed by that 
 of others, whom he might have more cause to dread. 
 
 ' Thanks ! Recompense ! Mr Vivian, let me tell you ' 
 
 and Ronald drew nearer, and his voice was harsh and hesitating. 
 But suddenly it changed, as he muttered, ' Fool that I am ! to 
 think he would understand ! ' 
 
 'Say to your father if he has sent you'- began Mr 
 
 Vivian. 
 
 Ronald interrupted him. * I do not come from my father. I 
 have that to say which may be for your good ; but first we must 
 understand each other. Your thanks I do not desire them; your 
 reward I would not accept it, if it were the wealth of the Indies 
 you could offer me. Now, then, will you hear me ?' 
 
 * YeSj say what you will, but shortly.' 
 
 'And not here,' said Ronald. He threw back the wicket- 
 gate, entered the farm court, and tried the door into the garden, 
 which was bolted. 
 
 Mr Vivian touched his arm. ' If we are to speak upon private 
 matters, there is no place so secure as my own apartment.' 
 
 ' I am used to the free air,' replied Ronald. ' I can speak 
 better in it.' He drew back the bolt. ' Now, then, we are safe,' 
 and carefully refastening ti.e door again, on the inside, he turned 
 into the broad turf-walk which divided the garden into two equal 
 parts. 
 
 ' Your father has doubtless learned that I am here,' said Mr 
 Vivian. 
 
 ' I came on my own account ; my father' Ronald paused, 
 
 and then went on impetuously. 'You don't trust me. I am 
 used to that. God help me to bear it. Mr Vivian, you are my 
 father's enemy.' 
 
 ' Rather, your father is mine,' was the answer, uttered more 
 gently. 
 
 ' An enemy makes an enemy. You hate him ; justly, perhaps ;
 
 ]S4 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 yes, justly it must be. You think, too, that you have cause to 
 hate me also.' 
 
 ' Hate you, Ronald ! I owe my own life to you, and to-day 
 you have aided in savinjj my child.' 
 
 ' The new favour will not wipe out the old grudge,' replied 
 Ronald. ' Young though I am, I have seen too much of the world 
 to believe that. Safety, both for yourself and your daughter, 
 would have been more precious if purchased by any other 
 means. Nay, let nie speak,' he added, seeing that Mr Vivian 
 was about to interrupt him. * I have nothing to say upon that 
 subject. It is gone — forgotten. It is of yourself, Mr Vivian, 
 tliat I would have you think. You are my father's enemy, and 
 your secret is in my hands. Upon what terms think you it is to 
 be kept ! ' 
 
 ' Upstart ! insolent ! ' exclaimed Mr Vivian. ' Do you think 
 I fear your father ? ' 
 
 ' You have cause to do so,' was Ronald's calm reply. 
 
 ' Cause ! Yes, cause indeed ! ' And the tone was bitter in its 
 remorse. * I do fear him, but not as you think; not for the in- 
 jury he may have done me in former years, not for the evil he 
 7nay yet bring upon me in this world. I fear him as I fear the 
 spirit of evil ; the demon that tempts man to his eternal destruc- 
 tion. There is no bargain to be made with such fear.' 
 
 A look of agony passed over Ronald's face at the last words. 
 He pressed his hands tightly together, and when he spoke, his 
 tone was hollow, in the effort to repress his feelings : ' Yet the 
 question is unanswered. Upon what terms is the secret to be 
 kept?' 
 
 ' Upon no terms, sir ; let the whole world know it, and come 
 what may, I will abide it.' 
 
 'That may be a hasty word long to be repented,' replied 
 Ronald. 
 
 * Never to be repented. There must be war ; ay, for ever 
 between John Vivian and myself; between his children and my 
 children. Young fellow, you have your answer.' 
 
 ' I ha\'c not my answer,' replied Ronald. * Mr Vivian, you 
 think you arc speaking to a boy, and you are right. A boy I am 
 in years, but they have been years in which a man's experience 
 has been condensed. You cannot and shall not turn from me in 
 this wa}'. You shall listen as to a man, your equal, and you shall 
 grant me my demands as to one who holds your fate in his hands, 
 and will never be tempted to swerve from his resolve either by
 
 CLEVE HALL. 185 
 
 threat of punishment, or hope of reward. Once more, upon what 
 terms shall your secret be kept?' 
 
 He folded his arms, and leaned his back against a tree, and the 
 pale gleaming of the moon showed a face, anxious, haggard, ) cL 
 immovable. Mr Vivian was touched by its expression, whilst 
 his spirit revolted from the proud words which he had just hearci. 
 ' You are a strange fellow, Ronald,' he said, more lightly. 'Do 
 \ou think that a man who has reached my age, and has the hap- 
 piness of so many depending upon him, would have placed himself 
 in a situation, which a hasty word of his own, and the wilfulness 
 of a boy like yourself, might render really perilous? You delude 
 )ourself It has been my will, for j^urposes of my own, to remain 
 for a time concealed ; but the truth must, before long, come forth. 
 Your betrayal of it, or that of your father, can have but little 
 effect upon my fortunes.' 
 
 ' Trust to that hope if you will,' replied Ronald ; 'believe that 
 the man whom you injured in the point nearest to his heart will 
 suffer his revenge to die ; trust that he will allow you to return, 
 and rake up the ashes of past deeds, and search out the offences 
 which, it may be, are hidden amongst them ; but, remember, it 
 is at your own peril, against the warning of one who knows that 
 life and death are at this moment trembling in the balance of 
 your decision.' 
 
 Mr Vivian started. ' Ha ! Are you come to threaten me ? I 
 might have known the spirit of John Vivian hidden under the 
 form of his son.' And he laughed scornfully. 
 
 * I bear with your injustice — with your suspicions, Mr Vivian. 
 God knows, I feel too truly how they have been deserved. Doubt 
 me if you will, yet still listen to me. One word from me, and 
 the thought which is now but a slumbering ember will be kindled 
 into a flame, and the most hidden recesses of English ground 
 will not insure your safety.' 
 
 ' You want money, young man ; you shall have it, so far as my 
 poverty will admit ; but not to purchase secrecy and safety. 
 There is a God above, and He will protect me.' 
 
 'Money!' Ronald's deep voice sounded as the burst of 
 thunder on the clear air. ]]ut the check followed in a moment, 
 and the tones of a child could not have been more gentle than 
 his, as he added : 'Mr \'ivian, I want not money, h\\\. pardon.' 
 He covered his face with his hands, and a bitter groan burst from 
 him. Then, resuming his former attitude, and speaking almost 
 coldly, he continued : 'But for my aid y(ju might have perished
 
 1 86 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 in the storm, your child might have been dashed from the heighta 
 of the Croome. But for my secrecy now, danger, near and press- 
 ing, httlc though you may beUeve it, must haunt your steps. Is 
 it too much to ask forgiveness in return for hfe ? ' 
 
 * Forgiveness, Ronald ! you speak riddles ; you have never 
 offended me.' 
 
 ' ]\Iy father has. He has injured you. His injuries may, they 
 must, some day come to light : yes, and by my instrumentality;' 
 and again he hid his face and shuddered. ' Mr Vivian, when 
 that day shall come, will you not remember that Ronald was your 
 friend in the hour of peril ? — that for your sake he risked the 
 hastening of that fearful account which we are told we are all to 
 give before God ? ' 
 
 'Remember!' Mr Vivian grasped his hand. 'Ronald, so 
 surely will I remember your good deeds as I pray that God in 
 His mercy may forget my evil ones. But even yet I cannot see 
 your purpose.' 
 
 ' It may be a sad history, yet I will beg you to listen to it,' 
 replied Ronald. ' Mr Vivian, I have not now for the first time 
 learned that I was the son of a man whom the world terms re- 
 probate. I discovered it in my childhood, when I said my prayers 
 at my mother's knee, stealthily, because my father would inter- 
 rupt them ; I saw it in my mother's tears, when he left her to join 
 in riot and intemperance. I heard it from her own lips as she lay 
 on her death-bed, and charged me never to follow his evil courses, 
 and yet, if possible, never to forsake him. It was the one burn- 
 ing thought which made me what I have been, — reckless and 
 desperate. I was too young then to profit by counsel ; perhaps 
 even if I had been older, I should have been too weak, and I did 
 follow my father into scenes and society which I have since 
 learned to shrink from with horror. There I might have been 
 at this moment ; — God only knows why I am not there : but 
 through it all, even in my worst moments, the warnings of one 
 friend have recalled me to better things, reminding me of days 
 of innocence, carrying me back to my mother's death-bed. If 
 the past can ever be redeemed, it will be through the teaching of 
 my mother's only friend, Miss Campbell. I owe everything to 
 her, and I will repay the debt, cost what it may.' 
 
 'And Miss Campbell, then, has told you our family history?' 
 
 ' In part. She has put the possibility of benefiting you within 
 my reach, at the expense of my father's honour, and perhaps 
 safety.' He spoke with an accent of bitterness, and Mr Vivian
 
 CLEVE HALL. 187 
 
 said, hastily, ' Bertha Campbell has been inconsiderate ; she 
 never could expect such a sacrifice.' 
 
 ' jNIiss Campbell did not know what she exacted,' replied 
 Ronald. ' I did not know what I promised, until I thought over 
 my promise ; but if I had known I could not have drawn back. 
 Gratitude and honour must make me labour to discover the truth ; 
 justice would require me to make it known. I do not for a 
 moment blame Miss Campbell ; neither do I repent for myself. 
 I ask only that the good deed which I may be enabled to do for 
 you, may not be turned into the agony of remorse, by bringing 
 destruction upon my father.' 
 
 ' It could never be,' exclaimed Mr Vivian. ' I would rather 
 die myself, and see my children beggars, than I would urge you 
 to act against your father.' 
 
 'When I was told the history, the deed was done,' replied 
 Ronald, mournfully. ' I needed no urging then. I can never 
 rest till restitution has been made.' 
 
 'Leave it, leave it,' replied Mr Vivian, hastily; 'forget that 
 you have been asked. A son to turn against his father ! — im- 
 possible ! ' 
 
 ' And a family to be sacrificed, when one word might restore to 
 them a lost inheritance ! — equally impossible ! ' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Bertha Campbell has unintentionally deceived you, Ronald,' 
 said Mr Vivian. ' She has an idea that something which your 
 father said or did was the cause of my exile ; but she is mistaken. 
 The offences were my own ; they may have been exaggerated ; 
 my father's anger may have been increased by misrepresentation ; 
 but the main facts must have been true, and for them I only am 
 answerable. Are you not satisfied by my assurance .'" he added, 
 as Ronald continued silent. 
 
 Still there was a pause. Mr Vivian repeated the question. 
 
 Ronald seized his hand. *Mr Vivian, you are a man of honour ; 
 ask me no more questions. Only, if you value the life whicli 
 through my means was restored to you, promise me here, as in 
 the presence of God, that whatever may hereafter be discovered 
 and revealed by me, shall only so far be used as I shall permit, 
 and never be made known by you to any other person except by 
 my permission.' 
 
 ' I promise ; solemnly, faithfully.' 
 
 Ronald shook his hand eagerly. ' Honour for life ! Mr Vivian, 
 there is now no obligation ; I thank you from my heart.' His 
 tone was quite changed, it was almost hopeful.
 
 iSS CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Mr Vivian turned to go into the house. * If you are satisfied, 
 we must part now/ he said. 
 
 ' I am satisfied about myself, not about you. Mr Vivian, this 
 place is not safe for you ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to leave it.' 
 
 'When? Another day's delay may be of infinite import- 
 ance.' 
 
 * I go to-morrow to '• 
 
 * Do not tell me where. Let mc know nothing of you that I 
 can avoid. Whatever must be known, Miss Campbell will tell 
 me.' 
 
 ' I do not see the need of so much mystery,' exclaimed Mr 
 Vivian, rather haughtily, ' I fear no man.' 
 
 ' Yet there may not be, therefore, the less cause for fear. You 
 would be safe from my father ; you are not safe from the fellow 
 Goff.' 
 
 ' Rascal !— he is too contemptible to dread,' 
 
 ' Mr Lester will give you his opinion upon that point,' replied 
 Ronald. ' 1 cannot expect you to take mine. Ikit you are go- 
 ing, and that is all I ask.' 
 
 They walked a few paces together, without speaking ; but when 
 they reached the garden-door, Mr Vivian grasped Ronald's hand, 
 and said, in a voice hoarse with suppressed feeling, 'Ronald, you 
 are a noble fellow. Let my own boy be but like you, and I shall 
 be contented.' 
 
 He was detained. 
 
 ' Never ! never ! O God ! save him from it ! Innocence ! Mr 
 Vivian, the riches of the universe would I give for innocence!' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A BRIGHT fire was blazing on the hearth in Mildred Vivian's 
 ■^^ apartment, an old-fashioned Christmas fire, though it was 
 only the beginning of December, — logs of wood kindling and 
 inspiriting the coals ; and Mildred's sofa was drawn near it, and 
 her little work-table was placed by her side ; and, reclining in a 
 low and very luxurious chair on the other side, Ella was read- 
 ing to her aloud. They looked very comfortable, all the more 
 so because snow was falling, and the sky heavy with gray
 
 CLEVE HALL. 189 
 
 masses of clouds, which threatened to prevent anything hke 
 going out all day. 
 
 * Grandpapa has not been in this morning,' said Ella, as she 
 laid down the first volume of the book, and looked round the 
 room for the second. 
 
 'He is busy with the bailiff, I think,' said Mildred. 'There 
 are parish matters and magistrate's business to attend to. He 
 never leads an idle life 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' replied Ella ; 'it is strange, Aunt Mildred, isn't it, what 
 people find to interest them in life ? ' 
 
 ' Parish matters and magistrate's business being very unin- 
 teresting to you, I suppose,' said Mildred, laughing. 
 
 ' They are so low,' replied Ella. 
 
 ' I don't know what the world would do without them, though,' 
 said Mildred. ' And I really don't see why they are to be called 
 low.' 
 
 ' Oh, because they don't serve any purpose ; they don't exalt 
 one's mind. You know. Aunt Mildred, parish matters are always 
 about gruel and blankets ; and magistrate's matters about 
 poaching.' 
 
 ' All very necessary, Ella.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, necessary, but I hate necessities ; now don't you.' 
 
 * I can't say exactly that I do. I am afraid such a good-for- 
 nothing person as I am in the way of health, must always think 
 a good deal of them. But I do know what you mean, Ella, and 
 I feel with you in a certain way. One wouldn't like to live upon 
 necessaries.' 
 
 ' No ;' Ella's face brightened at being understood, — ' and that 
 is what some people do ; and what I dread doing, and. Aunt 
 Mildred, it is what I am sure I shall do, if I live at Encombe 
 much longer.' 
 
 ' Six months' trial is a very short one.' 
 
 ' Enough for me,' said Ella, yawning. ' If it weren't for coming 
 here, sometimes, I shouldn't have an idea left. But you do let 
 one rhapsodise a little.' 
 
 Mildred's face was rather grave. 
 
 * Now, Aunt Mildred, that is an expression I don't like,' con- 
 tinued Ella ; ' it always seems as if there was something hidden 
 behind it, and I choose to know all. Now confess, what were 
 you thinking of?' she added, playfully. 
 
 ' Merely whether rhapsodising, as you call it, was a good, or 
 a bad thing.'
 
 i90 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Oh, good : infinitely good ! It encourages enthusmsni, and 
 enthusiasm leads to heroism, and heroism to— why, all the noble 
 things which have been done in the world are owing to heroism.' 
 'Most true ; you had better write a book upon it some day.' 
 ' You are laughing at me ; but I don't see why you should,' 
 and Ella, rather petulantly, took up some work. 
 ' Not at all laughing, dear Ella ; quite the reverse.' 
 ' Then crying ; I would rather you should do that than laugh. 
 I hate ridicule ; it chills mc.' 
 
 ' Dear Ella, you know I never ridicule any one— intentionally, 
 that is. My words may certainly be twisted to a wrong mean- 
 ing.' 
 
 Then why did you say I had better write a book upon heroism ? 
 Of course that means, I had better not.' 
 
 'Of course it does. Perhaps I said it because I thought 
 persons never write well upon subjects which they don't under- 
 stand, and that no one can understand heroism who doesn't 
 practise it.' 
 
 'There is little enough opportunity for practising it at En- 
 combe,' observed Ella. 
 
 * One might think so at first sight, but you have had occasions 
 more frequently than most people.' 
 
 ' I don't quite see when. There have been no adventure?, 
 only the wreck, which I had nothing to do with, and the Croome ; 
 yes, that was terrible : ' and Ella became much graver in manner ; 
 ' but the heroism belonged to Ronald and Mr Bruce.' 
 
 ' I think you were something of a heroine, Ella. If you had 
 lost your presence of mind there would have been no hope.' 
 
 'One is inspired, I suppose, at such times,' said Ella. 'I 
 could never have supposed it possible to bear up as I did. But 
 to be a heroine for one day is nothing. What I wish is to be one 
 all my life, and in these times there is nothing to give one the 
 opportunity. Oh for the days of chivalry and the Crusaders ! ' 
 
 * When ladies lived shut up within walls, and occupied them- 
 Lelves in working tapestry with their maids, every now and then 
 reHeving their tediousaess by taking a stroll upon the battlements, 
 to see if their lords were coming.' 
 
 ' You are so absurd. Aunt Mildred. Whoever thinks of 
 beautiful ladies in the olden times taking a stroll 1 ' 
 
 ' But they did stroll, Ella, unless, as I suppose sometimes hap- 
 pened, they felt it good for their health to have a good, quick, 
 constitutional walk.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 191 
 
 'I can't talk to you/ said Ella; 'you always laugh about 
 knights and chivalry.' 
 
 ' Quite the reverse, dear Ella ; I have the greatest possible 
 admiration for them. All I ever regret is, that people should 
 spend their time in grasping at the shadow, and so lose the sub- 
 stance.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean by that,' said Ella. ' I never 
 could discover any knightly substance, as you call it, in these 
 days.' 
 
 * I should scarcely imagine you could,' replied Mildred, 
 quietly. 
 
 Ella looked up, a little piqued, and answered, ' But if there is 
 any, I don't see why I am to be more blind than the rest of the 
 world.' 
 
 * You are not more blind than most people,' replied Mildred. 
 * Half the persons you meet would tell you that they can discover 
 nothing but matter-of-factness in the nineteenth century.' 
 
 ' Please, Aunt Mildred, don't talk mysteries ; you can't think 
 how they tease me.' 
 
 'The meaning of my mysteries may not suit you, Ella,' said 
 Mildred, gravely. 
 
 * Perhaps so, but I should like to know it.' 
 
 * I think that what we are accustomed to call chivalry was an 
 earthly adaptation of the Christian spirit, suited to rude times 
 and men of half-cultivation,' said Mildred ; ' that, in fact, it was 
 a type of real chivalry.' 
 
 ' Then, what do you call real chivalry ?' asked Ella. 
 
 ' The spirit of self-devotion, self-denial, courage, endurance, 
 perseverance, not for the praise of men but the praise of God.' 
 
 Ella was silent. 
 
 ' That does not quite approve itself to your ideas, does it ? ' 
 said Mildred. 
 
 ' It is all very good,' replied Ella, 'but I don't see any chivalry 
 in it.' 
 
 ' No ; and you never will in your present state of mind. You 
 are a knight going unwillingly to the wars, and always sighing 
 tor the repose of his own halls and the gentle glance of his 
 ladye love.' 
 
 'That would never have been my case ! ' exclaimed Ella. ' I 
 could have fought, I know I could, like a lion.' 
 
 * O Ella ! I wish ycu could do so now.' Mildred's voice was 
 sad.
 
 192 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Dear Aunt Mildred, don't speak so ; I would think as you do 
 if I could.' 
 
 ' You can, Ella, if you will ; all of us can. The thoughts 
 would come if you would only act.' 
 
 * Action ; that is the difficulty ;' and Ella sighed. 
 'A knight to sigh and say action is the difficulty ! ' 
 Ella blushed. 'Aunt Mildred, I am not a knight.' 
 
 ' No, Ella ! A Christian knight you can't be, because — is it 
 very hard to say it ? — you live only for yourself.' 
 
 Ella's countenance betrayed a momentary annoyance, but she 
 recovered herself quickly, though her tone was still a little con- 
 strained, as she replied, ' You are rather severe in your con- 
 demnation, Aunt Mildred.' 
 
 ' More severe than is merited, am I ? But, will you set me 
 right then, and tell me whom you do live for, — Grandmamma ^ 
 Aunt Bertha ? Clement ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! for no one in particular ; who does ? I am very fond 
 of everybody, but I don't know what you mean by living for 
 them.' 
 
 ' But Ella, that will not do for chivalry. The knights of old 
 could never have fought as they did if they had not had some 
 special object.' 
 
 * But you say I am not a knight.' 
 
 ' We come round to the point from which we set off. I don't 
 think you have the spirit of a knight in you. I am sure, indeed, 
 you have not. No one who is self-indulgent can have,' added 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' You don't like my sitting in easy-chairs,' said Ella, half 
 raising herself. 
 
 ' I don't like it, because it puts your mind into an easy-chair 
 too,' replied Mildred. 
 
 ' No ; indeed I assure you I can think twenty times as well 
 when I am comfortable.' 
 
 * There is a difference between being comfortable and not 
 being uncomfortable,' said Mildred. ' People can't think when 
 they have the toothache, but there is a wide neutral ground 
 between that and positive luxury.' 
 
 ' One's imagination works so much better in the pleasant,, 
 dreamy state, which sofas and arm-chairs put one into,' said 
 Ella, throwing herself back and laughing. ' I do so wonder,. 
 Aunt Mildred, that you who are so fond of poetry can't under- 
 stand that.'
 
 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 193 
 
 * Perhaps I can and do understand it too well,' answered 
 Mildred, thoughtfully, 'But one thing, Ella, I am quite certain 
 of, that imagination and every other faculty will infallibly 
 degenerate if it is not kept alive by practice. If you can write 
 good poetry when you sit and dream all day in your arm-chair, 
 you will write much better if you rouse yourself and do a kind 
 act for a person in need. I believe myself, that one chief 
 reason why we so often see persons of great powers of imagina- 
 tion degenerating and writing things quite unworthy of their 
 first efforts, is that they think mental work everything, and so 
 neglect to recruit their poor minds by bracing practical duties. 
 PIven in an intellectual point of view, Ella, you sec, I object to 
 the arm-chair.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear ! so comfortable ;' and Ella sighed, and drew her 
 chair nearer to the fire. 
 
 ' It seems very unfitting for me to say it, I am afraid,' con- 
 tinued Mildred, ' when I lie on a sofa all day. But then, Ella, 
 against that perhaps I may put the pain which God has sent me. 
 I am never quite free from it. And in other ways I do try to 
 practise what I preach ; at least I hope so.' 
 
 'Yes, Aunt Mildred, who could think you self-indulgent?' 
 
 ' I was inclined to be so once,' she replied. ' When my dear 
 sister was living, she took so much from me in the way of duty, 
 that I often felt there was no occasion for exertion, and then I 
 gave way. But it has been different of late years, and I have 
 taught myself to open the windows of my mind, and let in the 
 fresh breezes from without, even though now and then they arc 
 a little chilling.' 
 
 Ella considered a little, still reclining at her ease. ' Then, 
 Aunt Mildred, what would you have me do ?' 
 
 'What would I not have you do? You like plain speaking, 
 you say. Nothing that you have done since you came here, at 
 least not in the same spirit.' 
 
 * I can't alter the spirit, — it is that which I am in always,' said 
 Ella, rather moodily. 
 
 * Yet it was to have been different after your fright upon the 
 Croome.' 
 
 * I thought so for a time, but it went off; that is always the 
 case with me, — I can't help changing.* 
 
 'Simply because you think and don't act,* replied Mildred. 
 * The notes which you sent mc the week after youjr adventure 
 were full of good resolutions.' 
 
 .N
 
 194 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 •Oh yes ; good resolutions; but what arc they worth ? I am 
 tired of them.' 
 
 * So am 1/ was Mildred's grave remark. 
 
 Ella rose from her seat, and as she knelt by Mildred's side, 
 said, ' Please not, Aunt Mildred : any tone but that.' 
 ' Do you deserve any other, Ella ?' 
 
 * No. I deserve nothinc,'', I am very unhappy,' and Ella burst 
 into tears. 
 
 * You were to have taught the children regularly,' continued 
 IVIildred, 'and you have neglected them just as you did before. 
 You were to have been thoughtful for your grandmamma, and 
 obedient to your Aunt Bertha, and there have been nothing but 
 complaints. I asked you to come here, and told you what I 
 wished you to do, and you promised what you have not in the 
 smallest degree attempted properly to perform. You are late at 
 breakfast always, although j^our grandpapa particularly wishes 
 you to be in time ; when he asks you to walk with him, you 
 move reluctantly ; when he desires )ou to play, you make ex- 
 cuses ; when he recommends you books to read, you waste 
 your time over poetry and novels. And all the while sighing 
 for heroism, and the days of chivalry. O Ella ! you would have 
 made but a poor knight.' 
 
 ' Aunt Mildred, yes ; if those days had been like these. But 
 they were different.' 
 
 ' No, Ella, they were the same, — formed for and by human 
 beings like ourselves, with the same foibles, the same passions 
 and temptations ; and what we are now that we should have 
 been then.' 
 
 ' Then I am a poor knight,' said Ella, faintly attempting to 
 smile, ' doomed to be always defeated.' 
 
 'And yet entrusted with the highest possible gifts ; talents far 
 
 above the average, a quiet home, leisure, friends' ■ 
 
 ' No, Aunt Mildred ; begging your pardon, that is just what I 
 have not ; a quiet home, and leisure, and friends. I am contin- 
 ually interrupted, and there is no one that I can talk to as I like.' 
 ' Ella, Ella ; if you have the smallest value for goodness or 
 happiness, be honest with yourself. You allow the interruptions, 
 and shut yourself up from your friends, and then turn your own 
 faults into excuses.' 
 
 ' Indeed ; it is true. I never can talk to Aunt Bertha. She 
 is very good, I know ; but — I must say it, if it is ever so wrong, 
 ^-she is intensely disngreeable.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 195 
 
 * So I suppose am I,' observed Mildred, gently. 
 
 * Oh no ; you know I love you dearly, and I would do any- 
 tliing in the world for you.' 
 
 * Except the trifles, I ask. You disobey me just as you do 
 Aunt Bertha.' 
 
 ' If you would ask me great things, I could do them. I would 
 cut olTmy hand to serve you.' 
 
 ' But you would not use it to copy a piece of music yester- 
 day,' 
 
 ' O Aunt Mildred ! I forgot.' 
 
 ' Dear Ella, if I could only once hear you say, — not I forgot, 
 — but I was wrong.' 
 
 ' I do say it very often,' replied Ella. 
 
 ' Yes, when the accusations are general, but never when they 
 are particular. This is the test of humility and sincerity, not to 
 say merely I have a bad temper, or I am indolent ; but I was 
 very passionate on such an occasion, and sat still when I ought 
 to have exerted myself on another. I fear, Ella, your repentance 
 is as vague as your resolution ; and we can only cure our faults 
 by knowing their details, and having rules by which to correct 
 them.' 
 
 ' Then mine will never be cured,' replied Ella ; ' for I hate 
 rules, they are so narrow-minded. Aunt Mildred, you must 
 allow that.' 
 
 * They may be narrow-minded. I don't see that they are so 
 necessarily,' replied Mildred. 
 
 'Well ! but — don't be angry with me, — Aunt Bertha is full of 
 rules. I am sure she never allows herself to eat, or drink, or 
 sleep, except by rule.' 
 
 ' Dearest Ella ; always alluding to Aunt Bertha, never think- 
 ing of yourself ! ' 
 
 ' I am a heathen compared with her, I know that, but I can't 
 help believing — I really don't mean to be conceited, and I would 
 not say it to any one but you, — I can't help fancying that I am 
 more agreeable.' 
 
 ' And you think the rules are the cause.' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. If one tries to throw one's self into her ways, 
 it is like being in a prison, and one is always running up against 
 the bars. You know you have scarcely seen her, so you can't 
 at all tell what she is like.' 
 
 ' She is coming to see me soon,' replied Mildred, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' I hope you will understand her better than I do ; but I don't
 
 196 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 tliink you will ; you are so unlike her. How she makes me hate 
 duty!' 
 
 'Well, then,' — I\Iildred's voice became graver, — 'what do you 
 say to love ? ' 
 
 ' Love of you ? It would make me work for ever.' 
 
 ' Only you can't copy music for me. Ah, EUn, you sec you 
 have been tried and failed. No, it is not my love which will 
 help you.' 
 
 ' I am not fit for any higher love,' said Ella, gravely. 
 
 ' Only that you cannot escape it,' said Mildred, earnestly ; 'the 
 love which upheld you when you stood on the brink of death, 
 which inspired you with presence of mind, which sent you 
 succour at the very moment of need. O Ella ! for the sake of 
 that dear love, will you not try to be really good ? ' 
 
 'Aunt Mildred, it is so terrible to say it : but I don't feel it.' 
 
 * I5ut, Ella, dearest, it is not a question of feeling ; you are the 
 child of God's love even when you turn away and forget Him. 
 And now He has recalled you to Himself; and has bestowed 
 upon you a great mercy, and only requires you to show your 
 thankfulness by attention to little duties. Can you have the 
 spirit of a Christian knight if you refuse ? ' 
 
 Ella looked distressed. 
 
 ' Please don't remind me of that,' she said. ' I know I never 
 could be a knight or anything else that is good for much.' 
 
 ' But, indeed, I must remind you of it, because, though you 
 tliink I laugh at you, I do really and truly feel that the long- 
 ings which you have so often, those poetical dreams of bygone 
 days, are really the indications of what you ought to be, and 
 may be if you will.' 
 
 ♦Not if I will' 
 
 ' Yes, most certainly if you will. It is only the will which you 
 want.' 
 
 'But I can't make myself will.' 
 
 ' But you can pray ; that is the beginning of willing, and 
 without it will is nothing.' 
 
 ' I have no perseverance ; I do everything by fits and starts,' 
 said Ella ; 'and when the mood is upon me I can't resist.' 
 
 'AH which shows that you have certainly, as regards good- 
 ness, a weak will. But against this you must put enthusiasm, 
 taste, quick pei'ception of all that is beautiful and noble ; the 
 advantages ought to balance the defects.' 
 
 ' I must be what I was made,' replied Ella.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 197 
 
 'No, dear EIL1, never, never !' exclaimed Mildred, eagerly. 
 *God gives us all the materials for the formation of character. 
 He leaves it to ourselves to decide into what form it shall be 
 moulded ; only He tells us that if we come to Him and ask His 
 aid. He will teach us how to form it to the greatest perfec- 
 tion.' 
 
 '■ I am sure I don't know what my materials are,' said Ella. 
 
 'Then, my dear child, it is high time you should know. It is 
 the root of all education whether of ourselves or others. Look 
 at yourself closely ; it will do you no harm. Search out all your 
 good points ; bring out all your natural advantages ; inquire at 
 the same time into your faults. When you have done this, you 
 will be able to understand what ought to be your course of self- 
 education.' 
 
 'It is a fearful task,' said Ella, wearily. 'Aunt Mildred, I 
 think you had much better do it for me.' 
 
 ' No one can do it thoroughly but yourself, Ella. It is very 
 well to be educated by others when we are children ; and it is 
 very necessary for those who wish to educate properly, to study 
 the characters which they have to form ; but when we have 
 passed the age of early childhood, no persons but ourselves can 
 really do much for us.' 
 
 ' I am sure no one ever studied me or understood mc,' said 
 Ella. 
 
 ' So much the more reason that you should understand your- 
 self. Only one caution I would give you. It is not wise to 
 attempt or wish to be anything but what God has marked out 
 for us. It is useless for a very imaginative person to endeavour 
 to become matter-of-fact ; and useless in the same way for a 
 very matter-of-fact person to try and be imaginative.' 
 
 ' Then you will leave me my imagination, and not call it a sin. 
 like Aunt Bertha?' said Ella. 
 
 'Leave it, and encourage it to the very utmost,' replied Mil- 
 dred ; 'only I would make it what it was intended to be, — a help 
 and not a hindrance. Our strongest characteristic, whatever it 
 may be (I am speaking of course only of that which is good), is 
 the grappling-iron by which we are first to seize on heaven. O 
 Ella ! if you long for beauty and perfection, and sigh because there 
 is no one to love with all your heart, why do you not turn to the 
 Source of all beauty, — the love which can never change?' 
 
 'Because I can"t,' replied Ella, candidly. 'Aunt Mildred, I 
 have had the same thing said to me again and again. Mr Lester
 
 198 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 has talked to nic. I have read it in sermons. I know it is all 
 true and good, but I can't feel it. I can't make myself love/ 
 
 * Dearest Ella, no. Love is a gift, — the highest gift of all, 
 But action will, through God's mercy, bring you to it.' 
 
 * And tiresome, troublesome rules, make me feel as if I ncvet 
 could love,' said Ella. ' They make me dread religion.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to deceive you, Ella. Religion, to a person 
 of your self-indulgent, imaginative temperament, must always, at 
 the beginning, be irksome. But the very excitability of your 
 disposition may be your help. You say you cannot feel love, 
 but that is not true at all times. You did feel it the other day 
 when you were saved from that horrible danger.' 
 
 'Yes, I couldn't help it;' and Ella's face showed a quick, 
 inward self-recollection, and self-reproach. 
 
 ' And you feel it when you read beautiful poetry, or hear of 
 noble deeds, — of heroism, chivalry, for instance.' 
 
 ' Yes, but that is only feeling.' 
 
 'Yet clench the feeling at once, whenever it comes, by some 
 action, however slight, and you will, unknown to yourself, have 
 made a step in advance towards rendering love permanent.' 
 
 ' Rules,' murmured Ella, ' I hate rules.' 
 
 ' And don't fetter yourself with rules,' replied Mildred. ' They 
 are not religion, only aids to it. They clog some minds, whilst 
 they strengthen others.' 
 
 ' But Aunt Bertha says people are worth nothing unless they 
 live according to rule,' said Ella. 
 
 ' She is right, no doubt, to a certain extent. You know I did 
 not say, don't attend to rules, but only don't fetter yourself with 
 them. A few rules, simple, easy, and capable of being stretched 
 if necessary, are quite sufficient, especially for you. For, Ella, 
 you will never be happy yourself, or assist in making others so, 
 until your rules are the result of your feeling of love, and not 
 merely of your sense of duty.' 
 
 ' But, Aunt Mildred,' — and Ella started up in astonishment, 
 — ' at home they are always preaching to me about duty.' 
 
 ' So would I preach, too, Ella, if I thought it would make you 
 do your duty. But, as I said before, we have certain materials 
 given us by God, out of which our religious character is to be 
 formed. With many minds, when the temperament is calm, and 
 there is an instinctive love of order and method, the idea of duty 
 is infinitely powerful. It will never, indeed, by itself, produce a 
 very earnest, religious feeling ; but it will put us in the way which
 
 CLEVE HALL. 199 
 
 leads to it. But it is not so with all. There are those to whom 
 the very name of duty sounds cold and repulsive. Those are the 
 minds which take the highest flight and sink to the lowest depth. 
 EILt, will yours be amongst them?' 
 
 Tears glistened in Ella's eyes, 'Aunt Mildred, if you would 
 cnly tell me what to do ? Even now I don't see.' 
 
 ' Pray, dear Ella, first ; without that, nothing can succeed.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ; but in other ways.' 
 
 * You would not be obliged to inquire, if you could remember 
 that your life has a second time been given you ; and that He 
 who restored it, asks for your love in return.' 
 
 'Aunt Mildred, I do wish to please Him.' Ella's tone was 
 humble and more gentle. 
 
 * And the wish is not lost, dear Ella. Every wish, the very 
 least, is i-emembered by Him. If it is followed by an action, it 
 is accepted.' 
 
 Ella stood up, and pushed the easy-chair aside. ' Aunt 
 Mildred, I will copy the music for you at once.' 
 
 Mildred smiled. ' And, Ella, may I suggest one little rule ? — 
 that the easy-chair should never be used till evening, and not 
 then unless you are really tired.' 
 
 It was a very trifling ending to a long conversation ; yet Ella 
 was neither moody nor indolent for the remainder of that day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MR VIVIAN had taken up his abode in an obscure lodging, 
 in one of the tall, decayed, mournful streets of departed 
 grandeur, to be found in the north-west region of London. His 
 shabbily-furnished apartment was large, and had once been 
 handsome, and still retained indications of ornament in the out- 
 line of a heavy cornice, and the stuccoed richness of an old- 
 fashioned ceiling. A few books were on the table, with a 
 v/riting-desk and papers ; and a fire blazed in the huge grate, 
 shadowed by a high mantelpiece, which was supported by 
 Medusa heads. There was an attempt at comfort in the room 
 — but only an attempt ; it wanted a lady's hand to arrange the 
 furniture, and the niceties of a lady's taste to give it in the least 
 an air of home ; and Mr Vivian, used though he had been to
 
 200 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 years of solitude, sighed, perhaps, with the recollection of tlie 
 days when even an humble dwelling had been rendered cheerful 
 and inviting, by the affectionate care which had adorned it. 
 
 Neither was the scene without more cheering ; a yellow 
 London fog, streets covered \\\\.\\ mud, black chimneys, smoke- 
 stained brick walls ; no wonder that Mr Vivian turned with dis- 
 gust from the window, and sitting down to his desk, endeavoured 
 to while awiiy the weary hours by writing. 
 
 His letter was the outpouring of a burdened and not entirely 
 chastened mind. He was an altered man, humble-minded, 
 heartily religious, but he was himself still ; and often, as his 
 pen was moving rapidly, he paused to consider, whether tlie 
 impulse which urged him was one to which it was safe to yield, 
 or whether it was but the indulgence of that craving for sympathy 
 which had often in other days led to weakness. 
 
 ' My dear Lester, — I wrote to you three days ago, and why, 
 you will say, should I write again? Because I am lonely and 
 dispirited, and have nothing else to do. A sufficient answer for 
 my conscience, though not perhaps for your patience. London 
 is very dreary, my life here most wearisome. I try to bear it, as 
 you say I ought, and I fail. Moreover, I cannot see the reason 
 for delay. Hope grows less. The children, you tell me, are 
 scarcely ever with their grandfather ; nothing, then, can be done 
 through their means. You and Bertha may want to open my 
 way more clearly, but you have undertaken a task beyond your 
 powers. John Vivian is far too experienced a rogue to betray 
 himself. Let me go to my father, cast all upon the die, and, if 
 rejection is my answer, I will submit ; leave England, take my 
 children with me, if not to Jamaica, to some other home, and 
 forget that I ever indulged the vain hope which has already 
 brought me so much sorrow. 
 
 ' Any certainty is better than this killing suspense. I am not 
 strong enough to bear it — morally strong — I feel it does me in- 
 jury. I am becoming captious and impatient. Your letters are 
 the only things I can bear. Bertha's try me beyond endurance. 
 She is always telling me of my children's faults, — that Ella is 
 wilful, and Clement desultory, — and dinning it into my ears, 
 that it is the uncertainty of their present life which is so bad for 
 them. 
 
 ' I know it as she knows it ; and better, ten thousand times 
 better. It has been the remorseful lesson of my life, that I have
 
 CLEVE HALL. 201 
 
 injured them. V\'hy does she add bitterness to a saddened 
 spirit ? 
 
 ' But I am unjust to her, I feel. She has done for my children 
 more than I could have asked ; she loves them, I fully believe, 
 sincerely, if not tenderly. I have no right to requii-e more ; and 
 yet when her letters come they dishearten me to such a degree, 
 that again the impulse seizes me to throw off disguise, once more 
 appear at Encombe, and take the decision of my cause into my 
 own hands. 
 
 'Preach to me, my dear Lester ; I need it sadly ; my mind is 
 terribly undisciplined, and I can so little bear with myself. You 
 told me to accept my life as my punishment. It is the only way 
 in which I could endure it. But there are times — they come 
 more frequently now in solitude and leisure — when the spirit 
 of submission seems to forsake me, and when the thought of 
 having brought the suffering upon myself, by my own wil- 
 fulness, my own folly — worse than folly — my sin, is almost 
 maddening. 
 
 * Men talk of repentance as if the past might be wiped out by 
 tears, and no scar left to mark where the evil has been. Lester, 
 I have shed tears of agony. My first thought in the morning 
 has been sorrow, my last consciousness at night has been of 
 penitence, and in the silence of midnight I have risen to pray 
 that God would think upon me in His Mercy, and " remember 
 not the sins and offences of my youth." And I beheve that I 
 am forgiven. I can look forward to death with an humble hope 
 of acceptance, through undeserved Goodness, and the Atone- 
 ment once made for all ; and yet the stain is there — indelible to 
 my own eyes — though it may be unseen by man, and in mercy 
 forgotten by God. 
 
 ' Repentance does not place us, in this world, in the position in 
 which we should have beenif wehad never sinned. The mark once 
 set upon uSj it is ineft'aceable. The wound once given, and it must 
 and will at times reopen. Oh ! if I could make Clement feel it ! 
 — now, whilst he is comparatively innocent, whilst his offences 
 are the opening faults of a boy, not the full-grown wickedness of 
 a man. And yet many would scoff at mc for saying this ; they 
 would tell me that my mind is morbid; that whatever my youth 
 may have been, I have redeemed it by the years which followed. 
 Alas ! my early life lingered far longer under the dominion of evil 
 than those who have only watched its outward course would 
 imagine. When I left luigland to work in a foreign land, I was
 
 202 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 not penitent, but exasperated. Irritation and repining darkened 
 not only my own existence, but that of her who had sacrificed all 
 for me. The thought is as a dagger to me. Not till she was 
 taken from me, and the past, as regarded her, had become irre- 
 mediable, did I fully see what my course had been. And then — 
 I have heard it said that the knowledge of evil is necessary, that 
 it is experience, and consequently, power — O Lester! how little 
 can such persons imagine the agony of those moments when 
 first the heart is awakened to the knowledge of its guilt ; the 
 sickening glance cast upon the past, the despairing darkness of 
 the future, and the longing, the intense longing, to hide one's self 
 deep from all eyes, even, were it possible, from the Eye of God. 
 Those feelings are not strength, but weakness ; they make the 
 eye dim, and the hand weak. Even when the offer of mercy 
 comes to sooth us, their remembrance still haunts us; and when 
 we should be pressing forward to the brightness of heaven, they 
 bid us turn back to gaze again upon the blackness of our own 
 hearts, and once more seek to wipe out our offences with our 
 tears. 
 
 ' I need not say this to you. You know it all ; not by your 
 own experience. God be thanked, your career has been very 
 different from mine ; but by the griefs of others. Yet it is a 
 relief to me. There is comfort in working out in my own mind 
 why, though I have attained to peace, I have never yet reached 
 forward to joy. It may come — you will perhaps tell me that it 
 must come — with the increasing sense of God's infinite love ; 
 but I doubt it. The more deeply we love, the more keen must 
 be the grief for having offended. Joy is for those who have from 
 the beginning held on their course unwaveringly. Peace and 
 hope are, I believe, the highest boon granted in this world to 
 those who have sinned grievously and repented truly. But no 
 more of this — it is but another form of self-indulgence. I must 
 learn to live to myself and by myself, not disturbing the hap- 
 piness of those who have never wandered by the cloud which it 
 seems, now, must for ever rest upon my own spirit. For my 
 children's sake, I would especially strive to do so : — the open 
 brow, and the glad smile, must be for them and for the world ; 
 the sackcloth, and ashes, and the tears of humiliation for the Eye 
 of God. Yet to you I Avould say that even when I am most ap- 
 parently repining at the punishment which I have brought upon 
 myself, — I could accept my grief, ay, were it a hundred times 
 greater, and from the bottom of my heart thank God for it, if by
 
 CLEVE HALL. 203 
 
 it I were enabled successfully to warn Clement against the fatal 
 yielding to small temptations, which ruined my own character as 
 a boy, and then sent me, stamped with the disheartening brand 
 of weakness, to encounter the temptation of a man. Victory at 
 fourteen would have been victory at four-and-twenty. Victory 
 at four-and-twenty would, through God's mercy, have been safety 
 for life and for eternity. Tell it him, Lester, as you love me, as 
 you would save yourself, in the Great Day of account, from the 
 reproach of having failed to warn when the opportunity was placed 
 within your reach. 
 
 ' And now, farewell ! I began my letter with impatient com- 
 plaints, I end it with the confessions of repentance. A true 
 epitome of my whole life ; yet so far what I said at first was not 
 mere impatience, that I do not see we are progressing, and time 
 is passing on, and if I cannot remain in England I must prepare 
 for establishing a home elsewhere. Bertha's complaints of Ella 
 make me uneasy, and Clement too cannot be left to his present 
 course of life. Something must be done for both. I feel repug- 
 nant to allowing Clement to accept as a favour from my father, 
 what even now I cannot help feeling ought to be his as a right. 
 Even if I am cut off for my offences, there would seem to be but 
 little justice in punishing my child. 
 
 ' I sometimes think that a situation in a merchant's office — 
 and I have interest enough to procure him that — might be more 
 honourable for him, and, in a worldly point of view, more advan- 
 tageous than the University. At any rate I must have him under 
 my own eye. The little I saw and heard at Encombe made me 
 feel that direct authority is imperatively necessary for him. 
 
 ' Some things about him I can so well understand; they are so 
 sadly like what I was at his age ! Write to me soon, and give 
 me some definite views, or I shall relapse into despair. 
 
 ' Always most affectionately 
 
 ' and gratefully yours, 
 
 ' G. B. V. 
 
 * Don't think I am expecting to hear of success as regards John 
 Vivian and his plots. I scarcely think about them. They are 
 so vague, and so far in the past. I feel that whatever they were 
 they have done me all the harm they could, and that the discovery 
 of them could not profit me.' 
 
 Mr Lester's answer was received in the course of the same 
 week.
 
 204 CLEVE HALI^ 
 
 ' My dear Vivian, — You write mc volumes. I hope you don't 
 expect volumes in answer. Yet I shall have a good deal to 
 say before I have done. First to business. You can do nothing 
 better than preach patience to yourself, and by the time the 
 lesson is learned we may look forward to a little hope. I think 
 I see some already. Ella is at the Hall, — the first opening that 
 is for awakening interest ; and wliatcvcr may be the end of our 
 researches into John Vivian's doings, we shall have good cause 
 for bright anticipations if we can once induce the General to look 
 favourably upon the children. Mrs Campbell's step in bringing 
 them to Encombc was dangerous, but she has plenty of worldly 
 wisdom. I don't think Clement as yet likely to win his way to 
 his grandfathei-'s heart. With a great deal of good about him, 
 he is too careless and self-sufficient ; but I have some hope of 
 Ella under Mildred's influence. So still patience, my dear 
 Vivian — patience with mc if you can, and patience with your 
 sister-in-law, even if you cannot. I assure you she deserves it 
 much more than you would think. A peep into the home at the 
 Lodge would convince you of this; and you must remember that 
 she has been trained up in a school which gives her a quick eye 
 for defects and a slow one for virtues. 
 
 ' There are two theories of education — one which checks 
 faults, the other which encourages virtues. I lean to the latter ; 
 but then I am a man, and don't pretend to know much about the 
 education of any of womankind, except my little Rachel. 
 
 'AH my hopes rest upon Mildred. When I speak of her I 
 am raising up the whole question. Why may you not tell her 
 where you are ? The answer is soon given — she knows it. 
 Don't quarrel with me for acting upon my own responsibility. 
 Your last letter made me unhappy. I felt that she could com- 
 fort you much better than I could, and, moreover, I was certain 
 that you would not bear the concealment much longer. Miss 
 Campbell and I took counsel together, and yesterday evening I 
 told her. 
 
 ' Perhaps I ought to say, too, that I found myself getting into 
 a difficulty. Mildred had been complaining of your only writ- 
 ing short notes through me. As a proof that I am not given to 
 plots and deceptions, it never struck me till the other day that 
 we could not go on very long keeping up this kind of mock 
 correspondence. 
 
 ' Of course she was considerably startled, and for a few 
 moments I was rather frightened at the effect the news had
 
 CLEVE HALL. 205 
 
 upon her ; but she soon recovered herself. I think too, that, at 
 first, she was much annoyed at not having been told before. 
 But she is always most good and reasonable, and I made her 
 see how impossible it was for you to meet, and, therefore, that 
 it was much better she should know nothing about it. She feels 
 with me that we must not hurry matters ; but she will write and 
 give you her own ideas. The fact of your being in England is 
 an immense relief to her in one way — it makes it possible to see 
 you ; but, as is natural enough, she is full of anxieties. The 
 nece.ssity of keeping up before the General w^ill be very trying to 
 her ; but Ella may be a great help by diverting her attention. 
 
 ' I am inclined to be vexed that we did not tell her before, 
 now I see how well she bears it ; but I was afraid of the sur- 
 prise for her, and certainly we have spared her a good deal in 
 that way. 
 
 ' This, I trust, will be one great load off your mind. For the 
 rest I would say — remember that you came un'.iummoncd, and 
 have, therefore, no right to complain that we are not ready for 
 you. By your own acknowledgment you have still, humanly 
 speaking, some months before you. Give us time, and if at last 
 we can do nothing for you, you can but come forward yourself, 
 and, whatever may be the result, at least you will not have to 
 sny that you have again marred your own fortunes by impatience. 
 
 'John Vivian is going on much as usual. He looks askance 
 at me, knowing I zxw your friend and have an interest in Ronald ; 
 so we seldom exchange more than a few words. It makes me 
 often unhappy ; but I feel that a day must, in all probability, 
 come when he will be forced to hear me. Ronald is at home 
 still. Miss Campbell and I had planned getting him into the 
 merchant service, but it made the father so outrageous that we 
 did not dare press the point. All I can do now is to urge him 
 to educate himself as well as he can, in preparation for whatever 
 may open. He has taken my suggestion, and works at Latin 
 and mathematics as heartily, though perhaps not as willingly, as 
 he shoots, fishes, climbs the hills, or manages a boat in a storm. 
 A most noble fellov/ he is ! but there is a cloud over him, and 
 sometimes I am afraid of its effect. I can't help feeling sorry 
 that Bertha ever told him his father's history. He feels now, I 
 can see, that he is the born enemy of all your family, and shrinks 
 from receiving kindness. That is part of his mother's sensitive 
 nature, which he inherits strongly. He is scarcely at all with 
 Clement now. When he once knew that we disapproved of the
 
 2o6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 intimacy, he was the first to break it off. I suspect he has suf- 
 fered a good deal in consequence. Miss Campbell, who manages 
 to know more of him than any one else, tells me that he often 
 hints at a state of affairs with his father which must be terrific. 
 John Vivian is a madman when aroused. 
 
 'As regards Clement (I believe I am a moral coward, for I 
 have kept the most difficult subject to the last), I confess I am 
 not thoroughly comfortable. Encombe is not the right place for 
 him, but where else to send him is a problem I can't quite solve. 
 I don't at all like the notion of a merchant's office ; his fastidious 
 pride would revolt from it, and I suspect it would render him 
 very bitter. The University would do well, if we could make 
 him work, and turn him into a barrister ; but I don't sec, at 
 present, any inclination for excition of that kind. He makes me 
 at times very anxious. I hoped, when withdrawn from the 
 temptation of Ronald's companionship, that he would make him- 
 self happy at home ; but this is not the case. In some way or 
 other, there has sprung up a kind of rivalry with Ronald, whose 
 energy and independence, and even recklessness, are just now 
 the objects of Clement's envy and imitation. He hears them 
 exaggerated and admired by the villagers and fishermen, and so 
 he must needs endeavour to copy them ; not seeing that his ad- 
 vantages are of a totally different character. I keep as strict a 
 watch over him as possible, but I can't neglect my parish, and I 
 must leave him some degree of freedom, or I should drive him 
 into deceit. In a certain way he gives me his confidence, but it 
 is principally confined to generalities, and I see vanity creeping 
 out even in his fits of good intention. Then his disobediences, 
 which are the chief topics of complaint on my side, are but small; 
 and to be always harping upon what seems to him trifling faults 
 frets his temper, and sometimes, I fancy, makes him worse, in- 
 stead of better. I should care less, but that I feel there may be 
 some hidden mischief at work. John Vivian and Goff are con- 
 tinually putting themselves in his way, and tempting him to be 
 with them. I have, of course, strictly forbidden the intercourse ; 
 but the law I have laid down is perpetually broken upon slight 
 pretences, and, in some instances, the fault can scarcely be said 
 to lie with Clement. They haunt and persecute him till it would 
 require a firmness much beyond what we can expect in him to 
 resist ; and then, as I said before, comes the spirit of rivalry and 
 envy of Ronald to aid the temptation, — and so he falls. 
 
 * This must not continue, or it will be his ruin, and the de-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 207 
 
 struction of all our hopes. The General already believes that 
 Clement has a taste for low company, because he has seen him 
 talking to Captain Vivian and Goff, and heard him use slang 
 expressions. Nothing can be more false than such an impres- 
 sion. Place Clement in his right position at Clevc, and give 
 him companions of his own age, who would raise his tone, in- 
 stead of lowering it, and his natural cultivation of mind and 
 honourable feeling would, at least, prevent him from sinking, 
 till he had attained that higher principle which alone will give 
 him stability. 
 
 ' Certainly, the analogy of life teaches one more and more the 
 infinite wisdom of God's providence in giving us our position as 
 Christians, and bidding us keep it, instead of leaving us in our 
 natural state of degradation, and then telling us to work, even 
 with His aid, to raise ourselves. Clement's mind is just one of 
 those which can retain, but cannot reach forward ; and the un- 
 certainty of his position is his stumbling-block. An additional 
 reason, my dear Vivian, for hastening the moment of decision. 
 Trust me, it shall not be delayed a moment longer than is abso- 
 lutely necessary. I have dark suspicions sometimes of John 
 Vivian's falsity ; but the more dark the less to be brought forward 
 without substantial proof. 
 
 'I have talked to your friend the sexton lately, and led him to 
 repeat to me again all which passed on that eventful day of your 
 cousin's visit to the Hall. He dwelt more than ever upon the 
 strangeness of Goff's manner, and his certainty that some villany 
 was pending. Could it have been forgery ? I believe either, or 
 both of them, capable of any amount of inic|uity. John Vivian 
 left England immediately afterwards. He has only returned to 
 Encombe within the last five yeai's, and that not till Goff had 
 pioneered the way for him. I could never understand what 
 became of them both in the interim. 
 
 'I have pondered much, lately, upon the consequences of 
 opening the inquiry with the General. A year ago I should 
 have hesitated less, but he has broken very much latterly, and 
 I tremble to think what excitement would do. Then there must 
 be a trial,— public exposure, — all the old griefs brought up. No 
 one can say how I dread it. 
 
 ' If you can think of anything which will remove Clement 
 from Encombe, please let me know. A private tutor at a dis- 
 tance might be the right thing, but then — the money ! You 
 must not let your pride stand in the way of your boy's good. I
 
 2oS CLEVE HALL. 
 
 should not myself at all mind sounding the General on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 'Good-bye, my dear Vivian ! from my heart I feci for you. 
 You must require this assurance when I write so calmly upon 
 questions in which all the happiness of your life is at stake ; still 
 more when I take so little notice of the burden of your letter. 
 But I have said before all that can be said, at least by me, on 
 that point. Repentance, as you say, cannot place a man in this 
 world in the position in which he would have been, if he had 
 never erred ; but it may deepen his love, and quicken his grati- 
 tude ; and I don't think that feeling can ever be sound which 
 would make us so mourn over the past^ as to fender us insensible 
 to the blessings of the present and the hopes of the future. 
 
 'This, I think, is the tendency of your mind. ]\Iay there not 
 also be something of repining in the spirit which, instead of being 
 thankful for peace, is inclined to despair because it cannot attain 
 to joy ? I am lecturing myself at the same time that I seem to be 
 warning you. He is indeed happy, who has not some sin upon 
 his conscience, which, though it may not have brought disgrace 
 upon him in the sight of men, has lowered him in his own eyes, 
 and still haunts his memory, — as the one black spot which, in 
 moments of weak faith, it would seem could never be effaced. 
 
 ' God give us strength to bear the sight of our own hearts, and 
 still to trust in His mercy. 
 
 * You shall hear from me again soon. 
 
 'Always most affectionately yours, 
 
 ' Robert Lester.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MR LESTER was at the Hall the day after the preceding 
 letter had been sent. The day was bright, for snow had 
 fallen in the night, and Clement, taking advantage of an exhil- 
 arating frost, had called to take Ella for a long walk. Mr Lester, 
 therefore, found Mildred alone, busy as usual, and very cheerful ; 
 yet with the worn lines of thought particularly marked. She 
 received him nervously, as if expecting he must bring fresh tid- 
 ings to startle her, but she tried to be calm, and her first remark 
 was a slight reproach that he had not seen her father the previous 
 day. ' He heard you were her? the evening before,' she said,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 209 
 
 'and he declares that you will never come to him, but that all 
 your visits are to me.' 
 
 ' I hoped General Vivian was getting better/ was Mr Lester's 
 reply; 'they told me he was down-stairs again, and had been 
 out in the garden,' 
 
 ' He is better ; yes, I think so,' said Mildred, with an air of 
 consideration, 'but he is more feeble than he was, and his spirits 
 are not good.' 
 
 ' Is it illness, only, do you think ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; it is very difficult to tell anything about him. 
 O ]\Ir Lester ! why are some natures so unapproachable ?' 
 
 ' To teach others patience and submission, we may suppose. 
 But, Mildred, this state of things can't go on much longer.' 
 
 ' No,' exclaimed Mildred, ' for every one's sake. I have 
 written as you said I might. I have told Edward he must be 
 patient, but my heart grows sick with fear. The intense, at 
 times agonising, longing to see him, seems even worse now he 
 is so near. And my father, too, makes me unhappy. He will 
 never confess it, but his spirit is broken. I am sure he feels 
 very desolate.' 
 
 ' His own act, an act which one word might revoke,' 
 
 ' Yes, if he could think it right to revoke it ; but the weaker 
 his physical powers, the stronger becomes his will. Yet I try 
 not to despair.' 
 
 ' Despair is for those who have said in their hearts " There is 
 no God,"' replied Mr Lester. 
 
 ' Thank you ; I remind myself of that very often ; and I feel 
 that things are better now, and have more hope for the future, 
 than at one time I could have expected. I am thankful to have 
 Ella here.' 
 
 ' Does the General take much notice of her ? ' 
 
 ' A good deal, in a curious way ; never by praise, but as though 
 he were always weighing what she said or did.' 
 
 ' That must be anxious work with such a person as Ella.' 
 
 ' Yes, and she is so incautious, so entirely wanting in self- 
 restraint. There must have been something sadly wanting in 
 her education.' 
 
 'Not something, but many things. Chictly, though, the spirit 
 of love. But I trust to you to do wonders for her.' 
 
 ' Please not to do that,' said Mildred, eagerly. ' I have seen 
 so little of girls of her age, I don't feel as if I at all knew what 
 to do with her.' 
 

 
 210 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'You have educated yourself, which is the chief and best guide 
 '\\\ our education of others.' 
 
 'God has educated me,' said Mildred, reverently. 'Many 
 times when I have been inclined to murmur at the trials of my 
 life, I have subdued and comforted myself by the thought. But 
 what I feel about Ella is, that she has not an eye to see the mean- 
 ing of her troubles. Self-indulgence blinds her. O Mr Lester ! 
 there are times when she is so sadly like my poor brother.' 
 
 ' You must not call him poor now. He at least has learned 
 the meaning of his trials.' 
 
 ' They have come to him in the form of punishment,' said 
 Mildred. 'I would strive to save Ella from that. Punishment 
 and discipline are very different.' 
 
 ' I trust that Vivian's future life may be only discipline,' re- 
 plied Mr Lester. ' I shall have great hope if we can once 
 open the way with the General. Does he never allude to the 
 past ? ' 
 
 ' Never, except in that stern fashion of self-congratulation 
 which is so terrible to me.' 
 
 ' He wraps his heart in his principle of justice, as a man does 
 his body in a waterproof cloak,' said Mr Lester, 'and it shuts 
 out all other claims, and makes him feel so warm and comfort- 
 able, that he does not know they exist.' 
 
 'Yet it is dreadfully oppressive to him,' said Mildred. 'He 
 feels he has had such a disappointed life.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, because he has been trying to fit the world to him- 
 self, instead of fitting himself to the world. But a man with 
 only one moral principle of action must be disappointed. It 
 absorbs all others into itself, and becomes darkness. Whereas 
 the love of God, the only perfect motive, is formed of the many 
 rainbow hues of heavenly perfection, melting into one, and pro- 
 ducing light.' 
 
 Mildred smiled, rather sadly. ' We must not hope to make 
 him understand that,' she said. 
 
 'No. I have learned at last to think that, after a certain 
 period of life, true, and I hope not wrong, worldly wisdom, con- 
 sists less in trying perpetually to alter the persons we have to 
 deal with, than in taking their characters as they are, and 
 framing our own actions accordingly. When the outline of the 
 character has once become rigid, nothing but the special inter- 
 position of God's grace can soften it. But we will hope for that, 
 Mildred, and pray for it.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 211 
 
 •That is my father's footstep/ said ]\Iildred, hstening. She 
 turned very pale. 
 
 ' He walks firmly,' observed Mr Lester. 
 
 The door opened, and General Vivian entered the apartment. 
 
 It was strange the power which his presence exercised. Mil- 
 dred's cheek was still colourless, but in one instant she was 
 composed and seemingly indifferent in manner ; and Mr Lester, 
 too, turned to address the stern old man in the quiet tone of 
 affectionate respect, which seemed to have no thought except 
 for the usual civilities of life. 
 
 ' You are a stranger, Mr Lester,' and General Vivian held out 
 his hand with an air of stately cordiality. 
 
 ' Not willinglv, sir. I have had more to do than usual in the 
 parish. There is a good deal of sickness about. I heard better 
 reports of you, though, and I hope they are true ; you are look- 
 ing tolerably well.' 
 
 ' As well as an old man of seventy-five can expect to look. 
 Mildred, Hardman says that the poachers were about in the 
 woods again last night.' 
 
 General Vivian sat down, and clenched his stick with both 
 hands in thoughtful deliberation. ' I wish, Mr Lester, you could 
 preach a better spirit into your people.' 
 
 ' I wish I could, sir, most heartily. But Hardman doesn't 
 suspect any in particular, does he?' 
 
 ' He tells me the leaders are from Cleve. It seems that En- 
 combe and Cleve divide the honours of villany between them. 
 Encombe patronises smuggling, and Cleve poaching.' 
 
 ' An evil choice,' observed Mr Lester. 
 
 ' Evil, indeed ; but at any rate we can claim pre-eminence ii. 
 example. The Cleve poachers are not likely to have so distin- 
 guished a leader as the Encombe smugglers. We may expect 
 the name of Captain Vivian to head the list of indictments at 
 the next sessions.' 
 
 * He has not been taken ? There is nothing found agamst 
 him, is there?' inquired Mr Lester, hastily, and Mildred also 
 raised her pale face to her father's, with a look of quick interest. 
 
 ' If he has not been taken, the more shame to the coastguard,' 
 exclaimed the General. ' It is the talk of the neighbourhood 
 that the trader lying off the shore belongs to John Vivian, and 
 is a smuggler, and yet they are for ever laying hands upon some 
 poor wretch, whose only fault is that he is too weak to stand out 
 against those whom he knows he ought to respect. But it will
 
 212 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 come at last. The name \\\\\ figure bravely in the annals of tlie 
 county gaol. Ay, and I would be the first to put it there.' 
 
 'Are they on the look-out for him, then?' inquired Mil- 
 dred. 
 
 'Why, child !' he turned to her suddenly, v/ith a scrutinising 
 gaze : ' You are ill this morning, Mildred.' 
 
 * Only a little tired, dear sir. Did you say they were on the 
 look-out for Captain Vivian?' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! wretch ! leave him. Mildred, my darling, you 
 mustn't look so.' He went up to her couch and stood beside it, 
 and his manner became as tender as before it had been severe. 
 
 * My dearest father,' and she took his hand affectionately, 
 ' there is nothing really the matter.' 
 
 ' You talk too much ;' he looked at Mr Lester distrustfully. 
 
 ' Mr Lester has only been here a few minutes,' said Mildred, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' One minute is quite enough for mischief, Mildred. I give 
 ]Mr Lester credit though, for not doing intentional harm.' 
 
 ' Not any harm at all, I hope,' said Mildred ; ' his visits always 
 do me good.' 
 
 'Yet I must take him from you, my child. Mr Lester, have 
 you a few minutes to spare for my study ?' 
 
 'As many, sir, as you desire;' and the General's impatient 
 glance caused Mr Lester to rise at the same instant. 
 
 They passed through the hall, and went up-stairs. General 
 Vivian's private room was on the same floor as his bedroom. Mr 
 Lester remarked that the steps were a difficulty to him, otherwise 
 he might have been a man of fifty-five rather than seven t)--five. 
 Some ordinary parish business, no doubt, was to be discussed, yet 
 the General's manner, when he closed the door, and sat down in 
 his great arm-chair, motioning to Mr Lester to place himself op- 
 posite, betokened something more than ordinary. For a few se- 
 conds he said nothing, but opening the drawer of his library table, 
 searched in it for some paper which it seemed he wanted. It was 
 soon found. General Vivian's papers were in such order that he 
 used often to boast that he could place his hand upon anyone in 
 the dark. His old military precision, indeed, was to be seen in all 
 his arrangements, and joined with it there might possibly have 
 been discovered traces of the carefulness which some had even 
 ventured to term, though most unjustly, penuriousness. The fur- 
 niture of this, his private room, was homely. A dark, common 
 carpet, in parts completely faded, covered the floor ; a large,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 213 
 
 square library table, old-fashioned, with innumerable drawers 
 and long projecting legs, filled the centre of the apartment ; 
 around it were shelves, not filled merely with books, but with 
 small boxes, packets of parchments, and papers ; whilst a few 
 good prints hung on the wall, and near the mantelpiece, close to 
 the chair which the General usually occupied, was a small, grace- 
 ful miniature of a very lovely woman, 
 
 Mr Lester took up a book to while away the spare minutes. 
 The General glanced at him keenly. ' In a hurry, I am afraid, 
 "Nfr Lester ? Pardon me, I won't keep you long.' 
 
 ' No hurry, sir, for myself; only for others.' 
 
 ' Still I may ask for a few minutes. An old man's claims will 
 not be many or long.' 
 
 ' Yours will be first always with me, sir, if possible. Pray don't 
 hurry yourself.' 
 
 ' I could not, if I would, ?dr Lester ; the time for haste is past.' 
 He placed a packet of papers before him, and slowly drew the 
 arm-chair nearer to the table. l\Ir Lester saw that the exertion 
 was too much for him, and yet he could not help him. The offer 
 would have been considered an insult. 
 
 ' I have been looking over my papers, Mr Lester ; a work for 
 all to do at stated times, especially a man of my age.' 
 
 ' Certainly, sir. I wish your example were more generally 
 followed. It would save a great deal of trouble.' 
 
 'And worse than trouble ; evil of all kinds. If my father and 
 my grandfather — but never mind that, — you are in a hurry — only 
 I will take the opportunity of saying one thing. You are likely 
 to be on the spot when I die, and Mildred M'ill look to you. Poor 
 child ! she has no one else.' A pause, and a clearing of the 
 throat, but the voice which continued was unchanged. ' I should 
 be sorry to have any confusion. I have tried to prevent it. Ail 
 that will be necessary for — whoever comes after me, will find all 
 papers relating to the estate in the escritoire,' and he pointed to 
 an ebony cabinet which stood by the side of the fire-place ; ' all 
 personal papers in the desk above it ; all parish and public papers 
 in the large drawers of this table. I did not mean to take up 
 your time with these details, only lest I should forget, I mention 
 them. Now to business. Time goes on, Mr Lester ; what do you 
 intend to do with Clement?' 
 
 Mr Lester might have been startled by the abruptness of the 
 question, but he did not show it. 'Mrs Campbell wishes him to 
 go to College, sir.'
 
 21 -[ CLEVE If ALL. 
 
 'And she lias the means of providing for liim there. That 
 settles the point. I trust the boy will do well.' 
 
 'I trust so too,' replied Mr Lester, ' but Mrs Campbell has not 
 the means of fully providing for him ; and that is our difficulty.' 
 
 ' Then what do you intend to do with him 1 I understood from 
 what you said that it was settled.' 
 
 'Settled, if wishes could settle anything,' replied Mr Lester. 
 ' But we tliought that you would not be angry, six", if we were to 
 ask you for assistance ; and I meant, when the fitting time 
 arrived, to make application to you.' 
 
 The General bit his lip. ' Mrs Campbell has taken every step 
 hitherto without consulting me, and I don't see why she should 
 look for help now. But I am not going to dispute the matter, 
 Mr Lester ; the boy shall go to College. It shall never be said 
 that I neglected my grandson. He shall have an allowance from 
 me. His debts I leave to others.' 
 
 ' We may hope, sir, that they may not be incurred.' 
 
 No reply for some seconds. The General looked carefully over 
 the paper of memoranda which he held in his hand. Then he 
 continued : — ' He will have a hundred and fifty pounds a year 
 paid to him by me, from the time he enters College till he is one- 
 and-twenty. If I die before, he will receive it — out of the estate.' 
 His keen eye glanced at Mr Lester ; apparently what he read 
 there was not perfectly satisfactory. ' I wish to put him in the 
 way of providing for himself, Mr Lester ; I wish to give him a 
 chance. Am I not right ? ' 
 
 ' He deserves more than a chance, sir,' was the bold reply. 
 
 The General's eyes flashed. ' His deserts must be left to my 
 judgment. It is my intention, besides, to leave in your hands, 
 as trustee, the sum of five thousand pounds, to be applied by you 
 as shall seem most likely to further his prospects.' 
 
 ]\Ir Lester sat immovable ; it might almost have seemed that 
 he had not heard. 
 
 * I look to you as Clement's guardian,' continued the General. 
 * I believe that you have done, and will do, all that can be done 
 to serve him. His ruin will never be attributed by me to you.' 
 
 * I suppose I ought to thank you. General Vivian,' replied Mr 
 Lester, somewhat proudly. ' You have shown a confidence in me 
 which I hope I sufficiently value. I should be glad to be able to 
 carry out your wishes ; but I can scarcely think they will long 
 continue to be yours.' 
 
 'And whv not.?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 215 
 
 ' Because I trust, — forgive me for the liberty I am taking, — 
 that consideration may show you sufficient cause to alter them,' 
 replied Mr Lester. 
 
 The General bent forward in his chair and frowned. ' Mr 
 Lester, I asked assistance in furthering my views ; not advice as 
 to how they should be formed.' 
 
 ' I am aware of it, sir, I have no right to intrude advice ; but 
 when I am called upon to be a party in any act, I am bound to 
 consider whether it be equitable.' 
 
 'Equitable! Mr Lester' — and the General's foot moved up 
 and down rapidly — ' You are a clergyman, and the friend of 
 years. You had not dared else to insinuate such a reproof.' 
 
 'I would not insinuate, sir. I hate insinuations. I would 
 say openly, — your grandson deserves more at your hands.' 
 The words were free, yet Mr Lester's manner betokened deep 
 respect ; and the self-controlled spirit of General Vivian received 
 the check which was intended. 
 
 ' We won't discuss that point. I ask again, are you willing to 
 accept the office of trustee for Clement, and for his sisters ? I 
 propose to leave them that which will secure for each a hundred 
 a year.' 
 
 Mr Lester was silent. 
 
 ' Then I will turn to some other friend. Good morning, Mr 
 Lester ; I regret that I have intruded upon your time?' and the 
 General rose, though with difficulty, and stood with his tall figure 
 drawn up haughtily, though, at the same moment, he supported 
 himself by resting one hand upon the table. 
 
 Mr Lester rose also, but not proudly. His eyes were bent 
 upon the ground in deep thought. When he spoke, his words 
 came with some degree of hesitation : — ' General Vivian,' he 
 said, ' you have always been a most kind friend to me, — more 
 than a friend. In hours of sorrow I have looked to you as to an 
 elder brother, and I could, yes, from my heart, I could, obey 
 you reverently ; but I have another office, which compels me 
 to speak freely; in consideration of it I am sure you will hear 
 me. May I entreat you not to decide on this matter hastily.-' 
 It involves many interests, and great principles of right and 
 justice.' . 
 
 ' It docs ; right and justice to my people ; my tenants, and 
 the poor,' 
 
 ' Can an unjust act at the beginning work justice in the end?' 
 inquired Mr Lester.
 
 2i6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 The General's eye sparkled with indignation. * Who ventures 
 to say that it is unjust ?' he exclaimed ; his tone deepening with 
 the effort at self-restraint. ' My property is my own ; I may do 
 with it as I will.' 
 
 ' We are stewards,' replied Mr Lester ; ' not owners.' 
 
 ' Let it be so ; as stewTird, I do that which is for the good of 
 those entrusted to mc.' 
 
 ' When we devise means and instruments of our own, and put 
 aside those which God has marked out for us, we cannot be sure 
 that we are working for good,' was the reply. 
 
 ' I don't understand your philosophy, Mr Lester ; neither do 
 I wish to hear more of it. Justice, not philosophy, is my 
 object.' 
 
 'Justice without mercy will cease to be justice,' replied Mr 
 Lester ; * for it is not the justice of God.' 
 
 ' Again I say, sir, I don't understand you. I seek the good 
 of my people. I will not undo the work of a life at its last 
 moment.' 
 
 ' I should be the last person to wish you to do so,' replied Mr 
 Lester; 'but I fear we err when we take the ordering of the 
 future into our own hands. You are afraid to trust your grand- 
 son, — you think it right to choose another heir ? Who is to 
 guarantee that he shall be irreproachable ? Or, if he should 
 be, who can answer for his children ?' 
 
 The General took out his watch. ' Excuse me, Mr Lester, 1 
 have gone over the ground often : my resolution is unalterable. 
 Time presses. I have an engagement at three o'clock. If you 
 decline accepting the office I propose, I will make other ar- 
 rangements.' 
 
 Again Mr Lester deliberated. ' I hope,' he said, at length, 
 ' to send a written answer ; if not to-morrow, yet in the course 
 of a few days. I trust that may satisfy you.' 
 
 The General bent his head coldly. Mr Lester continued : 
 'And I will ask now to be allowed a few more words upon 
 another point. Clement would be safer removed from En- 
 combe.' 
 
 ' Unquestionably :' there was an accent of scorn in the word. 
 
 ' If he is to go to the University he should first have *a private 
 tutor.' 
 
 ' I should suppose so.' 
 
 ' Then may we look to you for assistance in that case, as well 
 as for supporting him at College?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 217 
 
 The General's countenance changed. He slowly walked up 
 to the ebony cabinet, removed the desk which stood upon it, 
 and placed it upon the table. ' Mr Lester, pray sit down for a 
 few moments longer; I won't detain you more.' He unlocked 
 the desk, 'My private accounts,' he murmured, in a tone of 
 apology. 
 
 ' I am sorrow to give you so much trouble, sir. I did not in 
 the least mean to press the question as to details — merely to 
 know generally whether we might look to you for help.' 
 
 'A certain sum has been set aside. I don't know how much 
 of it remains.' The General took out several packets of paper 
 and laid them on the table. 
 
 * I am giving you a great deal of trouble, sir, and there is 
 really no hurry.' 
 
 * No time like the present.' The desk was drawn nearer the 
 edge of the table, and the General sat down. 
 
 Some one knocked at the door ; he turned round quickh-. 
 accidentally pushed the desk, and it fell : the papers were scat- 
 tered on the ground. 
 
 Mr Lester stooped to pick them up. ' Come in,' said the 
 General, and a servant entered. 
 
 ' Farmer Brown wishes to speak to you, sir. 
 
 ' Let him wait.' 
 
 ' I told him you were engaged, sir, and he has waited a quarter 
 of an hour. He says he must go now.' 
 
 General Vivian never sent business away; it was one of his 
 most rigid principles. 
 
 ' Well ! show him into the ante-room. Mr Lester, I will re- 
 turn immediately. I am afraid you have a tiresome task.' 
 
 ' The papers are all disarranged, sir. Can't I help you in re- 
 placing them ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you, no;' and the General's m inner was almost 
 nervous. ' Pray, only lay them on the table ; nothing more.' 
 He stopped as he was leaving the room, and looked back, ap- 
 parently about to give some other direction ; but he altered his 
 mind, and left the room, saying that he should return directly. 
 
 Mr Lester gathered up the papers. They were for the most 
 part letters, all carefully placed together in separate packets and 
 endorsed. Mr Lester's eye unintentionally caught the super- 
 scription of two. One was Edith Vivian, with the date of her 
 birth and death. Tlic other only bore the initials E. B. V., and 
 consisted apparently not of letters only, but of loose papers and
 
 2i8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 bills. It was larger than any of the rest, and arranged with less 
 attention to order. It seemed as if it had been put together in 
 some moment of confusion, and fastened hastily, for the string 
 round it was loose, and when Mr Lester put it dow n a few of the 
 papers slipped out. He had only just gathered them together, 
 and taken up the string to secure it more firmly, when the 
 General returned. Mr Lester laid the letters down again. The 
 General cast a hasty glance upon the table. ' Never mind, Mr 
 Lester, that will do, thank you,' and he laid his hand nervously 
 upon the packet. ' Old letters, as you see. It mayn't be worth 
 while to keep them, but one never knows of what use such 
 things may be.' There was an attempt at unconcern in his tone 
 and manner, but it did not deceive Mr Lester ; and his hand 
 trembled so much that he was unable to collect the papers, and, 
 instead of placing them in order, scattered them again. He 
 tried to stoop. Mr Lester picked them up for him, and as he 
 restored them, the General seized and looked at them carefully. 
 
 ' That will do, Mr Lester, thank you. There are no more ; 
 only your handkerchief which you have just dropped.' 
 
 Mr Lester took up his handkerchief, and with it, unknown to 
 himself, a paper which was lying under it. Both were put into 
 his pocket. 
 
 The General allowed the rest of the papers to remain on the 
 table. His manner was confused. ' I don't know what we were 
 talking of,' he began. ' Oh yes ! I remember, my private ac- 
 counts.' He opened a book which had been taken from the 
 desk. ' I look upon Clement, Mr Lester, as the son,' — he hesi- 
 tated : — ' the inheritance of the child of a younger son is all he 
 has any right — absurd ! there is no right — it is all that, on any 
 principle, could be demanded of me. Let me see,' and he un- 
 clasped the book. 'A private tutor, you say. He will not have 
 that under two hundred a year. 
 
 ' No, sir, certainly not. Travelling, dress, pocket-money, we 
 may reckon as fifty more.' 
 
 'And well if he keep within it ! ' The General sat down, and 
 began to calculate with a pencil and paper. * Seventy pounds 
 per annum, Mr Lester, is the sum I can afford.' 
 
 ]\Ir Lester tried not to look disappointed. 
 
 'You expected more ?' 
 
 ' I had hoped that half the expense of the tutor might have 
 been taken by you, sir. The additional thirty pounds is a large 
 item' He did not seem to know how to finish the sentence.
 
 CLEVE HALL. i\c) 
 
 * It is a large item in the affairs of any person who wishes to 
 be exact. J\ly income is appropriated ; I can't alter it' 
 
 The tone admitted of no further reply. Mr Lester only said, 
 ' I must thank you, sir, in Clement's name.' 
 
 ' No thanks are required. I desire to do justice — ^justice' — 
 the word was repeated emphatically, — ' by every one.' 
 
 Silence followed. The General occupied himself in restoring 
 the papers to their place in the desk. Mr Lester looked round 
 for his hat, yet in a way v\'hich showed that he was unwilluig to 
 go. The General closed the desk and took out his watch. 
 
 ' May I put the desk back for you, sir ? ' asked Mr Lester. 
 
 'Thank you, no.' General Vivian carried it himself, and then 
 returned to the fire-place. 
 
 ' If I have said anything to offend you, sir,' said Mr Lester, 
 ' I trust you will forgive me ; it was very far from my intention.' 
 
 ' Thers is no offence, Mr Lester. You act upon a principle of 
 duty ; I try to do the same myself.' 
 
 ' And I should have hoped, therefore, sir, we might have been 
 likely to agree.' 
 
 ' I have not found that a natural consequence in life. Few 
 persons have agreed with me in my notions of duty.' The 
 shadow of a smile crossed Mr Lester's face, but General Vivian, 
 without perceiving it, went on, rather in an exculpatory tone. ' I 
 find the moral code of many men lax, Mr Lester. They, on the 
 contrary, think mine strict. I have no wish to quarrel with them ; 
 but when a principle has been adopted from conviction of its 
 truth, I can never think it right to sacrifice it to expediency.' 
 
 'To expediency ! No, sir, never !' exclaimed Mr Lester. 
 
 ' The reasons which I have heai'd brought forward in opposition 
 to my own views have always been those of expediency,' con- 
 tinued the General. 
 
 ' Expediency is a word bearing many interpretations,' observed 
 Mr Lester. 
 
 ' Only one in my ideas. It is the sacrifice of duty to individual 
 feelings or individual interests.' 
 
 ' It would be my own definition,' continued Mr Lester; 'but 
 duty must always be compounded of two virtues balancing each 
 other. It can scarcely be considered expediency to endeavour 
 to keep the balance equal' 
 
 'You are metaphysical, Mr Lester. My idea of duty is of a 
 law. I don't understand the principle of two laws.' 
 
 'Yet both the moral and the natural world are governed by
 
 220 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 opposing laws,' said Mr Lester. ' Love and fear, justice and 
 mercy, cause the beings of tlic spiritual creation to move har- 
 moniously round the one Centre of their worship, as the two 
 counteracting forces cause the planets to move round the sun.' 
 He was almost sorrow when he had said it, the General looked 
 so impatient. They parted rather coldly, but when Mr Lester 
 was gone, General Vivian leaned back in his chair, and thought. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ENCO:\IBE GRANGE was a large, lonely, white house, stand- 
 ing beyond the village, and fronting the open com.mon 
 terminated by the cliffs. It was a very dreary-looking place. 
 Originally it might have been picturesque, for the building was 
 low and irregular, with a singular high turret at one corner, which 
 had been added as a kind of observatory by one of its former 
 possessors ; but now all beauty waslost in theappearance ofdecay. 
 Nearly all the trees which once surrounded it had been cut down. 
 Two or three indeed remained near the turret, but these shut out 
 the view over the sea which at one time had been an attraction, 
 whilst others more exposed to the south-ivest winds were not only 
 stunted in their growth, but had that feeble, oppressed look which 
 nlv.-ays belongs to trees bent in one direction. There was some 
 attempt at a flov/er-garden and plantation near the house, but all 
 was in a neglected state ; the branches of the shrubs spreading at 
 their will, and covering the narrow gravel walks, which were dark 
 and green with grass and weeds ; the flov.-er-bcds completely over- 
 run, and poultry, dogs, cats, and occasionally a horse or a cow, 
 straying at their pleasure over the unmown lawn. Within, the 
 scene was equally desolate. A great portion of the house was shut 
 up, and in the rooms which were used the walls were hidden by 
 the scraps of papers of different generations; the paint was worn 
 from the wainscoting ; and near the kitchen and the servants' 
 apartments even the floors were unsafe. One parlour there was 
 comparatively comfortable, with a carpet, and a horsehair sofa, 
 and a great arm-chair, and some convenient corner cupboards ; 
 and this was Captain Vivian's dwelling-room, and here he lived 
 contentedly ; for as long as he could sit by a blazing fire if he was
 
 CLEVE HALL. 221 
 
 cold, and eat when he was hungry, and rest when he was weary, 
 and form his plans of adventure or speculation without interrup- 
 tion, he cared nothing for the elegancies of life, and httle for what 
 many would have considered ordinary comfort. He was a man 
 sunk below anything approaching to refinement of taste ; and 
 amongst the many secondary supports which keep us from utter 
 ruin in this world, perhaps none are more powerful, or more 
 deeply to be lamented when lost, than taste. Yet it was not 
 because he cared for money in itself, that he strove to gain it by 
 evil means, and lived without the advantages which he had the 
 means of obtaining. He had run through a large fortune, and 
 still was carelessly extravagant as regarded personal self-indul- 
 gence ; but a consciousness of degradation from guilt had led him 
 to seek forgetfulness in low company and lov/ habits, till the 
 claims of his position as a gentleman by birth, and in some 
 degree by education, had been totally put aside. 
 
 It would belong, and perhaps tedious, to tell how it was that 
 he reached this point. There was the traditional tone of his 
 branch of the family to begin with ; and reputation has more to 
 do with the first formation of character than we may be inclined 
 at the first glance to imagine. Then there was evil example, 
 bringing opportunity for evil, and followed by the loss of personal 
 self-respect ; and when this is gone, moral descent is very rapid. 
 Yet there had been occasions wlien the past might have been re- 
 deemed. Even the most hardened villain can probably look back 
 to some period of his life when, like the angel arresting the steps 
 of the prophet, repentance has met him in the way ; and per- 
 haps had the secrets of Captain Vivian's heart been made 
 known, it would have been found that, even with him, there was 
 one period from the recollection of which he turned in hasty 
 anguish, with the feeling that the example of his wife had opened 
 to him the gates of heaven, but that he had wilfully refused to 
 enter in. 
 
 Possibly the influence of a different mind might have had more 
 power over him. Mrs Vivian was extremely gentle, implicitly 
 obedient, except where religious duty was concerned; but she 
 had been made religious by the means of sorrow, — disappoint- 
 ment in him ; and this had given a mournful tone to her 
 character, and at times irritated him. It was the excuse which 
 he made to himself, when at the time of her death remorse had 
 for a few weeks been busy with him. Now he made no excuses ; 
 he showed his feelings about her only by refusing to hear lier
 
 222 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 name mentioned. It was the one especially painful barrier, 
 amongst the many which existed, between him and Ronald. 
 
 For Ronald lived upon his mother's memory ; not to the know- 
 ledge of the world, scarcely even to that of Mr Lester and Bertha 
 Campbell ; the rare occasions when he did give a momentary 
 vent to his feelings were as the sudden rush of the tempest, 
 which passes, and all is calm as before. But in a remote part 
 of the dreary old house there was a small chamber which he had 
 fitted up with the few articles belonging to his mother that had 
 escaped the wreck caused by his father's extravagance; and 
 there, with her picture before him, her few books arranged in a 
 small Indian cabinet, her work-box, and writing-case, and a few 
 special ornaments placed on the little table which had stood 
 beside her dying bed, Ronald had formed for himself a sanctuary 
 which her spirit seemed still to inhabit, and from which a sof- 
 tening, chastening influence had been permitted to reach him, 
 even in his most reckless moments. 
 
 It might have been sentimentalism with many ; but Ronald, 
 in his loneliness, and the heaviness of his self-reproach, had no 
 room for sentimentality, even if the feeling had not been totally 
 foreign to his nature. He never showed his little room to any 
 one ; he never even spoke of it ; he scarcely ever realised to him- 
 self why he reverenced it. The feeling had grown up uncon- 
 sciously from the time when on their first arrival at the Grange, 
 and when the grief for her loss was still fresh, the few things 
 which belonged to her had been placed in it. Captain Vivian 
 avoided it ; the servants did not trouble themselves to enter it ; 
 and Ronald himself never thought of inhabiting it. Only at 
 times when his heart was most oppressed, he would pause before 
 the door, and it would seem as if he still could hear her voice 
 within ; and occasionally, — very rarely, for Ronald's fits of de- 
 votion had, till lately, been as uncertain and varying as the 
 winds, — he would venture in gently, reverently, as if intruding 
 upon the presence of the dead, and kneeling down confess, in 
 the simple words which she herself had taught him, the guilt 
 which burdened his conscience, and the fears which lay heavy 
 upon his heart. 
 
 These were his calmest and best moments. In his hours of 
 desperate remorse — and they were far more frequent — hewould no- 
 more have intruded himself into that quiet chamber than hewould 
 have thrust himself unbidden and unprepared as a partaker in the 
 holiest rites of the Church. But even then, the remembrance
 
 CLEVE HALL. 223 
 
 was not without its influence. It was as if there was still a rest- 
 ing-place within his reach — a haven which he might hope to 
 attain when the storm was past ; and when Ronald spoke of, or 
 thought of home, in the sense which renders it so dear to all, 
 his imagination recurred not to the empty chambers of the 
 almost deserted house, nor to the parlour where his father was 
 wearing away life in coarse self-indulgence, — not even to the 
 little room in the turret, with its rude uncurtained bed and rough 
 furniture, where he had piled in heaps the heterogeneous articles 
 which served him for use or for amusement, — but to the small 
 closet — it could scarcely be called more — in which his mother's 
 spirit seemed yet lingering. 
 
 Yes, that thought had saved him in many an hour of tempta- 
 tion. For Ronald's life had been far less guilty than in his 
 despairing self-accusation he represented it. 
 
 He had seen evil often, in its worst and most debasing forms_ 
 and to a certain extent he had himself mingled with it ; but 
 Captain Vivian, hardened though he might be, would not force 
 his son to become what he himself was ; and Ronald had many 
 times escaped the actual contamination of wickedness, which 
 yet had been so present with him that he could not realise to 
 himself that he had been saved from it. To separate himself 
 from his father seemed impossible ; and when Captain A'ivian 
 sank, Ronald felt that he himself had sunk likewise. Perhaps 
 but for the recollection of his mother he would have done so. 
 
 His life had in a degree been happier during the last {q.\\ 
 weeks. Before that time, his refusal to tempt Clement to dis- 
 obedience had caused bursts of passion which were often ter- 
 rific ; but now he was left more to himself and his own pursuits. 
 A change had taken place, apparently, in Captain Vivian's 
 schemes. He confided them more to Goff ; perhaps he felt that 
 he had to deal with a will as unbending as his own, and there- 
 fore did not endeavour to alter it ; perhaps — there is some 
 redeeming point even in the very worst — the one humanising 
 feeling yet left, his affection for his boy, made him shrink from 
 implicating him in the guilty plans which yet he would not 
 relinquish. Be that as it may, since the abandonment of the 
 idea of the merchant service, Ronald had been suffered to carry 
 out his own wishes for the employment of his time for the most 
 part undisturbed. He was studying now not for pleasure ; it 
 was a great effort to him, and the escape from his books into the 
 free air, with a gun or a fishing-rod in his hand, was eager
 
 224 CI.F.VE HALL, 
 
 delight. But the energetic spirit, once turned in the direction 
 of self-disciphne, could not be checked. Bertha had ;^iven him 
 the impulse of good, IMr Lester had suggested a few rules for its 
 direction, and with the same intensity of purpose with which, if 
 commanded, he would have endeavoured to expiate his faults by 
 bodily penances, did he now attempt to follow up that far more 
 difficult penance, the subjugation of the mind. 
 
 He was happier, — yet not for that reason at rest. Mr Lester 
 had said truly that there was a cloud over him. IIow, indeed, 
 should it be otherwise ? The farther he advanced on the right 
 path himself, the more sensible he must necessarily become that 
 his father was moving on the wrong one. This alone would 
 have been enough to sadden him, but Ronald could never for- 
 get that worse might be behind ; — that fallen as his father was 
 now, there might be darker evil hidden in the past, and that to 
 him the task of discovering and revealing it had in a certain 
 way been entrusted. Therefore it was that he would sit alone 
 in his own chamber, or pursue his solitary wanderings over the 
 wild hills and by the lonely shore, — shrinking from companion- 
 ship, dreading conversation, — and though forced to live with his 
 father, and at times to mingle with his associates, yet keeping 
 watch over his hidden grief, whilst anxiously guarding every 
 avenue to the temptations which might lead him back into the 
 vices of which he had repented 
 
 The idea which thus oppressed him had first been suggested 
 by Bertha, but it was in no way followed up by her. After that 
 one conversation which had made him acquainted with his 
 father's history, the subject had never again been mentioned 
 between them. Probably Bertha repented what in her eager- 
 ness she had done, perceiving the effect of the disclosure upon 
 a spirit sensitive as a woman's, and impetuous as a man's. At 
 any rate, whenever they met, which was but seldom, it was only 
 to exchange the confessions of sorrow and penitence on the one 
 side, and of affectionate interest on the other ; whilst Air Lester 
 never by word or look allowed it to be supposed that he con- 
 sidered Ronald in the slightest degree involved in the cause 
 which he had so much at heart. 
 
 It was late in the same day on which Mr Lester had been 
 with General Vivian. Ronald had been out upon the hills 
 shooting ; Captain Vivian on the shore and at the Point, for 
 purposes best knov/n to himself. They had returned about the 
 same time, and Ronald, wearied and yet excited by his day's
 
 CLEVE HALL, 225 
 
 sport, was dreading less than usual the dinner with his father ; 
 for on such occasions they had common subjects of interest 
 without touching upon tliose on which they would have been 
 likely to jar. 
 
 Captain Vivian's countenance also wore a satisfied expression, 
 and he greeted his son without the uncomfortable reproaches 
 which were generally his vent for any disappointment. Ronald 
 asked no questions. The success or defeat of his father's pro- 
 jects brought him almost equal pain. He was only thankful to 
 be allowed to eat his dinner in peace, and to narrate the progress 
 of the day's sport without interruption. When dinner Avas over, 
 he was preparing, as usual, to go to his own room, when Captain 
 \'ivian stopped him. ' Off! my boy ? Where to ? ' 
 
 ' To read or to rest,' replied Ronald ; ' I 've had desperately 
 hnrd work.' 
 
 'Read? Pshaw! What are you talking of ? I thought you 
 never troubled yourself about reading. Why can't you stay 
 here?' 
 
 ' I cnn if you wish it,' was Ronald's cold reply. 
 
 ' Oh ! if you 're tired, it's another matter. Be off,' 
 
 'I am not so tired, — at least, I shouldn't be going to bed for 
 the next three hours,' said Ronald. 
 
 ' Only brooding over books. Why, Ronald, you're worth 
 something more than that.' 
 
 ' I don't know what I am worth, father,' replied Ronald ; • 1 
 have never been tried yet.' 
 
 'At the old story ? Wanting to do something ? Perchance 1 
 may put you in the way of it before long.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' replied Ronald, in the same unmoved tone ; and 
 he walked a few paces towards the door. 
 
 ' A game at backgammon would be better for you than books 
 after a day's work,' said Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' I had rather read, thank you, father, unless we play without 
 betting.' 
 
 A cloud of displeasure crossed Captain Vivian's face ; but he 
 only said, ' Well, bring out the board. If Goff comes in, we mav 
 have a turn.' 
 
 Ronald placed the backgammon-board by his father's side, and 
 went to fetch his books. He brought them back with his writiii>r- 
 desk, but he looked very little inclined for study. His fatlior 
 hmghed at him as he threw the books upon the table, whilst a 
 tired sigh escaped him. 
 
 P
 
 226 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Why, you foolish fellow, one v^ould think you were going to 
 turn clergyman. What d'ye think, now, is the good of all that 
 rubbish ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose it may turn to good some day,' replied Ronald. 
 'At any rate it's better to do that than nothing.' 
 
 ' Books don't make a man's fortune, trust me for that, Ronald. 
 Why, there are secrets — and to be had for the purchase, too— 
 which give a man, in one hour, what books wouldn't give him 
 in a whole life.' 
 
 ' And to be lost as quickly as gained,' replied Ronald ; ' that 's 
 not in my way, father.' 
 
 ' But it used to be. Time was when you were as daring a 
 fellow as any in Christendom, and would have got at anything 
 that could be had at a leap. 'That's the good of consorting 
 with women and clergymen, — they would eat the spirit out of a 
 lion.' Captain Vivian's colour rose, and he muttered to himself, 
 'But it won't last, though.' Then, speaking aloud, he added, ' I 
 bay, Ronald, it's time you should be off.' 
 
 ' Where, father ? ' 
 
 'Anywhere ; if you mean to seek your fortune for yourself.' 
 
 ' It is what I wish,' was the answer. 
 
 'Ay! wish in your own way, but never in mine.' 
 
 ' I wish to obey you, father, in all things in which I may,' 
 replied Ronald, speaking very quietly, though his clenched 
 hands showed the effort which it cost him. 
 
 'Well, then, I take you at your word. Our little vessel at the 
 Point goes off again next week ; try your hand at command. 
 The fellows will be glad enough to have you on board.' 
 
 Ronald's flashing eye showed how much his own inclination 
 accorded with the suggestion, yet he hesitated. 
 
 ' It's an offer that I should have jumped to clutch at your age,' 
 continued Captain Vivian. ' But boys now aren't what boys 
 were, nor men neither. 
 
 ' Regular service is more to my taste.' — Ronald began the 
 sentence boldly, but the change in his father's countenance 
 made even his spirit quail. 
 
 Captain Vivian burst forth in a storm of passion. ' It was his 
 will,' he said. ' He had waited long enough, keeping Ronald 
 tied at home to be a burden to him ; and now the time was come 
 for action, and act he must and should.' And Ronald acquiesced 
 in the determination ; but again, and with less hesitation, insisted 
 upon the desirableness of the merchant service.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 227 
 
 Just then there was a loud knock at the outer door ; but the 
 fierce words still raged, whilst Ronald, bending down, with his 
 head averted, looked steadfastly into the fire. As the knock 
 was repeated the second time, however, he rose, and was about 
 to close the parlour door, when he was stopped by the entrance 
 of Goff, and, to his consternation, Clement Vivian. 
 
 Captain Vivian's wrath subsided in a moment ; perhaps that 
 was the reason why Ronald felt his to be rising. He advanced 
 before his father to meet Clement, and they shook hands ; but 
 Clement's manner was coldly nervous, and he glanced reproach- 
 fully at Goft", as if he had been betrayed into society which he 
 had not expected. 
 
 Goff came into the room with the manner of a person quite at 
 his ease, and sat himself down by the fire, motioning to Clement 
 to seat himself also. ' You didn't expect company to-night, eh. 
 Captain .^' 
 
 ' Not quite so many. But, Clement, my boy,' — and Captain 
 Vivian put his hand across the table, and shook Clement's 
 heartily, — 'you're welcome anyhow. What's the business, 
 Goff.?'' 
 
 * No hurry ; it 's a cold night, and the fire 's comfortable ; ' and 
 he drew his chair in. 
 
 ' What brings you out to-night, Clement ? ' asked Ronald, in 
 a careless tone. 
 
 Goff answered for him, — ' A bold spirit, to be sure, Ronald, 
 that's ashamed to sit over the fire like a girl.' 
 
 Ronald turned round upon him rather roughly, — ' You'll be 
 careful what you say, if you please ; let us hear your own tale, 
 Clement.' 
 
 * Ask him how he escaped from his master,' said Goff, sneer- 
 ingly. 
 
 'I will ask him if Mr Lester knows he is here?' replied 
 Ronald. 
 
 Captain Vivian broke in upon the conversation, — ' What sig- 
 nifies? He's here, and he's going to stay. Here's a health to 
 you, my lad ! and we won't ask what brings you here, only we 
 are glad to sec you.' 
 
 All this time Clement had been sitting, shyly at a little distance 
 from the table, casting furtive glances round the room. Now, 
 as Ronald fixed his keen eye upon him, he answered with ap- 
 parent indifference, — ' I was at the Hall with a message, and 
 Goff and 1 met coming back, so we bore each other company.'
 
 228 CLEVK HALL. 
 
 ' Irs not the nearest way from the Hall to tlic villnj^c,' saul 
 Ronald, quickly. 
 
 The colour rose in Clement's cheek, but Goff helped him. * If 
 it isn't quite as near it 's twice as good ; and it 's better goin;:^ 
 two than one on a winter's evening, and so Master Clement and 
 I must needs trudge it together.' 
 
 'And take a resting-place on your way,' observed Captain 
 Vivian ; 'and a very good notion too. It 's the first time, but we 
 hope it won't be the last.' 
 
 Ronald stood moodily by the fire, and there was a momentary 
 silence. Goff took up the dice from the backgammon table, and 
 tossed them. Captain Vivian called out the numbers and 
 laughed as they came down right. 'Now, Clement, try your 
 luck ; ' and Clement did the same, watching wiili some eagerness 
 to see the result. 
 
 ' Bravo ! you '11 do, I see. Now, once more ; ten to one you 
 are right.' 
 
 Clement was again partly successful. 
 
 ' Luck's with him,' said Goff. ' It's born with some people.' 
 'Just opposite to what it is with him,' said Captain Vivian, 
 pointing to Ronald ; ' he never made more than one good hit in 
 his life.' 
 
 ' Try, Ronald,' said Clement, rather eagerly. 
 ' Thank you, no.' 
 
 * He's afraid,' said Goff : ' he hates losing.' 
 ' Oh ! nonsense, Ronald,' exclaimed Clement. ' There 's no 
 betting ; what does it signify ? ' 
 
 ' Some folks are too proud to be beaten in anything, betting 
 or no betting,' said Gofi". 
 
 ' I see no fun in it,' said Ronald ; ' and if I did, I wouldn't do 
 it now.' 
 ' Wouldn't ! why not ? ' Captain Vivian turned to him angrily. 
 Ronald hesitated for a second, then he said, ' Because I 
 Mouldn't be the one to lead Clement to that which may be his 
 ruin. There's a warning for you, Clement ;' and he walked out 
 of the room. 
 
 Captain Vivian's anger evaporated, so at least it might have 
 seemed, in a laugh, whilst Goff threw up the dice again, and 
 made Captain Vivian guess, without any reference to Clement, 
 who sat by uneasily. 
 
 The clock struck eight and he started up. 'I ought to be at 
 home ; they expected me back at seven.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 229 
 
 'And you keep your word, do you ?' said GolT. ' That's more 
 than you do with me.' 
 
 ' Clement will be out of leading-strings before long, I '11 ven- 
 ture to say,' observed Captain Vivian, lightly. ' I wish I could 
 hope as much of my boy. He's turned quite tame, and won't 
 even take a cruise for a few days.' 
 
 'Won't Ronald take a cruise ?' inquired Clement, with some 
 eagerness. 
 
 ' Not he ; though I offered to put him in command of a vessel. 
 But the very life's gone out of him; he'll do nothing but sit at 
 home over his books. Old ocean was but a fancy with him, 
 after all.' 
 
 'As it is with a good many youngsters,' continued Goff. 
 ' Well enough on a iine day, with a sea which a baby might 
 sleep on ; but come a storm, and they're nothing but pale-faced 
 cowards. I '11 bet you anything yon like, though, that I bring 
 Ronald round.' 
 
 * Volunteers, not pressed men, for my money,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Ay ; volunteers if they are to be had.' Goft" glanced at 
 Clement. ' I say, Master Clement, if I don't go with you, can 
 you find your way home ?' 
 
 * I should hope so. I have been over the fields often enough,' 
 said Clement, proudly. 
 
 'And been in time for roll call,' said Captain Vivian, laughing. 
 * ^^'hy, Clement, what will you say for yourself?' 
 
 ' The truth, if I am asked,' replied Clement. 
 
 'The truth, to be sure. Who ever heard of a Vivian not 
 speaking the truth ?' 
 
 'Only it's a bit awkward, sometimes,' muttered Goff. 'We 
 shan't see you here again, I suppose, Master Clement, when the 
 truth's out ?' 
 
 ' I don't see that. I go where I choose, and return when I 
 please.' 
 
 'They'd think you had been at some dire mischief here,' 
 said Captain Vivian, carelessly, as he threw the dice into the 
 air. 
 
 ' That was a curious calculation you were making with those 
 things the other night. Captain,' said Goff. ' I 'm not up to 
 figures. What did Ronald say to it ?' 
 
 ' Ronald has no head for figures neither ; he always hated 
 them.' 
 
 '\'ery curious it was,' repeated Goff, in a musing tone.
 
 230 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'What was curious? A calculation ? I can calculate pretty 
 well,' said Clement, eagerly. 
 
 Goff looked at him with pretended amusement. 'Of course, 
 you can do everything.' 
 
 * I have calculated very difficult questions,' continued Clement. 
 *I believe'— and he touched his forehead— ' I have a mathe- 
 matical head.' 
 
 ' Possibly ! But you mightn't be able to do this. Besides, 
 there isn't time, and you are wanted at home.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, to send him away ! ' observed Captain Vivian. 
 ' Why shouldn 't he stay, if he likes it ?' 
 
 ' I '11 try the calculation for you at home, if you choose to give 
 it me,' said Clement. He spoke eagerly, longing to show his 
 superiority to Ronald. 
 
 ' Thank you ; but I can 't give it you just in a minute. You 
 will be coming by this way another time, I dare say, and then 
 I '11 show it you. But your master would be after you, if you 
 were to take it home.' 
 
 The word master always touched Clement on a tender point. 
 He instantly began a lengthened explanation of his true position 
 with INlr Lester ; that he was his father's friend, and was kind 
 enough to teach him some things ; but that he had no authority 
 over him beyond the hours of study ; whilst Captain Vivian and 
 Goff listened with an incredulous air, which only irritated him 
 the more to assert his independence. When he had ended, 
 Goff's exclamation was, 'Deeds, not words, Master Clement. 
 Show us you are your own master, and we'll believe you ; but 
 don't waste such a quantity of breath about it. Why, you are 
 afraid now to go home for fear of the rod ! ' And he laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 Captain Vivian took Clement's part, and found fault with Goff 
 for ridiculing him, saying, ' that it was very natural that such a 
 young fellow should be kept under. It wasn't every boy that 
 could be what Ronald was at sixteen— though he had gone back 
 sadly of late.' 
 
 This told more keenly upon Clement than all Goff's coarser 
 ridicule, especially when it was foUov/ed by some characteristic 
 anecdotes of Ronald's dauntless bravery, which goaded his envy, 
 whilst they excited to the utmost his admiration. A pause came 
 at last, and Clement summoned resolution to go, without any 
 more last words of boasting. Captain Vivian went with him to 
 the door, H is tone was much softened, and there even appeared
 
 CLEVE HALL. 231 
 
 lo be some interest in it. ' We shall see you again,' he said ; 
 ' and if you could look in and help Ronald and me about that 
 calculation, we should both thank you. I 've no head for it ; 
 neither has he. But don't come, if you think you will get into 
 disgrace. Good night ! ' They shook hands cordially, and 
 Clement, though shrinking from the word disgrace, walked 
 away, saying to himself, that Captain Vivian had certainly been 
 condemned unfairly. He had still the spirit of a gentleman in 
 him, when he chose to exert it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 CAPTAIN VIVIAN returned to the parlour, carefully locked 
 the door, tried another which led through some passages 
 to a distant wing of the house, and then going up to Goff, who 
 was bending down over the fire, with his hands spread out to 
 warm them, exclaimed, ' He's caught ! ' 
 
 ' Ay ! thanks to me ! ' was Goff's rather surly reply ; and 
 without looking up, he added, abruptly, ' and high time ; the 
 game will be up soon ! ' 
 
 Captain Vivian moved so as to confront him. ' Up ? What 
 d'ye mean ? ' His tone was hollow, though the words were 
 uttered calmly. 
 
 ' We were fools,' continued Goft", ' mad fools ! He has escaped 
 us!' 
 
 ' Edward Vivian ! Ha ! ' And a strong hand clutched the 
 shoulder of the rough fisherman, till it must have been actual 
 pain. ' No need for fierceness^ Captain,' continued Goff, dis- 
 engaging himself. 'It was luck that might have befallen any one. 
 When you put me upon the track, I followed it ; and if I 'd met 
 him that night, we should soon enough have come to an issue. 
 But who was to make me guess his sneaking ways ? You, your- 
 self, said that we might rest content, for that if it was he, he 
 would be back again at Encombe before a week had passed over 
 our. heads. He's in London now: never mind how I found it 
 out, but 'tis true.' 
 
 A long pause followed. Captain Vivian's face was pale with 
 fear and anger.
 
 232 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' It may go hard with us, ii' the old General and he make on,: 
 again,' he said, at length, in a low, deep voice. 
 
 Goff took up his word?. ' Hard with us ? Put them cnci 
 together, and the sooner old ocean roars between us and this 
 part of the world the better.' 
 
 ' He must be kept at bay.' 
 
 ' Easier said than done. It's one thing keeping a man at bay, 
 when of his own accord he takes to the Indies ; and another, 
 wlien he thinks fit to show his face in England. I warn you, 
 Captain, the time's at hand when Encombe Grange may be too 
 hot to hold you.' 
 
 ' You are in for it yourself, too,' was the sharp rejoinder. 
 
 ' Not as principal ; that makes all the difference.' 
 
 'You swore to the handwriting,' said Captain Vivian. 
 
 'And got five hundred pounds for my pains, and little enough 
 for the jeopardy. But it 's you. Captain, that 's to be troubled for. 
 There's none of them will have an eye to me.' 
 
 Captain Vivian leaned his head upon his hand in deep thought, 
 whilst Goff threw himself back in the arm-chair, with the attitude 
 of a man who feels that he has the upper hand in the affair under 
 discussion. 
 
 ' It's best always to look matters full in the face,' he continued, 
 composedly. ' The game is one of chances. First of all, the 
 paper may have been destroyed.' 
 
 Captain Vivian started up. ' May? A hundred to one that it 
 is. The old General was too mad with anger to keep it. It told 
 against his honour.' 
 
 'Then the forgery's safe.' 
 
 ' If I hadn't thought so, do you think I would have set foot in 
 Encombe again ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Goff. ' When more than a dozen years had gone 
 by, and Edward Vivian was in Jamaica, and at daggers drawn 
 with his father; why shouldn't you? If there was danger, why 
 there was safety too. You were at hand to watch, and might start 
 at a moment's notice. You 'd have lost a capital opening for 
 trade if you had let fear come in the way of settling here. No, 
 no ; all that 's been done is well enough ; but things are altered 
 now ; and since we are reckoning chances, we mustn't forget 
 there 's a risk on the other side. The paper may be forthcoming.' 
 
 Captain Vivian's knees trembled, and he sat down. 
 
 ' Let Edward Vivian and his father meet,' continued Goff, 
 'and it's an even chance that vou are done for.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 233 
 
 'If the paper's gone, there's no legal proof,' said Cap.laiu 
 Vivian. 
 
 'And so no mischief!' exclaimed Goff. 'Why, man, you're 
 an idiot. Think of Edward Vivian at the Hall, lord and master, 
 with the grudge rankling in his breast. If he can't have revenge 
 in one way, trust him to have it in another. The story will be 
 blazoned over the country; even your ov.n people will take it up; 
 there '11 be a hundred eyes sp}'ing at you, and Edward Vivian 
 himself set to ruin you, to say nothing of the General. How's 
 ihe trade to go on then ? and what kind of life, think you, we 
 shall lead ? Do as you will, Captain, yourself, you '11 not hnd me 
 sitting down quietly with a foe at my very door. Let him set one 
 foot in the Hall, and I'm off.' 
 
 ' It might be the best plan, anyhow,' said Captain Vivian, 
 thoughtfully. His assent was evidently unacceptable to Goff, 
 who answered with a look of cool contempt. ' And will you 
 please to tell me, then, why you ever came here, since you're to 
 be oft" at the first fright ? ' 
 
 ' I came because it would be a good speculation, and we might 
 make the thing answer. I didn't reckon that Edward Vivian 
 would be back like a ghost from tlie grave.' 
 
 'Well! and hasn't it answered.? Aren't we carrying on as 
 pretty a business as a man might v.ash for ; plenty of hands to 
 help us ; and the place just fitted for it ? I tell you, Captain, if 
 you cut the cable, you'll be swamped.' 
 
 •' Possibly.' 
 
 ' Certainly; as sure as I stand here. There's no hope but to 
 stick by Encombe to the last.' 
 
 ' With a view of Botany Bay beyond.' 
 
 ' Shame on you, Captain. There isn't a fellow belonging to us 
 who wouldn't cry craven if he heard you.' 
 
 • I am only doing what you yourself advised,' was the reply, 
 ' looking the matter fully in the face.' 
 
 'And what's the end of that ? You look your enemy in the 
 face one minute, to knock him down the next.' 
 
 Captain Vivian started. ' I 'vc enough on my hands already,' 
 be said, quickly. ' I '11 have no more.' 
 
 Goff's laugh was one of cold, fierce sarcasm. ' Chicken- 
 hearted ! are ye, Captain ? Yet, I 've known you calculate even 
 to a penny the chance of a man's ruin. But don't be afraid. 
 1 "ll keep your neck safe enough from a halter, though maybe 
 it will be a more difficult matter to keep your hands from fetters.'
 
 234 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Then, as he saw Captain Vivian wince at the suggestion, he 
 added in an undertone, 'A pistol shot would settle it quick 
 enough between me and my enemy any day ; but if you arn't 
 up to that, you '11 surely be thinking of something else. — The 
 boy might help us, but for your marplot Ronald.' 
 
 ' We must be rid of him.' Captain Vivian spoke coldly and 
 sternly. 
 
 ' I told you that long ago. When the Lodge folks came to 
 Encombe, said I, it isn't a fit place for Ronald. Have you 
 warned him, that if you fall he falls too ?' 
 
 * Warned him ! Ronald ?' Captain Vivian's eyes flashed with 
 indignation, and then a sudden paleness overspread his face, 
 and rising, he paced the room in great agitation. 
 
 Goff went on without noticing him. ' It 's not so much the ill 
 will against the son as against the grandson, which will work our 
 way. There 's prejudice enough against Edward Vivian already, 
 and if Clement is thought to be running the same course, why, 
 the thing's done ; and the Hall door shut against them both, let 
 who will say, open. It 's what you and I have said hundreds of 
 times, and acted upon too.' 
 
 'And what's to be done now, then ?' inquired Captain Vivian, 
 moodily ; ' we can't do more than we have to kceiD up the old 
 prejudice.' 
 
 'It must be more than a prejudice for our purpose,' replied 
 Goff. 
 
 ' You are too deep for me, man ; ' but Captain Vivian sat 
 down again as if prepared to listen. 
 
 ' Why, look ye. Suppose we get Clement into the net,' and 
 Gofif laughed mockingly; — 'not a difficult task with the boasting 
 young sparrow, he's close upon it now; — suppose, I say, we 
 make him one of us, set him on a sail to the coast yonder, and 
 to return with our men. A hint to the preventives will put 
 them on the look-out, and not much harm done to us — only the 
 loss of a keg or two if we manage properly. But the skirmish 
 will do our work with the General. He '11 take a vow as deep 
 as when he thought that his son had paid away his money 
 before ever he got into possession of it, and never a step 
 will Clement Vivian, or his father, set in Cleve Hall from that 
 hour.' 
 
 Captain Vivian was thoughtful. ' The plan may do,' he said, 
 ' to cut short Clement's prospects, but not to stop Edward 
 \'ivian's return, and the possibility of our discovery.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 235 
 
 * Why, the one goes with the other !' exclaimed Goff ; 'or if it 
 doesn't, still we have the game in our own hands. Trust me, 
 and I '11 bring the youngster into such a plight, that his father 
 would buy his safety with five times the sum you took from him; 
 and he should too, if I had to deal with him.' 
 
 ' You mean the boy no harm ?' 
 
 'Harm! I'll make him worth twenty-fold what he is now! 
 I '11 show him what work is ; put a little spirit into him ! Why, 
 his father might thank me, if 'twere only for making a man of 
 him. But let there be harm ; you might just think to yourself 
 that you're only squaring matters. If you get Clement on your 
 side, it's clear as a pike-staff to me, that they are getting Ronald 
 on theirs.' 
 
 The insinuation stung Captain Vivian to the quick, and he 
 burst out in a torrent of vehement indignation. Goff allowed his 
 anger to have free scope, every now and then adding fuel to the 
 flame, by recalling circumstances connected with the old enmity 
 between him and Mr A'ivian. 
 
 He had his own purposes to gain in stirring up the rankling 
 spirit of revenge. Years before, he had left Mr Vivian's service 
 on a charge of dishonesty, which, being proved, though not 
 brought forward in a court of justice, had entirely destroyed his 
 character. The feeling of enmity was the first tie between him 
 and Captain Vivian. They had carried out their schemes 
 together, and hitherto successfully. For some years Goff had re- 
 mained with Captain Vivian as his confidential servant, or rather 
 adviser ; afterwards, circumstances had led him again to En- 
 combe, where he entered upon his smuggling life, and at last per- 
 suaded Captain Vivian to join him. The speculation was more 
 profitable to him than to Captain Vivian ; it suited his daring 
 temperament ; and putting aside any personal feeling of ill will, 
 he would have hazarded very much rather than relinquish it. 
 As it was, with the possibility of being discovered as an accom- 
 plice in an act of forgery, and the certainty that, if Mr Vivian 
 were once restored to his father's favour, there would be an 
 enemy at his door, keeping a constant spy upon his proceedings, 
 it was no wonder that Goff's fierce nature should be roused to 
 projects from which the more calculating spirit of Captain Vivian 
 would have naturally turned, as involving risk that might only 
 end in greater ruin. Yet the feeling of revenge for the wrongs 
 of former years was excited without difficulty; and though Goff, 
 if left to himself, would doubtless have provided, if necessary, for
 
 236 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 jiis own safety by shorter and more desperate means ; he was 
 apparently contented now, when he found Captain Vivian wilUng 
 to take part in the project he had proposed, and to discuss the 
 steps by which it was to be accomplished. 
 
 On one point, however, there was no discussion. Ronald was, 
 as soon as possible, to be removed from the scene of action ; and 
 it was determined again to tempt him by the expedition in which 
 he had already refused to join, and which miyht be so arranged 
 as to give him occupation for some time on the opposite coast. 
 Jn his absence, Clement would, as it was supposed, be led without 
 diftlculty into the snares laid for him. By careful arrangement, 
 the means of making terms with Mr Vivian, if he should rcappenr 
 at Encombe, would then be in their own power ; and, at the worst, 
 if every plan should fail, and a reconciliation with the General 
 lead to an inquiry into the past, the possibility of escape was 
 alwavs within their reach. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 CLEMENT VIVIAN did not hurry on his way home, al- 
 though quite conscious that he was late, and that if 
 questions were asked, the answers required might be awkward. 
 He delayed for that very reason ; once in a difriculty, and he 
 seldom had moral courage sufficient to meet it face to face. He 
 had been sent to the Hall, as he had stated, on a message to 
 Ella, and had been met by Goff on his return, and induced, 
 partly by ridicule, partly by the love of adventure, which the 
 smuggler's conversation always aroused, to go considerably out 
 of his way, through by-paths and copses, till coming suddenly 
 upon the Grange, he was taken unawares, and lured into 
 the house, under pretence of waiting only for a moment with 
 Ronald, whilst Goff said a few words in private to Captain 
 Vivian. 
 
 There was not very much to shock a conscience like Clement's 
 in all this. He had done nothing — so he said to himself — which 
 could lead him into mischief; and he had accustomed himself too 
 much, of late, to slight disobediences of a similar kind to be very 
 scrupulous on that point. And yet he was uneasy. There was 
 no exact claim upon him to confess, for no strict law had been
 
 CLEVE HALL. 237 
 
 laid clown, only general advice given ; and if there was Iiarm in 
 Goff's companionship, he could say, honestly, that he had not 
 sought it. Yet something within whispered, that Mr Lester's 
 displeasure would be greater than it had ever been before, if it 
 was known that he had actually gone into the Grange. Hitherto 
 the intercourse between him and Captain Vivian had been con- 
 fined to occasional chance meetings, for it had been a matter of 
 policy not to tempt him to any glaring act of disobedience. 
 Even at the time when he had been most friendly with Ronald, 
 they had always parted company at the shrubbery-gate. Now, 
 the deed was done. He had entered within the charmed walls, 
 and what had he seen ? Nothing, indeed, to tempt him to repeat 
 his visit ; yet nothing which, to his ideas, would be a reason for 
 not doing so. 
 
 Captain Vivian amused himself with dice: but he did not bet, 
 or ask Clement to bet ; on the contrary, from the little that had 
 passed, it seemed as if he rather occupied himself in questions of 
 calculation than of profit : certainly he had upheld Clement in 
 obedience, instead of tempting him to the contrary. A reaction 
 began to spring up in Clement's mind ; a sense of injustice, such as 
 before had made him cling to Ronald. Captain Vivian, he fancied, 
 had been unfairly dealt with ; Mr Lester knew little about him ; 
 his Aunt Bertha was prejudiced. They could not see, as he saw, 
 that Captain Vivian, being Ronald's father, was certain to have 
 oome of Ronald's redeeming qualities. All this, and much more, 
 passed through Clement's mind, with some show of reason. Only 
 one thing might have suggested itself as a reason for doubting 
 the correctness of his conclusions — he could not resolve to mention 
 his visit at home, still less to ]\Ir Lester. Many were the excuses 
 he made ; that it would be causing a fuss about nothing ; exciting 
 groundless suspicion ; that it was no fault, being only the result 
 of accidental circumstances; these, and other equally sophistical 
 arguments, such as are always at hand to tempt us to follow the 
 course we like : yet, ever as Clement repeated them to himself, 
 his own natural honesty of heart reproached him for untruth, 
 and caused him to linger on his way, repeating again the 
 reasoning which the moment before he had imagined was quite 
 conclusive. 
 
 His thoughts were engaged in this manner as he slowly wended 
 his way over the fields, which lay between the Grange and the 
 village, when he perceived in the twilight a figure which he had 
 little difficulty in recognising as that of Ronald Vivian, advancing
 
 238 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 to meet him from a cross-path. He stopped, and Ronald came 
 up with him quite out of breath. 
 
 ' Well, Ronald, what 's the matter now ? what do you want ? * 
 was Clement's first inquiry, spoken rather impatiently, for his 
 spirit was still rebelling against the warning which had, unasked, 
 been given him. 
 
 ' You are going home, aren't you t ' replied Ronald, recovering 
 himself. ' I suppose, if I am travelling the same road, we may 
 as well go together .'' ' 
 
 'To-night? What is your business? Is there anything 
 going on ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing that you 'd care to hear about. I 'm not going far. 
 But you had the start of me, Clement ; I had no notion you 
 were off.' 
 
 ' I stayed longer than I intended as it was,' replied Clement ; 
 * but you are wonderfully anxious for my company to take the 
 trouble to lose your breath at such a rate. Just now I thought 
 you had made up your mind not to remain in the same room 
 with me ; you were out of it as soon as I came in.' 
 
 ' I should have made mischief if I had stayed,' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Mischief ? how ? what ? ' 
 
 ' I 've a tongue in my head, and nine times out of ten it runs 
 away with me ; so I decamped.' 
 
 ' I don't see what there was to make it run away then,' replied 
 Clement. ' No one was going to quarrel that I saw ; I am sure 
 I wasn't.' 
 
 ' I wish you had been. Clement, you 'd best stand at arm's 
 length with my father. There,— -I say it, that would sooner die 
 than have cause to say it, but I must.' 
 
 ' There is never any other way of standing with him,' replied 
 Clement. 'It's little enough that I see of him, and, as you 
 know, this is the first time I ever set my foot within the 
 Grange.' 
 
 * Then let it be the last time.' 
 
 ' It may be, and it may not be ; I don't choose to tie myself 
 down : but I am obliged to you, Ronald, for your hospitality, at 
 least.' 
 
 ' I care nothing for your obligation, one way or the other,' ex- 
 claimed Ronald, impetuously ; ' but once for all, Clement, if you 
 wouldn't rue the day that ever you came to Encombe, you'll 
 keep as far from the Grange as you would from' — and his voice 
 sank — ' the pit of destruction.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 239 
 
 The enger tone of his deep voice struck forcibly, and even 
 awfully, upon Clement's ear, and grasping Ronald by the arm, 
 he said, earnestly : ' Ronald, you didn't talk in that way when 
 first I came here.' 
 
 ' I did not know then that there was any cause. But don't 
 trouble me, Clement, don't ask questions. You are to be off 
 soon, aren't you ? ' 
 
 He tried to speak lightly, but the eftort was unsuccessful, 
 and Clement, passing by the question, returned to the former 
 topic. 
 
 ' It is the way they all talk to me,' he said. ' They are full of 
 mysteries, and I don't choose to put up with them. I am old 
 enough surely to have some judgment of my own. I can tell 
 right from wrong as well as they can ; and if I don't see that 
 things are wrong, why am I to be forced to give them up ? As 
 for your father, he might as well be at Nova Scotia for anything 
 I get from him, whether good or bad ; and if a man doesn't do 
 me any harm, I don't think I have any reason to think he means 
 to do it.' 
 
 ' You '11 argue differently one of these days,' was the reply. 
 
 'Preaching are you ?' and Clement laughed. ' I didn't know 
 that was one of your gifts. I suppose Aunt Bertha has put you 
 up to it ; come, tell me now,' and he laid his hand playfully on 
 Ronald's shoulder, ' hasn't she been setting you to jaw me in 
 this fashion ? ' 
 
 Ronald drew back. 'When you want to know what Miss 
 Campbell says to me, you had better go and ask her. I have 
 said my say.' 
 
 Clement stopped him as he was turning away. ' Answer me 
 one question, Ronald. If you were in my place, shouldn't you 
 do as I do ? ' 
 
 Ronald considered for a moment, and answered firmly, 
 
 *No.' 
 
 ' Then, what should you do?' Clement's tone betrayed con- 
 siderable pique. 
 
 ' I hope I should act the part of a brave man, not of a coward.' 
 
 ' Coward ! ' 
 
 ' Coward,' repeated Ronald, quietly. ' I would have my head 
 cut off, before I would be trusted and betray my trust.' 
 
 'I am not trusted. It is the very tiling I complain of; they 
 do not trust me.' 
 
 ' If you weren't trusted, you would be locked up.'
 
 240 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'You arc mocking. Lock nic up ? As if any one had power 
 to do that ! ' 
 
 * Mr Lester has power at any tune.' 
 
 ' Physical power. Folly ! who thinks of that in those days ?' 
 ' Honour is instead of power, then/ said Ronald; 'and honour 
 would keep me from deceiving him.' 
 
 'Ronald, you would madden a saint!' exclaimed Ckmcnt, 
 ' I tell you I don't deceive him.' 
 
 'Then he knows everything you do. He will hear of your 
 having been at the Grange to-night ?' 
 ' Hear ! if he asks. I wouldn't tell a lie.' 
 ' And I wouldn't act one.' 
 
 ' I don't understand ; you make me angry ; I won't stand it !' 
 exclaimed Clement, in a fretful tone of wounded pride and irrita- 
 tion. ' I vow, if it weren't for old days, I should think you had 
 come just to insult me and give me the opportunity of knocking 
 you down.' 
 
 ' Try, if you will,' replied Ronald, quietly, and perhaps a little 
 contemptuously ; ' I shall not return it.' But he added more 
 quietly, ' Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Clement, by 
 sparring for nothing. You know I don't mean to insult you, as 
 you call it.' 
 
 ' Then, what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Simply to make )-ou get up pluck enough to be honest ; and 
 when you are out u^on parole, not to break it ; and when you do 
 break it, to own it.' 
 
 The ciuestion seemed to strike Clement in a new light. ' I 
 never thought about that sort of thing,' he said. ' I was at school 
 before I came here, and the boys there thought that pluck was 
 to risk getting your own way without being caught.' 
 
 ' I suppose they did. I don't know about school-boys ; I never 
 was at school.' 
 
 ' Then who told you what pluck, and honour, and such things 
 meant ?' 
 
 'My own heart, and' Ronald added in an undertone— 
 
 ' things I was taught when I was a child.' 
 
 'It's all very fine, Ronald!' exclaimed Clement, after a 
 moment's thought ; ' but twenty to one you 've done more wild 
 things in one day than I have done in all my life.' 
 
 Perhaps it was well for Clement that the dim light hid from 
 him the change which passed over Ronald's countenance as the 
 words were said. He might have reproached himself too bitterly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 241 
 
 Yet even without seeing, there was something deeply touching in 
 the changed, humbled, faltering tone of the reply. ' Yes ; oh, 
 yes. Clement, you must never be like me.' 
 
 Clement seized his hand kindly. ' Cheer up, old fellow ! I 'm 
 sure I didn't mean reproach. If you did twenty bad things, I 
 dare say I should have done a hundred. I wasn't thinking a bit 
 of boasting ; I 'm far enough off from that, really.' 
 
 * And I was not told ; I never betrayed trust,' continued 
 Ronald, with something of his former energy. 
 
 ' No, of course you didn't. You are true to the backbone. But 
 I shouldn't like you to think I could do so either.' 
 
 ' You mightn't mean it, but you might do it ; and you will 
 if 
 
 'If what? out with it.' 
 
 ' If you don't tell Mr Lester that you have been at the Grange 
 to-night.' 
 
 * I don't see that. I shall tell if I 'm asked.' 
 ' Honour is in telling without being asked.' 
 
 'Going to confession,' said Clement, with something of a sar- 
 castic laugh. 
 
 ' If it 's necessary.' 
 
 'Yes, if it is ; that's the point. But I '11 think about it.' 
 
 They stopped, as if by mutual consent. Ronald made one 
 more effort. ' Clement, you told me once that you wished we 
 had been brothers ; is the feeling all gone ?' 
 
 ' Gone ! no ; ' and Clement shook his hand affectionately. ' I 
 would wish nothing better than to have you for my brother ; if 
 only you Avouldn't be on one day and off another in the way you 
 are. I can't understand that.' 
 
 'Then, if we are as brothers, give me a brother's confidence, 
 and promise, even if you don't see the necessity, that you will 
 tell Mr Lester where you have been to-night.' 
 
 Clement hesitated, — began to speak, — was silent again, — ana 
 at length, after grasping Ronald's hand violently, ran off, ex- 
 claiming — ' I hate promises ; but I '11 see about it.'
 
 24? CLEVE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 CLEMENT reached home just as tea was being made, after 
 a delay of three quarters of an hour, which had been very 
 trying to the whole party ; and particularly so, as the two chil- 
 dren had, for once, been allowed to sit up for the late tea. His 
 excuse was hasty and incoherent, — that he was kept longer than 
 he had expected at the Hall, and had walked back rather slowly; 
 both statements being true in the letter, though false in the 
 spirit. Fanny, who was the make-peace of the party, found a 
 place for him at the table, and provided him with a plate, but 
 every one else treated him as if he was in disgrace ; and Bertha, 
 especially, not quite understanding how to show her annoyance 
 with one individual, except by making all suffer, sat perfectly 
 silent, except when every now and then she asked in a tone 
 which had a pecuharly melancholy intonation, whether any one 
 wished for more tea. 
 
 Louisa occasionally attempted a little conversation. Quick 
 observation was teaching her tact ; and, besides, there was a 
 love of power innate in her, which made her feel pleasure in the 
 consciousness of taking the lead in any matter however small. 
 
 ' How was Ella, Clement ? ' 
 
 'Oh! pretty well ;' and Clement cut for himself a large slice 
 of bread. 
 
 ' Had she been out to-day ?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I didn't ask her.' 
 
 ' When is she coming home ? ' asked Mrs Campbell. ' I can't 
 let her stay away much longer.' 
 
 * She doesn't want to come home yet, she says, grandmamma.' 
 
 * It must be very pleasant to sit by the fire all day, and read,' 
 observed Fanny, who partook largely of her sister's indolence. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred won't let her do that, I'm sure,' said Louisa. 
 * It 's very bad for Ella not to go out ; she always gets ill if she 
 doesn't take exercise.' 
 
 ' Louisa, my dear, you had better not trouble yourself about 
 what is good, or bad, for Ella,' said Bertha. ' Give me Grand- 
 mamma's cup for some more tea 1 ' 
 
 'Just half a cup, my dear ; not so much sugar, and a little 
 more milk,' said Ivlrs Campbell. 
 
 That was the first attempt at conversation. Bertha poured out 
 the tea ; then put too much sugar, and too little milk ; then too
 
 CLEVE HALL. 243 
 
 much milkj and too little water ; then too much water, and too 
 little tea ; and was rewarded by hearing tlie beverage she had 
 provided pronounced totally undrinkable. A martyr could not 
 have been more touching in her i"esignation. Louisa was aware 
 of the fact ; and, when Aunt Bertha began the concoction a 
 second time, she attempted once more to arouse the dormant 
 energies of the party by a fresh observation. 
 
 'What a heap of letters went to the post to-day! Do you 
 know, Betsey said there was as many as Anne, at the Rectory, 
 could carry.' 
 
 'I don't know who could have written them,' observed Mrs 
 Campbell, with rather a sharp glance at Bertha. ' Writing 
 letters is a great waste of time, unless people have real business 
 to write about.' 
 
 ' There were three of Aunt Bertha's,' said Fanny, who had a 
 remarkable talent for inal-d-propos observations. 
 
 Bertha coloured, and looked annoyed. Lousia came to her 
 rescue : — ' They weren't all ours, though. You know there were 
 Mr Lester's letters, too. I don't know how many there weren't 
 of his ; and Rachel had been writing besides.' 
 
 ' Rachel is a great deal too young to write so many letters,' 
 said Mrs Campbell. 'It is a very bad thing for children ; it 
 teaches them to scribble. I wonder Mr Lester allows it.' 
 
 ' My hand is not spoiled, at any rate, by the number of letters 
 I write,' observed Clement. ' I'm sure I don't get through half- 
 a-dozen in a twelvemonth.' 
 
 'And when you do write, you don't waste many words, or 
 much paper,' said Louisa. 
 
 ' No ; wliy should I ? It's an awful bore anyhow.' 
 
 ' Mr Lester's hand must quite ache,' said Louisa. ' He writes 
 so small, and crowds in such a cj^uantity. I am sure one of the 
 letters to-day looked quite like a book.' 
 
 'Louisa, how could you know?' and Bertha turned to her 
 hurriedly ; whilst even Mrs Campbell gave a glance of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 But Louisa was unabashed. ' I couldn't help knowing,' she 
 said ; ' Anne came with us down the lane, when we were running 
 after you. Aunt Berthn, and she let them fall, and Fanny and I 
 helped to pick them up.' 
 
 ' I think it was seeing Gofif coming round the corner suddenly, 
 that frightened her,' said Fanny. ' She can't bear him.' 
 
 ' He was very civil, though,' observed Louisa. 'He made us
 
 24. J CLEVE HALL. 
 
 such a funny bow, and asked if he should carry the letters for us, 
 because he was going in to Encombc, and he thought he wanted 
 to go to the shore.' 
 
 ' And Anne was very glad he should,' continued Fanny ; 
 
 * because she had so much to do, and it saved her the walk.' 
 
 ' But it wasn't quite right, Aunt Bertha, was it ? ' inquired 
 Louisa, 'When she was told to go, she ought to have gone. I 
 said so, and I made her quite angry.' 
 
 ' And we said that we would ask you to let us go through the 
 village, and put the letters in the post,' continued Fanny, per- 
 ceiving, by the change in her aunt's countenance, that some one 
 had done wrong. 
 
 ' It was very wrong. Anne ought to have known belter,' 
 began Bertha ; when Mrs Campbell interrupted her in a fretful 
 lone : 
 
 ' What is it all about ? I don't understand. What did you do 
 about the letters, my dears ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing at all, grandmamma.' 
 
 ' Then, Bertha, why do you find fault with them ? You are 
 always hard upon them. You ought to inquire before you 
 blame.' 
 
 ' I am not aware that I did blame them,' replied Bertha. 
 
 * Louisa, did Goff take the letters?' She spoke rather anxiously. 
 
 ' I think he did. Aunt Bertha, but I am not sure. Fanny and 
 I ran on before it was settled.' 
 
 * No great harm if he did, that I can see,' observed Clement, 
 moodily ; ' Goff's not likely to lose the letters.' 
 
 'And I shouldn't think he could read tliem,' said Fanny. 
 ' Such a rough, odd man he is.' 
 
 ' For that matter, Fanny,' answered Clement, ' he can read as 
 well "T-s you or L He told me all about the loss of that ship, off 
 the Iris> coast, word for word, nearly as it was in the newspaper. 
 He had reaJ it all.' 
 
 ' That was in *o-day's paper,' said Louisa ; ' Aunt Bertha read 
 it to us. How coidd he hear about it before ?' 
 
 A curious look of confused discomfiture crossed Clement's face ; 
 he answered abruptly , * I didn't say that he had read it before 
 to-day.' 
 
 Bertha appeared to be engaged it putting away the sugar, and 
 locking up the tea-caddy ; b*.it she heard all that passed. 
 
 'You have seen Goff to-da\, then, Clement ?' her sharp, in- 
 quiring look abashed, whilst it maat 'i<*a angry.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 245 
 
 ' Yes ; I have seen him.' And he played with his tea-spoon, 
 whilst his features assumed anair of impenetrable determination^ 
 which Bertha had no difficulty in interpreting. 
 
 ' You saw him this evening, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'And I imagine that was the reason you were at home so_ late.' 
 
 Whatever might have been Bertha's object in her questions, 
 it was manifestly unwise to put them before Mrs Campbell and 
 the children. Clement's countenance became only the more 
 dark, whilst Mrs Campbell, as usual, taking her grandson's part, 
 and forgetting that she had been kept waiting, insisted that it 
 was folly to tease him about where he had been, when he came 
 in in time; and breaking in upon the subject, told Fanny to ring 
 the bell and have the tea-things taken away. 
 
 Bertha went out of the room, and Clement took a book, and 
 sat by the fire ; but his reading was merely a pretence. He was 
 in reality thinking of the difficulty into which he had been brought, 
 and wondering how much of his proceedings he should be obliged 
 to tell. Not more than he could avoid, that was undoubtedly his 
 conclusion, in spite of Ronald's warning. Something he supposed 
 he must say, but he would be guided by circumstances ; a most 
 convenient salve to the conscience, when there is not sufficient 
 moral strength in the character to act upon principle. What he 
 rcnlly intended to do might have been clear to him by the man- 
 ner in which he reverted, in his own mind, to the folly of having 
 mentioned Goff. 
 
 'Louisa, where is your aunt?' inquired Mrs Campbell, as 
 Bertha failed to return at the usual reading time. 
 
 ' I don't know, grandmamma ; I will go and see.' 
 
 Louisa left the room, not so much from obedience as to satisfy 
 her curiosity. She came back almost immediately. ' Betsey says, 
 irrandmamma, that Aunt Bertha put on her bonnet and cloth 
 cloak, and she thinks she has gone up to the Rectory.' 
 
 'Very strange !' was Mrs Campbell's observation. ' I suppose, 
 then, there will be no reading to-night ! ' 
 
 'I will read, grandmamma,' said Clement. He was too un- 
 comfortable to do anything else ; and even when he began to 
 read, betrayed the wandering of his mind by the mistakes which 
 he made.' 
 
 Mrs Campbell was accustomed to Bertha's independent modes 
 of nction, and was not likely to disturb herself as to her absence, 
 so long, at least, as she was amused ; and Clement's voice, after
 
 246 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 a short time, lulkd her into her usual quiet evening doze ; and 
 then Louisa and Fanny went to bed, and Clement prepared some 
 lessons for Mr Lester. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE evening at the Rectory had been more pleasant than at 
 the Lodge. The hour^for tea was earlier, at least, nomi- 
 nally, though Mr Lester's engagements did not always admit 
 of his being punctual. This evening he happened to be very 
 fairly at leisure, and had given Rachel more of his time than he 
 was often able to do. They were very precious hours for 
 Rachel, which were thus snatched from other duties. They 
 tended more to enlarge and form her mind than any which were 
 devoted to regular study. Mr Lester's character was peculiarly 
 simple, notwithstanding the depth of his intellect. He never 
 dogmatised or patronised, even when talking to a child. There 
 was no effort to obtain influence or produce an effect, and so 
 conversation with him, even when touching upon the most 
 abstruse subjects, flowed easily, because no one could feel shy, 
 or be afraid of betraying ignorance, before one who never 
 seemed to lose the consciousness that he himself was but a 
 learner. 
 
 It was this characteristic which had so tended to develop 
 Rachel's intellect. It had been nurtured in a genial atmos- 
 phere, free from the blight of coldness, or the stunting influence 
 of condescension, or the weakness caused by the cultivation of 
 any faculty merely for the purpose of display. She was not 
 quick in acquiring mere knowledge, and had therefore never 
 been considered clever ; and this, perhaps, was rather an advan- 
 tage, since it served to make her like her father, simple-minded 
 and free from self-consciousness. But she had great powers of 
 comprehension, and could grasp a vast idea almost as it seemed 
 by intuition, even when she was unable to follow out the de- 
 tailed evidence by which it was supported. If Mr Lester's 
 mind had been controversial, this alone would not have satisfied 
 him ; if he had found pleasure in reasoning for the sake of con- 
 troversy, or delighted in argument from the love of victory, he 
 would have required a companion who could at times throw
 
 CLEVE HALL. 247 
 
 down the gauntlet against him, and give interest to his re- 
 searches by opposition. But truth alone was his object ; and 
 if all the world could see and recognise truth, he was only so 
 much the better pleased. And it was very pleasant to find a 
 willing listener always ready at his fireside, and to listen to 
 Rachel's remark, and set her difficulties at rest. Intelligent 
 ignorance is most valuable when we are endeavouring to reason 
 correctly. It makes us view our theories from many different 
 points ; and those, peculiarly, which our own preconceived ideas 
 would have been likely to hide from us ; and Mr Lester often 
 learned more from Rachel's humble question. How can that be, 
 papa ? than he would have done from hours of study. 
 
 The danger was lest this kind of abstract speculation should 
 be too absorbing for both. With a less amount of conscientious- 
 ness, it might have rendered them unreal. But Mr Lester's 
 own training had taught him, as a moral caution, the lesson 
 which is sometimes learned to our cost, in another sense, by the 
 bitter experience of life. ' Save me from my friends, I can save 
 myself from my enemies,' would have been translated by him, 
 though in a secondary sense, ' Save me from my virtues, I can 
 save myself from my vices.' His warnings to Rachel were but 
 the expression of those which he gave to himself; and fearful 
 of the enticing nature of such intercourse, he continually 
 checked and limited it, never allowing it to interfere with the 
 slightest practical duty, even when a plausible reason for the 
 indulgence could be brought forward, and always, if possible, 
 deducing, even from the most abtruse theories, some definite 
 conclusion which might operate upon the daily course of life. 
 
 A conversation of this kind had been carried on by the 
 flickering, cheerful firelight ; Mr Lester leaning forward with 
 his arm round Rachel's neck, and Rachel on her low stool, 
 resting her head against his knees. He had been explaining to 
 her the kind of argument used in Bishop Butler's 'Analogy,'— 
 trying to make her comprehend the true strength and goodness 
 which arc to be found in being contented with the faith of pro- 
 bability, rather than the certainty of demonstration ; or rather 
 not so much endeavouring to make her understand, as pouring 
 forth his own ideas, — showing her how the argument had worked 
 upon his own mind. And Rachel was drinking in his words, 
 finding in them, not indeed an answer to the difficulties which 
 her working, thoughtful mind 'iftcn suggested ; but that calm, 
 trusting, enduring principle, based upon the consciousness of
 
 248 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 our own infinite ignorance and God's Almi^'hty Wisdom, which, 
 if \\c think at all, can alone support us through the mysterious 
 scenes of this mortal existence. 
 
 It was not quite agreeable to be recalled from these favourite 
 subjects, and the enjoyment of the hour so rarely free from in- 
 terruption, yet Mr Lester did not even look annoyed when 
 Bertha's knock was heard at the door, and Rachel only said, 'It 
 is over now, papa, thank you so very much/ and kissed him, and 
 moved away before the door opened, that Miss Campbell— for 
 she guessed it could be no one else — might not think she had 
 disturbed them. 
 
 Bertha entered the room slowly, and, after saying that she was 
 afraid she had interrupted them, sat down by the fire. Rachel 
 begged her to take off her bonnet and shawl, but she declined, 
 still in the same unmoved voice which gave no indication as to 
 why she had come, or how long she intended to stay. Mr Lester 
 was used to her, however, and vvent at once to the point. ' Do 
 you wish to see me for anything particular?' 
 
 ' Thank you, I should like to say a few words to you, alone.' 
 
 'Then, Rachel, run and see if the fire is burning in my study; 
 perhaps, we had better go in there.' 
 
 ' I won't keep you long,' said Bertha. 
 
 'The study is the best place for business, whether it be long 
 or short,' said Mr Lester ; and to the study they went. 
 
 Rachel asked for the lamp, and began her evening work for 
 the poor ; her thoughts occupied with all her father had been 
 saying, whilst her fingers moved nimbly. 
 
 'Clement has been with Goff again to-night,' began Bertha at 
 once. She was abrupt upon principle, when business was con- 
 cerned, from an idea that abruptness was a species of honesty. 
 
 ' Has he? when, and how long?' Mr Lester always treated 
 her in her own way, and never offered consolation or sympathy 
 till everything relating to the matter before them had been 
 said. 
 
 ' My mother sent him to the Hall on a message. I did not 
 think it desirable, but she was determined. Clement met Goff 
 coming home, and stayed with him nearly three quarters of an 
 hour beyond his time. At least — no — I can't be sure that he 
 stayed with him all the time, but he was certainly three quarters 
 of an hour behind time.' 
 
 'And what excuse does he make for himself?* 
 
 ' None ; I did not give him the opportunity. Another thing I
 
 CLEVE HALL. 249 
 
 wanted to say. Your servant took the letters to the post to-day, 
 and met Goff, and allowed him to carry them for her. I don't 
 think that is safe.' 
 
 Mr Lester's countenance changed. * Took them, do you say ? 
 Did she let him have them ?' 
 
 * Yes, so the children told me.' 
 
 Mr Lester rang the bell. It was answered by the delinquent 
 
 Anne. 
 
 Bertha turned round upon her sharply ; but Mr Lester spoke 
 very gently, much more gently than when he was addressing 
 Lertha ; 'Anne, you took the letters to the post to-day?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 'Did you put them in yourself?' 
 
 A blush and a hesitation. ' I gave them, sir — ^that is, I took 
 care that they should be put in.' 
 
 ' That is not the point. Did you put them in yourself? ' 
 
 ' No, sir ; but' Anne looked round for help, but there was 
 
 none to be obtained from Bertha. 
 
 ' Don't be frightened, there is no good in excuses. Who did 
 put them in ?' 
 
 Anne's voice trembled, and her tears began to tlow, as if sen- 
 tence against her had been already passed. ' I met Goff, sir, 
 and he was very civil ; and I was so busy ; and I didn't know 
 you would mind.' 
 
 'And you gave them to him ? Did you ever do so before ?' 
 
 'Yes, sir ; I tliink so.' 
 
 'Recollect you must be quite sure. You have given them to 
 him before? ' 
 
 * I can't tell, I don't remember. Please, sir, don't send me 
 away, I will never do so again.' 
 
 ' Foolish girl ! You will be certain of being sent away if you 
 deceive me. Let me know at once how long you have been in 
 the habit of allowing this man to take the letters for you.* 
 
 Mr Lester doubtless intended to be gentle still, but his uneasi- 
 ness and anxiety gave a sternness to his voice, and an impatience 
 to his manner, which effectually frightened poor Anne, and with- 
 out any further attempt at excuse, she poured forth a confession 
 which, though comparatively slight in its evil as regarded her- 
 self, was the cause of the most painful misgivings as to the 
 affairs in which Mr Lester was interested. 
 
 It seemed that Goff had for a long period been endeavouring 
 to make friends willi Anne, always putting himself in her way,
 
 =50 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 talking to her, and from her obtahiing a good deal of information 
 as to the proceedings at the Parsonage and the Lodge. Anne had 
 given her information in the simplicity of her heart, not in the 
 least intending to do harm, not knowing that what she was saying 
 could be of the slightest consequence, but only at first yielding to 
 the love of gossip, and perhaps a little intimidated by the questions 
 of her interrogator, which were generally put in such a way as to 
 give her little choice as to her answers. By degrees, however, he 
 had drawn her into a confidence which she herself saw to be 
 wrong and dangerous, but it was then out of her power, or at 
 least so she thought it, to recede. Whenever she went out, Goff 
 met her, persecuting her with questions, and threatening her 
 mysteriously if she refused to answer them. However she might 
 try to avoid him he was sure to cross her path ; most especially 
 he put himself in her way, as had happened on the present occa- 
 sion, when she was entrusted with the letters for the post, some- 
 times making her show him the directions, and more than once 
 inducing her to give them up to him, Anne's excuse was that 
 she could see no harm ; it did not seem to her that it signified 
 much whether one person or another took them ; and it saved 
 her a walk which she was very glad of, as she had so much to 
 do. Yet she was forced to acknowledge that she never came 
 back without a fear of being scolded, if she was found out, and 
 for that reason had carefully avoided letting her fellow-servant 
 know what she had done. 
 
 It was one of those many instances in which a fault has been 
 committed much greater than has been intended or understood, 
 but for which thei'e is little excuse, since the warning of conscience 
 ought to have been a sufficient safeguard. Anne was dismissed 
 with a severe reprimand, and cried bitterly when she was told 
 that her master had lost his confidence in her ; but Mr Lester's 
 thoughts were at the moment too painfully occupied to per- 
 mit him to dwell long upon her share of the offence ; and 
 as the door closed behind her, he sat down, and, forgetting 
 Bertha's presence, gave way to a train of perplexing considera- 
 tions. 
 
 Bertha remained by him unmoved. She would have waited 
 for an hour without interrupting him, but her patience was not 
 quite so sorely tried. Mr Lester looked up at length, and said, 
 ' We have been utterly outwitted by him.' 
 
 * I hope not,' was Bertha's quiet answer. 
 
 'What hope do you see?' inquired iNIr Lester, quickly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 251 
 
 ' If he had discovered anything, we should have known it be- 
 fore this. At the utmost, he can but suspect.' 
 
 ' I would not trust. He might know everything, and still keep 
 quiet till the last moment. This aftair of the letters, you see, 
 has been g»ing on for some time.' 
 
 ' Yes.' Bertha looked more anxiously grave. ' I will take 
 them myself for the future.' 
 
 ' Or I will ; we can trust no one but ourselves. But I think 
 less of that.' He paused ; then added suddenly, ' What do you 
 say to the time being arrived for the decisive step ? ' 
 
 The colour rushed to Bertha's cheek in a quick glow, and 
 faded away as suddenly. ' O Mr Lester ! do you at last say 
 that .? ' 
 
 ' I see no other alternative. The moment the fact of Vivian's 
 being in England is absolutely known, or even very probably 
 suspected, we are exposed to schemes against which it is impos- 
 sible for us to be on our guard. Goff may have opened our 
 letters or he may not ; at any rate, it is clear he has found out 
 that :]\Ir Bruce is not Mr Bruce, or he would have had no 
 curiosity in the matter.' 
 
 ' And you would have Edward go openly to his father .? ' 
 inquired Bertha. 
 
 * I see nothing else that is to be done.' 
 
 ' But, dear Mr Lester, you speak so despondingly.' 
 
 He hesitated for an instant ; then he said, ' I have seen 
 General Vivian to-day.' 
 
 'And you have sounded him .'^ Why didn't you tell me be- 
 fore ? ' 
 
 ' I sounded him as much as I dared, with regard to Clement ; 
 but he has entrenched himself within a wall of false principles, 
 and there is no reaching him.' 
 
 'And you don't think that Edward's appearance in person will 
 have any effect ? A father ! it must soften him.' 
 
 ' And it may harden him ; he may, I think he will, call it a 
 fresh act of disobedience.' 
 
 Bertha looked discouraged. 'There is no time lo work upon 
 him,' she said, ' as we had hoped, through the children.' 
 
 ' No ; and if there were, I am afraid I should not be very 
 sanguine as to the result.' 
 
 ' General Vivian is too keen-sighted not to see Ella's faults, 
 even if they were less hidden than they are,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' Yes ; and there is the old prejudice.'
 
 252 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' She is a Campbell,' said Bertha, bitterly. ' Little enough 
 the Campbells would have to do with the Vivians, if they could 
 help it.' 
 
 Mr Lester laid his hand kindly upon hers ; yet there was 
 reproof in his tone, as he said, ' I hoped that old feeling had 
 been buried.' 
 
 Bertha coloured. ' General Vivian takes pains to revive it,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' It must be buried, if there is to be any hope of success with 
 v,5. We must trust almost everything to you and Mildred, and 
 you must therefore be friends.' 
 
 Bertha was silent. 
 
 'You will find her anxious to prove herself a friend,' continued 
 Mr Lester, gravely. 
 
 ' She has made no advances,' was the reply, 
 
 * Is that quite a fair judgment ?' replied Mr Lester, 'consider- 
 ing how little she is her own mistress. And surely she has sent 
 vou kind messasres.' 
 
 Bertha's habitual candour conquered her momentary pique. 
 ' 1 dare say Miss Vivian has done all that I ought to expect,' she 
 said : 'but it is very difficult to forget tliat if it had not been for 
 the old family feud, poor Flora must have been received by them, 
 and all that happened afterwards would have been spared. There 
 was no fault in her.' 
 
 ' Miss Vivian feels this as much as you do,' replied Mr Lester ; 
 ' and you on your part must consider that, but for what, no doubt, 
 there was cause to consider an unfortunate attachment to your 
 sister, her only brother might never have been an exile from his 
 home. I don't say this to pain you,' he continued, observing 
 Bertha's face of distress ; ' I only wish to make you view the 
 question from both sides. It may be most essential that there 
 should be no misunderstanding between you and Mildred. You 
 have both something to forget and to forgive, as regards your 
 family histories.' 
 
 ' I will try not to be prejudiced/ said Bertha ; but the tone 
 implied a mental reservation. 
 
 'And you will succeed,' replied Mr Lester, 'if you don't 
 attempt too much. These vague feelings of family dislike are 
 scarcely to be combated like actual faults. We can only accept 
 them, and deal with them as we do with individual character- 
 istics — negatively, that is, rather than positively.' 
 
 ' I don't quite understand,' replied Bertha.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 253 
 
 * What I mean to say is, that we can't actually make ourselves 
 all at once forget them, or feel as if they did not exist, any more 
 than we can suddenly become insensible to certain peculiarities 
 of manner or expression which may offend us ; but we can pre- 
 vent ourselves from allowing them to weigh with us unduly; and 
 it is always in our power to put them aside in action.' 
 
 ' I have never seen Miss Vivian yet,' replied Bertha ; ' so 
 there have been few opportunities for action.' 
 
 ' She would like to see you as soon as you can make it con- 
 venient to go to her ; the sooner now, I think, the better. She 
 is one with us, and has, I think, quite forgotten the concealment 
 of Mr Bruce's identity.' 
 
 Bertha seemed undetermined: and said she could not perceive 
 what good was hkely to accrue from the meeting. 
 
 ' Essential good, if our hopes should fail,' replied Mr Lester. 
 * In that case you will be the only person to keep up any satis- 
 factory.com.munication between Mildred and the children. Poor 
 Vivian will be more cut off than ever.' 
 
 'I am so unfortunate and awkward,' said Bertha. ' I feel that 
 I mar everything I come in contact with. I don't mean it, I am 
 sure,' she added, as tears rose to her eyes. 
 
 Mr Lester answered eagerly : ' No, I am sure you don't. 
 Perhaps, — don't think I am taking a liberty in saying so, — per- 
 haps contact with another mind may throw more light upon 
 your own. Only, I will just remind you, — you mustn't think it 
 necessary to fall in love with Mildred.' 
 
 Bertha smiled in spite of herself. 'Not much fear of that,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' I am not so sure. I really believe that conscientious people, 
 have great difficulty in accepting antipathies, and so they make 
 violent efforts to overcome them, which have just the contrary 
 effect from that desired.' 
 
 ' The antipathies are wrong, of course,' replied Bertha. 
 
 'Their indulgence is wrong, but the feeling may be the result 
 of circumstances beyond our own control, and we are much 
 more likely to be just to persons when we acknowledge to our- 
 selves we have a prejudice against them, than when we try to 
 conceal the fact and persuade ourselves that we are fond of 
 them. But we must leave all that now. I am sure you \\\\\ try 
 to imderstand Miss Vivian, and I hope when I come back from 
 London I shall hear that you have met.' 
 
 ' Arc you going to London ?' inquired Bertha, quickly.
 
 254 CLEVE HALE. 
 
 ' I think I must see Vivian ; l)iit I shall only be absent two or 
 three days.' 
 . 'And he will conic down at once, then?' 
 
 *He will wish to do so, I suspect ; any risk will seem better 
 than the monotonous life he has been leading. But even without 
 this fresh call I think I must have gone to talk to him about 
 ■what is to be done with Clement. The General offers to assist 
 in placing him with a private tutor.' 
 
 Bertha's countenance brightened. ' Oh ! then, he does ac- 
 knowledge it a duty,' 
 
 ' Partly ; I don't mean to be perverse, but I honestly would 
 rather he did not. Persons are so difficult to deal with who go 
 half-way with a duty, and then say good-bye to it. He promised 
 • — let me see — I made a memorandum as to the conversation 
 when I came away.' 
 
 Mr Lester felt for his pocket-book, and in doing so took out 
 his handkerchief, and with it the paper which he had, without 
 knowing it, brought away from the Hall. It fell upon the table, 
 and Bertha took it up. ' Is this it.?' she said. 
 
 ' Thank you, no : I wrote it on a blank leaf.' Without 
 looking at the paper, and supposing it to be a bill, Mr 
 Lester placed it in the pocket of his little book, and then 
 proceeded to read to Bertha the heads of his morning conver- 
 sation. 
 
 'You see,' he said, when he had ended, 'there is little if any 
 hope: the feeling is as strong — stronger perhaps than ever ; and 
 each day that goes by strengthens it, by enlisting pride in sup- 
 port of w^hat seems justice. No, we have now only one alterna- 
 tive, to make a last appeal to the General's feelings, and possibly 
 in doing that we may find the clue to John Vivian's rascality, 
 and so at least place Vivian's conduct in its true light, even if 
 we can do nothing else.' 
 
 ' And if all should fail, Edward must return to Jamaica,' said 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' I trust not that ; he would never stand it : we must make a 
 home for him somewhere ; and with you and Mildred to feci 
 with him we may hope that it may be fairly happy. But that is 
 running on very far ahead, and we must not forget Goff and the 
 present moment.' 
 
 ' I don't see what is to be done about him,' said Bertha. 
 
 'Nothing just now but to watch. O Clement! Clement! 
 the despair it is not to be able to trust him.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 255 
 
 * And he piques himself so upon being honourable, and having 
 the feelings of a gentleman,' said Bertha. 
 
 'Yes, not at all perceiving that the very essence of honour is 
 never to abuse confidence.' 
 
 ' Don't you think it might be as well to see him, and inquire 
 what he has been doing with himself this evening?' asked Bertha. 
 Mr Lester considered a little. ' I hate being suspicious, and 
 the very fact of inquiring so minutely very often suggests deceit. 
 Yet perhaps it may be as well : I will walk with you across the 
 garden, and then I will bring him back.' 
 
 'There is no occasion for that,' answered Bertha, in reply. 
 ' The moon is just up, and it is quite light. Besides, I must stop 
 for one moment at Duff's cottage, to ask for his child. I will 
 send Clement to you ; that will be the best way.' 
 
 ]\Ir Lester demurred, but Bertha was positive, and just in that 
 way which made him feel that he should annoy her if he insisted 
 upon carrying his point. So they said good-bye ; and Bertha 
 walked across the little garden, and Mr Lester returned to his 
 study to wait for Clement. 
 
 One thing could not but strike him, as he recurred to what 
 had passed : the very matter-of-fact way in which all had been 
 said and arranged, not in the least as if great interests were at 
 stake, or there were grounds for unusual uneasiness. Through- 
 out the whole of the conversation Bertha's rather monotonous 
 voice had scarcely been raised above its usual low pitch ; she 
 had seldom laid any peculiar emphasis on her words, or, in fact, 
 in any way betrayed that the topics discussed were of importance 
 to her. 
 
 Accustomed though he was to her, Mr Lester marvelled. 
 Perhaps in his heart he felt pained. It was very difficult to work 
 with such a person, to give or receive the sympathy necessary 
 for support in doubt and difficulty. And then with Mr Vivian 
 and the children ! What was to be the end ? Could they pos- 
 sibly live together? Would Bertha ever really obtain a right 
 influence in her own family ? — Yet the uncomfortable misgiving 
 partially vanished when he remembered how she had given him 
 her hand at parting, and said, very timidly: ' I don't know how 
 to say, thank you, as I ought.' There was something so humble, 
 simple, child-like, and true in her ; such a consciousness of her 
 own deficiencies ! 
 
 That unfortunate early education, — nipping, blighting, as it 
 had been ; what a noble nature it had marred !
 
 2 50 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXT. 
 
 < 1\/TR LESTER wants to see you, Clement.' The words 
 
 -L '^J- broke most uncomfortably upon Clement's slumber, as, 
 having finished his writing, he established himself in an arm- 
 chair, opposite to his grandmother. 
 
 ' Wants to see me, does he ?' and he rubbed his eyes. ' It 's 
 awfully late and cold.' 
 
 ' It won't take you two minutes to run across the garden, and 
 you must not keep him.' 
 
 Clement delayed, and Bertha was obliged to repeat the message. 
 
 'Mr Lester will be very much annoyed, Clement, if you don': 
 make haste.' 
 
 'Going, Aunt Bertha, going.' He went out into the passage, 
 but came back again. 'Where on earth can that girl have put 
 my greatcoat ?' 
 
 'Your greatcoat, Clement, nonsense. It is not a hundred 
 yards to the Rectory.' 
 
 'Enough to feel the cold. Aunt Bertha; I must have my coat.' 
 He rang the bell ; Bertha left the room, called out to the servant 
 not to answer the bell, and went herself to the closet where she 
 knew that the missing coat was to be found. 
 
 Clement looked ashamed. With all his faults he had the feel- 
 ing of a gentleman, ' I beg your pardon, Aunt Bertha ; I really 
 didn't mean to give you the trouble, but that girl is so intoler- 
 ably careless.' 
 
 'And a boy ought to be ashamed to be dependent upon her. 
 She has enough to do without waiting upon you, Clement.' 
 
 ' Tlien I wish she wouldn't meddle with my things at all,' 
 muttered Clement, determined to have the last word. He drew 
 on his coat very slowly. Bertha looked at him with that evi- 
 dent self-control which shows that impatience is on the point of 
 bursting forth. Clement, however, did not see this. Pie 
 buttoned his coat up to the chin, preparing, as it might have 
 seemed, for a walk often miles; and set forth as leisurely as if 
 he had felt quite at his ease. 
 
 He was shown at first into the room where Rachel was sitting 
 at work. A poor man had just come up from the village, having 
 business with Mr Lester ; and a message was therefore sent, 
 begging him to wait. 
 
 Clement's heart sank. 'What are you doing there, Rachel V
 
 CLEVE HALL. 2^7 
 
 lie said, drawing nearer to Rachel's chair, and watching her busy 
 lingers. He said it merely to distract his thoughts. Anything 
 was better than that wretched standing by the fire, waiting fo 
 the door to open again. 
 
 ' Making a warm coat for Barney Wood,' rcphed Rachel. 
 * Won't it be comfortable ? ' and she held it up for him to see. 
 
 Clement looked at it carelessly, and Rachel, a little dis- 
 appointed at receiving no admiration of her performance, re- 
 turned to her work in silence. 
 
 Clement still finding his own meditations uncomfortable, spoke 
 again — ' I thought Barney Wood was worse.' 
 
 'Yes, so he is, a great deal; that is the reason he wants 
 something specially to keep him warm. Who do you think is 
 going to give the coat?' she added, her face brightening with 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' You are, I suppose,' he replied. 
 
 ' Oh no ; I haven't half money enough. I am making it for 
 Ronald to give. It was so kind of him to think of it.' 
 
 ' So odd, you mean,' replied Clement. 
 
 ' Odd ! why?' She turned round quickly, and looked at him 
 with wonder. 
 
 ' It's a queer thing for a fellow like him to think about a child's 
 coat. That 's a woman's business.' 
 
 ' Not to think about it, is it ?' said Rachel. ' It 's a woman's 
 business to make it, and that is why I am working for him. But 
 Ronald is odd, I suppose,' she added, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Have you found that out for the first time to-day, eh, Rachel ?' 
 and Clement laughed a little satirically. 
 
 ' I don't think I ever should find it out myself,' replied Rachel. 
 ' People say Ronald is odd, and so I suppose he is, but he never 
 seems so to me.' 
 
 ' Much experience you must have had of him, little woman,' 
 said Clement, patronisingly, as he patted her on the shoulder. 
 
 Rachel drew back with an air of annoyance. She could not 
 endure familiarity, and answered, rather coldly, that she certainly 
 did not see Ronald often ; but when she did she liked him very 
 much, and thought him very good. 
 
 Clement laughed. 'A doughty champion Ronald will have,' 
 he said, ' when it comes to a fight for his character. But, Rachel, 
 you will have no one else on your side. I don't thmk Ronald's 
 goodness is what the world admires him for.' 
 
 ' He is good, though,' said Rachel, resolutely. 
 
 R
 
 258 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Then he must make you his confidante, and tell you all his 
 virtues,' said Clement. 'You wouldn't discover them your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' I think I should,' said Rachel ; ' I do, indeed, for he never 
 praises himself. That is one thing I like him for.' 
 
 ' Virtue the first ; and what next ?' 
 
 ' He doesn't think about himself,' continued Rachel ; ' I mean 
 he will take any trouble for any one, and he is always civil; and, 
 — I can't tell exactly everything, — but I am sure he is to be 
 trusted.* 
 
 ' Trusted ! yes, I suppose he wouldn't steal.' 
 
 Rachel's eyes kindled. ' I should think not, indeed,' she ex- 
 claimed, laying down her work, and turning to Clement, with a 
 flushed cheek ; ' But it wasn't'that I meant ; being trusted doesn't 
 mean money, but honour. He wouldn't tell a story, or deceive ; 
 or pretend anything that wasn't true ; and he keeps his word. 
 When you look at him you feel that he is to be trusted.' 
 
 Clement bit his lip, and answered coolly — ' No great praise, 
 after all. Most persons speak truth.' 
 
 ' Yes, but it is not speaking truth,' replied Rachel, her musical 
 voice becoming deeply earnest ; ' it is feeling truth. Clement, 
 don't you know what I mean ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps I do, only you express yourself so oddly ; you 
 always do.' 
 
 ' Do I ? I didn't know it ; ' and in a moment she was the 
 humble child receiving a reproof, as she added, ' I will try and 
 be clear, but I don't quite know how.' 
 
 Perhaps Clement had no wish for her definition of truth, for 
 he gave her no encouragement to continue. Yet, in her simpli- 
 city, Rachel did not perceive this, and thinking that he was 
 waiting for her to explain herself, she went on, with a blush on 
 her cheek, and a little hesitation in her voice, — ' I mean that 
 Ronald never seems to be two persons, or to mean two things. 
 When he promises anything, he does it, and when he says he 
 likes anybody, you always see that he really does. Sometimes I 
 have heard him say he dislikes what papa thinks he ought not 
 to dislike, parts of books and such things ; but that doesn't pre- 
 vent his being true. Papa says' — she continued, and she glanced 
 at Clement doubtfully, in the fear that she might be relapsing 
 into odd expressions — ' that truth is formed of two halves, fitting 
 into each other, and making one whole. I am sure Ronald's 
 words and his actions always fit ; and I dare say his heart and
 
 CLEVE HALL. 259 
 
 his words fit too, only I can't tell so much about that, and it is 
 so much more difficult to make them fit' 
 
 ' You are desperately given to metaphysics, Rachel,' said 
 Clement. 
 
 _' Am I ? I only say what papa says. But, Clement, I am sure 
 you know what I mean about Ronald.' 
 
 ' He 's a very good-hearted, honest fellow,' replied Clement ; 
 * but I can't tell how you seem to know so much about him, 
 Rachel.' 
 
 ' He comes to talk to papa about his Latin,' said Rachel, 'and 
 about Barney Wood, too ; and sometimes we have met him when 
 we have been to see Barney. I don't know much about him, 
 really, though.' 
 
 ' And so he means to pay for that wonderful coat you are 
 making ? ' 
 
 * Yes ; he asked Miss Campbell and me to get it; and we went 
 to Cleve, the other day, and chose it.' 
 
 ' Barney Wood is fortunate in having so many persons to look 
 after him,' said Clement, carelessly. 
 
 ' He won't want care very long,' replied Rachel; 'so it is right 
 to make him as comfortable as we can whilst he is here. I can't 
 think how he comes to be such a nice child, when he is Gofif's 
 grandchild.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you hate Gofi", like the rest of the world, do you ?' said 
 Clement. 
 
 ' I don't hate— I don't hate any one ; but I don't like him ; 
 and I know papa thinks he does a great deal of mischief, and I 
 am sure he is afraid that Barney's father is going to be like him.' 
 
 ' And Ronald, too, then,' said Clement, ' as they are always 
 together.' 
 
 He said it merely to tease her; but she could not see this, and 
 fancying him in earnest, she threw down her work, and starting 
 up, exclaimed, ' O Clement ! you don't know anything about 
 Ronald ; you are very unkind to him ; and I used to think you 
 were fond of him,' she added, more gently, but still very re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 ' Perhaps I am just as fond of him as you are, Rachel ; only 1 
 see more of him, and know more of his ways.' 
 
 ' You don't know more than papa does,' continued Rachel, 
 taking up her work, and evidently trying not to speak as if she 
 •was annoyed ; ' and he thinks that if Ronald has good persons 
 ^bout him, he will be a very good man.'
 
 26o CLEVE HALL, 
 
 ' Possil)!y. I wouldn't for the world dispute it ; only I don't 
 see where the people are to come from who arc to make him 
 good. His father won't do much in that way.' 
 
 * I don't know anything scarcely about Captain Vivian/ re- 
 plied Rachel ; ' but I am afraid of him.' 
 
 ' He's a good sort of fellow enough,' was Clement's off-hand 
 reply ; ' only not very pretty company for girls.' 
 
 ' Then I shouldn't think he could be good for boys,' observed 
 Rachel, with a quick glance at Clement, which made him a little 
 angry. 
 
 ' I should be glad, Rachel, if you would decide for yourself, 
 not for me,' he said. ' You can't possibly be a judge.' 
 
 Rachel looked distressed. ' Did I vex you, Clement ? I didn't 
 mean to do it. I only thought that papa is so sorry when you 
 have been with Captain Vivian.' 
 
 ' I can't help being v^^ith him sometimes.' 
 
 ' Can't you really ? Then I suppose it won't do you any 
 harm.' 
 
 The remark was made with such apparent childish simplicity, 
 that Clement began to laugh. 
 
 'Was it anything very odd that I said?' continued Rachel. 
 ' I thought nothing could do us haim which we couldn't help.' 
 
 ' What an absurd child you are ! ' exclaimed Clement. ' You 
 take up one's words as if you were v/eighing them. Can't help, 
 doesn't really mean, can't help.' 
 
 ' Papa won't let me say I can't help a thing,' replied Rachel, 
 ' unless I really can't. He says that people teach themselves 
 self-deceit by their words. And you know, Clement, nothing 
 can be ^\'rong which we really can't help.' 
 
 ' Then I am quite sure I am the most virtuous being in exist- 
 ence,' exclaimed Clement ; ' for I can't help half — no, not three 
 quarters — of the wrong things I do.' 
 
 ' But if we ought to say, I don't try to help it,' persisted 
 Rachel, ' that would be a great mistake.' 
 
 ' I don't read learned books, and study metaphysics, as you do, 
 Rachel,' said Clement, sarcastically. 'And, happily for me! 
 My head would get addled in a month. You arc enough to pei-- 
 plex a saint with your quibbles.' 
 
 'It is no quibble ; and I don't learn it from books, nor from 
 anything,' exclaimed Rachel, her naturally quick temper being 
 roused by the taunt ; 'I learn it from my own heart. When I 
 say I can't help a thing, and I really can help it, it is something
 
 CLEVE HALL. 261 
 
 inside that tells me it is untrue. But' she paused, her tone 
 
 clianged, and she added humbly, ' I ought not to speak out so, 
 Clement ; please forgive me.' 
 
 Clement murmured something in reply, which was scarcely 
 audible. He glanced at the door, feeling, he did not know why, 
 that the interview with Mr Lester would have been more endur- 
 able than this conversation with the open-hearted, true-minded 
 child, whose every word was a reproach to him. 
 
 Rachel fancied she had deeply offended him, and again begged 
 for forgiveness. She knew, she said, that it was her way to speak 
 out, and she did try to keep her temper under ; only not so much 
 as she ought. 'You will forgive me, won"t you, Clement?' she 
 added, in her m.ost pleading voice. 
 
 It must have been a very hard heart that could refuse ; and 
 Clement was naturally good-tempered, and really liked Rachel, 
 only he took pleasure in shocking what he called her matter-of- 
 factness. He pretended to hold out a little, for the purpose of 
 hearing her again beg for pardon in that very sweet, humble 
 tone ; and then suddenly changing and startling her by a laugh, 
 he exclaimed, ' Why, Rachel, you are more silly than I took you 
 to be ! I never said I was angry, did I ?' 
 
 ' I didn't know. I very often do speak out when I ought not,' 
 was the answer ; and there was rather an awkward silence, 
 which perhaps neither of them were sorry to have broken by the 
 entrance of the servant, who summoned Clement to Air Lester's 
 study. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 T T is a marvellous and fearful subject, that of unconscious 
 -*- influence. It might almost paralyse us witli its enormous 
 responsibility, if it were not for the fact, which becomes obvious 
 to any person who studies the formation of character, that the 
 weight of indirect good always in the end preponderates over 
 indirect evil. We advise, and warn, and reprove, and — either 
 from some defect of manner, some deficient mode of expression, 
 or perhaps some latent vanity or temper — we neutralise our own 
 words ; and the person whom we are attempting to lead in the 
 right way, leaves us to follow the wrong ; but, if we are not called 
 upon to give counsel, and yet are in a position to act, each deed
 
 262 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 of self-denial, self-control, thoughtful kindness, — each word or 
 tone which may tend to reveal our secret motives, comes un- 
 marred iVom Him who has enabled us to serve Him, and brings 
 with it a power which is, in its very nature, necessarily victorious 
 over evil. A child brought up by two persons — neither attempt- 
 ing to direct in words, but the one practically earnest and good, 
 and the other practically careless and indifferent, will cling to 
 the former and reject the latter. But a child receiving excellent 
 advice from one person, and very bad advice from another, will, 
 \\\ nine cases out of ten, listen to the bad, and reject the good. 
 Who has not felt the indirect influence of a child's goodness ? 
 Who would not have felt, as Clement did when he left Rachel 
 Lester, that those few unconscious warnings, the result of her 
 own honest, simple, high-minded spirit of truth and obedience, 
 had a power which even impressive eloquence might have failed 
 to exercise? Clement was in a difterent frame of mind, when he 
 appeared before Mr Lester, from that in which he had left the 
 Lodge ; then he had quietly made up his mind to say nothing ; 
 now, on the contrary, he was inclined towards candour and 
 sincerity ; and when Mr Lester addressed him with his usual 
 kindness, and told him he was sorry to have kept him wait- 
 ing, it seemed as if he could at once have acknowledged his 
 offence, and make reparation by promises for the future. But 
 he was still trusting to himself, unaware of the weakness of his 
 own resolution. 
 
 Mr Lester began the conversation cautiously. ' You went to 
 the Hall this evening, Clement?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' And you returned late, and met Goff ?' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 Mr Lester paused, hoping for something besides the mono- 
 syllable ; but Clement's courage was not equal to the confession, 
 without help. 
 
 * Were you with him long ?' 
 
 * I don't know the exact time, sir.' 
 ' Did he foixe himself upon you?' 
 
 ' He came and walked by my side, sir.' A keen pang of con- 
 science, and a recollection of Rachel, and Clement added :•— 
 ' He said he was going my way, and so we went together.' 
 
 Mr Lester's countenance brightened. There was a tone of 
 candour in this which was cheering. He thought that Clement 
 had told all. ' I suppose you came straight home ?' he said.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 263 
 
 ' No, sir ; Ave \vent round by — the fields.' Another pang of 
 conscience, worse than the first. He had almost corrected him- 
 self as before, and added, — by the Grange. But he waited for 
 another question. 
 
 ' Oh, by the fields. I suppose, then, that was what made you 
 so late.' 
 
 Alas for Clement ! the almost right was changed, as so often 
 happens, into quite wrong ; and seizing on the suggested excuse, 
 he replied, — ' It was a good way round — farther than I thought.' 
 
 Something in his countenance and tone struck Mr Lester 
 painfully. ' Clement,' he said, ' you are above suspicion, — I can- 
 not possibly doubt your word ; but if there is anything in this 
 which I ought to know, beyond the fact of your having been 
 with Goft", I trust to your honour to tell me.' 
 
 A minute before Clen"tent would have responded to the appeal, 
 by at once acknowledging his visit ; but the first equivocation, 
 contrary to the voice of conscience, had done its work. He 
 had not spoken out at first, — he was ashamed to confess his 
 evasion, — and so he covered it by another, still intending to say 
 the whole presently. 
 
 ' I don't think anything Goff said could have done me much 
 harm, sir. He talked about the loss of the steamer off the Irish 
 coast, most of the time.' 
 
 ' What he talked about, Clement, is not the question. If he 
 had been giving you the most excellent advice all the time, I 
 should still have objected to your being with him.' 
 
 That was an unfortunate speech for Clement's courage. If 
 ■Mr Lester so strongly objected even to a walk and an innocent 
 conversation, what would he say to the visit to the Grange ! 
 The old excuses suggested themselves again, but the pang of 
 conscience was intensely keen. Rachel's voice and words were 
 ringing in his ears. To resist now would be a more wilful sin. 
 
 Mr Lester seemed considering deeply. Clement stood before 
 him in an agony of weak intention. He delayed ; and there are 
 cases — many and most common — in which delay is all that the 
 tempter requires for his victoiy. 
 
 Presently Mr Lester said, with a slight nervousness of manner, 
 — ' You must know, Clement, some of the reasons which make 
 us all so anxious to prevent your having any intercourse with 
 that man Goff.' 
 
 * I know people say he is a smuggler,' replied Clement. 
 
 Another pause. Mr Lester's tone was still more uneasy, as he
 
 264 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 replied — 'There may be deeper reasons than that,— family 
 reasons ; you have heard of them.' 
 
 ' Family affairs are a mystery to me,' said Clement, shortly. 
 
 * That is not the exact truth, Clement. You do know some- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' I know that my father has been very ill used,' replied Cle- 
 ment ; ' and that we ought all to be much better off than we 
 are.' 
 
 'Possibly,' answered Mr Lester, drily. 'But, Clement' — 
 his voice became deeply earnest and serious — ' your father has 
 been suffering for years from the consequences of that same 
 spirit of wilful independence which will infallibly be your ruin if 
 you yield to it. He was warned against companionship — against 
 Captain Vivian's companionship ; he saw no necessity for the 
 warning, and he would not take it. The result was the loss of 
 home, friends, and fortune — exile for himself, poverty for his 
 children.' 
 
 'My grandfather was unjust!' exclaimed Clement, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 ' Let it be so. Your father erred, and has grievously repented 
 his error.' 
 
 'If he was disinherited unjustly, I don't see what there was to 
 repent of,' replied Clement. 
 
 ' What we suffer, Clement, has nothing to do with the extent 
 of our offence. And there is one truth which I would most 
 earnestly strive to impress upon you. It seems to be one of the 
 marked rules of God's providential government, that seemingly 
 trifling offences should, if committed wilfully and against warning, 
 bring upon us irremediable punishment. One thought of evil 
 admitted into our hearts, by our own choice, will do us more harm 
 than all we are taught by experience, without our choice, as we 
 pass through life. The word or suggestion of sin which Goff or 
 Captain Vivian may bring before you, when you are wilfully 
 seeking their society, or, what is the same thing, wilfully refusing 
 to avoid it, will haunt you to your dying day ; and one weak 
 yielding to a slight temptation to disobedience may be, with 
 you, as it was with your father, ruin for life. It is the first time 
 I have spoken in this way,' continued Mr Lester. ' It is in- 
 tensely painful to me to bring up the remembrance of faults 
 which have been expiated, as far as sorrow and amendment 
 can expiate any guilt ; but your father would be the first to bid 
 me warn you by his example and his sufferings. In his name,
 
 - CLEVE HALL. 265 
 
 Clement, I bid you remember that it is not the amount of our 
 offence, but the wilfulness with which it is committed, which is 
 our sin in the sight of God, and which brings upon us Plis just 
 vengeance.' 
 
 Clement's heart beat very fast ; the words, ' I have done very 
 wrong, sir,' escaped him. He might have added more, but Mr 
 Lester, seizing upon the acknowledgment, — almost the first 
 which he had made without any attempt at excuse, — interrupted 
 him by saying in a lighter tone : — ' It is all I wish, Clement, that 
 }ou should see that these little disobediences are very wrong. 
 I dare say you have excuses for them. I dare say Goff thrusts 
 himself upon you. Very often you may have a difficulty in rid- 
 ding yourself of him. But that ought only to give you the more 
 spirit in resisting. Where would be — I will not say the merit — 
 one ought not perhaps to use the word — but the satisfaction, of 
 victory, if there were no struggle ?' 
 
 The expression was rather an unfortunate one, for Clement's 
 vanity was piqued. He answered hastily, — ' There is not much 
 struggle, sir, I am sure, in getting rid of a fellow like that ; I am 
 not so desperately fond of his company, after all; only he thrusts 
 himself upon me, and I can't shake him off.' 
 
 ' Not can't, Clement ; you can if you will.' 
 
 * He wouldn't go to-night, sir ; I tried several times to take 
 short cuts.' 
 
 Quite true this was, as before, in the letter ; but the excuse 
 had led Clement a long way from the spirit of truth. If he were 
 to say now that he had gone into the Grange, it would seem as 
 if he had spoken an untruth, or at least something approaching 
 to it. Mr Lester looked at his watch, being anxious to close 
 the conversation. ' Well, Clement, I can only say, what I have 
 often said before, that I trust to your honour. I cannot pos- 
 sibly tell how much or how little you put yourself in the way of 
 these men, or whether they only pursue you for their own bad 
 purposes. They have some, you may be sure ; and if they 
 could lead you into serious mischief, their end would be gained ; 
 Ijut in this, as in everything else, your only safety is openness. 
 If you have been betrayed into disobedience, say it. Don't wait 
 till you have been tempted to great sins, but acknowledge the 
 small ones. Of course I believe to-night that Goff tlirust him- 
 self upon you ; that you only walked with him through the 
 fields ; and that he said nothing which I should object to your 
 hearing. I very much disapprove of anything of the kind ; and
 
 266 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 most unquestionably you were wrong in not taking the shortest 
 path. If the thing- should happen again, some stricter pre- 
 cautions must be taken, as it would be evident that you are not 
 lit to be trusted.' 
 
 Clement's heart was very full. He was upon the point — all but 
 upon the point of being candid ; but he hesitated still j a knock 
 at the door was heard — and he was silent. 
 
 So it is : we will not take the right step at the right moment ; 
 when we wish to take it, the opportunity is past. Surely not in 
 vain is it written, 'To everything there is a season, and a time 
 to every purpose under the heavens.' 
 
 Clement went home weak and miserable. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 i T TERE is a note from grandmamma, Aunt Mildred,' said 
 J-T- Ella, entering Miss Vivian's morning-room with a 
 countenance expressive of anything but satisfaction. 
 
 * No bad news in it, I hope ;' and then Mildred, catching the 
 meaning of Ella's face, added, ' She does not want you back 
 again ? ' 
 
 ' She says Aunt Bertha is coming to talk to you about it 
 to-day.' 
 
 It was Mildred's turn to look a little uncomfortable then. 
 This visit of Bertha's had been hanging over her like a night- 
 mare ever since Ella had been with her. Yet she answered 
 cheerfully, ' We must make the room look pretty and comfort- 
 able if Aunt Bertha is coming. I should like her to have a 
 pleasant impression of the Hall.' 
 
 * I am sure she will have one if she is like me,' said Ella, draw- 
 ing her chair nearer to her aunt's sofa. ' But then she is not at 
 all like me, that is the misfortune ;' and she sighed. 
 
 ' Or you are not like her, Ella, and that is the misfortune ; ' 
 and Mildred looked at Ella, and laughed. 
 
 ' Now you wouldn't wish me to be ? Aunt Mildred, you must 
 say it ; you wouldn't be pleased if I were like Aunt Bertha.' 
 
 Mildred considered. * I should be pleased, Ella, I am surey' 
 you were like her in some things.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 267 
 
 ^ Some, yes j of course she is not a monster, she has some good 
 points/ 
 
 ' A very great many, if report says truth.* 
 
 ' Report and Mr Lester,' repUed Ella. * He lauds her to the 
 skies.' 
 
 ' Then she must deserve to be lauded. I don't know any one 
 more unprejudiced than Mr Lester.' 
 
 ' But what is being unprejudiced, Aunt Mildred ? It is one of 
 the words I hear so often, and I never can in the least tell what 
 it means.' 
 
 ' Derivations help one very much in the meaning of words,' 
 replied Mildred. ' Prejudice is prejudgment, judging beforehand ; 
 unprejudiced persons, therefore, don't form their judgment before 
 they are acquainted with facts.' 
 
 ' That scarcely applies to Mr Lester and Aunt Bertha,' ob- 
 served Ella. ' Of course Mr Lester judges according to what he 
 sees ; and so would every one.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Ella. One of the rarest qualities to be 
 met with in this trying world is that of judging according to what 
 a person sees.' 
 
 ' Is it ?' and Ella looked extremely surprised. 
 
 ' I will tell you how people generally form their judgments,' 
 c-T-ntinued Mildred. ' They have their own preconceived notions 
 of right and wrong, possibly correct, possibly incorrect ; but, 
 either way, these notions are their standard, to which they think 
 all ought to submit. When they become acquainted with any 
 individual, they try him by them. If they are religious, they 
 find out whether he holds certain doctrines ; if they are 
 politicians, they test him by his opinions upon some of the 
 questions of the day. They don't look upon his whole char- 
 acter, but without having had time to become acquainted with 
 him thoroughly, they form their judgment, and like or dislike 
 him.' 
 
 ' I am sure that is natural enough,' said Ella. * I can always 
 tell after I have seen persons twice whether I like them.' 
 
 ' No doubt you can : but the mischief is that prejudiced 
 persons allow their private feelings to blind them to facts. I 
 will give you an instance of what I mean. Suppose you were 
 reading a book written by a person you disliked ; if you were 
 prejudiced you would begin with a conviction that the writer 
 lield certain opinions, and instead of taking his words in their 
 natural meaning, you would twist theni to suit your own pre-
 
 268 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 conceived ideas of what he thought. So again, if it were a 
 book which you could not help admiring because it showed 
 great talent, you would leave the beauty and dwell upon some 
 small defects. This is especially common in the case of 
 sermons. If a clergyman does not hold precisely the opinions 
 approved by those who hear him, they will put aside all that is 
 really true and right in what he says, and harp upon what may 
 be defective, till at last one is apt to forget that he really has 
 told one anything from which one might profit. Now all this 
 kind of narrow-mindedness Mr Lester is totally free from. He 
 would give a candid and impartial judgment of his greatest 
 enemy.' 
 
 ' Does that mean Aunt Bertha?' asked Ella, mischievously. 
 Mildred laughed. ' Not quite. He admires Aunt Bertha ex- 
 tremely.' 
 
 ' He hasn't to live with her every day,' said Ella. 
 ' That does make a difference, certainly. He sees enough of 
 her, though, to know what she is really like ; and he is quite aware 
 of her defect of manner ; but it would never make him form a 
 false judgment of her.' 
 
 ' Then you think I am prejudiced, Aunt Mildred?' 
 ' Yes, very.' 
 
 ' Thank you for being honest,' and Ella blushed, and tried to 
 smile, but almost cried. 
 
 ' Prejudice is a most common fault with young people,' con- 
 tinued Mildred ; 'one may almost say it is natural to them. But 
 there is hope for you, Ella, for that very reason. The prejudiced 
 persons whom one really grieves over are the well-meaning people 
 who shut themselves up in their own fancies, and mix only with 
 those who agree with them, and so never give themselves the 
 opportunity of being cured.' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Mildred an advocate for dissipation ! ' exclaimed 
 Ella. 
 
 ' I hope not. Worldly people are just as likely to be prejudiced 
 in their way as religious persons are in theirs. But certainly it 
 does vex one heartily to see the mischief that is done in these days 
 by the prejudices of really kind-hearted people, who yet can see 
 nothing good beyond their own narrow circle. The moment an 
 unhappy individual differs from them on certain points, he may 
 be as earnest, and honest, and self-denying as a saint, but his 
 words and actions are distorted until one begins to think that 
 truth has left the earth. There, Ella,' and Mildred laughed, ' I
 
 CLEVE HALL. 269 
 
 have delivered my testimony, as IMause in " Old Mortality" would 
 say. You didn't think I could get so excited, but if there is one 
 thing in the world I dread more than another, it is prejudice. 
 Perhaps,' and her manner became graver, 'it is because I know 
 that I have a tendency to it.' 
 
 ' If I am prejudiced, I don't know how to find it out,' said 
 Ella. 
 
 '^One can easily test one's self,' replied Mildred. ' You are fond 
 of me, you are not fond of Aunt Bertha. Suppose each of us had 
 done something very noble, or written something very clever, 
 \\hich should you admire the most ?' 
 
 The reply was a hearty kiss. 
 
 ' Thank you for the kiss, dear child, but not thank you for the 
 prejudice.' 
 
 ' Seeing a fault is not curing it, though,' said Ella. 
 
 ' It is the first step towards it. I found out my own prejudice 
 before Mr Lester came, when we had a clergyman whose manner 
 I disliked extremely, but who really was a very good man, and 
 preached excellent sermons. In those days I was not quite such 
 a cripple as I am now ; at least, I was able to go to church oftener. 
 I discovered that, instead of thinking of what the clergyman was 
 saying in church, I was always criticising his unpleasant manner, 
 or some particular expression which I disliked. One day he 
 preached a sermon which my father admired very much, and as 
 usual I cried it down, and seized upon certain sentences which I 
 disliked. The next week I was reading a new volume of ser- 
 mons by a person whom I especially reverenced, and I actually 
 found this very same sermon amongst them. I really was 
 shocked at myself, and from that day I set to work to cure my- 
 self of prejudice.' 
 
 ' I dare say you did it at once,' observed Ella ; ' you could 
 never have had any difficulty in conquering your faults, Aunt 
 Mildred.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Ella ; it has been the work of years. You 
 know I scarcely see any persons except the few living near Clcve 
 and Encombe ; and that kind of life certainly tends to encourage 
 prejudice. However I do try to guard against it.' 
 
 ' But how ? ' inquired Ella. 
 
 * When I am going to meet a person whom I think I shall dis- 
 like, I try to give up any preconceived idea I may have formed 
 of his character, and to judge him only by what actually comes 
 before me.'
 
 270 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' That is so difficult/ said Ella, 
 
 ' Yes ; and for that very reason a rule I have made for myself 
 is never, if I can avoid it, to express an unfavourable opinion of 
 anything said or done by a person whom I don't like, until I 
 have thought the question over twice. If it is impossible to praise 
 I try to be silent.' 
 
 ' But, Aunt Mildred, I do dearly love hearty likes and dislikes. 
 That constant caution is so tame.' 
 
 ' I go with you entirely, Ella. Like or dislike actions or prin- 
 ciples as much as you choose, and I will join with you to your 
 heart's content. But there is no real, honest approval or dis- 
 approval in prejudice. It is a mere petty, narrow-minded, un- 
 charitable giving way to personal feeling, the only thing about it 
 which is not exclusive being that it is common to all sides and 
 all parties.' 
 
 * Good people as well as bad ; then one need not be so ashamed 
 of it,' said Ella. 
 
 ' Prejudice again, Ella, A fault is a fault, whoever is guilty 
 of it. I can't help thinking myself, indeed, that it is all the worse 
 when it is found amongst the good, and I am sure it does more 
 mischief. Truth requires no support from prejudice ; it needs 
 only the faith of those who profess to fight for it.' 
 
 ' Dear Aunt Mildred, you are so tired,' said Ella ; and she 
 looked at her aunt anxiously. 
 
 Mildred smiled. 'That is because I have been talking so 
 much, Ella ; but you don't know what a rare thing it is for me to 
 find any one to whom I can speak out freely, except perhaps. Mi 
 Lester, and I see him so seldom. I lie on my sofa and read in 
 the newspapers what is going on in the world ; all the prejudice, 
 and bitterness, and party-feehng ; till at last I become so in- 
 terested and excited that I feel as if I really could bear my soli- 
 tude no longer ; and sometimes I write it all out, and sometimes I 
 talk it out, and that is what I have done to-day. But it is not wise.' 
 
 ' When I am gone from you, you will be in solitude again,' 
 observed Ella. 
 
 ' Yes, but you must come and see me often ; I feel as if I had 
 learned to know you now.' 
 
 ' To know how bad I am,' replied Ella. 
 
 ' To know how good you may be, rather. Ella, dear, you have 
 done wonders lately.' 
 
 ' Because I have had you to help me and keep me up. I have 
 had sympathy : Aunt Mildred, that is what I require.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 271 
 
 ' What you would like, you mean,' replied Mildred. ' We re- 
 quire only what we have/ 
 
 ' It does not seem so at home,' said Ella, sorrowfully. 
 
 * Is any one of your duties too much for you ? ' inquired 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' Not any one exactly, but all together are.' 
 
 'That can scarcely be. Duties are not like soldiers. We 
 don't confront them in masses, but singly. When two come to- 
 gether, one is forced to yield.' 
 
 ' But it is possible to be wearied with fighting singly,' said 
 Ella. 
 
 ' Ah ! there I grant you is the difficulty, especially with per- 
 sons who are a little inclined to be lazy ;' and Mildred looked at 
 Ella and smiled. ' But, Ella, there is a remedy for that too. To 
 use another simile, indolent people, who have not strength to 
 swallow their disagreeable duties at one dose, should learn to sip 
 them by degrees.' 
 
 * I don't understand what you mean by sipping,' replied Ella. 
 
 * Each day's duty is a drop, and we are never required to take 
 more at a time. However indolent we may be, we can rouse 
 ourselves to swallow the drop ; and if we do this every day, we 
 shall have the victory in the end quite as surely as if we had 
 endeavoured to take the whole at once.' 
 
 ' But persons never can take the whole at once,' replied Ella. 
 ' They can't tell what will be required of them.' 
 
 ' They can rouse themselves to the effort of resolution,' replied 
 Mildred ; 'and if you inquire, you will find that in many cases 
 this is done. When a duty is put before a very energetic, per- 
 severing person, it is generally seized and determined upon at 
 once. I mean in this way : — Take the case of a bad temper. 
 Energy generally goes with it. An energetic person making a 
 humble resolution to strive against ill temper will not always 
 succeed ; yet the resolution once taken, its impetus is sufficient, 
 through God's grace, to carry him on for years. Of course, 
 constant watchfulness, and self-recollection, and, above all, 
 fervent prayer, are necessary ; — but once let it be determined 
 that the evil shall be subdued, and, humanly speaking, it is sub- 
 dued. The resolution made cannot be shaken. So it is with 
 bad habits, evil company ; one earnest exertion of the will, in 
 dependence upon God's help, and the victory is gained for life. 
 This I call being able to swallow the duties of a life at once ; 
 and a great advantage it is : only, when we arc inclined to envy
 
 272 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 it, M'c must rcnicmbcr that special dangers go with special 
 blessings. There is a risk of self-reliance in this strength of 
 purpose. It requires great watchfulness not to be led to rest on 
 ourselves, when we find that what we resolve to do wc can do.' 
 
 ' It must make it much more easy to be good, though,' said 
 ElLi. 
 
 * Perhaps so, in some ways ; but indolence is not so very difli- 
 cult to cure if it is properly dealt with. What I meant in your 
 case by sipping your duties was, that you should not try to make 
 the strong resolution I have named to subdue a fault at once. 
 Resolve for one or two days, or for a week, and learn to leave the 
 rest to God. Don't ever allow yourself to think of what it will 
 be to continue striving for your whole life. Our Lord's warning 
 about earthly anxieties is equally applicable to spiritual ones — 
 " Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." You must remem- 
 ber that to discipline ourselves properly, it is necessary to accept 
 our characters as they arc, not to deal with them as if they were 
 what they are not. A very indolent and changeable person 
 cannot possibly make the strong resolution which will carry him 
 through life ; but a continuous determination v/ill do the same 
 work as a strong one. And it is a great point, Ella, to keep our- 
 selves from being disheartened. Half our task would be done, if 
 we were sure of success.' 
 
 Tears gathered in Ella's eyes, and, resting her arm upon 
 Mildred's pillow, she said, ' I have more cause to be dis- 
 heartened than any one, for I have made so many resolutions, 
 and strong ones too.' 
 
 ' Excitable resolutions, you mean, dear Ella,' replied Mildred. 
 ' There is a vast difference between strength and excitement.' 
 
 * I don't feel the difference.' 
 
 ' Strength is cjuietncss, calmness ; the power to foresee diffi- 
 culties without shrinking from them. It is the effect of reason 
 rather than of feeling ; and where it exists, it is accompanied by 
 a certain consciousness of power granted by God, which is, in 
 ^he warfare of the soul, what the courage of the soldier is who 
 has never been known to retreat in battle.' 
 
 ' Oh ! if I did but possess it ! ' exclaimed Ella. 
 
 ' It is nature, not grace,' replied Mildred ; ' and grace can 
 make up for all the deficiencies of nature. Only wi must re- 
 member that grace will not destroy nature, — it wiii but guide it. 
 Once more, dear Ella, I would entreat you to deal with yourself 
 wisely ; and whatever resolutions you may make, let them be for
 
 CLEVE HALL. 273 
 
 a day, a week, or at the very utmost a month, and then renewed* 
 So, through God's mercy, we may trust that you will have that 
 prestige of victory which carries us half-way towards our next 
 success.' 
 
 ' And I must go home to-day and begin,' said Ella, mournfully. 
 
 ' I hope not. ]\Iy father would like to keep you here ; and I 
 think your grandmamma will wish to please him.' 
 
 'It is not grandmamma, it is Aunt Bertha,' said Ella; and 
 then, seeing Mildred look a little grave, she added, 'Aunt 
 Bertha thinks I am only a trouble here ; but it is not quite that, 
 is it?' 
 
 * Not since you have taken to reading out to grandpapa at 
 night, certainly,' said Mildred, kindly. 
 
 ' And he let me Vv-alk with him yesterday,' continued Ella ; 
 ' and we got on beautifully till he fancied, I am sure, that he saw 
 Captain Vivian talking to Clement, and then he turned away, 
 and scarcely spoke again. I found afterwards that it was not 
 Captain \"ivian, but I didn't venture to tell him so ; was I 
 right?' 
 
 ' Perhaps so. I can scarcely tell. It depends so much upon 
 the mood he is in.' 
 
 Ella looked thoughtful. 'Aunt Mildred, there are some ques- 
 tions I should like veiy much to ask you, only I am afraid you 
 wouldn't like them.' 
 
 ' Then don't ask them,' replied Mildred, a httle quickly, but 
 checking herself, directly, she added, ' Doubtful questions are 
 always better avoided, unless there is some good to be obtained 
 by them.' 
 
 Ella was evidently rather disappointed. 
 
 ' You shall have them all answered some day, dear Ella, but I 
 doubt if this is the time.' 
 
 ' There would be no opportunity, if it was the time,' said Ella, 
 as she went to the door. ' I am sure I heard the hall-bell. It 
 must be Aunt Bertha.' 
 
 She went a few steps into the passage without remarking how 
 very pale Mildred looked, or in the least guessing her feelings. 
 For herself, there v,-as some excitement in the idea of doing the 
 honours of the Hall, in spite of the little pleasure she had in 
 seeing her aunt. 
 
 Ella was right ; it was Bertha, and she ran up to her quickly. 
 Bertha's manner was kind, but extremely nervous ; and her first 
 question was, whether General Vivian was at home ? 
 
 S
 
 274 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' No ; it is his hour for going into the pnrk ; he won't be in 
 for anotlicr half-hour or more. How are they all at home, Aunt 
 Bertha?' 
 
 ' Pretty well ; tolerable. You are quite sure General Vivian 
 is gone out?' 
 
 * Oh yes ; grandpapa is in the park, isn't he. Greaves?' and 
 Ella turned to the gray-headed butler, who was the General's 
 confidential servant. 
 
 ' The General went out about ten minutes since, ma'am. He 
 will return to hmcheon at one.' 
 
 'And you will stay to luncheon. Aunt Bertha? I don't think 
 you have ever seen the dining-room, have you ? It is such a 
 beautiful room.' 
 
 Twenty years before, Bertha had once been in that room, on 
 the occasion of a public meeting, the first at which she had ever 
 been present. It was a dream of awful grandeur to her, — one of 
 the most impressive of her youthful recollections ; and she could 
 recall the stately courtesy of the General, — the polished civility 
 of his manner, giving that undefinable impression of dislike which 
 can neither be reasoned against nor overcome ; and Edward 
 Vivian, — young, handsome, full of hope and energy, distinguish- 
 ing himself by a speech of considerable talent, — and Flora 
 listening with her head bent down, but with a rapt attention, 
 which had been the first thing that awakened in Bertha's mind 
 the perception of her attachment. Yes, they were memorable 
 associations connected with the great dining-room at Cleve Hall. 
 Bertha had no wish to disturb them by the sight of the stern old 
 man, — the martyr to his own principle, — sitting alone in his proud 
 consciousness of rectitude, amidst the ruins of happiness which 
 himself had caused ; and she hurried on with her eyes dizzy, her 
 memory full of shadowy images, and scarcely conscious whether 
 she was walking in dream or in reality, until she found herself at 
 the door of Mildred's apartment. 
 
 Ella threw it open eagerly. She was amused and excited, and 
 her eyes were bright with animation, — a strange contrast to the 
 cold and self- restrained, yet somewhat furtive glance which 
 Bertha cast around her, as, for the first time, since the events 
 which had shed a gloom over both their lives, she stood face to 
 face with Mildred Vivian. 
 
 'Ella, dear, draw the easy-chair near for your aunt. I am 
 such a cripple, Miss Campbell, that it is difficult to move ; but 
 I can give a welcome still;' and Mildred held out her hand,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ^75 
 
 and the rebellious tears which rose to dim her eyes were kept 
 back by a strong effort, as she added, with a winning smile, ' I 
 think I ought to quarrel with you for not having come to see me 
 before.' 
 
 ' I fancied you seldom received visitors,' was Bertha's reply, 
 uttered with a quietness and precision which even Mildred's 
 quick perception could not have discovered to be a cloak for 
 painful feelings. 
 
 ' Not very often ; we have so few neighbours ; but,' — Mildred 
 was a little confused by Bertha's composed gaze, and rather 
 hesitated, as she added, * I hoped that Ella's being here might 
 have proved an inducement ; but it is rather a long walk.' 
 
 ' I am a very good walker/ replied Bertha, not accepting the 
 excuse. ' It is scarcely more than a mile and three quarters by 
 the cliff.' 
 
 ' Oh, you came that way, did you?' Mildred's voice showed 
 her relief at having reached an easy topic : ' the wind must have 
 been rather high.' 
 
 ' Rather ; but it was deliciously fresh, Ella, shall you mind 
 returning that way ? ' 
 
 ' Return, must I ? O Aunt Bertha ! ' 
 
 ' Grandmamma thinks you have had rather a long holiday,' 
 continued Bertha. 
 
 < But I have not been at all idle, have I, Aunt Mildred ? 
 especially the last week. I have worked much more regularly 
 than at home.' 
 
 ' If Mrs Campbell could spare her a little longer, I think my 
 father would be pleased,' said Mildred. ' She reads to him in 
 the evening, and I think he will miss her.' 
 
 Bertha's face lighted up in an instant. ' Of course,' she said, 
 ' if General Vivian wishes her to remain, it would cause a dif- 
 ference.' 
 
 ' And she has been walking with him, lately,' continued Mil- 
 dred ; 'making herself much more useful than I can. I am only 
 afraid,' she added, with an air of interest, 'that her absence will 
 throw a burden upon you with the little ones. I wish I was near 
 enough to help you.' 
 
 With any other person the wish might have seemed only matter 
 of civility ; but there was an innate truth in Mildred's manner 
 which made it impossible to take what she said for mere words. 
 Bertha's ' Thank you,' was cordial. 
 
 ' Ella tells me that you give her a great deal of assistance al-
 
 276 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ways with the children,' continued Mildred. 'That must be 
 rather troublesome, when Mrs Campbell is such an invalid.' 
 
 ' Aunt Mildred tells me I am not to let you help me any more.' 
 said Ella, bluntly. 'And if I were to go home now, perhaps I 
 .should be good and do it all myself quite properly. I have made 
 a number of resolutions.' 
 
 Bertha's face was graver than the speech required, and Mildred, 
 fearing a lecture, said lightly, 'Aunt Bertha will think with me, 
 perhaps, Ella, that good deeds are worth more than good resolu- 
 tions ; however, I give you credit for both here.' 
 
 ' I have had experience of Ella's good resolutions,' said Bcrtlia, 
 coldly ; 'but I am glad she has improved in any way.' 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, tests humility more than being told one is 
 improved. Ella had not yet reached the degree of lowliness 
 which would permit her to hear it with patience, and she said 
 angrily, ' I know, Aunt Bertha, you are not likely to give me a 
 character for improvement.' 
 
 A very gentle sigh escaped Mildred ; Ella heard it and went 
 up to her : 'You are vexed with me, Aunt Mildred. I ought not 
 to speak out so ; but Aunt Bertha never gives me much credit 
 for anything.' 
 
 ' I dare say she gives you as much as you deserve, and perhaps 
 a great deal more,' said Mildred, smiling. 'But suppose you 
 take your books up-stairs now, if you really are not going home, 
 and leave Aunt Bertha and myself to talk a little together, we 
 shall find a good many things to say which will not exactly con- 
 cern you.' 
 
 The bright, loving face was very inviting for a kiss, and Ella 
 gave one, and said, in a half whisper, that she did not think she 
 left her character in very good hands, and then departed; whilst 
 Bertha sat in silent astonishment at the ready obedience to a re- 
 quest which, if she had made it herself, would have been followed 
 by the moodiness of hours. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WHEN Ella was gone, Bertha's manner was much changed. 
 It was as though she felt more at ease with herself, and 
 had lost the unpleasant consciousness that her acts were watched
 
 CLEVE HALL. 277 
 
 and commented upon. Mildred, on the contrary, was more awk- 
 ward. It might have seemed that she had topics to bring for- 
 ward which she was studying how to introduce. She made an 
 observation upon Ella's unusual height, and then paused for an 
 answer, which was given her by Bertha's walking up to the sofa, 
 and placing a note before her saying, ' Mr Lester begged me to 
 give you this : he is gone to London.' Mildred's speaking 
 countenance in a moment betrayed her feelings whilst she read 
 the note ; her face was of an ashy paleness ; v/hcn it was ended, 
 she laid it down gently, and said, raising her eyes steadily to 
 Bertha's, ' Then the hour is come for action ?' 
 
 ' yix Lester thinks so,' v/as Bertha's reply. 
 
 ^Mildred said in a low voice, 'Thank God !' and there was a 
 pause. 
 
 ' Suspicion is the worst of all evils,' observed Bertha. 
 
 JMildred appeared scarcely to hear her, and only answered, 
 ' Mr Lester tells me you will give me details.' 
 
 Bertha drev/ her chair nearer ; it was an involuntary move- 
 ment of sympathy. Mildred noticed it. ' We have one feeling,' 
 she said. 
 
 'Yes, I hope so. O Miss Vivian ! how will it end ?' 
 
 ' Not Miss Vivian — Mildred, if you will — we have so many 
 interests in common.' She took Bertha's hand affectionately. 
 
 That little movement ! — Bertha could never have made it 
 herself, — but it touched the secret chord of cherished and hidden 
 feelings ; she forgot that Mildred was a Vivian as she answered, 
 ' I always hear you called Mildred, but few call me Bertha.' 
 
 'May I be one of the few? It would seem most natural, for 
 Edward calls you so.' 
 
 ' It is strange that he should, — your brother.' 
 
 ' Why strange ! where would his comfort, his hope, his chil- 
 dren have been without you ? I have so often longed to thank 
 you.' 
 
 ' I have only done my duty,' replied Bertha. 
 
 *But none can do more. He must thank you himself. He 
 does deeply, heartily ; but perhaps he has never found words to 
 say it rightly.' 
 
 ' He has other things to think of than gratitude now,' replied 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' He ought not to have. Yet perhaps we must forgive him if 
 he is engrossed. Is this determination his own ? ' 
 
 ' Xo ; Mr Lester's. He thinks that concealment is no longer
 
 278 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 safe. Goff has been making friends with one of the servants nt 
 the Rectory : taking the letters to the post j and we suspect 
 prying into them. We can't tell how much he knows, but some- 
 thing, we are nearly sure, he has discovered.' 
 
 Mildrsd was silent ; but her hand shook tremulously. 
 
 Bertha went on. 'We only found this out yesterday. Mr 
 Lester had no time to write, except those few lines. He left me 
 to tell you all. He has no settled plan yet ; he says he can't 
 form any till he has seen Edward ; then he means to write to 
 you, and' 
 
 'And what ?' Mildred regarded her anxiously. 
 
 * He must trust to you to prepare General Vivian's mind for 
 
 the knowledge that Edward is in England, unless it struck 
 
 me whether it might be better that they should meet without 
 preparation.' 
 
 ' No, never ! ' Mildred started up. ' I beg your pardon ; I 
 did not mean to be so hasty ; but it might be his death.' 
 
 Bertha's colour rose, and she looked much distressed. 
 
 ' I know it has been Mr Lester's notion,' continued Mildred ; 
 * and it might have answered last year, but my father appears 
 very much shaken within the last few months. We might ruin 
 all by such incautiousness. No one knows him,' she added, her 
 voice sinking. ' Mr Lester thinks him hard ; he is hard exter- 
 nally ; hard in his own eyes ; but he is a father still.' 
 
 ' But there must be no delay,' said Bertha, with something of 
 her former coldness and determination. 
 
 Milch-ed shrank a little fi'om her manner ; but the feeling was 
 scarcely perceptible in her tone, as she replied, ' No, indeed ; if 
 there is danger for Edward, how could there be delay?' Yet 
 she spoke doubtfully, perhaps unwilling to comprehend the possi- 
 bility of danger. 
 
 ' Mr Lester thinks that both Captain Vivian and Goff have 
 reasons for being your brother's deadly enemies,' continued 
 Bertha. 
 
 *I know it. There is a mystery; but my father has never 
 allowed me to approach the subject. He has never mentioned 
 Edward's name since — since that fatal day.' 
 
 * If they are his enemies, there must be danger,' continued 
 Bertha ; ' they are both desperate men.' 
 
 Mildred clasped her hands in silent prayer. 'The God who 
 has protected him hitherto will protect him still,' she said. ' But 
 I wish I could have seen Mr Lester himself.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 279 
 
 * He felt it better not to wait,' replied Bertha. 'It was only 
 yesterday we discovered what Goff had been doing. Of course 
 there was a motive for his interference. Perhaps it was unwise 
 to send our letters as we did, but we had not calculated on any 
 risk. It seemed only natural that Mr Lester should write to Mr 
 Bruce, and your letters and mine were always enclosed in his. 
 Mr Lester said it was best to go to London immediately, for he 
 could not trust to any more letters.' 
 
 Mildred remained silent for some seconds, as if forming some 
 inward resolution ; then she looked up at Bertha, and said, ' You 
 will think of me, and pray for me : none can tell the effort it 
 will be to speak to my father.' 
 
 Bertha's softer feelings were touched ; and she answered 
 gently and kindly, ' God's help is always with those who live for 
 the happiness of others.' 
 
 ' I hope so ; if one does live for that purpose. Yet I have 
 never been able to make my father happy.' 
 
 ' General Vivian does not give me the idea of an unhappy 
 man,' said Bertha, with a bluntness which was somewhat pain- 
 ful. 
 
 ' Possibly not. I have heard it said before ; but, Bertha'— 
 the name was spoken in a tone of apology — 'must one not live 
 with persons daily before one can venture to judge of that deep 
 question of happiness ? ' 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' Bertha spoke eagerly ; ' I know none can judge.' 
 
 'Not the nearest and dearest, at times,' continued Mildred; 
 ' still less those who only see others as the world has seen my 
 father — in public meetings and formal society. It has been his 
 pride to appear happy, and he has succeeded with all but me.' 
 
 'And Mr Lester and Mrs Robinson,' observed Bertha. 'They 
 have always said that he was a crushed and broken-hearted 
 man.' 
 
 ' The wound which God makes, God will and can heal,' said 
 Mildred. 'There is no healing for that which we open for 
 ourselves.' She dashed away a tear from her eyes, as she 
 added, in a low voice, ' My poor father ! his sorrow is greater 
 than Edward's.' 
 
 ' It would scarcely seem so to those who look upon them,' 
 observed Bertha. 
 
 'Ah! I forgot,' and Mildred's face became suddenly ani- 
 mated ; ' you have seen Edward. Is he changed ? Does he 
 look very old— older than I do ?' and she smiled, and then, in a
 
 28o CLEVE HALL. 
 
 sadder tone, added, ' Perhaps we may not recognise each 
 other.' 
 
 ' He does not look like General Vivian's son,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' Then he is changed, — he was so like ! See ! ' she unclasped 
 her locket ; ' should you have known it ?' 
 
 ' I should have remembered it,' replied Bertha, regarding the 
 miniature closely. The allusion was painful, — for an instant it 
 carried both back to the days when they had met as strangers, 
 liaving a mutual antipathy : and when the first thought of a near 
 connection had been the death-knell of their happiness. 
 
 Bertha was the first to speak again. ' Ella is like it,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, very ; much more so than Clement, though they are 
 twins.' 
 
 ' There is such talent in it,' said Bertha, still looking at the 
 miniature. 
 
 ' Yes, but Ella will surpass both her father and her brother in 
 that. She is wonderfully clever.' 
 
 ' Talent thrown away,' said Bertha, shortly. 
 
 Her tone was like the opening of a closed door to Mildred, it 
 revealed such intricacies of feeling. 'Is it thrown away .'" she 
 asked, with some hesitation. 
 
 ' It may not be yet, but it will be. It produces no fruits.' 
 
 ' It wants culture,' observed Mildred. 
 
 ' A great deal has been given her, but it is useless.' 
 
 ' She seems young to say so.' 
 
 ' Yes, if she were not so clever.' 
 
 ' But disproportionate talent becomes awkwardness,' con- 
 tinued Mildred. 
 
 ' That didn't strike me before. I don't know now that I can 
 tell what it means.' 
 
 Mildred waited for a moment. An effort was needed for the 
 reply, which at the moment she could scarcely make. Yet she 
 conquered her reluctance, and turning from the subject of all- 
 engrossing interest, answered in a tone as unconcerned as 
 Bertha's: 'Moral powers and mental powers take different 
 times for growth, I imagine. Mental powers appear to spring 
 up rapidly, whilst moral powers require a lifetime to come to 
 anything like maturity. So one is continually struck with a 
 sense of disproportion between talent and goodness, and then 
 comes disappointment.' 
 
 ' Certainly, I don't know a more disappointing person than 
 Ella,' observed Bertha, in the same cold tone.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 2S1 
 
 * I think she is very disappointing till one begins to under- 
 stand her,' 
 
 ' Understanding doesn't help me,' observed Bertha, 
 
 ' Doesn't it ? I should have thought it would have kept you 
 from expecting too much.' 
 
 ' But how can you help expecting a great deal from a person 
 who can talk and reason like a woman of thirty when she is only 
 sixteen, and can acquire more knowledge in a day than others 
 can in months or years ?' 
 
 ' According to my theory, this is only intellectual growth,' 
 said Mildred, ' and therefore must not be depended upon for 
 action.' 
 
 ' But it ought to be power,' s.aid Bertha. 
 
 ' Scarcely, — I should say indeed that it tends rather to weak- 
 ness, like any other want of proportion.' 
 
 Bertha looked doubtful, and again Mildred was obliged to 
 urge herself to continue the conversation by remembering that 
 it might be long before a like opportunity would recur. 
 
 ' I confess to having a theory about proportion, very vague, 
 and perhaps very unfounded, — but one must think of something 
 when one is obliged to spend hours alone upon a sofa; — an idea, 
 it is, that the principles of all beauty, both physical and moral, 
 are to be found in proportion, — that perfect beauty is nothing 
 more than perfect proportion, — and that perfect goodness is the 
 same. But all that is very dreamy, and not much to the pur- 
 pose ; only I think one can see as one goes on in life, that the 
 characters which leave the most lasting impress upon the world 
 are those in which the mental and moral powers are the most 
 equally balanced. So I fancy, if I had the management of a 
 child, that is what I should the most strive to attain.' 
 
 'And if you had the management of Ella, what should you do?' 
 
 ' I can scarcely tell till I have seen what she is at home.' 
 
 ' But you can form some idea ; what is it you think she 
 wants ? ' 
 
 ' Sunshine,' said Mildred, smiling ; and seeing that Bertha 
 looked a little annoyed at not receiving a clearer answer, she 
 continued, 'Ella's intellectual growth seems to have been so 
 rapid as to cast a shade over her moral growth, if one may so 
 speak. Perhaps, therefore, she wants hope, encouragement, 
 cheerful sympathy, and patience, to expand and foster her better 
 feelings. She is morbid now, and wayward, and has a great 
 tendency to unreality.'
 
 282 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * She is very unreal,' observed Bertha. 
 
 ' Would she be if she understood herself?' inquired Mildrei 
 * She deceives herself now because she fancies that talking of 
 goodness, which is an effort of the mind, is the same thing as 
 carrying it out in practice, which is the work of the heart. But 
 I think she is beginning to open her eyes to the vast difference ; 
 when she sees it clearly, the danger I should fear would be 
 despair.' 
 
 ' She does have fits of despondency now,' observed Bertha. 
 
 'And I suppose then the right thing would be to give her 
 encouragement,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' It is so difficult, when she is continually vexing and disap- 
 pointing one,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' Still, without encouragement — without sunshine,— how can 
 there be any growth?' asked Mildred, gently. 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose you are right. I dare say I manage her very 
 badly.' 
 
 ' She must be exceedingly trying, — especially to a person who 
 has fixed principles of right, and always acts upon them.' 
 
 ' Not always,' said Bertha, quickly ; ' very seldom.' 
 
 Mildred smiled. ' Perhaps others can judge for us better than 
 we can of ourselves on such points.' 
 
 ' I know we ought to give sympathy,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' Yes, because one receives it ; and what should one be with- 
 out it ? ' 
 
 A shade of sorrowful thought crossed Bertha's face. She said 
 abruptly, ' Can people acquire sympathy?' 
 
 ' I think — I hope so. Most of us have very little of it by nature.' 
 
 ' I have none.' 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed, indeed ! ' Mildred raised herself up eagerly ; 
 ' If you had not sympathy, how could you have done what you 
 have ! And Ivlr Lester tells me of others who are indebted to 
 you. Ronald Vivian, for instance.' 
 
 ' That is from circumstances,' replied Bertha, her changing 
 voice showing the quickness of her feelings. 
 
 ' But if we have sympathy in any one case, it proves that we 
 have the power within us, only we may not know how to exercise 
 it.' 
 
 ' Then it is useless.' 
 
 ' Yes, till we teach ourselves better.' 
 
 ' That is the question. I don't think we can teach ourselves ; 
 it is a feeling.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 283 
 
 * But we make ourselves feel by action.' 
 
 ' I don't know that. I can't act well without feeling at all.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you don't understand yourself,' said Mildred. ' I am 
 sure you feel a great deal more than you know.' 
 
 ' Whatever sympathy I may have, it is not enough for the 
 children,' said Bertha, 
 
 ' It may be their fault in a great degree ; and they must be so 
 different from you.' 
 
 ' Yes, Ella and Fanny are, and Clement too. I can under- 
 stand Louisa better.' 
 
 '■ But I suppose it may be possible to practise putting one's 
 self in the place of the children,' said Mildred, 'trying as a 
 matter of reason to see with their eyes and feel with their 
 feelings.' 
 
 * But reason won't be of any use,' persisted Bertha, 
 
 ' I should have thought it might be. I should have imagined 
 that it was one of the chief instruments which God has given us 
 to help us to guide others ; one of the great causes of the supe- 
 riority of a mature mind over a young one.' 
 
 ' I don't understand,' said Bertha, as shortly as before, but 
 with a greater show of interest. 
 
 Mildred felt that she must follow the leading of her strange 
 companion, who seemed to have no perception that this was not 
 the moment for carrying on abstract inquiries upon education, 
 so she continued — 
 
 ' I suppose this kind of reasoning, and trying to place one's 
 self in the position of another, is the best way of learning 
 sympathy ; and children we see can't avail themselves of it 
 thoroughly, for they don't know what a grown-up person feels. 
 But we have passed through childhood and youth, and have 
 only to make an effort of memory to recall our own difficulties, 
 and by that means understand their troubles.' 
 
 ' But all children arc not alike,' persisted Bertha. ' How is it 
 possible to reason upon feelings which we have never had?' 
 
 'Imagination, I suppose, may help us,' said Mildred, 'and 
 books — fiction, which many grave people laugh at. Whatever 
 displays human nature truly, is an assistance to the lesson of 
 sympathy. And then, too, the least sympathy invites confidence, 
 and confidence is experience, and experience enables us to give 
 greater sympathy. You see there is a continued reaction if we 
 can only make up our minds to begin.' 
 
 'And how would you show Ella sympathy?' inquired Bertha,
 
 284 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 her mind turning at once from general theories to a direct 
 object.' 
 
 'I know how I should act myself,' replied Mildred. ' I could 
 not venture to say what any other person should do.' 
 
 ' But what would you do yourself.'" 
 
 ' I think I should try always to bear in mind her constitu- 
 tional indolence, and so, as a beginning;, not expect her to be 
 energetic ; and whenever she did exert herself, I should praise 
 her, even for a very slight amount of energy. Then, as to her 
 pride and self-will, I should endeavour to make allowance for 
 them, by judging her not according to what, strictly speaking, she 
 ought to be, but according to the effort which she would need to 
 be humble and obedient. I should remember too that her very 
 talents are her temptation, causing her to be carried away by 
 feeling and excitement, and I should try to throv/ myself into her 
 pursuits, for the very purpose of being a balance to her mind. 
 Perhajis by this kind of watchfulness I might avoid irritating 
 her, or being irritated myself, which I am sure I should be 
 otherwise.' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Bertha, speaking more freely when she found 
 that IMildred could share, or at least comprehend her difficulties, 
 ' that is tlic great trouble after all ; she is provoking and I am 
 angry, and then I dare say I speak out quickly.' 
 
 'She has made me speak out quickly several times since she 
 has been here,' replied Mildred. ' I am just beginning to learn 
 to think twice before I find fault.' 
 
 'But don't you find that spoils her?' inquired Bertha. 'I 
 am sure people require to be stirred by a quick word now and 
 then.' 
 
 ' Quick words are sometimes very good for quick natures,' 
 replied Mildred, 'but I doubt if they are good with slow 
 ones.' 
 
 ' Ella, slow ! oh no ; she is imm.ensely quick.' 
 
 ' Intellectually, not morally. I think quick words repel her, 
 and make her creep like a snail into its shell. Besides, I fancy 
 they only do if one is generally very affectionate in manner ; that 
 in a degree neutralises the quickness.' 
 
 'And I am not affectionate, I know,' said Bertha, candidly. 
 ' I dare say Ella has complained of me.' 
 
 * She thinks you are more fond of the little ones,' was Mildred's 
 evasive answer ; and Bertha, not satisfied, put the question again 
 more directly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 285 
 
 *I can scarcely call it complaint,' replied Mildred. 'She 
 thinks you don't understand her, but she is quite aware that a 
 great deal is her own fault.' 
 
 ' And do you understand her ? ' inquired Bertha, quickly. 
 
 ' I am not sure that I do, but I see some things in her very 
 like my brother. I don't encourage her, though, in that notion of 
 not being understood ; it is an excuse for a great deal of senti- 
 mentality, and even selfishness of feeling, in young people. I 
 always tell her that you and every one else would understand her 
 if she would only try to act up to her principles, and be humble 
 and considerate ; but it is such an age for moods, and fancies, 
 and pet griefs, one must be merciful to it.' 
 
 Bertha had not been at all merciful to Mildred, who was 
 nearly tired out, but there had been a painful fascination in this 
 conversation with a person whom hitherto she had regarded 
 with a kind of respectful antipathy, which carried her beyond 
 what she had in any way intended. It was a pleasure to be 
 drawn on, even though in a certain degree against her will. 
 She did not see that on Mildred's side there was a continual 
 effort : she only felt that even if they differed, they were not 
 antagonistic. Mildred had said nothing hard of Ella, quite the 
 contrary ; yet she could see and acknowledge her faults : and 
 neither had she been flattering to herself; she had suggested, 
 indeed, several possible blunders in education, but it was always 
 as though she herself was the person liable to make them. The 
 effect of the conversation was unquestionably soothing, and when 
 at length Bertha was recalled from it by the striking of the clock, 
 which warned her that it was time to return home, she rose with 
 evident regret. 
 
 The feeling was not shared by Mildred, — solitude, leisure for 
 thought, was her one longing desire. Yet even then she could 
 throw herself into Bertha's character ; and she asked again, as a 
 special favour, that Ella might be allowed to remain. 
 
 It was a well-timed and well-turned rccjuest. Bertha liked 
 deference. She was a little sensitive as to her position witli 
 the children, and had an undefined dread of Mildred's influence 
 and interference. Two aunts on different sides might very 
 well have found matter for disagreement; but Mildred was 
 thoroughly unselfish, and had no love of power. Bertha's 
 answer was very cordial. .She was quite sure that her mother 
 would consent ; there could not be any objection, if General 
 Vivian liked it.
 
 286 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 The point settled, Ella was summoned. 
 
 The look of delight which followed the announcement of the 
 permission was a little painful to Bertha ; but she had learned 
 something, much indeed, in that half-hour's interview with 
 JMildred, and, instead of thinking of her own chilled feelings, 
 she threw herself into Ella's pleasure. * Shall you want any 
 books sent you, Ella? The Clevc carrier will call to-morrow 
 morning,' 
 
 * Aunt Bertha, thank you ! yes ; ' and Ella's eyes sparkled at 
 this unlooked-for instance of consideration. She ran out of the 
 room to make out a list. 
 
 Bertha drew near to Mildred. Now, for the first time, she 
 perceived that the conversation had been carried on too long. 
 Yet Mildred smiled, and said she should be quite well after 
 luncheon. 
 
 ' Strong people forget what weak ones feel,' said Bertha, in a 
 lone of self-reproach. 
 
 'And weak ones are a great trouble and burden to strong ones ; 
 but I am most grateful to you for having come.' 
 
 ' I hope I shan't forget what you have said,' observed Bertha, 
 bluntly. 
 
 Mildred smiled. ' I dare say I make many mistakes. It is all 
 theory, — I have had no practical experience.' 
 
 * But you must have thought a good deal.' 
 
 ' About my own faults j that teaches more than any- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' May I come and see you again sometimes ? ' 
 
 A very awkward question. General Vivian might not at all 
 like to see Miss Campbell frequently at his house. 
 
 Mildred could only answer it honestly. 'Will you let me write 
 and ask you to come ? It may be the best plan.' 
 
 Bertha understood, and coloured deeply. 
 
 ' It is not my will, nor my doing, you will believe, I am sure,' 
 said Mildred, timidly. 
 
 Bertha felt very contradictory, but she was too good to giA'-e 
 way to the feeling. ' I suppose it may be the best plan,' she 
 answered, in a tone tolerably free from restraint. 
 
 ' Thank you very much for understanding ; but I shall hear 
 from you.' 
 
 ' Yes ; if there is anything to communicate. I scarcely see 
 what there can be.' 
 
 'One lives always in fear and expectation,' said Mildred. She
 
 CLEVE HALL. 287 
 
 sighed, and the sigh revealed, to Bertha that the sister's anxiety 
 was far keener than her own could be. 
 
 She reproached herself, and said, ' I have been troubling you 
 about Ella, and asking your advice, — I ought not to have done 
 it now.' 
 
 ' It has done me good, by distracting my thoughts. I shall try 
 not to think till the time comes. Mr Lester, you suppose, will 
 write to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' I imagine so. He was going direct to your brother, and I 
 know he is anxious that no time should be lost' 
 
 ' Then God help us all ! ' said Mildred ; and Bertha silently 
 echoed the prayer. 
 
 Ella came back again with the list of books, and asked a good 
 many questions about home, to which Bertha answered fully and 
 kindly ; but Mildred did not speak again until just at the last 
 moment, when, as Bertha was wishing her a final good-bye, she 
 said, in a voice so low as to be inaudible to Ella, ' If Mr Lester 
 is away, keep Clement at home.' 
 
 ' Yes, if I csn ; but he is so wilful.' 
 
 Bertha departed ; and Mildred, too tired to talk more to Ella, 
 or even to listen to reading, lay quite still, thinking upon the 
 practical experience which life had given her of all that is in- 
 volved in that common word — wilful. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 * T T AS the postman been yet, Louisa .'' ' It was Mrs Camp- 
 -L J- bell's question when she came down to breakfast on the 
 second day after Bertha's visit to the Hall, and it was addressed to 
 Louisa as a matter of course, for no one else was so certain to be 
 on the watch— at least so Mrs Campbell thought. She was not 
 aware that Bertha, in her anxiety, had stationed herself at the 
 shrubbery gate to intercept the letters before they were delivered 
 at the house. Louisa's answer was in the negative ; but almost 
 immediately afterwards Bertha entered, laid the letters on the 
 table, and left the room. Louisa saw that Bertha had secured 
 her ov/n ; Mrs Campbell saw nothing but that there was a long 
 epistle from an old friend, and this she began to read. 
 
 Bertha came back to read prayers and make breakfast ; again.
 
 288 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 no one but Louisa noticed that she was less quiet nnd indifferent 
 than usual, and certainly no one else would have had the quick- 
 ness to suspect the cause, or the overweening curiosity to inquire 
 into it. But Louisa had no mercy when the indulgence of her 
 besetting propensity was in question, and as soon as they were 
 seated at the breakfast-table she began the attack. 'Aunt 
 Bertha, when is Mr Lester coming back ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, my dear.' 
 
 ' But he is only gone for a few days, is he ?' 
 
 ' I can't say, my dear.' 
 
 ' Rachel said she hoped he would return soon.' 
 
 'Very possibly, my dear.' 
 
 A pause, and a little diversion of Louisa's thoughts, from the 
 fact that Betsey came in with a message from a poor woman, 
 which, of course, she fully attended to. But she began again. 
 ' Mr Lester is gone to London, isn't he, Aunt Bertha V 
 
 ' I believe so.' 
 
 ' Rachel said she thought you would hear if he were coming 
 back to-day or to-morrow, because he told her that perhaps he 
 might be obliged to send her a message through you instead of 
 writing himself.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so.' 
 
 ' But can't I give the message for you ? I am going up to the 
 Rectory after breakfast.' 
 
 'Thank you, Louisa,' — Bertha's tone was chilling and re- 
 proachful, — ' but I can take care of my own messages.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I beg your pardon. Aunt Bertha ; I only meant to save 
 you the trouble.' Louisa was satisfied then. She had learned 
 what she wished to know, that Mr Lester had Avritten. She 
 went on: 'Then if Mr Lester doesn't comeback, Rachel may 
 come and stay here, mayn't she?' 
 
 ' We will see about it.' 
 
 Here Mrs Campbell interposed : ' I can't have Rachel slaying 
 here. She can come to drink tea as she did last night ; but I 
 don't want her this week ; the servants are busy.' 
 
 ' Mr Lester must be coming back by Saturday,' persisted 
 Louisa, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 ' Very likely, my dear ; but I can't have Rachel staying here ; 
 I won't allow it.' 
 
 Louisa looked extremely disconcerted, and repeated that Mi 
 Lester would be at home on Saturday, and then they should not 
 have Rachel for weeks.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 289 
 
 'Louisa, that is very perverse,' said Bertha. 'You know that 
 Mr Lester never objects to Rachel's coming here, except when 
 she has some special engagement at home.' 
 
 * I don't understand. What is all this fuss about Rachel and 
 Mr Lester .''' inquired Mrs Campbell. 
 
 Bertha's quick reply was, ' Oh ! nothing of any consequence ;' 
 which did not satisfy Mrs Campbell. 
 
 'But where is Mr Lester.'' When did you say he was coming 
 homer' 
 
 ' Some time this week he hopes it may be,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' When he does come he can bring down that packet of 
 tea for us,' observed Mrs Campbell. ' Remiember you ask him, 
 Bertha.' 
 
 ' I don't know the exact day when he is coming,' replied 
 Bertha.' 
 
 ' He must be back by Sunday,' persisted Louisa. 
 
 •' Or he must have some one to take his duty,' observed Fanny, 
 delighted at the idea of novelty. 
 
 ' He will be sure to be back by Saturday,' said Clement, in a 
 very moody tone. ' I never knew him stay away yet.' 
 
 ' What is to keep him. Bertha ; do you know ? Have you 
 heard from him V 
 
 Louisa's eyes sparkled with amusement. Her grandmamma 
 had asked precisely the question she was longing to put. 
 
 Bertha could not avoid a direct answer. ' I had a few lines 
 from him this morning,' she said. ' He does not mention when 
 he shall be at home.' 
 
 ' But is it business he has gone for, or what ? It was quite a 
 sudden notion.' 
 
 'Rachel said she thought he was gone to see a friend,' ob- 
 served Louisa. 
 
 ' My dear Louisa, I didn't ask you. Pray don't answer unless 
 you are spoken to. Your aunt will tell me. Is it any friend wc 
 know. Bertha ?' 
 
 Louisa whispered loudly to Fanny that she was sure it was 
 Mr Bruce, because she happened to see the direction of a parcel 
 Mr Lester took with him, and it was the same as that on Mr 
 Bruce's letters ; and Fanny communicated the fact to Clement ; 
 whilst Bertha, blushing and hesitating, answered, evasively, that 
 she never inquired into Mr Lester's private affairs. 
 
 ' That is no answer, my dear Bertha ; what is all this mystery.' 
 I can't bear mysteries. Why shouldn't you say to me that he ia 
 
 T
 
 290 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 gone to see Mr Bruce, if he is gone ?' Mrs Campbell spoke 
 very fretfully, and Louisa glanced at Clement in triumph. 
 
 Bertha felt she must speak out at once, ' Mr Lester talked 
 of seeing Mr Bruce,' she replied ; 'and he sayis to-day that he is 
 kept in London, because Mr Bruce is not very well. He doesn't 
 mention the day of his return, and he thinks it may be necessary 
 to provide for his Sunday duty. He writes, besides, about some 
 little parish matters.' 
 
 * Well ! but let me see the letter ; can't you show it me ?' 
 
 * There are one or two things private in it,' said Bertha ; ' I am 
 afraid he wouldn't like it.' 
 
 That was sufficient to annoy Mrs Campbell for the whole day. 
 If Louisa had wished to render every one about her uncomfort- 
 nblc, she had most certainly succeeded ; and she had punished 
 herself too, for she was very quick in discovering the impression 
 she had made, and could sec plainly that it was not likely to be 
 a smooth day with Aunt Bertha. 
 
 She said very little during the remainder of the breakfast, and 
 when it was over went up to Clement. 
 
 ' Clement, what is the matter about Mr Lester and Mr Bruce? 
 and why does Aunt Bertha make such a mystery about it all ?' 
 
 ' I don't know ; how should I ?' was Clement's blunt reply. 
 
 ' But you do know something, I am sure.' 
 
 ' Not L How you do tease, Louisa ! ' 
 
 * And how cross you are, Clemes^t ! and you were cross all 
 yesterday ; it was that reckoning made you cross. Who gave it 
 to you to do ? Did Mr Lester ? ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, nobody. What on earth do you pry into my con- 
 cerns for ! ' Clement spoke very impatiently, and made his 
 escape as soon as he could ; Louisa looking after him, and think- 
 ing that something strange must be going on, when every one was 
 so easily put out. And what was Clement calculating ? She 
 would find out that, if she did nothing else. 
 
 Bertha had a better excuse for being put out than any one else. 
 The last thing she would have desired was that the children or 
 her mother should believe there was at this time a mystery con- 
 nected with Mr Lester's movements. There was enough to make 
 her anxious, without the dread of incaution and idle curiosity in 
 those with whom she lived. 
 
 Mr Lester's letter was short, and by no means satisfactory. 
 
 ' My dear Miss Campbell.— I arrived yesterday, about five
 
 CLEVE HALL, 291 
 
 o'clock, and found my friend very far from well. He has had an 
 attack of influenza, which confines him to his bed. He is improv- 
 ing, but I don't think it would quite do to let him travel to- 
 morrow. It is possible that I shall be obliged to make arrange- 
 ments for having my Sunday duty taken ; the week days are 
 provided for. I have not been able to say anything about busi- 
 ness. I will write again as soon as I can. I shall send a few 
 lines to JNIiss Vivian. Will you please to give the enclosed note 
 to Rachel. I trust her quite to your care. 
 
 ' In haste, most sincerely yours, 
 
 ' Robert Lester.' 
 
 In the postscript were a few directions about some poor people, 
 whom Bertha was taking charge of; and the last words were, 'I 
 need scarcely urge upon you caution and great watchfulness, 
 especially as regards occupying Clement, and keeping him out of 
 mischief. You may be certain I shall return the very earliest 
 day possible.' 
 
 Perhaps Bertha could scarcely have expected, in reason, any- 
 thing more decisive in this, Mr Lester's first letter; but suspense 
 was intensely trying to her, and now it was aggravated by the 
 knowledge of Edward Vivian's illness, which might protract it 
 considerably. She felt sadly faithless, and conscience painfully 
 reproached her for it ; but it seemed as if, for the first time, the 
 magnitude of the interests at stake were revealed to her. 
 
 It was as though she had gone on in a dream of hope for 
 years before, never really hoping or expecting anything ; talking 
 of the changes which might some day come, without really an- 
 ticipating them. Only within the last few days, since Mr Lester 
 himself had acknowledged that the moment for action was 
 arrived had she dared to realise to herself the possibilities of 
 success or of failure. 
 
 It required all Bertha's conscientiousness to bring her mind to 
 the contemplation of her ordinary work. But she was a person 
 who could never waste time in useless regrets or fears ; each 
 hour in the day had its occupation marked, and she was almost 
 scrupulously exact in keeping to it. A few minutes of leisure 
 were, however, always to be found directly after breakfast, whilst 
 the children were preparing their lessons ; and, taking advantage 
 of them, she pleased herself by carrying Rachel's note to the 
 Rectory instead of sending it. There was something in the gay 
 smile and the aftectionate glance that would meet her there,
 
 292 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 which was soothing even when she could not open her mind and 
 tell all her anxieties; and perhaps one of Bertha's few self-decep- 
 tions might have been discovered in the excuses which she 
 made, when anything particularly vexatious had occurred at the 
 Lodge, to go to the Rectory, and spend a quarter of an hour 
 with Rachel. 
 
 Rachel was met in the porch, with her bonnet and shawl on, 
 She had expected a letter, and not receiving one, was going td 
 the Lodge to make inquiries. She ran up to Bertha eagerly ; 
 ' Dear Miss Campbell, how kind of you ! and you have a note ! ' 
 She seized it eagerly, and then recollecting herself, added : ' .May 
 I read it ? you won't think it rude ? But you must come in and 
 sit down by the tire ; it is very cold this morning.' 
 
 Even in her anxiety for news from her father, she could not 
 forget consideration for one present with her ; and Bertha was 
 taken into the study, and the fire was stirred, and she was made 
 to unfasten her cloak, and then Rachel turned away to the 
 window to peruse her precious note. It was read through 
 twice, and a kiss given to the name at the bottom ; but still 
 Rachel stood looking out of the window with a watery mist 
 dimming her eyes. Bertha, seated by the fire, waited patiently. 
 She knew well the struggle that was going on in the poor child's 
 mind. Rachel had never calculated upon the possibility of het 
 father's being away more than two days. But it was a calm 
 voice which spoke at last, only rather lo'wer and more restrained 
 in its accent than was wont ; and if tears v.'ere gathering in 
 Rachel's eyes, they were not allowed to go further, as she stood 
 again by Bertha's side, and said, ' He doesn't know when he 
 shall come back.' 
 
 ' Not exactly the day, dear Rachel ; but it can't be 
 long.' 
 
 ' Can't it ? but he promised, he thought he should be back to- 
 morrow.' A rush of sorrow rose up in Rachel's throat, but she 
 swallowed it with a strong effort. ' I don t mean to be wrong, 
 Miss Campbell, I wan't to bear it,— I will'.— and there was 
 another effort at self-command. 
 
 'Yes, because small trials come to us from the same Hand as 
 
 great ones. 
 
 'Thank you ;' and Rachel put her arm fondly round Bertha ; 
 ' that is just what papa would say. It does me more good than 
 telling me the time will soon pass,' she added, as an April smile 
 brightened her face. ' But you think he will come ?'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 293 
 
 * Certainly, the very first day he can. He must, you know, for 
 the sake of his paris'"".' 
 
 'And for mine; what should I do without him? It is so 
 lonely.' 
 
 That was a little unmeant reproach to Bertha. It seemed 
 very hard that she could not at once take Rachel to the Lodge, 
 but she knew it would not do to propose it. Her mind was set 
 at rest, however, by Rachel's saying : ' Papa tells me that if I 
 don't hear from him about his coming home to-morrow, he shall 
 ask Aunt Mildred to let me go to the Hall. I shall enjoy that 
 excessively, but it won't be like having papa.' 
 
 ' You will have Pllla, too, as a companion,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' Shall I } How very nice ! Yet I thought she was coming 
 back.' 
 
 ' ^liss Vivian wants her to stay. She thinks her grandpapa 
 will like it.' 
 
 'Will he really?' Rachel seemed about to add something 
 very energetic ; but she stopped, and concluded by saying, ' Did 
 you see Aunt Mildred yesterday?' 
 
 ' Yes, for an hour nearlv. We had a long talk.' 
 
 'And you think — yes, I am sure you think as I do — that she 
 is very — I don't know what to say — not at all like any one 
 else.' 
 
 ' No, very unlike.' 
 
 'And Ella is so fond of her ! ' continued Rachel. ' She sent 
 me a little note the other day, and told me that she was begin- 
 ning to love her just as I said she would. It will be very nice 
 
 going there ; only if papa could be there too ' and she 
 
 lieaved a sigh. 
 
 ' We can't have all we wish,' said Bertha. 
 
 It was a truism ; yet Rachel's simple humility took it as it was 
 intended, and she replied, ' No, I ought to remember that ; I 
 ought to be thankful. And the Hall will be very pleasant, and' 
 she stopped, for tears would come in spite of her efforts. 
 
 ' Doesn't papa say anything else in his note ?' inquired Bertha, 
 wishing to distract her thoughts. 
 
 'Yes, one thing — I forgot.' Rachel read it through again. 
 ' He has left his pocket-book behind him ; he wants me to look 
 in it, and send him a receipted bill that is in it. He says if I am 
 in any doubt, you will tell which it is. It is a school bill, which 
 he paid in Cleve the other day.' 
 
 ' Perhaps wc had better find the pocket-book at once,' said
 
 294 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Bertha, looking at her watch. * I have just ten minutes to spare. 
 Then we can settle which is the bill.' 
 
 ' I saw it yesterday, I remember,' said Rachel, searching about 
 the room. ' I thought why he had left it. Oh ! here it is.' She 
 gave it to Bertha. 
 
 'You had better open it,' said Bertha, returning it. 
 
 ' There are such loads of papers ! ' Rachel took them out, 
 one after the other. ' This— no, it is a note ; and this is a list of 
 school children ; and these are letters.— I don't think the bill is 
 here.' 
 
 * Perhaps that may be it,' said Bertha, pointing to a folded 
 paper which had a name written on the back. 
 
 ' I don't know ; it may be.' Rachel opened and looked at it. 
 *I don't think— it isn't a receipt— what does it mean.?' She 
 put the paper into Bertha's hands. 
 
 Bertha read : — 
 
 'Three months after the death of my father, I promise to pay 
 John Vivian, Esq., or order, the sum of five thousand pounds. 
 Value received. 
 
 ' Edward Bruce Vivian.' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Campbell, aren't you well ?' Bertha's colourless 
 cheek, her fixed gaze, might well warrant the question. 
 
 She started. 'What did you say? Yes, I am very well, 
 thank you. It is not the bill, I think. Hadn't you better ask 
 the servants if they have seen it ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps I had.' Rachel was frightened by Bertha's manner. 
 She hardly knew what she was to ask the servants ; but she ran 
 away, glad to be out of the room. 
 
 Bertha was alone — the strange paper in her hand ; but she 
 could scarcely read it again — the letters sv/am before her eyes. 
 Yet her thoughts, her powers of reasoning, were singularly clear. 
 It must mean, it could not mean anything but that Edward Vivian 
 had deceived them ; that he had really been involved to an extent 
 five times as great as he had ever ackowledged ; that he had 
 extricated himself by means calculated to exasperate any father, 
 most especially a man with General Vivian's jealous sense of 
 justice, his keen, family pride and personal dignity, reckoning 
 upon that as already his own, to which his only claim lay in his 
 father's will. She recalled Mr Lester's manner during his last 
 conversation, and fancied noAv that his tone of despondency was
 
 CLEVE HALL. 295 
 
 greater than she had ever known it. Perhaps he had only latelv, 
 in his interview with General Vivian, been made aware of the 
 extent of Edward's offence ; perhaps he had not liked to give 
 her his true reason for going to London, and had seized upon 
 Goff's interference with the letters as an excuse ; perhaps, when 
 he said that the hour for the decisive step was arrived, it was 
 from the conviction that Edward had sinned beyond the hope of 
 pardon, except by a final despairing appeal to mercy. 
 
 Bertha's fears gave strength to her convictions ; yet even in 
 this there was much to perplex her. A paper so important left 
 to chance, placed in a pocket-book with trifling memoranda, 
 and, as it seemed, forgotten, — very unlike that was to Air Lester, 
 so careful and particular as he was in all matters of business. 
 And how did it come into his possession ? How long had he 
 kept it from her ? These were questions not to be solved. She 
 heard Rachel returning, and her impulse was to restore the paper 
 to its place ; but a second thought made her hesitate. It might 
 be unsafe. Mr Lester might have forgotten it. It seemed better 
 to take care of it, and then tell him what she had done. Hap- 
 pily, Bertha's conscience was so free from any double motive, 
 that she had no cause to mistrust her own intentions, and safe in 
 the certainty of Mr Lester's kind interpretation of her actions, 
 she took possession of the mysterious document ; whilst Rachel 
 came back with a forlorn face, having beard no tidings of the 
 receipted bill. 
 
 Bertha was too anxious to be willing to wait till further search 
 had been made, and, even in the excitement of her feelings and 
 the perplexity of her thoughts, was conscious that the ten minutes 
 she had given herself were expired ; and Rachel, knowing her 
 strict punctuality, would not ask her to stay a moment beyond 
 the appointed time, but insisted upon looking through the pocket- 
 book papers again herself, and promised to bring the bill to the 
 Lodge to be inspected if it were found. Just at the last minute 
 Bertha thought whether it would be wise to tell Rachel that she 
 had taken the paper ; but she felt a little shy of confessing what 
 might appear a liberty, and was afraid of exciting remark. She 
 fancied, besides, that Rachel was not likely to miss it, as she had 
 scarcely looked at it, and certainly did not understand what it 
 meant. 
 
 Bertha, therefore, went home to teach the children, give direc- 
 tions to the servants, wait upon her mother, and, in the midst of 
 all, to ponder upon the painful light which had thus suddenly been
 
 296 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 cast upon the family affairs. Rachel remained in the study, and 
 went through the papers carefully again ; this time, perhaps, 
 because she was not flurried by Bertha's occasional glances at 
 the timepiece, she found the bill without any difficulty ; and then, 
 liaving a vague recollection that she had missed something which 
 ought to ht there, took another survey in search of the old dirty- 
 looking paper which she had put into Bertha's hands, and which 
 at the time she remembered to have thought very unlike all tlie 
 rest. 
 
 Most provoking it was, just as she was going to sit down to 
 road, to be hindered in this way ; but now the old paper was 
 gone. Twice she went through the letters and notes as they 
 were folded in the pocket-book ; then she unfolded and examined 
 them, looked under the table, under the chairs, under books and 
 sofa cushions, in every place where such a paper was most un- 
 likely to be found, and at last went again to the kitchen to con- 
 fide her troubles to Anne. 
 
 And Anne was standing in the back-yard, and a door which 
 led from it into the Rectory lane was open, and near this door 
 was Goff, haunting the premises still, and trying to make friends 
 with Anne at home, as he had not met her the day before in the 
 village. Rachel came out, full of her annoyance, with an idea 
 that, by means of a sweeping-brush, Anne would be able to 
 penetrate into the secret recesses of any hiding-place in which the 
 tiresome paper should have secreted itself. And she gave a full 
 description of it, to the best of her ability ; said that it was old 
 and discoloured, and was written in a scrawly hand, with a great 
 name signed at the bottom which she thought was Edward 
 Vivian ; and that she remembered what it was like especially, 
 because Miss Campbell turned so pale just when the paper was 
 given her that she fancied there must be something written on 
 it which frightened her. Of course it was not that, because it 
 was only an old kind of bill, and there was nothing really the 
 matter with Miss Campbell. To all which details Anne gave 
 very little heed, though promising to use her best endeavours to 
 assist Rachel's wishes, and to pick up every piece of paper 
 she might see on the ground in the hope of discovering the 
 truant. 
 
 Anne did not heed, but Goff did ; and when Anne, at Rachel's 
 request, went back with her to the study, Goff, cool, reckless, 
 ilesperate in danger as in the carrying out of schemes of guilt, 
 hurried to the Grange to communicate to Captain Vivian what
 
 CLEVE HALL. 297 
 
 he had heard, and discuss the plans which it might be neces- 
 sary to adopt in the probabihty that the missing paper was tlie 
 evidence of their guilt and the cause of Mr Lester's sudden 
 departure. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 NO news from Mr Lester the following morning. Bertha 
 had looked forward to the post with intense anxiety ; and 
 when the blank ' no letters to-day 'was heard from Louisa, as 
 the postman passed the gate, her heart sickened with disap- 
 pointment. She had waited hoping to hear of his return, and 
 intending to delay any inquiry as to the paper in her possession 
 until she could see him. Since the discovery of Goff's inter- 
 ference she had a superstitious dread of trusting anything 
 which might be of consequence to the post ; and the more she 
 considered the subject in calm moments, examining carefully 
 t'/ie signature, and going over in her own mind all that she had 
 ever heard as connected with Edward Vivian's affairs, the more 
 her first feelings were altered, whilst a strong conviction forced 
 itself upon her that the document of which in so singular a 
 manner she had become possessed was false. The writing un- 
 cjuestionably strikingly resembled Mr Vivian's, but it was stiff and 
 careful ; not such as his would have been under any pressure of 
 anxiety. There were slight differences in the letters also, but these 
 could not be so much depended upon, because years tend very 
 much to alter handwriting, and she could not well recollect what 
 her brother-in-law's had been so long ago. But that which most 
 weighed with Bertha was the full belief, impressed upon her 
 mind by family troubles, that his debts had never amounted to 
 more than one-fifth of the sum named in the paper. Mr Lester 
 doubtless must, like herself, have had suspicions upon the sub- 
 ject, and the paper must be connected, she felt sure, with his 
 London journey ; perhaps he did not say so for fear of exciting 
 filsc hopes ; perhaps — but that was all a mystery, not to be 
 dwelt upon if she wished to keep her mind quiet ; only Bertha 
 fflt that whether her conjectures were true or false, the dis- 
 covery of the paper threw light upon General Vivian's feelings, 
 and gave him a claim to sympathy fully as much as to censure. 
 Nothing of this anxiety was shown outwardly. Tiie quietness
 
 298 CLEVE HALL 
 
 of Bertha's ordinary manner was an assistance to her in keeping 
 up the necessary self-restraint. She was so grave usually, that 
 no one noticed a shade more or less, except it might be Louisa, 
 and even she was often Liaflled by her aunt's composure. Yet 
 it was a serious effoi't during the day to keep her wanderini,^ 
 thoughts in order, and go through the routine of lessons; and 
 the preoccupation of her mind, added to a natural want of 
 observation and quick penetration into character, prevented her 
 from watching Clement, or discovering in him anything which 
 might have led her to think that his heart was ill at ease. 
 
 That first deception had led him on much further than he in- 
 tended. When Captain Vivian met him the day succeeding his 
 visit, and proposed to him to repeat it, asking, as a favour, that, 
 besides giving him help for amusement, he would assist him in a 
 case which was a question of business, Clement had nothing to 
 fall back upon to support his weak will, and, of course, yielded ; 
 and a second visit involved a third, still apparently innocent, 
 but making him, after the excitement was over, very uneasy, 
 and enabling Captain Vivian to discover in the course of con- 
 versation all he required to know as to Mr Lester's movements, 
 where he was likely to be in London, and the probability of his 
 return ; Clement telling everything with perfect simplicity, and 
 never for one moment suspecting a meaning in this apparent 
 interest. 
 
 And he flattered himself, too, that he was gaining something by 
 the intercourse. Captain Vivian talked to him of the sea and his 
 fancy for it, and gave him some useful advice not unmixed with 
 flattery, promising, any day that he could manage it, to take him 
 for a short sail, merely that he might haveafewpracticallessons, 
 which were better, he said, than any talking. If it had only not 
 been against Clement's conscience, he would quite have enjoyed 
 going to the Grange, especially as he found that by some means 
 he was free from Ronald's warning voice. Both days he had been 
 there Ronald had been absent, sent by his father on some 
 business to Cleve, or over the hills ; and Captain Vivian had 
 cautioned Clement playfully against mentioning his visit, saying, 
 that when they had made out their puzzling questions, he meant 
 to surprise him with his cleverness, for Ronald never fancied he 
 had a head for reckoning. 
 
 There had been a proposal that they should meet again on 
 this day, still with the excuse of what Captain Vivian called 
 business ; and Clement had given an evasive answer, which left
 
 CLEVE HALL. 299 
 
 it at his option to go or not, as he might choose. So his con- 
 science was tolerably easy for the present, though the past 
 weighed upon him most uncomfortably. 
 
 It was not likely that Bertha should suspect any of this evil. 
 Clement had kept regularly to hours, and walked once with his 
 sisters, and was attentive to his studies. This afternoon, als >, 
 after some demur, he agreed to go with them over the hills to 
 Greystone Gorge, to see Barney Wood ; and although Bertha 
 was not at all fond of being left in any way in charge of Cle- 
 ment, feeling that her control was not sufficient for him, she 
 was satisfied that he seemed more disposed than usual to be 
 obedient. Perhaps it was the consciousness of his unacknow- 
 ledged fault which made him particularly grave and quiet. 
 
 It was a long walk, and the days were now so short that it 
 was necessary to leave home early. Without Clement, indeed, 
 Bertha might have hesitated about undertaking the expedition ; 
 for it was unpleasant to return over the hills alone, or only with 
 the children, when it was growing dark, and Barney Wood's 
 cottage had not the best possible reputation. His mother, who 
 was dead, had been GofPs daughter ; and report said, that the 
 crafty smuggler made use of his son-in-law's house as a resort 
 for himself and his comrades, in case of necessity. It was cer- 
 tainly very much out of the way of inspection, although within 
 an easy distance of Dark Head Point, and not ver>' far from the 
 Grange, — all advantages to persons engaged in the contraband 
 traffic carried on to such an extent upon that part of the coast. 
 Dark Head Point was well known to be the general rendezvous 
 of the smugglers. It was the highest headland in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and from it they could keep a strict watch over the 
 country for miles; and though called inaccessible from the 
 shore, it was said that the practised foot of the smuggler could 
 find a fooling upon narrow ledges, which scarcely a goat could 
 venture to tread ; and that the tubs, when landed, were often 
 hidden in recesses of the cliffs, which the preventive men, with 
 all their hardihood, could not reach. But all this was but 
 hearsay. Smugglers have a code of honour peculiarly their own, 
 and no one of the Encombe band had ever yet been known to 
 betray the secrets of his comrades ; whilst the villagers would 
 have believed it an act of the grossest treachery to reveal aught, 
 either by word or look, concerning the traffic in which so many 
 of those nearest and dearest to them were deeply engaged. 
 It was a difficult task entrusted to Mr Lester, that of guiding
 
 300 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 tlicse lawless people : to himself they were uniformly civil, nnd, 
 for the most part, there was little more to find fault with 
 amongst them, than amongst the generality of their class. 
 Drunkenness was the prevailing vice, but there were ^cw petty 
 thefts ; the children were sent regularly to school ; the wives 
 worked diligently at home ; the attendance at church on the 
 Sunday was as regular as it commonly is in a seafaring place ; 
 on the week-days, few men would have been found, in any 
 village of the size, able to leave their daily work. Only now 
 nnd then, some affray with the preventive men roused the 
 fiercer passions of the people, and revealed the depth of the 
 mischief which, at other times, was doing its work secretly, but 
 surely. And it was not easy to find occasions for warning, 
 where the oftence was so carefully concealed. The men called 
 themselves fishermen ; their boats were ostensibly fishing- 
 boats, and, indeed, often used for that purpose ; they were con- 
 nected, too, with other smuggling bands along the coast, and 
 it was customary to shift the offence from one to the other, till 
 it became almost impossible to attach it to any individual. 
 But, worse than all, they were unquestionably supported and 
 encouraged by powerful example ; and whilst Captain Vivian 
 remained in the village, Mr Lester felt bitterly that all hope of 
 really improving his people, or teaching them the actual cul- 
 pability of their conduct, was vain. Yet with him there was 
 even greater difficulty in fixing the offence, than with the lower 
 classes. The vessel kept off the coast, and known to belong to 
 him, and to be engaged in smuggling expeditions, was owned 
 nominally by another person, and was ostensibly a trading 
 vessel, which went backwards and forwards for apparently in- 
 nocent purposes of business. It had even been searched, but 
 nothing had been found. Yet there was no more real doubt of 
 its being used for smuggling purposes, than that the man 
 chiefly connected with it was a lawless villain ; all that was 
 needed was proof, and proof was never at hand. 
 
 It seemed hard to visit the sins of the guilty upon the innocent ; 
 harder still, when it was known that temptation and threats were 
 used in the village to no slight extent ; and that those who would 
 not join the smugglers from interest, were compelled to do so 
 from fear. This had been the case, in some degree, with Mark 
 Wood, the father of little Barney. He had been a quiet, respect- 
 able man, till he married GofiPs daughter. Even then he seemed 
 anxious to keep himself aloof from the evil practices prevalent
 
 CLEVE HALL. 301 
 
 around him ; but once nearly connected with a man of bad prin- 
 ciple, and he could not again set himself free. Mr Lester had 
 been a friend to Mark and to his wife ; he had attended her 
 through a long illness, and been with her at the moment of 
 death; and at that time it seemed that the unhappy husband's 
 heart was open to good impressions, and Mr Lester, anxious to 
 follow them up, had taken especial notice of his sickly boy, left 
 without a mother's care. With the assistance of Rachel and 
 Bertha Campbell he had provided Barney with comforts, and 
 even luxuries, in the wish to keep up his influence with the 
 father by the means of his child. But the case was not as hopeful 
 now as it had been. Goff was more frequently at the cottage ; 
 his son-in-law was with him oftener in other places. It had even 
 been reported that Mark Wood was to be seen, late at night, 
 watching on Dark Head Point ; but this was only report, and 
 Mr Lester could not leave the sick boy to suffer, because his 
 father was yielding to evil example. He still allowed Bertha 
 and Rachel to visit him, and aided them in any little plans for 
 the child's comfort, often making an excuse to visit the boy him- 
 self, with the desire of meeting the father, and gaining an insight 
 into his habits. But, once a smuggler, and Mark Wood's sense 
 of honour and truth was as perverted as that of his companions. 
 He would treat Mr Lester with civility, listen to his advice, and 
 show himself grateful for his kindness ; but there was no more 
 confidence between them. Mark had given himself to a service 
 which would admit of no compromise ; and if a lie could serve 
 the purpose of concealment, he would not scruple to use it for 
 smuggling purposes, though he would have scorned to a\'ail 
 himself of it for any other. 
 
 The visits to Barney Wood were very satisfactory to Bertha, 
 for they were almost her only opportunities of seeing Ronald 
 alone. His care of the child was watchful and unceasing. It 
 seemed as if the little fellow was a safety-valve for the softer 
 feelings which could find no other vent. For Ronald Vivian 
 could not live without some one to love. The strong feelings 
 which at times carried him beyond his own control in anger, or 
 exhausted themselves in the better impulses of fiery resolve and 
 strong determination, took also, occasionally, other forms of 
 intense longings for affection, eager and passionate desires to find 
 some work which would draw him away from himself, and give 
 him personal love in return for devoted self-denial ; and then 
 he seized upon the first object which presented itself, and gave
 
 302 CLEVE hall: 
 
 himself up to it unremittingly, and with the same spirit of intense 
 reverence with which he had watched his mother, during her 
 lingering illness, whilst receiving the impressions that had so 
 often been his safeguard during his most perilous life. 
 
 We cannot forget purity when once we have been brought in 
 contact with it. The memory of evil may die when the soul has 
 long dwelt in the presence of goodness, but the vision of holiness 
 is immortal, even as He from whom it proceeds. Ronald 
 Vivian had learned from his mother what a woman can be in 
 meekness, self-devotion, endurance, and faith ; and not all those 
 terrible scenes into which he had since been plunged, had suf- 
 ficed to eradicate the impression. Still the best resolutions of 
 the present, and the strongest wishes for the future, were formed 
 from the images of the past. In Bertha Campbell, and Ella, and 
 Rachel, he saw, or fancied he saw, his mother's virtues reflected ; 
 and when he tended the sick boy on his suffering bed, he acted 
 over again in imagination the scenes so deeply imprinted on his 
 memory when his mother had in like manner watched over 
 him. 
 
 It was a marvellous power which could thus keep before him 
 a standard of goodness so infinitely beyond anything actually 
 present to his eyes. Bertha was wanting in his mother's grace 
 and tact ; and Ella, he could sometimes discover, was wayward; 
 and Rachel was too young and seen too seldom to exercise any 
 very direct influence ; but to Ronald they were beings of a 
 superior order. They had the refinement and delicacy — the soft 
 voices and the gentle consideration of manner — with which all 
 his better feelings were associated ; and when disgusted by the 
 coarseness and freedom of the rough men with whom he was so 
 often brought in contact, his thoughts reverted to them with a 
 feeling almost superstitious in its reverence, — as if they, and such 
 as they, alone prevented this earth from sinking to the horrors 
 of Pandemonium. 
 
 And thus it was, from the longing to escape from the scenes he 
 loathed into a purer atmosphere, that the care of little Barney had 
 become Ronald's solace, as offering a vent for his pent-up yearnings, 
 — a duty which would associate him with those who were as his 
 better angels, pointing hiin the way to heaven. When he found 
 that Bertha and Rachel Lester were interested in the sick child, 
 his work became ennobled: when he could act with them, or for 
 them, in any plan which they might have for Barney's gratifica- 
 tion, it was as though he had been liaised above his natural
 
 CLEVE HALL. 303 
 
 sphere, and higher, purer pleasures and hopes were being placed 
 before him ; and in this spirit he had begun, and for a time 
 carried on, his visits to the child. But a still deeper blessing, 
 though yet an earthly one, was in time granted him. Love he 
 must in some form, either in remembrance, or reality, or hope. 
 Whilst he lived alone with his coarse-minded father he had 
 loved the memory of his mother, and it was long before he could 
 persuade himself that any other affection could be vouchsafed 
 him. But the possibility dawned upon him as a star rising 
 upon the darkness of night, whilst he watched by the sick-bed 
 of Barney Wood. His father might be harsh and repelling ; 
 Bertha might be too far above him for everyday sympathy ; 
 Ella and Rachel had interests quite removed from his ; but 
 there was one face M'hich always brightened when he drew near ; 
 one little voice which never failed to entreat in longing accents 
 for his return ; one eye which had learned to know when he was 
 sorrowful, to look lovingly and anxiously for his smile ; and the 
 pent-up fountain of Ronald's heart was touched by the loving 
 hand of a child's sympathy, and the affection which had hitherto 
 exhausted itself in regret, or been dried up by the scorching 
 furnace of sin, gushed forth pure and free to revive the droop- 
 ing spirit of the boy, and be in turn refreshed and strengthened 
 itself. 
 
 It was now very nearly Christmas, and Greystone Gorge, in- 
 viting though it might seem in its wild loneliness beneath the 
 beauty of a summer sky, looked mournfully dreary under the 
 dark atmosphere of a December afternoon. There was not even 
 the excitement of frost and snow ; the sky was a cold, hard 
 gray, and though the sun tried to break through it at intervals, 
 it had but little power ; the thin coating of turf had become 
 brown ; the fern leaves were dry and withered ; the straggling 
 bushes seemed only fit to burn ; all was faded, and the cottage 
 Itself had a mournful, neglected appearance. Barney had long 
 ceased to enjoy being laid upon a mattress out-of-doors, though 
 he was generally drawn every day over the few paces of level 
 ground in his little carriage. Bertha and Rachel had provided 
 him with a thick wrapping-shawl, and Ronald had brought him 
 a sailor's coat to put over him, so that he could be kept tolerably 
 warm ; but since the winter had set in he had taken up a posi- 
 tion on a small couch by the wide open hearth, and when he did 
 go out, could bear the fatigue only for a few minutes. He was 
 left very much to himself. An old woman who lived in a cottage
 
 304 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 lower down the Gorge was hired to take daily care of Mark's 
 household, but it was very little attention which the suffering 
 child obtained from her. She dressed him roughly, then laid 
 him on his couch, and proceeded to her household work ; scold- 
 ing Barney if he interrupted her, and now and then reproach- 
 ing him with having so many friends that he wanted for 
 nothing. 
 
 A grown-up person understands such a trial, and suffers from 
 it ; a child happily scarcely docs, and Barney was quite contented 
 when he was left with his picture-book, and his scissors and paper, 
 whether Mother Brewer, as the old woman was called, attended 
 to him or not'. He would occupy himself for hours together 
 with them, whilst his brothers and sisters were at school ; and 
 when they returned, though it was fretting to be disturbed, there 
 was excitement and interest in hearing all they had done ; and 
 they were not at all rough with him, and his father was especi- 
 ally tender ; altogether Barney was not an unhappy child, and 
 his little, wizen face, though thin and sharp from illness, could 
 brighten up with a smile which often became a hearty laugh, 
 when Ronald told droll stories or the children amused him with 
 their games. 
 
 He was looking out for Ronald this afternoon, fancying it a 
 long time since he had seen him ; and he had persuaded the 
 old woman to move his couch to the opposite side of the hearth, 
 and to leave the door partly open, that he might hear the first 
 sound of footsteps. So he sat half upright, cutting pieces of 
 paper into strange figures which he called men and women, and 
 making a game of them for his own amusement, all the time 
 fully on the alert for what might be approaching. 
 
 ' Such a litter ! there's no end to the work,' grumbled Mother 
 Brewer, as she picked up the shreds of paper which, in a sudden 
 move, Barney had scattered upon the floor. 'Why can't you 
 keep quiet, child, eh V 
 
 'He's not coming yet,' was Barney's reply, — giving vent to 
 his own thoughts, without noticing the angry tones to which he 
 was so well accustomed. He laid down his scissors, and listened 
 again. 
 
 ' Well ! and what 's the use of an imp like you fussing ? He '11 
 come if he can, and if he can't he can't. I won't have you lie 
 there with the door open much longer.' 
 
 Barney strained his neck to try and look round the door. 
 
 The old woman gave him a tap on the shoulder, sufficient to
 
 CLEVE HALL. 305 
 
 startle, not to frighten him. ' Lie quiet, can't you ? Don't you 
 know the doctor says you must ? ' 
 
 ' 'Tis Captain John, and father, and grandfather, 'tisn't Ronald,' 
 said Barney. His face changed its expression ; he would have 
 cried if he had not been ashamed. 
 
 * What sharp ears the child has ! I don't hear any one.' The 
 old woman went to the door. ' O yes ! there they be ; we must 
 move you, my master ; ' and she drew the child's couch back to 
 the wall, placing him in a position where, even if the door were 
 open, he could see nothing. ' No crying ; don't let 's have any 
 fuss; father will beat you if you cry.' The threat was disre- 
 garded, for Barney had never experienced a beating ; but he 
 was very quiet, and self-controlled, and shrank up into a corner 
 of his little couch, and turned his face away, as though he longed 
 to escape notice. 
 
 The three men came into the room together ; Captain Vivian 
 first, Goff following him with the air of an equal. Mark Wood 
 lingered behind ; and when he did enter, went up at once to his 
 child's couch, and patted his head. 
 
 ' We don't want you, mother,' was Goff's uncivil greeting to 
 the old woman, who instantly left the cottage ; ' and we don't 
 want him neither, eh, Mark ? ' he pointed to the child. 
 
 Mark looked at his boy for a moment. ' No fear for him ; 
 here Barney, child, cut the Captain out a wolf; and he tossed 
 him a scrap of paper. 'Tis a fuss to move him ; it gives him 
 pain, and besides we 've no time to lose.' 
 
 'No, that's for certain ; your young fellow will be upon us 
 before long. Captain ; so now to work.' 
 
 They withdrew to a distant corner, and carried on the conver- 
 sation in an undertone. Goff began : 'You're in for it, Mark, 
 remember.' 
 
 Mark gave rather a sullen assent. 
 
 'And in for a good fifty pounds,' said Captain Vivian, jocosely. 
 'Why Mark, my man, you'll be off to America upon it.' 
 
 Mark replied as gravely as before : ' I should like to under- 
 stand the work, though, better. Captain. I see no good in a 
 man's undertaking a job till he sees where it will lead him to.' 
 
 ' Folly ! ' interrupted Goff. ' Haven't I told you 'twill lead 
 nowhere ? The young gentleman 's up to a frolic, and we are 
 going to help him to it, that's all. But we'll have none of this 
 nonsense. Do you mean to keep your word, that's the question ?' 
 
 Mark hesitated. 
 
 U
 
 3o6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'It's my own relation, my own flesh and blood, as you may 
 say,' observed Captain Vivian, more gently. ' I 'm not likely to 
 go in any way against one of my own kin. He and I are the 
 best friends possible. It 's only a boy's lark.' 
 
 'And the fifty pounds has nothing to do with it,' continued 
 Goff, observing Mark's perplexed countenance; 'that's for the 
 other work, you know. Land your cargo safe, and then come and 
 hold out your hand for the money. The boy's affair has nothing 
 to do with that.' 
 
 'And it's not against the young gentleman's will?' 
 
 * Not a whit, not a whit, man. And if the parson 's up in arms, 
 why we know how to laugh at him.' 
 
 The allusion was an unfortunate one. Mark Wood might neglect 
 Mr Lester's advice, but he respected him extremely. ' I 've no 
 fancy to go against the parson,' he replied. 'He's been a kind 
 friend to me and mine ; and if I 've sometimes gone contrary to 
 him, more shame to ine.' 
 
 * Of course, of course. But the boy 's not going to be a parson ; 
 so Where's the use of keeping him tied up as they do. Besides, 
 Mark, my man ' — and Captain Vivian, resting his hands upon 
 his two knees, bent forward and fixed upon Mark a gaze of stern 
 penetration and defiance — ' once ours, always ours. Who is it 
 the preventives would give their right hand to catch ? and who 
 may we give up to them in a moment, eh ? ' 
 
 Mark's countenance changed. The threat implied woijd, he 
 knew, be executed without remorse if the occasion offered. Once 
 suspected by his comrades, he would on the first opportunity be 
 left to the vigilance of the coastguard, even if no deeper revenge 
 were taken. 
 
 ' It 's not I that am wishing to draw back. Captain,' he said, 
 in a more yielding tone. ' I 've gone far enough with you, as yoa 
 know — too far, it may be,' he added, in a lower voice ; ' but no 
 matter for that. Sink or swim together is a needs be, when men 
 have done what we have in company. But I 've no will to drng 
 others in, specially a youngster who is only just beginning to 
 know his right hand from his left.' 
 
 'Trust him for that !' exclaimed Goff, bursting into a loud 
 laugh, ' He 's as cunning a bird as any in England. But put 
 aside all that rubbish, Mark, and tell us plainly, once for all — 
 will or nill? that's the question. Down on the beach with a 
 quick, firm oar, to-night at half-past seven, or'— his voice 
 sank ominously—' wandering like a skulking wretch, afraid to
 
 CLEVE HALL. 307 
 
 meet his bold comrades? Come, man, I thought better of 
 you.' 
 
 'And his Hfe is safe, you are sure !' said Mark. 
 
 ' Life ! safe ! Why man, you are enough to drive a saint 
 frantic, let alone Richard Goff. I tell you it's a question of fun. 
 He '11 be taken out safe, and brought back safe ; and then, won't 
 we turn round and have a laugh at the parson ?' 
 
 ' 'Twill be the third night I shall have been away from him,' 
 said JMark, pointing with one finger to his child. 
 
 ' Oh ! he ! nonsense ! the old woman will take care of him, 
 and thankful he 's not in your way.' 
 
 ' And we are to be away, how long ? ' 
 
 'How can I tell.'' It's according to what time you 'II want. 
 Just take your work, man, as it 's given you, and don't trouble 
 about anything else. You 're not in command yet ; when you 
 are, you '11 know more about it.' 
 
 Captain Vivian rose and went to the door. ' I don't see m)- 
 boy, yet,' he said ; ' but he 'II surely be here soon. We must 
 have no more trifling.' 
 
 'There's no disobeying you, Captain,' replied Mark, surlily. 
 
 * To be sure not,' said Goff, in a cajoling tone. ' W^hat would 
 you be without the Captain, I should like to know ? ' 
 
 'Very different from what I am,' muttered Pvlark to himself; 
 and then he added, more loudly, 'I must understand what's to 
 be done clearly. To-night, at half-past seven ? ' 
 
 'Ay, down on the beach, in the W^est Cove, by the Point,' re- 
 plied Goff. 
 
 ' And the vessel waiting outside,' added Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' Then, when we and the young one come down,' continued 
 Goff, ' we shall put him on board ; and you are to haul off to the 
 bark. W^hen }ou are there, your business will be done as to 
 orders, and you '11 have nothing to think of but your old concerns.' 
 
 'And he is to go with us, then, across seas ?' 
 
 ' Yes, just for the sail. He'll be back with you.' 
 
 ' And we to show him all our sport ? That seems folly 
 enough,' said Mark. 'Why, he'll turn sharp upon us when he 
 gets back.' 
 
 ' Never you trouble your head with that matter,' said Goff. 
 ' We are not going to let him see an inch beyond his nose if we 
 don't choose ; and one way you may make special use of him, — 
 if the shnrks are after you, put him first, and sec if good doesn't 
 come of It.'
 
 3o8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Mark gave a start of horror. ' Put him first ! into danger ? — 
 wliy, Goff, you arc a scoundrel.' 
 
 ' Thanks for your good opinion,' said Goff, carelessly ; ' I 'm 
 not more a scoundrel than my neighbours, only I speak out and 
 they keep in. But I 'm not saying the boy's to be put in danger, 
 — only put first. Let the sharks know who he is, and there's 
 feeling enough for the old General, to keep them from doing him 
 harm. And if they catch him, 'tis but an hour or two's rougli 
 handling for him. He's not such a tender chicken for that to 
 hurt him. Come, trust me, Mark,' he continued, seeing his com- 
 panion's changing and undecided expression. ' You 've never 
 got into mischief yet by trusting me.' 
 
 'Pshaw! what signifies urging?' exclaimed Captain Vivian, 
 impatiently. ' If he won't do it, there are a dozen others who 
 will. And we shall know where to look for our friends for the 
 future.' 
 
 ' And we shall have the boy with us at all hazards,' continued 
 Goff. '■ We are not going to be baulked of our plans by a down- 
 hearted fool, who hasn't a spark of fun in him.' 
 
 The observation seemed to strike Mark in a new light. ' You 
 are bent upon it, then ?' he said. 
 
 * Ay, to be sure. Who ever knew Richard Goff take a plan 
 into his head, and give it up ? ' And Goft" laughed loudly and 
 harshly. 
 
 Mark considered. 
 
 ' A loss of fifty pounds,' muttered Captain Vivian. 
 
 I\Iark glanced at his child, who was sitting up on his couch, 
 his large black eyes sparkling with eagerness as he fixed them 
 upon his father. Probably he feared to attract notice to the boy, 
 for the look was but momentary ; and then he said, more boldly, 
 ' Fifty pounds paid down ? ' 
 
 * Sterling gold, if you will,' said Goff. 
 
 ' Fifty pounds, which will go a pretty long way towards paying 
 the old General the rent of the cottage and the land,' said Captain 
 Vivian. 
 
 ' And which if you don't have, you must needs go t'orth to 
 wander where you can,' pursued Goff. 
 
 A second quick glance at the child : — perhaps imagination 
 pictured the little fellow's grief in having to give up the only 
 home he had ever known, — perhaps there were images of bygone 
 days and past happiness rising up before Mark Wood. It would 
 be a terrible trial to leave the cottacce in the Gorg-e ; but so it
 
 CLEVE HALL. 309 
 
 must be, unless the rent of the house and the land could be paid 
 before another month was over. His faltering resolution was 
 betrayed by the question, again repeated, — 'You are sure the 
 boy's life is safe ? ' to which Goff replied by shaking his hand 
 violently, and exclaiming, ' As safe as yours or mine, man ! and 
 what would you want more ?' He laughed again, so did Captain 
 Vivian, Mark Wood only replied, sullenly, — ' Then the matter 's 
 settled, and we'll say no more.' 
 
 He took up his hat, intending to leave the cottage. Coff 
 followed him to the door, looked out, and dragged him back. 
 'Hist! I say; not a word to the youngster; he's coming. 
 Captain, it's time for us to be off. Where's your back outlet, 
 Mark.'*' He tried a little door near Barney's couch. Mark 
 went up slowly and opened it. 
 
 ' Not a word, remember,' said Captain Vivian, in a low, hurried 
 voice,— he slipped half-a-crown into Mark's hand ; — ' I am glad 
 we caught you at home ; but remember, not a word.' 
 
 They passed through the little door, whilst Mark sat down on 
 a chair by the deal table, and resting his elbows upon it, buried 
 his face in his hands. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 < A RE they gone, father.-*' Barney's voice broke suddenly 
 ■L\. upon Mark Wood's meditations. 
 
 ' Ay, I suppose so. What do you want, child?' 
 
 ' Grandfather speaks out so, and Captain John's wicked ; I 
 wish they wouldn't come here.' 
 
 'That's a bad boy to say so. We'll have Mother Brewer 
 back ;' and Mark stood up. 
 
 'Ronald's coming; I don't want Mother Brewer,' said 
 Barney. 
 
 ' Ronald won't come ; nobody won't come, if you talk like a 
 bad boy. There, go to your cutting and clipping again.' Mark 
 tossed him a piece of paper from a quantity which Rachel had 
 provided for his amusement. 
 
 Barney scarcely noticed the gift ; but as his father still stood 
 moodily by the window, he continued, ' Motlier Brewer says 
 Captain John makes folks wicked.'
 
 310 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'Idiot! what does she know?' Mark turned angrily upon 
 his little boy ; and the child, frightened at the expression of his 
 eyes, began to cry. The father's heart softened. 'There, leave 
 off; don't fuss, Barney, boy ; don't whimper ; take to your cut- 
 ting, and we won't have Mother Brewer back. And liere's 
 Ronald ; you '11 be glad to see Ronald.' He placed the child 
 more comfortably on his couch, gave an uneasy glance round 
 tlie room, wishing to be certain that no traces of his recent 
 visitors were left, and went to the door just as Ronald came 
 up. 
 
 ' Good day to you, Mark; how's Barney?' Ronald's open 
 face, and manly, good-humoured voice, were a great contrast to 
 Mark's clouded brow and sullen tone of half welcome. 
 
 'The boy's nigh the same, thank you, Master Ronald. 
 You'll be going in, I suppose?' and Mark moved aside to let 
 Ronald pass. 
 
 ' There 's no one in, is there ? ' asked Ronald, stopping. ' I 
 thought I saw one moving about in the back yard.' 
 
 ' Mother Brewer's been here, but she's gone home for a bit,' 
 was the evasive answer. 
 
 ' I thought Goff might have been here, or my father ; they 
 were before me some way on the hills. But I suppose they 
 turned off to the Point.' 
 
 ' I suppose so. Will you please to walk in ? The child will 
 be glad enough to see you.' Then recollecting himself, and re- 
 membering that Barney would be sure to mention the visit he 
 had just had, he added, — 'The Captain and Goff were here for 
 a bit ; but they 're off now ; I don't know where.' 
 
 Ronald had early been taught the watchfulness engendered by 
 guilt and suspicion ; even these few words of Mark's, showing an 
 unwillingness to mention Captain Vivian's visit, gave him the 
 clue to something not satisfactory. He would have asked some 
 ([acstions, but Mark was evidently unwilling to stay and talk. 
 He muttered a few v/ords about business and waste of time, and 
 again begging Ronald to go in, for Barney would be mighty glad 
 to see him, he walked away with a lounging, idling step. 
 
 Ronald went up to Barney's couch, and the child threw his 
 arms round him, and kissed him, but without speaking. 
 
 ' That 's enough ! Why, Barney, my man, I shall be stifled ! ' 
 Ronald laughed, and tried to disengage himself, but the child 
 still clung to him. 
 
 ' I like you to come. I don't like Captain John ; and Mother
 
 CLEVE HALL. 31 x 
 
 Brewer says he's wicked ; but father won't let me say it.' He 
 stopped suddenly, catching the expression of Ronald's face:—' Is 
 it naughty in me to say it ?' 
 
 ' Captain John is my father, Barney,' said Ronald. 
 
 * He ain't a bit like you ; and father is like me,' continued 
 Barney. 
 
 ' All fathers and sons aren't alike, Barney ; but what made 
 you think of Captain John ?' 
 
 * 'Cause he 's been here ever so long, and grandfather, and 
 father ; they 've been talking.' 
 
 * What, this morning ? A long time .'' ' 
 
 * Ever since Mother Brewer moved me up in the corner. 
 Captain John doesn't speak out like grandfather.' 
 
 * And they let you stay here ?' 
 
 * Father said it was a trouble to move, and they hadn't time ; 
 and he gave me this ' — Barney held up his paper — ' to cut out 
 a wolf for Captain John ; but I didn't cut — I listened !' His 
 brilliant eyes were fixed with keen intelligence upon Ronald. 
 
 * But, Barney, they didn't mean you to listen ; that was 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' They talked out, sometimes,' said Barney, quickly. ' Grand- 
 father made most noise.' 
 
 'And they went away just before I came, I suppose?' said 
 Ronald. 
 
 ' Just a bit before. Father was cross then.' 
 
 * Barney, Barney, what does Mr Lester tell you .?' 
 
 * I ain't to say father 's cross. I won't say it, but he is.' 
 
 ' But you do say it ; and that's naughty. You must try to be 
 dutiful. I 've told you so often.' 
 
 'Captain John's cross to you sometimes, ain't he?' said 
 Barney. 
 
 A perplexing question ! Ronald replied to it, indirectly, ' He 
 tells me when I don't please him,' 
 
 ' Then ain't you dutiful ? ' 
 
 Ronald's countenance changed, and Barney's quick eye 
 noticed it. 'When father's cross, I don't like him,' he said; 
 ' that 's naughty of me ; but you always like Cajotain John, don't 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' We mustn't talk about liking our parents j we must like them, 
 anyhow,' said Ronald. 
 
 Barney seemed perplexed; butprescntly he went on — 'Mr Les- 
 ter says that God likes good people ; must we like wicked ones?'
 
 312 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Ronald made no answer ; his head was turned aside, and a 
 large tear was rolling down his cheek. 
 
 Barney caught his hand, and forced him to look at him. ' Why 
 do you cry? I didn't mean to make you cry !' he said. ' Is it 
 'cause Captain John 's wicked ? ' 
 
 ' Because I am wicked myself, too, Barney ; ' and Ronald 
 brushed his hand across his eyes, and tried to smile. 
 
 ' Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel think you very good,' said 
 Baniey. ' They say if I go to heaven, that you '11 go, too. I 
 asked them one day, for I shouldn't like to go alone.' 
 
 ' Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel may wish me to go to 
 heaven, but they can't tell that I shall,' said Ronald ; ' and we 
 must be very good, indeed, you know, Barney, to go there.' 
 
 'That's why I shan't go, then,' said Barney, quickly; ''cause 
 I don't like father when he 's cross.' 
 
 ' But you know you must say your prayers, and ask God to 
 forgive you, Barney, when you 've been so naughty ; and then, 
 perhaps. He will let you go to heaven still.' 
 
 'Is that what you do?' asked the child, with a strangely 
 inquisitive expression in his worn face. 
 
 Ronald hesitated; but Barney was determined upon obtaining 
 his answer. ' Do you say prayers when you are naughty ? Is it 
 "Our Father," you say?' He would not let Ronald move, but 
 kept his hand closely clasped between his own small, long 
 fingers. 
 
 ' Yes, sometimes. People don't always say the same prayer, 
 you know, Barney,' was Ronald's answer. 
 
 *I like "Our Father" best,' continued the child, 'because 
 Miss Campbell says it's God's prayer; but I don't say it 
 when I am naughty. I say, " Pray, God, forgive me, and 
 make me a good boy, for Jesus Christ's sake." Is that what 
 you say ? ' 
 
 ' Something like it, sometimes ;' — Ronald still hesitated. 
 
 ' I 'm glad you say it. I like you to say the same things as me. 
 But then you aren't naughty when Captain John 's cross. What 
 makes you naughty ever?' 
 
 ' A great, great many things, I am afraid,' said Ronald. 
 
 ' But tell me what ; I want to know.' 
 
 ' I couldn't tell you ; you wouldn't understand.' 
 
 ' Shouldn't I ? ' A look of thought came over his face. 'When 
 I 'm a man, then, I shall understand ; but I don't want to be a 
 man.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 313 
 
 ' Don't you, Barney ? why not ?' 
 
 ' Men are wicked,' said Barney. ' Wicked 's worse than 
 naught)'.' 
 
 ' O Barney, Barney ! who taught you anything about wicked- 
 ness ?' 
 
 ' Father taught me some, and Mother Brewer. She hopes I 
 shan't be hke father, nor grandfather, nor Captain John, nor any 
 of them ; and so I say in my prayers, — " Please God talcc me out 
 of this wicked world." Do you say that, too?' _^ 
 
 Something seemed to rise up in Ronald's throat, to choke his 
 utterance. 
 
 Barney kept his eyes fixed upon him intently, and, obtaining 
 no answer, said, half reproachfully, — ' You wouldn't like to go.' 
 
 ' Shouldn't I ? O Barney ! if I were but sure .'' ' The words 
 escaped apparently without intention ; for, the moment after- 
 wards, Ronald added, — ' Never mind me, though ; you are 
 sure.' 
 
 * I ain't,' said the child, quickly. * Miss Campbell tells me to 
 say, " through Jesus Christ," to make sure ; and you can say 
 it too.' 
 
 Ronald half smiled. ' Yes, I can say it, certainly ; but saying's 
 not everything. You '11 know that, fast enough, Barney, when 
 you 're a man.' 
 
 ' I shan't never be a man ; but I know about that now,' was 
 the grave answer. 
 
 ' What do you know ? ' Ronald sat down by the couch, and 
 leaned over the child fondly. 
 
 ' I know He got us the place, and made it all ready for us ; 
 and if we say our prayers properly, and try not to cry and be 
 cross. He'll give it us.' 
 
 ' But if we don't say our prayers properly, and are cross, what 
 then, Barney ? ' and the sorrowful tone struck upon the child's 
 ear, thpugh he could not comprehend its meaning. 
 
 ' Somebody else will take our place,' he said, with a scrutinis- 
 ing look, which seemed to inquire whether Ronald could possibly 
 be alluding to himself. 
 
 'And we shall be punished,' said Ronald. 
 
 ' You won't be,' said Barney, ' because you say your prayers 
 when you are naughty.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but, Barney, that isn't everything. If we don't do right^ 
 v/e deserve to be punished.' 
 
 * Parson Lester says He was punished for us,' said Barney,
 
 314 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 quickly. Ronald made no answer, and Barney continued :— 
 * Parson Lester told me that one day after I 'd had a dream ; and 
 I thought God was going to put me down into a deep, dark place, 
 'cause I 'd called father cross. He said that if I 'd say my prayers, 
 and try to be a better boy, God wouldn't punish me, because 
 Jesus Christ had been punished for me. It was very kind of Him 
 to be punished, wasn't it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, very kind ; but still, if we don't try to be good, we shall 
 be punished,' said Ronald. 
 
 Barney looked up rather impatiently: 'But I don't like to 
 think about being punished — I like to think about being good ; 
 and Jesus Christ loves me, and so He won't punish me.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, indeed, Barney, He will ; if you are naughty.' 
 
 ' But He won't if I try not to be naughty. Mother Brewer was 
 scolding me last time Miss Campbell was here, and she said she 
 wasn't to scold me, 'cause I was trying ; and so, if I try, God 
 won't scold me. And I do try,' he added, looking earnestly at 
 Ronald's face ; ' I didn't cry once all day yesterday.' 
 
 ' There 's a good little man ; I 'm glad to hear that ;' and 
 Ronald stroked the child's head. 
 
 ' And He loves me then, don't you think so ? Miss Campbell 
 says He does, and Miss Rachel said He loved me better than 
 you do. Does He?' 
 
 ' Ah ! Barney, yes, I know He must ; but I love you very 
 much.' 
 
 'And I love you with all my heart ;' and Barney raised him- 
 self suddenly, and tried to reach Ronald's head, that he might 
 bend it down to kiss him. ' I love you now, and I mean to love 
 you when I get to heaven ; and then by and by you '11 come 
 there. I 'm sure there 's the place ready, with your name 
 upon it.' 
 
 Ronald looked away, and busied himself with replacing the 
 child's cushions. When he spoke again, it was to make some 
 trifling observation. 
 
 Barney was perplexed ; presently he said, in a low, almost 
 frightened voice, as if conscious that he was venturing upon for- 
 bidden ground, 'I should like to know whose name's there, 
 besides. Do you think Captain John's is ?' 
 
 Ronald could bear it no longer ; and, careless of the child's 
 presence, he leaned his forehead upon the arm of the couch, and 
 groaned. 
 
 ' Don't take on ; whnt 's the matter ? Please don't take on,'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 315 
 
 said Barney. ' I dare say he'll be there,' he added, seizing upon 
 liie point the most likely to have caused such distress. 'Don't 
 take on,' he continued, trying to draw away Ronald's hand, and 
 force him to raise his head. But Ronald did not look up for 
 many moments. His countenance was so haggard, when he did, 
 that the poor child gazed on him with alarmed amazement. 
 
 ' If Captain John says his prayers he "11 have his place there, 
 too,' he said, timidly. ' And we '11 ask God to teach him his 
 prayers, shall we ? I '11 ask it every day, if you will.' ,-^ 
 
 Ronald bent down and kissed him with a woman's tenderness. 
 ' Barney, will you ? I shall like that.' 
 
 * Shall you ? I like to do what you like. I can say it when I 
 pray God to bless father, and grandfather, and brothers, and 
 sisters, and Ronald.' He paused, then added — ' I never forget 
 that. One day I asked if you might have the place next mine, 
 so I dare say you will ; and 'twill be so happy.' 
 
 It was a strange, thrilling feeling which those few words 
 created in Ronald's breast ; he could scarcely call it hope, and 
 yet it was hope : even when he felt that they were but the ex- 
 pression of a child's affection, touching upon subjects im- 
 measurably beyond its comprehension. They were so vivid, 
 so undoubting ; the faith was scarcely to be called faith, it was 
 reality ; and it is this which our dim-seeing, earthly minds re- 
 quire to give them strength. 
 
 A smile reassured Barney, and made him feel that the cloud 
 had passed away ; and suddenly, with a child's quick forgetfulness 
 of the serious questions which had been occupying his mind, he 
 insisted upon Ronald's sitting down by him to show him how to 
 cut out some curious figures which he had promised him. All 
 his thoughts were turned into that channel, except at intervals, 
 when any sudden noise made him look up timidly. He was 
 evidently afraid of the usual visitors at the cottage, and at last he 
 begged Ronald to go to the back yard and see if Captain John was 
 there. ' I shouldn't like him to be out there,' he said ; 'perhaps 
 he 'd stay there all night.' 
 
 ' O Barney, how silly ! People don't stay out-of-doors all night ; 
 and if he did, he wouldn't do you any harm.' 
 
 ' People do stay out all night,' replied Barney, quickly. 'Father's 
 going to be out to-night.' 
 
 ' To-night ? What for ? What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Mother Brewer's coming here ; grandfather said she'd do for 
 me,'
 
 3i6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' I don't understand. Do for you ?' 
 
 'Father's going away,' continued Barney ; 'but he doesn't like 
 it.' 
 
 Ronald's interest was excited ; but he said, without expressing 
 the least surprise, ' Was that what father, and grandfather, and 
 Captain John were talking about ?' 
 
 'They made a great hushing and whispering up in the corner ; 
 I couldn't hear.' 
 
 ' But you heard something ? ' Ronald's voice was tremulously 
 eager. 
 
 ' I heard grandfather say Mother Brewer should come when 
 father was gone in the boat. They didn't stand here ; they were 
 out by the door.' 
 
 ' The boat ? oh ! ' And Ronald's interest sank, for he 
 thought it was only some smuggling scheme which had been 
 planned. 
 
 'Is it anything wicked, do you think?' continued Barney; 
 ' 'cause father doesn't want to go.' 
 
 ' I can't tell. Was that all you heard ? ' 
 
 The question was too direct. The boy had been trained to 
 silence, though he often forgot his lesson ; and now recollecting 
 himself he said, 'I mustn't tell anymore ; father won't let me ; 
 he '11 beat me, he says, if I do ever tell what I hear.' 
 
 ' But Barney, if I want to hear, — if it is of great consequence 
 that I should, — you would tell me then ? ' Ronald's conscience 
 reproached him as the words were uttered. He corrected him- 
 self quickly, and added, ' But never mind, never mind. When 
 is Mother Brewer corning back?' 
 
 ' I don't know. You aren't going ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; I think I must. Which way did Captain John 
 go, Barney ? ' 
 
 'Out at the back yard. D'ye think he's there now?' The 
 old frightened look returned. 
 
 ' No, no, lie quiet. There's nobody.' 
 
 ' There is somebody ; I hear him. O Ronald, won't you 
 look?' 
 
 ' Barney, that 's naughty, I tell you there 's no one ; only' — he 
 stepped to the window — ' Yes, can't you see ? I "U move you ; — 
 now, look out at the door, across the Gorge ; who 's that coming? 
 Some one you'll be glad to see, I '11 answer for it.' 
 
 The child stretched his neck forward, so as to catch a glimpse 
 of the patlnvay up the Gorge. His eyes sparkled with delight,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 3x7 
 
 'Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel !' he exclaimed, 'and the young 
 gentleman, too, and the little ladies ! ' 
 
 'What, Clement?' Ronald hurried to the door. The party 
 were drawing near. Ronald returned again to the child :•— ' You 
 are sure, Barney, that grandfather and Captain John are gone.' 
 
 ' They went out at the back, you can see.' Barney paid but 
 little attention to the question ; his interest was given to the new 
 arrivals. 
 
 Ronald quietly opened the back door, and went into the scul^ 
 lery, and front thence into what was called the yard. It was shut 
 in by the hills, which rose immediately behind the cottage, but 
 there was no regular enclosure. Nothing was to be seen from it, 
 but the precipitous banks which formed the head of the Gorge ; 
 bare, and desolate, and scattered over with large, loose stones 
 and rocks. Upon one of these rocks Ronald mounted, and 
 gazed around with the quick sight of one who, from infancy, 
 had been tutored to vigilance. At some distance was the track 
 which led from the secluded Gorge to the open common between 
 Cleve and Encombe, and from thence to the headland of Dark 
 Head Point. Along this path one figure was to be seen ; it 
 looked like Mark Wood ; but no one else was near, except the 
 party just arrived from Encombe. He heard their voices ; the 
 children and Clement were running races, — Bertha trying to 
 keep them quiet, lest they should come too suddenly upon 
 Barney. They seemed all in high spirits. Rachel was with them ; 
 and her laugh especially, with its sweet ringing tone, came 
 distinctly to the ear. Ronald watched, and listened ; and the 
 feeling, painfully morbid, which so often checked him in his 
 happiest moments, riveted him to the spot. What was he, that 
 he should attempt to mingle with those so much beyond him ; 
 — whose innocence and ignorance of sin he could never hope to 
 attain ? He left the rock, and walked a few paces away from the 
 house, to a smooth bit of turf, almost the only level spot near. 
 His inclination was to go away without being seen, but there 
 were other restraining feelings, one especially, which he could 
 not account for ; a dread, — a thought that he must remain near 
 as a guard, though why, or for what purpose, he could not 
 reasonably tell. He waited till they had entered the cottage, 
 and then sat himself down on the further side of the rock upon 
 which he had been standing, till he could quiet the tumult of his 
 feelings and summon courage to meet them. 
 
 There was an intense stillness immediately around him. The
 
 318 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 sea-gull, the only living creature to be seen, was winginj^ his 
 flight towards the ocean noiselessly, and not even the tinkling of 
 a sheep-bell broke upon the wintry quietness. And yet Ronald 
 listened ; and as he listened he heard the closing of a wicket- 
 gate, which gave admission to the small plot of ground near the 
 cottage, cultivated as a garden. It startled him, and his impulse 
 was to stand up and look round ; but he did not stand, he only 
 moved so as to see without being seen. Two men passed from 
 ihe back yard into the garden, one was Captain Vivian, the 
 other was Goff. They stood and spoke together for a few 
 moments ; then Captain Vivian went down the Gorge ; and 
 Goff — Ronald did not see what became of him, but when he 
 looked again he was gone. 
 
 There was no shyness nor morbid fancifulness in Ronald's 
 mind now ; his thoughts were distracted from himself ; they 
 were set upon suspicion — very incoherent, but still enough to 
 quicken his perceptions. Yet his only definite idea was, that 
 Goff was lingering about in the hope of meeting Clement, and 
 that, by watching, he could be a safeguard. This idea made 
 him go at once to the cottage, walk round it, ascend the hills 
 a few steps to look about, and then go through the yard and 
 the scullery, glancing quickly and carefully around. He could 
 not see any one ; but the door of the scullery (which Ronald 
 remembered to have shut behind him, fearing the draught for 
 Barney) was open, — an indication that some one had gone out 
 since himself. As far as he could tell, no one was there when 
 he went through, yet he could not feel quite sure. The scullery 
 was large, for so small a cottage, crowded with things which 
 did not all belong to Mark Wood, — several casks, and boxes, 
 and an old mahogany chest, which were Goff's property ; and 
 it was dark, lighted only by one little window, and that dimmed 
 by the hill rising behind the cottage ; a person might easily 
 have been overlooked, standing in the farthest comer. Per- 
 haps that might have been the case before ; but there was no 
 one there now, Ronald made quite sure of that ; and then he 
 fastened the door in the inside, and entered the outer apartment. 
 
 Bertha had taken Barney in her lap, and was showing him a 
 book of prints, which she had brought with her, t^hilst Rachel, 
 kneeling by her side, watched with eager interest the expression 
 of the child's face. Clement was playing with Mark Wood's dog, 
 in front of the cottage ; and Louisa and Fanny were running up 
 and down the banks.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 319 
 
 Barney recognised Ronald's footstep the moment he entered, 
 and called out to him, without any introduction — 'Here's a 
 beauty, Ronald! isn't he? And ain't she kind?' he added, 
 lowering his voice to an aside, as Ronald came close to him. 
 
 ' Very pretty indeed, Barney. What a house for you to live 
 in ! ' And Ronald drew his attention to the brilliant white 
 edifice with yellow and green trees standing behind it, which y 
 formed the frontispiece. He was glad of anything to cove.''^ 
 his shyness, for he was always particularly shy with Bertha 
 Campbell ; she knew so much more of him than any one 
 else did. 
 
 ' Barney told me you were gone, Ronald,' said Bertha, giving 
 him her hand with a cordial smile, which said more than an) 
 words. 
 
 'And I said I was sure you were not ; that you had only run 
 away to hide yourself,' said Rachel, laughing. ' Do you know, 
 Barney, that Ronald very often tries to hide himself when he 
 sees us, only he is so tall that his head will peep out, wherever 
 he is.' 
 
 ' I don't like hiding,' said Barney, quickly and bluntly, 
 ' Father and Captain John hide. Ronald went to see after 
 them.' 
 
 ' They are not here, are they?' Bertha inquired of Ronald. 
 
 * I think not ; I believe not.' But Ronald's manner was a 
 little hesitating. 
 
 Bertha looked uncomfortable. 'I felt sure,' she said, 'that 
 we should meet no one here, unless it might be you, Ronald ; 
 you told me your father was always on the shore, at this time 
 of the day.' 
 
 ' My father is not here, now,' replied Ronald. ' I saw him go 
 down the Gorge. Goff, too, I think, is gone ; but he has been 
 here.' 
 
 Bertha turned pale. ' He won't be coming back, you think ? ' 
 
 ' I hope not ; I don't know what he should come for ; ' but as 
 he said this, Ronald glanced uneasily at the door. 
 
 ' Look ! Here 's a cow and two sheep, and a big dog like 
 father's Rover ! Look ! you must look.' Barney drew Ronald 
 towards him impatiently. 
 
 But Ronald did not look, his thoughts were wandering. 
 
 ' Show them to me, Barney,' said Rachel, whose quick tact 
 made her see that both Bertha and Ronald were full of anxious 
 thoughts. She came close to the child and turned over the
 
 320 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 leaves of the book for him, and began, in her simple way to 
 describe the pictures. 
 
 ' Can't you come out with me for a few minutes ?' said Bertha, 
 addressing Ronald. 
 
 He followed her to the door without speaking ; then, as he 
 caught sight of Clement, he went up to him and shook him 
 heartily by the hand. 
 
 '>(■ * I did not expect to see you here, old fellow,' said Clement, 
 good-humouredly. ' I thought you were buried in your books. 
 What a rage you have for them now.' 
 
 ' I came over to see the child. I come most days when I 
 can. Have you seen any one go by here just these last few 
 minutes ?' 
 
 ' Not a soul. Whom did you expect ?' 
 
 ' I fancied Goff was here, he was just now ; but I suppose he's 
 gone,' said Ronald, carelessly. ' When does Mr Lester come- 
 back, Clement ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. Aunt Bertha is the person to ask.* 
 
 ' He doesn't say when he will come ; he may be here any day,' 
 replied Bertha. 
 
 ' But not to-day?' said Ronald, quickly. 
 
 ' No, not to-day, certainly. A friend of his is ill ; that detains 
 him.' 
 
 Ronald raised his eyes to hers, and read in her face that Mr 
 Lester's absence was a source of anxiety. There was an 
 awkward pause. Clement began to play with the dog again, 
 and ran off, scrambling up the bank, and trying to make the 
 animal follow. 
 
 Ronald called him back. ' Holloa ! Clement, won't you do 
 something for me ? ' 
 
 Clement could scarcely refuse, but he came back unwillingly. 
 
 ' I 've got a word to say to Miss Campbell, but I meant, if I 
 could, just to have drawn Barney once or twice up and down 
 the green. He mustn't stay out more than a few minutes. 
 Would you mind taking him out for me ? Rachel will wrap 
 him up.' 
 
 ' It won't do to trust her,' said Bertha; 'let me go;' but 
 Ronald prevented her. ' Please not : I am sure he will let 
 Rachel put his coat on. Be off, Clement;' and Clement, natu- 
 rally good-natured, and flattered at being trusted, went into the 
 cottage. 
 
 Bertha followed him with her eyes, so did Ronald, till he was
 
 CLEVE HALL. 321 
 
 out of hearing ; then he turned anxiously to Bertha, and ,said — 
 * I wanted him gone ; isn't Mr Lester coming back soon ? ' 
 
 * Soon, but not directly ; at least, I can't be sure, Ronald ; why 
 do you ask ? ' 
 
 ' I can scarcely tell. I wish he was here, or that Clement was 
 away.' 
 
 ' You must have a reason ; why don't you tell me it at once ?', 
 said Bertha, with slight impatience in her tone. 
 
 ' Because it is not a reason — only suspicion — and it may all 
 be wrong.' 
 
 ' But tell me — tell me — this is mere tormenting;' and Bertha 
 looked and spoke great annoyance. 
 
 Ronald was pained, and his answer was cold — ' The last thing 
 I should desire is to torment any one, still less Miss Campbell. 
 My father and Goff keep their plans secret, but that they have 
 them I don't doubt. It can scarcely have been for nothing that 
 Goff brought Clement to the Grange the other night.' 
 
 ' To the Grange ? — what ? — where ?' 
 
 * Surely you know. He was there three nights ago.' Then 
 seeing Bertha's countenance change, he went on — ' There is 
 nothing to alarm you ; he only came with Goff, on his way back 
 from the Hall, and rested there for about a quarter of an hour. 
 Clement may not have thought it worth while to mention it,' he 
 continued, in a tone of exculpation ; 'he does not know what 
 I do.' 
 
 'Unjustifiable! — disgraceful!' began Bertha; and she looked 
 towards the cottage door, as though she would at once have gone 
 to reproach him. 
 
 Ronald interrupted her — ' I will ask, for my own sake, that 
 the matter may pass now. He will feel that I have betrayed 
 him, and he won't understand my motive.' 
 
 ' So mean ! so deceitful!' exclaimed Bertha ; and, with a sigh, 
 she added — 'These arc the things which make one feel that one 
 is working for nothing.' 
 
 Ronald made no reply to the remark. His attention was still 
 directed to the cottage. 
 
 Bertha considered a little. ' I shall write to Mr Lester, and 
 tell him that he must return without delay.' 
 
 * Yes, that will be the best plan — much the best ;' and Ronald 
 
 spoke eagerly and earnestly. ' Till he comes ' he paused, 
 
 not wishing to exaggerate her fears — ' I will do my utmost to 
 keep Clement from the Grange ; so^ doubtless, will you,'
 
 322 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Yes, of course. Would he were to be trusted ! But, Ronald, 
 1 may trust you for him.' 
 
 ' I would entreat you to keep him witli you,' replied Ronald, 
 gravely. ' It may be quite out of my power to help him.' 
 
 Bertha's fears were again awakened; and she said, ' You have 
 a motive for speaking in this way, and you are afraid to tell it me.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ; I could not fear to tell you anything — every- 
 thing. I have a motive — Clement's safety.' 
 
 Bertha looked round her anxiously, and said, ' We had better 
 go home at once.' 
 
 'Yes. Not that there is cause for fear now ; so far, at least, 
 as I know. I dread more Clement's renewed visits to the 
 Grange ;' and Ronald sighed deeply. 
 
 Bertha saw the expression of his face, and read his thoughts. 
 * Ronald,' she said, ' I need scarcely tell you how I thank you.' 
 
 He stopped her. * Miss Campbell, that can never be required.' 
 
 Bertha, without heeding him, continued — 'You will believe, 
 I trust, that, even if forced hereafter, from circumstances, to 
 estrange ourselves apparently, neither Mr Lester, Edward Vivian, 
 nor myself, can ever really forget your noble conduct. We feel 
 that Clement is as safe with you as with us.' 
 
 ' I have a debt to pay,' he replied, gloomily. ' It is not yet 
 discharged.' 
 
 ' The debt is not yours,' replied Bertha. ' I was unwise to lay 
 the obligation upon you. Mr Lester has made me see this. Let 
 me entreat you to forget it.' 
 
 ' Forget it !' he exclaimed. ' Forget that the name I bear can 
 never be uttered without a thought of reproach — that even now 
 I may be reaping the fruits of dishonour ! Miss Campbell, tell 
 me rather to forget my own existence ; to bury it, as full often I 
 fain would, in the grave ! ' 
 
 ' Ronald, this is wild and wrong. Your position is the order- 
 ing of God's providence; and the grave, when we seek it for our- 
 selves, is not the death of dishonour, but its birth for eternity.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it, I know it. But, Miss Campbell, there arc 
 feelings to which you, a woman — nurtured in innocence, your 
 name untainted, — must be a stranger. You have never known 
 that goading feeling for which even Heaven's mercy has no cure 
 —disgrace !' The word, as it escaped his lips, was almost in- 
 audible. 
 
 ' I may not have known it, Ronald, but I can imagine it, and 
 fee] for it.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 323 
 
 ^ Impossible ! I also once thought I knew it by imagination,' 
 and he laughed bitterly. Then in a half scornful, half sorrowful 
 tone, he went on, speaking rapidly: — 'There is a tale — my 
 father read it to me once, when I was a child — he little thought 
 then that I should find its likeness in my own history ; — it tells 
 of the living man bound to the dead, and left to perish in the 
 lonely wilderness. Miss Campbell,' — and his eyes flashed for a 
 moment, and became dim again with struggling anguish, — 
 'that is disgrace — the dead sin that clings to the memory — in- 
 separable !' 
 
 ' But, Ronald, it is not your own disgrace ; and, as yet, it is 
 not disgrace in the eyes of the world.' 
 
 He smiled grimly. ' Who can separate the father and the son? 
 When the living man sank beside his dead burden in the wilder- 
 ness, there were none to see ; but did he, therefore, feel its horror 
 the less ? The eye of heaven is upon him who is disgraced; and 
 were it possible for that eye to be hidden from creation — were 
 he alone, the one, solitary, living being, in the vast universe^ 
 there would be the eye of his own heart, from which there can 
 be no escape ! Miss Campbell, do not try to comfort me ; tell 
 me only how I may serve you.' 
 
 ' I will not try to comfort you, Ronald,' replied Bertha ; ' in 
 your present mood you could not receive comfort. You have 
 brooded over your position till its evils have assumed a giant 
 magnitude. Years, and experience, and God's blessing upon 
 your sincerity, will prove to you that even when disgrace is 
 irretrievable in the eye of man, it is never so in the sight of God; 
 that before Him we are all dishonoured, the best even as the 
 worst ; and that repentance, which has restored the one, can also 
 give the place of honour to the other. It is but human pride 
 which looks upon any disgrace as indelible before God, for it is 
 only that which rejects the Atonement that can make 'the sins 
 which are as scarlet to be even as white as wool.' 
 
 ' It may be so ; the time may come when I may feel it.' 
 
 'It will come ; I do not doubt it,' replied Bertha. 'And, in 
 
 the meanwhile, Ronald, there may be means' she stopped, 
 
 afraid of being carried away beyond the limits of prudence. 
 
 Ronald waited respectfully, but, finding that the sentence was 
 not concluded, he said, 'What means? For what purpose? 
 There are none which Miss Campbell could Suggest that I 
 should not be too glad to use.' 
 
 Still Bertha's face expressed doubtfulness ; but, after a few
 
 324 • CLEVE HALL. 
 
 seconds, she replied, ' Means of averting public disgrace, I was 
 going to speak of; but I ought not to name them to you, except 
 that they may be your father's safety.' 
 
 ' I am willing to hear them,' he replied. 
 
 ' It is but repeating what I have said before,' continued 
 Bertha. 
 
 ' You will, I am sure, understand that, if any influence of yours 
 could induce your father to own the wrong we have every reason 
 to believe he has done, Mr Vivian is the last person who would 
 press a charge against him. If it were only for your sake, he 
 would overlook everything ; he owes his life to you, and the 
 obligation can never be forgotten. All that we desire is that any 
 false impression should be I'emoved from General Vivian's mind. 
 Perhaps there would be less difficulty in bringing him to this 
 point, if he knew that we may be soon in a position to compel 
 what now we only request.' 
 
 A cloud of haughty feelings darkened Ronald's countenance, 
 and he turned away. But the feeling was momentary. He came 
 back again, and said, with stern self-control, ' It is not an easy 
 task to require a son to bring his father to confession.' 
 
 Bertha looked distressed. ' I fear I have done wrong,' she 
 said ; ' yet I have spoken in the hope of averting greater evil. 
 One thing is most certain, that your father's danger will be as 
 nothing if he himself will come forward and acknowledge the 
 truth.' 
 
 * And if he does not ?' 
 
 ' It may be, I must not say it is, imminent. O Ronald ! '— - 
 and Bertha's voice suddenly changed into earnestness most 
 unlike her usual placidity, — 'think, I beseech you, of what I 
 say ; think of what you may avoid, — for your own sake, for your 
 mother's sake.' He stood by with a face pale as death, but made 
 no answer. She read the working of his mind : — ' Forgive me, 
 forgive me, that I have so grieved you. At first, when I told you 
 all, I scarcely knew what I was doing ; I longed only to have a 
 friend on our side. I thought you might do more for us than 
 any other person.' 
 
 ' I will do more. As there is truth in heaven, I promise it ; 
 but not against my father's safety.' 
 
 ' Not against it, but for it. Time presses, and events arc 
 hastening on. A few weeks, a few days even, may see Edward 
 Vivian openly arrayed against your father ; they may place a 
 ^rrier, Ronald, between us for ever. I am not speaking from
 
 CLEVE HALL. 325 
 
 fear or fancy, indeed I am not. If you ever believed my word, 
 count upon it now, if possible.' 
 
 He v.rung her hand in silence, and, as with one consent, they 
 both moved towards the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE twilight shades were gathering round the woods of 
 Cleve ; the heavy trunks and leafless branches were be- 
 coming one dark, indistinct mass, above which lurid clouds 
 were gathering together in the wintry sky, piled into fantastic 
 shapes of mountains gilded at their crests, and traversed by 
 lines of fiery light ; and islands floating in seas of liquid gold, 
 appearing for a moment, and then passing into other forms, and 
 sinking swiftly, yet almost imperceptibly, into darkness. And 
 in the library at Cleve, in a heavy arm-chair, covered with crim- 
 son leather, drawn close to the wide hearth, sat General Vivian ; 
 on a low stool at his feet was Ella ; whilst, resting on the sofa 
 opposite, lay Mildred. The room was dark ; yet the dancing 
 light from the blazing logs flickered along the walls, and seemed to 
 mingle mysteriously with the departing rays afar in the western 
 sky, which glimmered faintly through the narrow diamond panes 
 of a window deeply embayed. 
 
 It was an hour for kindly thoughts, — the expression of tliose 
 inward feelings which never come forth so freely as when twi- 
 light or darkness veil the changes of the countenance, and we 
 speak, as it were, to ourselves, not willing to recognise the 
 shadow^-, ghostly forms of the friends who are scarcely visible 
 in the dimness. 
 
 A change had come over General Vivian's home since Ella 
 had become its inhabitant. Months before, he would have spent 
 that sobering hour in reveries — severe, if not gloomy ; and Mil- 
 dred, fearing to intrude upon him unsummoned, would have used 
 the lingering moments of day in thoughts of quiet meditation,— 
 blessed indeed, and most soothing, yet solitary, as regarded aught 
 of communion on earth. 
 
 Now they were together, talking little, thinking much, — and 
 probably very differently, — yet with a certain feeling of common 
 interest, of added cheerfulness and hope. Ella was scarcely to
 
 326 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 be thanked for this ; at first, indeed, her presence had been a re- 
 straint ; it had fretted the General's conscience, though he would 
 not acknowledge it ; and he had seized upon all the weak points 
 in her character, which were many, and dwelt upon, and exagge- 
 rated them. Yet still she was an interest to him. The lonely, 
 stern mind, which had, for years, lived to itself, brooding over its 
 own plans, and building up a tower of self-confidence, was now, 
 in a degree, diverted into another channel. Even when he found 
 fault with her, he liked to watch her ; and when he did watch 
 her, his strong sense of justice assisted him against his pre- 
 judices. Ella was improved, under Mildred's guidance ; she 
 had made resolutions, few and simple, but they had been kept ; 
 and this had given her confidence ; and, of her own accord, she 
 had then ventured to do more. The General perceived this. 
 Ella was'more punctual at breakfast and dinner, and that pleased 
 him ; she read steadily, and when he questioned her, the 
 answers brought out her talent ; and, as Mildred had hoped, he 
 began to feel proud of her. When it was proposed that she 
 should go home, he felt that he should miss her. Not that he 
 would acknowledge it to himself; the excuse which he made 
 was, that she was a comfort to Mildred. Yet once it had flashed 
 across his mind whether it would be possible to keep her with 
 them alwa}'s, — he did not say to adopt her, — that would have 
 brought up the old question of justice ; but without minutely 
 considering the arrangement, he fancied that she might just as 
 well live at one place as the other. And Ella, on her part, was 
 not without some degree of romantic reverence for her grand- 
 father. His very faults inspired the feeling. She could see into, 
 and through, most minds ; she never seemed to reach beyond 
 the surface of his. It was a painful fascination at first, and had 
 sometimes rendered her perverse. She amused herself by ap- 
 pearing wayward, and expressing strange, wild opinions before 
 him, and watching their effect upon him. It was a kind of play, 
 in which she was the heroine ; but she Avas baffled by him. 
 His notice was too slight to be exciting ; often she could not 
 tell whether he even heard what she was saying ; and when, 
 with an absurd self-consciousness, she became more extrava- 
 gant, and more wilful, she was put down by a sharp rebuke, 
 which yet was not felt to be irritating-; for it was the repi'oof of 
 a strong, powerful character, given without petulance ; and 
 there is more pleasure than pain in this kind of subjection, 
 especially to those whose strength is mental rather than moral.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 327 
 
 She became in consequence more gentle and submissive ; and 
 the very difficulty of discovering whether her grandfather was 
 pleased, or the contrary, gave an interest to her efforts. There 
 was a little quiet excitement always going on at the Hall, which 
 afforded a stimulus to her indolence, and so satisfied her con- 
 science, and put her in better humour ; and at length, as the 
 consciousness dawned upon her that he was beginning to like 
 her, came the pleasure of power, — power over one whom every 
 one else dreaded ; and Ella loved power dearly, in spite of her 
 indolence. She felt that she could amuse her grandfather, — that 
 he was interested in her conversation ; she had that sense of 
 being appreciated, which especially tends to bring out talent, 
 and this made her exert herself the more. All these motives 
 were, of course, very mixed, — they could not, in any way, be 
 depended upon for the steady improvement of character ; but 
 Ella's faults were not those which the labour of days or weeks, 
 or even of months, could cure ; they were insidious evils, — 
 pride, wilfulness, indolence, — requiring patience and self-exami- 
 nation, and constant watchfulness ; and Ella was only just be- 
 ginning to understand her defects, — how then could she be 
 expected, all at once, properly to apply the remedies 1 Mildred 
 was often obliged to say this to herself, for Ella was continually 
 disappointing her,— and even her good deeds were not seldom 
 alloyed by some taint of the old leaven. Most especially it was 
 difficult to make her see the effect which her faults had upon 
 others. Indolence had rendered her selfish, and selfishness 
 prevented her from putting herself in the position of those with 
 whom she lived, and understanding their feelings. Besides, 
 without being conceited, she had the consciousness of talent, 
 which is inseparable from its possession ; and knowing that she 
 could make herself very agreeable, it was not easy to believe 
 that she was often just the contrary. 
 
 Then, too, her offences, though very tiresome and irritating, 
 were not the result of wilful malice, if the expression may be used. 
 She was always wishing to be much better than she was, and 
 fancied that every one must see this, and understand it ; and so, 
 when she had done wrong, the fault was blotted from her own 
 memory quickly, because there was no depth of bad intention in 
 it, and she forgot that, without a confession or an apology, it 
 could not be forgotten by those who witnessed it. She would be 
 most provokingly disregardful of Mildred's wishes, and would 
 even speak to her proudly and disrespectfully, and then go about
 
 328 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 her usual occupation as if nothiug had happened, and return lo 
 Mildred in perfect good-humour, without, perhaps, the thought 
 once crossing her mind that her aunt had reason to be annoyed. 
 
 Every day made Mildred see more plainly how much Bertha 
 must have had to bear with in a character so unlike her own. 
 
 Yet there was an improvement, an obvious one, and Mildred 
 was by nature patient and hopeful, and Ella was very young, 
 and had, it was to be trusted, a long life before her for the task 
 of self-discipline, and so it was not difficult to give her en- 
 couragement; and this made Ella's life much happier than it 
 was at home, and rendered even the silence of the old Hall more 
 cheerful to her than the mirth of the Lodge. 
 
 She was cheerful now as she sat with her grandfather and aunt 
 in the twilight, ruminating upon her own fancies, and from time 
 to time venturing to give them forth, and Mildred had a pleasure 
 in listening to her, even though occasionally she saw cause to 
 check her. 
 
 * Grandpapa, do you and Aunt Mildred never go to London ? ' 
 was the question, after'a silence rather longer than usual. 
 
 'What should we do in London, child? We can neither of us 
 move about.' 
 
 'But it would be the world ; Encombe and Cleve are not the 
 world.' 
 
 ' They form our world,' observed Mildred, 'and that satisfies 
 us.' 
 
 'But they are not the world, — the real world. It is like being 
 in a dream living here.' 
 
 ' And you don't like the dream, Ella ?' The General did not 
 mind asking the question ; he knew he was quite safe as to the 
 answer. 
 
 ' Oh yes, grandpapa, 1 do. Sometimes I think it is a dream 
 I should like never to waken from.' 
 
 The General patted her head, and Ella drew nearer to him. 
 ' But, grandpapa, don't you know what I mean ? There is a 
 difference between dreaming and living.' 
 
 'A wide difference,' said Mildred, laughing, 'but I should have 
 thought, Ella, that dreaminess was quite in your way ; you don't 
 like active exertion.' 
 
 ' But I like to see it in others,' said Ella, ' and that is why I 
 should like to live in London.' 
 
 ' You would soon grow weary of it,' remarked the General, 
 shortly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 329 
 
 'Did you, grandpapa?' The question was an experiment. 
 Ella often tried to make him talk of his young days. Occasionally 
 he would, but he was very uncertain. 
 
 'Yes, too soon for my own good, or for others' pleasure,' was 
 the reply. 'They would have had me live in London, Mildred/ 
 he added, less gloomily. 'What would you have said to 
 that ? ' 
 
 'Not part with Clave, grandpapa ! ' exclaimed Ella, interrupting 
 the answer. 
 
 ' Ay, child, part with it, every acre ; sell it, divide it, scatter it 
 to the winds ; the property which had come down from genera- 
 tion to generation for the last four hundred years.' 
 
 It was strange the impulse which made the General revert to 
 such a subject ; perhaps his conscience was never thoroughly 
 satisfied as to the course he had taken in life, and so he tried to 
 talk himself into the conviction that it had been in all respects a 
 right one. He went on : 'We should have led a different life, 
 Alildred, if we had lived in London. I might have been a gay 
 cavalier; a courtier ; who knows ? But it was a weary life, the 
 little that I saw of it.' 
 
 'But you never went much into society, did you, sir.''' asked 
 Mildred, encouraging the conversation, since he seemed to enter 
 into it. 
 
 'I had not the means,' was the quick reply. 'Ella,' and the 
 General turned to his granddaughter, and spoke with sudden 
 harshness, ' remember that ; whatever you do, never live beyond 
 your means.' 
 
 ' I have no means, grandpapa.' She said It simply, without 
 any purpose, but it had one unconsciously. 
 
 The General moved his hand, which had been resting on her 
 shoulder, and relapsed into silence. 
 
 Ella was not aware what she had done. It was too common 
 an occurrence for a conversation to break off abruptly, to cause 
 any surprise. She looked into the fire, and made imaginary 
 hills, and rocks, and roads, out of the red coals, and was quite 
 happy. 
 
 Not so iMildred. The spirit of the old times was creeping 
 over her ; she waited anxiously for the General's next words. 
 
 ' We had better have candles, Mildred.' Very little there was 
 in the words, but very much in the tone. 
 
 * Oh, please not yet, grandpapa,' exclaimed Ella. ' I was just 
 in the midst of such a charming story.'
 
 330 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 ' A fireside story, I suppose,' said Mildred, relieved by Ella's 
 having given a tuin to her thoughts. 
 
 'Yes, a fascinating one. I wish I could make you see it. 
 There is the pass over the mountains, and the travellers have 
 just got to the top, and now they are going down the other side, 
 into sucli a lovely country. Do, grandpapa, let us have the fire- 
 light a little longer.' 
 
 ' Waste of time, child ; ' but the General delayed to ring the 
 bell. 
 
 ' Is it ? But why were such fancies given if they are not to be 
 indulged.' 
 
 ' They are very well for children,' replied the General. 
 
 ' Then, grandpapa, please, I am a child.' 
 
 'There is no doubt of that,' said Mildred, laughing. 'You 
 are much worse than either Louisa or Fanny, I suspect, in your 
 love of stories.' 
 
 ' They won't help you on in the world, Ella,' observed the 
 General. ' Trust my word for that.' 
 
 ' But, grandpapa, have you ever tried } Did you like stories 
 when you were young ? ' 
 
 'Real stories ; not such as you fancy.' 
 
 ' Stories of things which have really happened,' said Ella, in a 
 musing tone. ' Perhaps every one's life is a story, if one could 
 but read it.' 
 
 'Yes, Ella,' — General Vivian spoke with mournful earnest- 
 ness, — 'a story only understood when it is too late to rectify 
 its blunders ; so I would have you consider it carefully before it 
 begins.' 
 
 ' Mine is begun, grandpapa.' 
 
 ' Not begun so that it can't be altered, though,' observed 
 ]\Iildred, with something of tremulousness in her voice, 
 
 ' No person's life is such that it can't be altered,' said Ella. 
 
 'Not exactly, but there is a very different feeling about it as 
 one grows older. It becomes, as it were, fixed ; circumstances 
 and relations are formed ; it seems as if one could better foresee 
 the future. Now your future, Ella, may be' 
 
 'Anything,' exclaimed Ella, quickly. 'I like to think of it 
 sometimes, it is so exciting ; only frightening, too.' 
 
 The General had been sitting in a musing posture, apparently 
 only half hearing the last words of the conversation. He broke 
 in upon it, however, here. 'Why should it be frightening, 
 Ella ? '
 
 CLEVE HALL. 331 
 
 She hesitated, and the General repeated his question more 
 peremptorily. 
 
 'Because, — I don't quite exactly know why, grandpapa ; but 
 we have led a wandering life, and strange things have happened ; 
 
 and' a pause, and a glance at Mildred. ' You know we can't 
 
 always live with grandmamma.' 
 
 Mildred raised herself, and stretched out her hand to ring the 
 bell. 
 
 ' Not yet, Mildred ; we won't have candles yet. You can't live 
 with your grandmamma, you say, Ella. \Vhat change do you 
 expect ?' 
 
 ' I don't know, grandpapa. Aunt Mildred,' and Ella looked 
 round for help ; ' do you think we shall always live with grand- 
 mamma ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps not, my love ; we had better leave the future.' 
 
 ' Yes, much better, — a great deal better.' The General spoke 
 very gravely. ' Ella, it won't do to make dreams of the future.' 
 
 'Aunt Bertha tells me enough to frighten me about it,' replied 
 Ella ; ' she says, when she is angry, that I may have to work for 
 my bread.' 
 
 'O Ella!' the words escaped Mildred involuntarily, and a 
 sudden movement made it seem that, but for her helplessness, 
 she would have sprung from the sofa to stop Ella. 
 
 ' Let her go on, Mildred ; what else does your Aunt Bertha say 
 to you, Ella .'' ' 
 
 ' Nothing, — not much else.' Ella felt she was getting into a 
 difficulty. 
 
 ' She thinks you will have to work for your bread, does she .'' 
 Are you prepared for that ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' Should you like it ? ' 
 
 ' Grandpapa ! No. Does any one like it ?' 
 
 ' Persons with energy don't mind it,' said Mildred, rather 
 sternly. 
 
 'Stop, Mildred, don't interrupt her. Should you like it, 
 Ella ? ' 
 
 ' No, grandpapa, I don't think I should.' Ella looked up at 
 him, perplexed by the question. 
 
 He stirred the fire and spoke at the same time, turning his 
 head away from her. The accent was low and trembHng ; it 
 came from a weary heart : ' Would you live here, Ella, with me, 
 then ; and I would provide for you .'' '
 
 332 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 A strange, unbroken silence. Mildred could hear the beating 
 of her own heart, running its rapid race with the ticking of the 
 quaint old clock in the corner of the room. The General pushed 
 back his chair as though he would rise. Ella felt the movement, 
 and laid her hand on his knee. ' Grandpapa, — Aunt Mildred, — 
 \shat must I say.?' 
 
 'What you feel, dear Ella,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' The truth,' said the General. 
 
 ' Grandpapa, I should like it, but — oh ! Aunt Mildred, help 
 me ;' and Ella rose and went to Mildred's sofa, and knelt down 
 by her. 
 
 'What is it, Ella.? Speak, dear child, without fear,' she 
 whispered. 
 
 ' I can't. I could tell you alone.' 
 
 Mildred glanced at her father. A clear flame from the fire cast 
 a bright, yet ominous light upon his features ; it seemed to alter 
 them, — to make them look more worn ; the haggard face was set 
 as in a framework of darkness. 
 
 ' Go to him and tell him what you mean,' whispered Mildred 
 to Ella. And Ella looked round at her grandfather, and shrank 
 from the cold severity of the fixed gaze directed to the fire. 
 ' Elln, he will be angry if you don't,' repeated Mildred. 
 
 Ella went up to him. ' Dear grandpapa, it is very, very kind 
 of you ; ' she kissed his forehead. ' I should like to stay here ; I 
 am very happy here ; only ' — her hesitation was almost suffocat- 
 ing — ' would it be right if papa were kept away ? ' 
 
 A groan was heard, but the tall figure sat erect, cold, immov- 
 nble ; it might have been a lifeless statue rather than a living 
 being into whose ear the words were spoken. 
 
 ' Ella, my crutches ! Help me, will you ! ' said Mildred. Ella 
 gave them to her. ' Now, leave us ; I will send for you when 
 )-ou may come back.' And Mildred moved slowly across the 
 room, and seated herself in a chair v/hich Ella placed for her by 
 the General's side. 
 
 The door was closed, and Ella gone. The General heard the 
 sound, and slowly turned his head. 'Mildred !' — She laid her 
 hand in his ; her eyes were raised to his face ; she saw tears 
 streaming down his cheeks. — ' My child ! clinging to me through 
 all ! ' he murmured. 
 
 ' To whom else should I cling, my dear, dear father ? ' 
 
 ' Whom else, indeed. We are alone in this world ; even Ella 
 cannot sacrifice herself to live with us.' He said it bitterly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 333 
 
 ' Hers is a strange nature,' replied Mildred.' 'I should not 
 Lave expected such thought.' 
 
 ' It has been her teaching,' said the General. 
 
 ' Or the teaching of nature. Would you like her as well if she 
 did not feel it 1 ' 
 
 ' She has no cause for it,' he replied, abruptly. 
 
 * If it were my case, you would expect me to feel it.' 
 
 'I have not brought disgrace upon you, Mildred.' The 
 General averted his head, and withdrew his hand. 
 
 Mildred's heart seemed to rise up in her throat as she said, 
 'Ella does not see her fathei^'s disgrace, dear sir. Neither, per- 
 haps, do others.' 
 
 They were bold words. Month after month, and year after 
 year, since the first outburst of anger, had the father and 
 daughter dwelt beneath the same roof with that one mutual 
 sorrow, yet never approaching it, except by distant allusions. 
 
 The General replied calmly, his tone and manner so unshaken 
 that it struck INIildred as something fearful. 'The world does 
 think him disgraced, Mildred ; though his relations may not.' 
 
 ' He did very wrong, sir; his marriage was most unfortunate ; 
 indeed, we see it all.' 
 
 ' Only it is not disgrace,' he replied, with cold sarcasm. 
 
 * Not his marriage certainly.' 
 
 'And not his gambling? — his friendship with that rascal, 
 John Vivian? Mildred, ]\Iildred ! ' — he put his face close to 
 hers and lowered his voice — ' I know, if you do not ; he dis- 
 honoured my name once ; and I would have it blotted for ever 
 from the earth rather than trust him to dishonour it again.' 
 
 Still Mildred's voice was gentle, though earnest. ' I am aware 
 I don't understand it all, sir.' 
 
 ' No, you don't understand ; no one does, nor can. And I 
 have borne all ; — Mr Lester's strictures, your sorrow, my friends' 
 judgments — all — all I have endured rather than tell,' — his voice 
 changed suddenly, it became fiercely eager — 'but would you 
 know it, Mildred ? Shall I show you what your brother was ? 
 what he could do? He stood up, pushed aside his chair, and 
 turned to the ebony escritoire which was close to it. IMildred 
 gave him a taper : he lighted it, and, with an unsteady hand 
 tried the lock. The taper went out ; he relighted it, opened the 
 cabinet, dre'.v out some small drawers, searched in them, then 
 put his hand to his head, tryintj; to recollect, and searclied 
 again.
 
 334 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 *Your private papers are in the upper box, sir,' Mildred 
 ventured to say. 
 
 'Yes, yes.' He was impatient at the suggestion, but he took 
 down the box. The Hght of the taper was faint, and he could 
 scarcely see by it, but Mildred did not venture to propose ring- 
 ing for a lamp. 
 
 The General, however, did so himself, and till it was brought, 
 sat silent in the arm-chair. 
 
 'Put the little table near me, Greaves, and that box upon 
 it.' He watched the butler's movements with an irritable eye. 
 Then, when the man was gone, he began to look through the 
 papers. 
 
 Ihe search was perplexing, though Mildred thought at first 
 that it was only painful. He muttered to himself, ' It was here, 
 — in this packet. I can't have mislaid it,' and again he searched 
 through the packet, whilst his features assumed a most distressed 
 look of doubt, and eflbrt at recollection. 
 
 Mildred said at length : ' If you would not trouble yourself, 
 my dear father, but tell me, if you don't mind. I would rather 
 hear than see.' 
 
 He took no notice, but went on as before. Mildred watched 
 him anxiously, for she fancied he did not quite know what he 
 was doing. 
 
 'I would look, dear sir,' she said, 'if you would tell me what 
 to find.' 
 
 ' I can't ; it was here ; somebody — INIildred, who has touched 
 my box ? ' he addressed her angrily. 
 
 ' No one, sir. No one could ; it is always in your room.' 
 
 A sudden dawning of recollection crossed the General's mind. 
 He muttered ]\Ir Lester's name. 
 
 ' You were looking at papers the other day, sir, with IMr 
 Lester,' said Mildred. 
 
 His face became more troubled, but he put aside the box, and 
 leaned back in his chair. 
 
 ' Mr Lester may be able to assist you in finding it,' said Mil- 
 dred ; ' but you could tell me if you would what it was ; it makes 
 me very anxious.' And the tone certainly gave full effect to her 
 words. 
 
 He raised his head, and gazed upon her as one in a dream ; 
 his voice, too, had something in it of a wavering, faltering tone. 
 
 ' I don't know why I should tell it ; he is gone from us, Mildred, 
 —well that he is ; he would ha\'e squandered all.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 33 
 
 J3 
 
 ' He was extravagant, but he might have learned wisdom,' 
 observed Mildred, timidly. 
 
 ' Extravagant ! yes.' The General tried to raise the lid of the 
 box, which he had unintentionally closed. Mildred stopped him. 
 
 ' Do you wish to show me a list of his bills, dear sir ? I think 
 I know them.' 
 
 ' Bills, did you say, Mildred ? Little cared he for bills when 
 he could give checks, and promise away what was to be his after 
 my death. His ! his ! ' he repeated, and his scornful laugh struck 
 an icy chill to Alildred's heart. ' But it was reckoning a little too 
 much without his host ; don't you think so, Mildred.? A man can't 
 build upon his own, when life stands in the way of possession. 
 My life ! his father's ! But that was easily set aside. His wish 
 was father to his thoughts, eh, Mildred .'' He didn't think I should 
 have been such an old man. But I have outwitted him — stopped 
 him when he least expected it ; he has no inheritance now to 
 jDlay ducks and drake with.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you, dear sir/ said Mildred, indescribably 
 alarmed at his manner. 
 
 ' No, how should you } What do women know of such matters ? 
 I would have shown it you, but I can't. He tried again to 
 open the box, but his hand trembled so violently that Mildred 
 took the key from him, yet without placing it in the lock. 
 
 ' Do you mean,' she said, ' that he drew upon you for more 
 money, sir, than he had a right to ? ' 
 
 ' Drew upon ine, Mildred ? Promised it, I say ; — pledged it ; 
 would have given my lands to the Jews, — to worse than Jews, — 
 to that scoundrel, John Vivian, Pshaw, why can't I show you 
 the proof 
 
 'It is impossible ! Edward could never have done it,' ex- 
 claimed Mildred, in a voice of agony. 
 
 The General shrank from the sound of the name, but almost 
 immediately recovered himself. ' I will find it, and you shall see 
 it ; not now, — to-morrow, by daylight I can find it. I have it 
 here,' he added, with a tone of sad triumph ; ' in his own hand- 
 writing ; the promise given to John Vivian, Esq., that after my 
 death, — after my death, remember, — the sum of five thousand 
 fiounds should be paid to redeem his debts of honour ; his 
 own writing, his own signature.' 
 
 'There must have been a mistake ; it could not be ; it is im- 
 possible,' exclaimed Mildred again. 
 
 ' Doubtless ! a mistake ! impossible ! John Vivian must have
 
 33'5 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 been deluded ; the evidence of my own eyes must have deceived 
 me ; the evidence of one who saw the promise signed must have 
 been at fault. Why, Mildred, child, did I not say the same 
 myself? Say it, almost believed it, when the actual proof was 
 before my eyes. And did not John Vivian stand by, with his 
 bold defiance, and urge upon me to call up the man, — the poor 
 wretch who had been the plotter of that miserable marriage, — 
 the confidant of both ; he who had seen the actual words written ? 
 Talk not to me of mistake, r\Iildrcd j there are deeds in which 
 there cnn be no mistake.' 
 
 'Edward had no opportunity given him of explanation,' said 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' What ! child, when I wrote to him, and my letter was unan- 
 swered ? He had no explanation to give. He had been befooled 
 himself. He gave his worthless bond to John Vivian, little think- 
 ing that it would be brought to me ; and when it was brought, he 
 was sunk in my eyes, and in his own, for ever.' 
 
 ' But you paid the money, and so owned the justice of the claim, 
 sir,' said Mildred. 
 
 'Justice to myself, to my own honour, for the last time. My 
 son's debts were a claim upon the name which he bore, and I 
 acknowledged them even to the utmost farthing. But from that 
 hour he ceased to be my son ; and now let him go and pray the 
 winds to hear him ; they will listen as soon as I.' 
 
 Mildred's heart failed her. A few minutes before, she had 
 fancied that the time might be near for telling him that Edward 
 was in England. Now, she only said, ' He has severely suffered 
 for his offences.' 
 
 No reply. She went on further, her words being uttered with 
 extreme precision : — ' He is very penitent, whatever he may 
 have done.' 
 
 ' So are we all, when punishment falls upon us,' was the stern 
 answer. 
 
 ' Years have given him experience,' she continued. 
 
 ' .So have they given to me,' replied the General. 
 
 ' And you would not trust him, then ? ' She spoke in a tone 
 of doubtful timidity, 
 
 ' Trust him ? Yes, I would trust every man whose hands are 
 chained, and whose feet are fettered. He is doing well, you say. 
 Let him thank God for it, as I do.' 
 
 ' But if he has suffered, and is penitent, my dear father, would 
 there be no hope for him ever*'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 337 
 
 'Mildred, you speak ignorantly. It may seem that you are 
 addressing a cold, harsh old man, — nay, don't stop me ; — I am 
 not blind to what is passing around me, though often it is thought 
 I am. The -world thinks me such, so do you, so does Mr Lester. 
 Cold, strict prejudice, that is my character ; — a true one, in a 
 certain sense. Do you know who made me so ? My father — 
 my grandfather — his father before him ; for the sins of my 
 ancestors have been my conscious inheritance from myboyhcrtJd. 
 Listen, Mildred. As a little child I was generous, open-hearted, 
 unsuspicious. I flung my money away to the right hand and to 
 the left. I gavev/hen I was asked ; I promised when I could not 
 give. I was a true Vivian. That was my disposition ; it con- 
 tinued mine till I was twelve years old. Then cnme a chnnge; 
 how or when it dawned upon me I cannot say ; but there is an 
 atmosphere in every home, which we breathe insensibly ; the 
 atmosphere of mine was care — carking, harassing, lowering care. 
 It crept into my heart, and dulled my spirits ; it made me fearful 
 and doubtful towards those with whom I ought to have been open 
 as the day. It pressed upon me heavily and more heavily ; and 
 it pressed upon others also. I saw it in the countenances of the 
 old servants ; I heard it in the murmurs of my fathers tenants ; 
 I read it written on the broken-down fences, and the walls falling 
 to decay. We were a family on the verge of ruin; and in striving 
 to keep ourselves from degradation, we brought hardship and 
 exaction upon those of whom we ought to have been the pro- 
 tectors. The name of Vivian, once honoured, was now execrated. 
 I was but a boy, Mildred, when first I realised to myself the true 
 position in which I stood; and it may seem strange that I should 
 have allowed the fact to weigh with me ; it may appear more 
 natural that I should have cast it away with a boy's thoughtless- 
 ness. But it did influence me ; it tinged my visions for the 
 future ; it shaped my plans ; and at last it gave me a definite 
 object for which to work. I stood, one day, at the head of my 
 class at school, and the murmur went on around me, among 
 the masters, that I was capable of a great work ; that whatever I 
 set my heart upon I must attain. They spoke, I knew, of worldly 
 distinctions ; but I read their words differently. Distinction was 
 mine by right of inheritance, for the Vivians, even before they 
 came to Cleve, had been the lords and the leaders of others for 
 centuries ; but it would never be mine in possession, unless 1 
 retrieved the follies of the last generation. My heart swelled 
 within me, and in secret I vowed that, from that hour, I would 
 
 Y
 
 338 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 toil without complaining, and sufler williout repining, until once 
 more I could face the world, a Vivian of the olden times, with 
 my honour untainted, free to devote myself to the people amongst 
 whom I lived, and regarded by them, not as an oppressive land- 
 lord, exacting to the last penny, but as a master and a father, 
 living only for their happiness. There is no need now, Mildred, 
 to tell you how my vow was accomplished. A mission was 
 given me, and I fulfilled it ; let those who know me best say 
 how. But do you think that, after the labour of those many 
 years,— the self-denial of a life, — I am now to be persuaded to 
 throw myself and my people into hands which will, which must, 
 undo my work. Is the man who could act as — as your brother 
 acted — fit to be entrusted with the happiness of others. Is his 
 boy, is Clement, likely to be such a successor as I should desire 
 for the accomplishment of the work for which I have lived ? 
 Put aside inclination, Mildred, put aside prejudice, and answer 
 me fairly : my honour and the happiness of my people are at 
 stake ; — can I be justified in sacrificing them to the weak instinct 
 of affection ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, dear father, don't ask me. I cannot put aside 
 prejudice, if it be prejudice ; it is impossible.' Her arm was 
 flung around his neck, and she rested her head on his 
 shoulder. ' Let him be as he is — disinherited — yet let him re- 
 turn.' 
 
 'Madness! Mildred, madness!' He almost shook her from 
 him, as he sat more upright, and every limb seemed to become 
 stiff with the effort at self-restraint. 
 
 ' My father, not madness — but mercy ; ' and she clung to him 
 so that he could not release himself. 
 
 ' Leave me, Mildred ; let me go.' With a great effort he 
 withdrew himself from her, and rose, and stood with his back to 
 the fireplace, looking fixedly at her ; but Mildred saw him not, 
 for her head was buried upon the arm of the chair, and her sobs 
 came fast and bitterly. 
 
 He spoke again, seeking to excuse himself : — 'Your fancy is a 
 woman's weakness, Mildred. Were it good for me, it would be 
 misery for him.' 
 
 Something in the tone struck her as relenting, and she raised 
 her head, and dashed away the tears from her eyes. ' Misery ! 
 oh, never ! it is his one last hope.' 
 
 General Vivian crossed his arms on his breast and made no 
 answer.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 339 
 
 Mildred's voice was heard again, clear, and slow : — ' Mercy 
 for him, father, even as you would find mercy yourself.' 
 
 * It cannot be. To live with me as my son, and not my heir 
 — Mildred, you don't know what you are asking.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not to live with you, but to see you, if but for once 
 only, to hear that he is forgiven. It is for you and me, and the 
 sight of his home he yearns.' 
 
 ' Lost through his own fault.' And silence fell again upon the 
 darkened chamber ; and the flickering gleam of the dying fire 
 showed the General standing in his place, immovable, and 
 ]\Iildred's slight figure rigid as if carved in stone. 
 
 Yet once more she spoke, and the tone was that hollow whisper 
 which speaks the agony of a broken heart : — ' Father, pardon 
 him, and see him, he is now in England.' 
 
 A strange, gurgling, convulsive sound struck upon the ear ! 
 General Vivian staggered to a chair, and sank back senseless. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 *T)ERTHA, how late you are, and where have you left 
 -L) Clement?' Mrs Campbell, having enjoyed her after- 
 noon's siesta, and then worked whilst there was light remain- 
 ing, had begun to feel impatient for the return of the party, who 
 had been wandering over the hills. 
 
 ' I can't say exactly,' was Bertha's reply. ' He was with us 
 just as we came off the hills ; but he will be here presently, I 
 dare say.' 
 
 ' He stayed behind with me first,' said Louisa; 'and then he 
 clambered up the bank to get a stone, which I thought was a 
 fossil. He was so long finding it, that 1 didn't like to wait for 
 him.' 
 
 ' If he doesn't come in time we can't have tea kept for him,' 
 observed Mrs Campbell. ' I have no notion of e\ery one's being 
 put out for a boy of his ngc.' 
 
 ' It is not tea-time yet,' said Bertha. ' Louisa and Fanny, 
 you have your history to read for to-moirow ; you had better 
 fetch it.' 
 
 ' Poor little dears ! after their long walk ; I am sure they can't 
 possibly read history. You must let them off, Bertha. Take off
 
 340 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 your things, my dears, and then come down and warm your- 
 selves, and tell me all you have been doing.' 
 
 ' Tiierc is not much to tell,' observed Bertha, in an uncom- 
 fortable tone, which was the only safety-valve she allowed 
 herself, when interfered with ; *we only went to Barney Wood's 
 cottage.' 
 
 ' But you took him his coat, didn't you ? You always take 
 him something.' 
 
 ' The coat wasn't quite finished,' said Bertha. ' Rachel had 
 been busy writing to her father.' 
 
 ' Oh, IMr Lester is not coming home, then. Betsey told me 
 that, and she heard it from Anne.' 
 
 ' They are both great gossips,' observed Bertha, quickly. 
 'I don't think anything is settled as to Mr Lester's return. 
 Rachel only wrote in case he might not come.' 
 
 Her manner fretted Mrs Campbell, and, being inclined to 
 complain, she returned to Clement : — ' Where do you say you 
 left him. Bertha? You ought not to have left him ; there are a 
 great many bad people about ; no one knows what mischief he 
 may be led into.' 
 
 ' A boy of his age must learn to keep himself out of mischief,'' 
 said Bertha, rather proudly. But though she spoke with seem- 
 ing unconcern, she looked out of the window to see if he was 
 
 I am glad he has given up being with Ronald,' observed Mrs 
 Campbell, ' now that we know what a mess Captain Vivian is 
 likely to get into.' 
 
 ' Is there anything new about Captain Vivian ? anything 
 particular.'"' asked Bertha, with quick interest. 
 
 ' Betsey tells me that the preventive officers are not going to 
 be outwitted any longer ; and they vow they will search the 
 Grange from the garret to the cellar,' said Mrs Campbell. 
 
 ' And very much they will find there ! ' said Bertha. ' If they 
 mean to do anything, they should not let Betsey know it.' 
 
 'She can't help knowing it; it's talked of everywhere,' con- 
 tinued Mrs Campbell ; 'and what's more, Betsey has a brother 
 somehow mixed up with them.' 
 
 ' Poor girl ! that is trouble enough,' said Bertha, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 ' She asked me to let her go out and see him,' continued Mrs. 
 Campbell ; 'and I said she might, if she was in in time ; so she 
 went about four o'clock.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 341 
 
 Bertha was too much occupied with painful thoughts of her 
 own, to take any particular notice of this piece of information ; 
 and Mrs Campbell continued — 
 
 ' Betsey thinks there 's something going on now. Mark Wood 
 had come for her brother, and had taken him out with him, so 
 that she couldn't see him. She takes it to heart a good deal. I 
 think. Bertha, you might just as well see her presently, and find 
 out what she is afraid of.' 
 
 ' Perhaps the less we know about such matters the better,' 
 replied Bertha, looking again out of the window. ' If Mark 
 Wood has been in Encombe,' she added, with an air of con- 
 sideration, 'it must have been after we saw him going down the 
 Gorge.' 
 
 ' He and Stephen Hale had left Betsey's cottage just ten minutes 
 before she got there,' continued Mrs Campbell, evidently pleased 
 at having something to talk about, which seemed to drav/ Bertha's 
 attention. ' Betsey was told they went off towards the Point ; it 
 is the place they all goto. There is a cave, or some such place, 
 I believe, where they meet.' 
 
 ' Not a very convenient rendezvous,' replied Bertha ; ' it must 
 be so difficult to reach. But it must be all talk about anything 
 particular going on now ; if there were, they would never let it 
 out in that way.' 
 
 * I don't know, I am sure,' replied Mrs Campbell ; * at anyrate, 
 it is high time that something should be done. The village is 
 getting into a sad state. Betsey says her brother is quite a dif- 
 ferent person since he mixed himself up with the smuggling. I 
 can't think, for my part, what Mr Lester can be doing, to let 
 things go on as they do. He calls himself a good parish priest; 
 J know his parish is the worst in the county.* 
 
 Any suggestion to Mr Lester's disadvantage was felt as a per- 
 sonal incivility by Bertha, and she immediately began saying, 
 that no one could be better aware than Mr Lester himself of the 
 bad state of his people, or do more to remedy the evil ; but 
 whilst things were carried with such a high hand by those who 
 ought to set a good example, there was little hope of amendment. 
 Whilst Captain Vivian remained at Encombe, it must and would 
 be a disreputable place. 
 
 'Well, then, he will be taken from it soon, we may hope,' re- 
 plied Mrs Campbell, rather triumphantly. ' Betsey has a cousin 
 in the preventive service, so she hears both sides ; and she tells 
 n)e that they vow they will have the smugglers in their power
 
 342 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 before the new year begins ; that is what makes her so afraid for 
 her brother.' 
 
 * They must be quick about it, then,' said Bertha. ' It wants 
 but a very short time to the new year.' 
 
 ' We shall see something before it comes,' said ]\Irs Campbell, 
 oracularly; and Bertha echoed the words in her own mind, 
 though with a different meaning. I\Irs Campbell relapsing into 
 silence, she took the opportunity of leaving the room, and going, 
 not up-stairs to take off her things, but into the garden and lane, 
 to look for Clement. 
 
 Bertha went a little way down the lane without meeting any 
 one ; then, hearing some persons approaching, talking noisily, she 
 turned into a by-path, by a cottage garden, and stood there till 
 they had passed. The voices, which she recognised made her 
 very glad that she had avoided the meeting. Mark Wood, 
 Stephen Hale, and Goff, were together, apparently disputing. 
 Bertha watched them till they were nearly out of sight, — if sight 
 that could be called which was only the indistinct perception of 
 twilight, — and, even when they were gone, felt unwilling to move 
 from her hiding-place, lest they should return. Not that she had 
 any cause to fear,^it was unlikely that they would notice, still 
 less speak to her; but the rough voices, and the very distant 
 possibility of being brought in contact with them, made her 
 shrink into herself. She waited what seemed a long time, — 
 though, in fact, it was only a few'minutes, — then, scolding her- 
 self for folly, ventured back into the lane, and had gone some 
 little distance, when, once more, as she had dreaded, the voices 
 were heard, and very near. The men had taken a short cut, and 
 were returning. Bertha did not like to run back, that would 
 attract notice ; still less did she wish to proceed. For a 
 moment she stood irresolute ; but the sound of a footstep 
 behind gave her confidence, especially when, on looking round, 
 she recognised Ronald. His finger was raised to his lips, as a 
 sign for silence, and without noticing her, he turned shortly, 
 strode down the lane at a rapid pace, and entered the path which 
 Bertha had just left. 
 
 Bertha was surprised, yet her momentary feeling of fear was 
 over. She felt that a protector was near ; and went on boldly, 
 smiling at her own weakness, as the men lowered their voices 
 when she passed, Mark Wood and Stephen Hale even touching 
 •*heir hats. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards, as she stood at the Lodge gate, Ro-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 343 
 
 nald joined her ; his voice was agitated, and he began without 
 apology or explanation. 'Clement is with you, Miss Campbell, 
 of course.' 
 
 ' No, not yet ! I expect him.' 
 
 ' Not with you ? When did you leave him ? ' 
 
 ' He left us just as we entered the village ; he stayed behind.' 
 
 "Behind! Alone?' 
 
 ' Yes ; that is, Louisa was with him j but she came back to lis. 
 What is the matter, Ronald ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing. Have you been long returned .'" 
 
 ' Not very ; we were all late. For pity's sake, Ronald, tell me 
 what this means ? ' 
 
 ' I thought Clement might be with Goff. I knew he was 
 loitering about the cottagcj and I watched after you were 
 gone, but could not see him at first ; I did afterwards. He 
 followed the path you took, and I followed, too, some distance. 
 Then ' • 
 
 'Well! what then?' 
 
 ', I met my father ; he sent me back to the cottage on a mes- 
 sage ; and I lost sight of you all. Good night,' — he broke off 
 abruptly ; ' I will look for Clement ;' and he hurried away. 
 
 His course w^as rapid and intricate. He knew all the by-lanes 
 and short cuts of the village, and every cottage garden was open 
 to him as to a friend ; and so, with almost a direct course, he 
 made his way to the Grange, noticed only by a few stragglers 
 returning late from w'ork, who, recognising his step, greeted him 
 with a laugh, and 'How are ye, Master Ronald?' but not 
 troubling themselves as to his wandering movements, and 
 scarcely even making a remark upon his evident haste. 
 
 The shrubbery gate of the Grange was wide open, and the 
 large, lonely house was silent and dreary in the glimmering twi- 
 light, neither fire nor candle to be seen through the uncurtained 
 windows of the deserted apartments ; and w hen Ronald entered, 
 his footstep sent a hollow echo through the long stone passages. 
 He went first to the parlour, which was empty ; but the cloth 
 was laid for dinner, and the shutters were closed. A rough club 
 stick lay on the table, and a glove was on the floor. Ronald, 
 without any j^articular thought, picked up the glove and laid it 
 down carelessly, whilst he stood for a iow moments thinking 
 whether to remain for his father or return to the Lodge to satisfy 
 his mind about Clement. An uncomfortable misgiving was still 
 haunting him. Barney's imperfect hinti; of a mystery returned
 
 344 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 to him, and with it came tlie impulse to go at once to the Point, 
 and watch whether anything more than usual was going on 
 there. But the evening was growing darker and darker, «nd the 
 moon would not be risen for another liour ; lie could see nothiii..', 
 even if he were to go ; and, in the meantime, if any mischief 
 were afloat, it would most probably be something which would 
 bring Clement to the Grange. Just at that moment Ronald's 
 eye fell upon the glove, a rough winter glove — too small, surely, 
 for Captain Vivian's hand. He tried to put it on ; it was too 
 small for himself; it must be Clement's, left there probably the 
 previous night he had been there. But no ; Ronald recollected 
 now that he had seen Clement wcaiing it that very day, and had 
 thought at the time that he would try and procure a pair of the 
 same kind for Barney. 
 
 He rushed out of the room ; but still, habitually cautious, con- 
 trolled his eager step as he passed through the hall and back 
 passages, and softened his voice when he encountered the soli- 
 tary domestic, of whom he inquired whether his father had 
 returned to the Grange within the last hour. 
 
 It might or it mightn't be an hour, the woman couldn't say, 
 but the Captain had been in and put off dinner; — and she wallced 
 away, sulky from the additional trouble. 
 
 ' Stop, INIadge ! can't you ! Was my father alone ?' 
 
 ' Who 's to say, Master Ronald ? not I. D'ye think I showed 
 my nose in the parlour ?' 
 
 ' But you may have heard. Was he speaking to any one? 
 Did he seem as if he Avas alone ?' 
 
 ' Seem ? Why, he was alone when I saw him. What should 
 you keep me here talking such daft folly for?' — and Madge 
 retired within the precincts of her own domain, and closed the 
 kitchen door violently, as a hint to Ronald that he was on no 
 account to follow. 
 
 Ronald opened the hall door, and went out into the gravel 
 sweep, and listened ; and he heard the distant trampling of a 
 horse's hoofs, and the cry of a sick child, in a cottage occupied 
 by one of the farm labourers. But the wailing wind drowned 
 all other sounds, save that which mingled with and deepened it 
 — the hoarse rush of the waves beating against the precipitous 
 cliffs. 
 
 For several minutes he stood there, his face turned towards 
 Dark Head Point. A rising mist had now obstructed even the 
 faint c;lcam of lingrering dav ; but twice Ronald fancied he saw
 
 CLEVE HALL, 345 
 
 a light gleaming in that direction, though so far off that he knew 
 it must be from a vessel at sea ; and then, again, there seemed 
 another moving, and higher up, upon the cliff; but the mist 
 gathered over again more thickly, and all was obscure. 
 
 Some one clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. 
 'What, Ronald, my lad, watching? what's that for.?' 
 
 ' For you, father ; I wondered where you were.' , 
 
 ' No cause for wonder, I should think ; I'm out often enough 
 many hours later than this. But, come, let's in to dinner.' 
 
 Captain Vivian hurried on ; and when Ronald would have 
 lingered to watch the light on the cliff, he called to him im- 
 patiently, saying that they had both waited long enough, and he 
 was ravenous. Yet Ronald did linger for some seconds, and 
 when his father had entered the house, he stood for several 
 moments on the step of the door with a longing, which he could 
 scarcely resist, to brave Captain Vivian's displeasure, and run 
 back to the Lodge to gain some tidings of Clement. 
 
 ' Ronald, where are you ? Come in, I say. I won't have that 
 wind through the house ; shut the door, and come in.' 
 
 And Ronald obeyed mechanically. 
 
 They sat down to dinner. Captain Vivian talked more than 
 was his v.ont. Ronald gave but short answers. He was con- 
 sidering in his own mind, whether it would be wise to mention 
 Clement's name, and ask how his glove had been found there. 
 Nothing in any way, however, led to the subject. Captain 
 Vivian's conversation was confined to discussions upon the 
 superiority of the little smuggling vessel over the regular traders 
 upon the coast, and anecdotes of the wonderfully short voyages 
 she had lately made. Once Ronald mentioned Barney Wood, 
 and made a remark upon Mr Lester and Miss Campbell's kind- 
 ness ; but it was badly received. Captain Vivian turned it off 
 with a sneer, and went on as before, somewhat incoherently 
 and unconncctedly — his words uttered very fast, his tone half 
 jocular, half hasty. Ronald could not think, he could only 
 listen and reply. 
 
 A loud peal at the hall bell ! Captain Vivian went hmisclf to 
 answer it ; Ronald also followed a few paces behind. A mes- 
 sage from the Lodge was brought by Mr Lester's gardener. 
 * Mrs Campbell's compliments, and she would be glad to know 
 if Master Clement was at the Grange.' 
 
 Captain Vivian burst into a loud laugli, and almost shut the 
 door in the man's face. * Master Clement here ? What folly
 
 346 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 will be asked next? My compliments to Mrs Campbell, and 
 Master Clement doesn't trouble me much with his company. 
 She must look for him elsewhere. \\'hat, Ronald ! ' he grasped 
 his son's shoulder, as Ronald was going to reopen the door ; 
 ' rushing after? what for? Do you think the tender chicken's 
 lost?' 
 
 ' He has been here. I know it ; I have a proof.' Ronald 
 tossed Clement's glove upon the floor. 
 
 Captain Vivian kicked it from him ; his face was livid, either 
 with anger or fear : — ' Clement was here. He is gone home, 
 or he ought to be. Now, back to dinner, and no more of this 
 folly.' 
 
 He led the way to the parlour ; Ronald followed moodily. 
 Both sat down to the table, but only Captain Vivian talked. 
 He had apparently repented his hasty show of authority, and 
 tried to bring Ronald round, pressing him to eat, urging him to 
 take wine, joking him about his books ; but Ronald still sat 
 with his abstracted gaze, listening for distant sounds, and 
 giving only such short answers as were absolutely necessary. 
 Irritated by his total absence of interest. Captain Vivian began 
 in another strain : — ' So, Ronald, you mean to show yourself a 
 pleasant companion, to leave the conversation in my hands ; I 
 thank you for it ; it is all, of course, I have a right to expect 
 from my only child. Yet I might have thought that so much 
 woman's teaching might have given you a touch of good 
 manners. Bertha Campbell sets up for a lady, but it's little 
 enough of a gentleman that you have shown yourself since she 
 set foot in Encombe. Don't think I am surprised, though ; 
 it's the old grudge, malice carried on for a dozen years — cun- 
 ningly, too, setting my son against me.' 
 
 Ronald had given his full attention to this last speech, but he 
 could not answer it. Had not Bertha Campbell, though unin- 
 tentionally, been the means of embittering the feelings which, 
 even before, were but too acutely conscious of his father's 
 faults ? 
 
 Captain Vivian went on more painfully, because with less of 
 sarcasm :— ' I am not what many fathers are, I know that. I 'm 
 not the man to set up for a squire, and make a fuss about my 
 boy, and put him in the way of fine people. It never was my 
 way, and it never will be. I was brought up roughly myself, 
 and I've led a rough life, and it's too late now to mend it; 
 and what I am mv son must be. But I should never have
 
 CLEVE HALL. 347 
 
 thought that for that reason he was to be made to turn agamst 
 me, to plot with my enemies.' 
 
 ' Plot with them ? O father ! how little you know.' 
 
 *Aye! plot with them,' continued Captain Vivian. 'You 
 don't think, do you, that I 'm so blind as not to have an eye for 
 what 's going on close at my door ? ' 
 
 ■ I don't know what you refer to, father,' replied Ronald. , 
 
 ' Probably not ! You would be the last person to own, if you 
 did.' 
 
 Captain Vivian's manner was proud and coldly determined. It 
 might have been the manner of his early days, never entirely for- 
 gotten ; and it struck a chill, and something of a feeling of awe, 
 into Ronald's heart. It was as if, after all, there was something 
 better left than that low recklessness, which had of late been his 
 chief characteristic. 
 
 Ronald answered more quietly, and even respectfully : ' If you 
 are suspicious of me, father, and will tell me your suspicions, I 
 will try to remove them.' 
 
 'What! how?' Captain Vivian started up and went to the 
 door looking out into the hall : ' Folly ; it 's only the old woman's 
 tramp.' 
 
 He came back again, and stood with his back to the fire ; 
 * Suspicions you were talking of, Ronald : what would you give 
 to hear them ? ' 
 
 ' A great deal, father, if I could make you believe they are un- 
 founded.' 
 
 'Well then!' — a pause — a second cominencement, and a 
 second pause— at last the words came with thundering emphasis: 
 ' Suspicions that I have a traitor in my camp, who would desert 
 me at the last gasp ! ' 
 
 Ronald pushed aside his plate, and rising, paced the room in 
 a tumult of excitement. 
 
 Captain Vivian went on coldly : ' What is the care for this 
 miserable boy, Clement Vivian ? What is the devotion to Bertha 
 Campbell, and the obedience to Mr Lester ? — treachery, treachery 
 from the beginning to the end.' 
 
 'Are they your enemies, father ?' Ronald's voice was husky 
 with agitation, for his promise to Bertha was present to his 
 mind, and even now it seemed he might be called to fulfil it. 
 
 * Circumstances made them my enemies,' was the reply ; ' that 's 
 enough for you to know.' 
 
 ' Then Clement is your enemy for his father's sake ?'
 
 348 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 Captain Vivian answered cautiously: ' Such a boy as that my 
 enemy ! he is beneath me.' 
 
 'Yet'— Ronald hesitated — ' through him you might work 
 harm to his father.' 
 
 'Who tells you that ." and Captain Vivian turned upon him 
 fiercely. 
 
 ^My own reason partly,' replied Ronald; and summoning 
 more courage, he added : ' I know through Miss Campbell that 
 you have, as you yourself say, cause for mutual enmity.' 
 
 ' Ha ! the family secrets ! And pray what may Miss Campbell 
 have thought proper to confide to you .? ' 
 
 * She has given me warnings rather than confidence— warn- 
 ings, father, which I would fain give to you.' 
 
 ' I am obliged to her.' Captain Vivian's face showed a change 
 of colour. ' Threats, I presume ; a notice that I shall be taken 
 up for a smuggler, as they call me.' 
 
 ' They were very vague, indirect threats,' replied Ronald, in an 
 unmoved tone, though his heart beat painfully ; 'yet they made 
 me feel that danger might be at hand.' 
 
 ' Danger at hand, and you not tell me of it— ungrateful 
 boy!' 
 
 Bitter reproaches followed, which Ronald, leaning against the 
 wall, heard, yet without hearing, for still his thoughts reverted 
 to Clement ; and the words fell upon his ear, as they had often 
 done before, almost as sounds without meaning. 
 
 Captain Vivian stopped at length, and then in a calmer voice 
 insisted upon knowing everything which Miss Campbell had 
 dared to say. Ronald was hesitating for a reply, when another 
 and more violent ring at the hall door a second time interrupted 
 the conversation. 
 
 This time Captain Vivian did not go out himself, but stood in 
 the open doorway ; and both he and Ronald, as by mutual con- 
 sent, paused to hearken. 
 
 It was a man's voice speaking, and angrily. Mrs Campbell 
 had sent another message : ' Master Clement had been seen 
 with Captain Vivian, going to the Grange. Mrs Campbell 
 desired to know when he had left it, and what direction he had 
 taken.' 
 
 Ronald turned upon his father a look of keen distrust. 
 
 Captain Vivian's countenance did not alter. He went directly 
 to the door, and said: 'My compliments to Mrs Campbell. 
 Ma-ter Clement was here for two minutes, and I walked with
 
 CLEVE HALL. 349 
 
 him a little way down L^ng Lane, but he turned off at the end. 
 Is she uneasy about hiin ?' 
 
 ' He hasn't been home yet, and it's past eight,' said the man, 
 gruffly. ' Mrs Campbell said she was sure the people at the 
 Grange knew something about him.' 
 
 ' Who is looking for him ?' inquired Ronald, anxiously. 
 
 ' One or two people have been asked ; but we have been ex- 
 pecting him in every moment, when we were told that he Vi'asn't 
 here.' 
 
 ' We will go to the cliff,' said Ronald, and he took up his hat, 
 and stepped into the porch. To his surprise his father made no 
 attempt to stop him. 
 
 ' We thought he might have been with Goff, and some of his 
 men. He's fond of getting about with them,' continued the 
 gardener, more cordially ; ' but Goff 's at home, and doesn't know 
 anything about him.' 
 
 Captain Vivian came out, and stood with Ronald in the porch : 
 * You may tell Mrs Campbell, that my son and I will go down 
 to the shore, and make inquiries,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, tell her we will go in every direction,' added Ronald, 
 eagerly ; ' we will not return till we have had tidings of him. 
 You may trust me, man,' he continued, laying his hand on the 
 arm of the gardener, as he lingered with an evident feeling of 
 hesitation. 
 
 The light from a little oil lamp in tlie hall fell upon Ronald's 
 face ; it bore an expression which could not be doubted. Cap- 
 tain Vivian's was hidden in the shade of the porch. Ronald 
 repeated again — ' You may trust me,' and the words were 
 received with a hearty ' To be sure. Master Ronald ; every one 
 trusts you.' 
 
 The man departed ; and Ronald would have set off instantly 
 for Dark Head Point, but a strong hand detained him : ' You 
 don't escape me, my lad, in this way. Every word that Bertha 
 Campbell has uttered about my affairs before you stir.' 
 
 ' I have told all,' replied Ronald ; ' and yet — no, I have not 
 told all. She has said, father, that whatever wrong there might 
 be between Mr Vivian and yourself, he would be the last to press 
 it against you, if only you would acknowledge it, and clear him 
 in the General's eyes.' 
 
 A mocking laugh interrupted him : 'A woman's folly! And 
 you believed it .'' Was that everything? At your peril deceive 
 -me.'
 
 350 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Ronald paused, — in ihc tinnult of his mind, he could scarcely 
 tell whether he was at liberty to betray more of what had 
 passed ; he added, with hesitation, ' She warned me also that 
 it might soon be in their power to enforce what now is only a 
 request.' 
 
 Not a word escaped in reply, but the dim thread of light 
 from the little lamp showed a face ghastly with conflicting 
 passions ; and Captain Vivian, seizing Ronald by the arm, 
 strode forth into the darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 MORN rose gorgeously over the sea ; an atmosphere of 
 orange light seeming to penetrate and mingle with the 
 long line of gray clouds, which stood as a wall against the horizon, 
 and here and there breaking through it in a crimson line, until 
 at length the full burst of radiance flooded the eastern sky, and 
 shed its myriads of golden sparkles upon the waters ; not rest- 
 ing upon them with the long and lingering gaze which sunset 
 gives to the world its brilliancy has gladdened, but lightly 
 playing upon the surface of the rippling ocean, and tracing 
 upon it, in a pale yet far-spread glory, the joyous smile of the 
 opening day. 
 
 Ronald Vivian wandered alone upon the sandy beach. Behind 
 him were the red cliffs, and the dark headland worn by the fret- 
 ting of the sea, hollowed into caves, cut into projections, and in 
 parts clothed with scanty lichens ; before him spread the inter- 
 minable expanse of ocean, without a sail to mark its distance. 
 Ronald's eyes were fixed upon the beach. He would have ap- 
 peared deep in meditation, for the water plashed gently against 
 the rocks, and rippled close to his feet, and still he seemed uncon- 
 scious of the tide ; v/hilst, with folded arms and a slow and weary 
 step, he walked towards the jutting point forming the western ex- 
 tremity of Encombe Bay. Occasionally, however, it might have- 
 been seen that he was not so abstracted. As the passing breeze 
 brought to his car what might have been the echo of a school- 
 bo^s shout, or the morning greeting of the labourers passing tO' 
 their work, he would pause for a moment and listen, and then 
 glance quickly round, and perhaps stoop to examine some dark
 
 CLEVE HALL. 351 
 
 object at his feet — a stone, or a knotted mass of sea-weed ; he 
 was looking, and watching, and searching still, but it was not 
 the search of hope. 
 
 Three hours of that night had Ronald spent in fruitless, and, 
 in a great degree, irritating inquiries. His father had been with 
 him, allowing him no freedom, stopping every question which • 
 might possibly have led to the discovery of Clement's move- 
 ments, whilst pretending the warmest interest in the r6sult. 
 Ronald had at times been tempted to break from him, and 
 insist upon carrying out his own views in his own way ; but it 
 was difficult to resist a parent's authority, and Captain Vivian 
 had always some plausible reason at hand to silence his re- 
 monstrances. 
 
 Yet he was kind in his manner, — much kinder than Ronald 
 had supposed possible, when they left the house together, after 
 Ronald had communicated Bertha's warning. A moody silence 
 had followed for some little time, and then all seemed passed 
 away and forgotten, except that the softness which succeeded, 
 carried with it at times a tone of mockery more galling than 
 reproaches. 
 
 One thing, however, was quite clear to Ronald — v/hatever might 
 be concealed under Bertha's hints, they had worked upon his 
 father to a degree which gave cause to think that they were well 
 founded. Thedefiant, self-reliant mannerv/hich had been Captain 
 Vivian's characteristic was gone. He was fitful, abstracted, — 
 often lost in thought, only fully conscious, as it seemed, of one 
 fact, that he must not lose sight of Ronald ; and when, after 
 their long search, they had returned for a few hours' rest to the 
 Grange, it was with a promise that they should go again, at day- 
 break, to the shore, to renew their inquiries together. 
 
 This was now Ronald's purpose. He had risen very early, 
 disturbed by anxiety and foreboding. But his father was gone 
 before him, and had left a peremptory message in writing that 
 he was to join him directly at the cave under Dark Head Point ; 
 the reason given for the order being, that Captain Vivian v/as 
 himself going to the shore, as the most likely place to hear what 
 they wished. Ronald felt bound to obey, yet his step unconsci- 
 ously lingered as he drew near the place appointed for the meet- 
 ing. Sleep had raised a barrier of years between his present 
 feelings and the excitement of the past night. He looked back 
 upon it, in a degree, as men look upon the turmoil of youth from 
 the dreary waste of middle life. His spirit had been roused to
 
 352 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 anger then — now he was only saddened. Ilis thou,:,dits had been 
 full of eager excitement for Clement then ; now he was tempted 
 to consider his absence as possibly a boyish freak. Doubt and 
 delay were wearing his spirits, whilst exhausting his energy. 
 More than all, — then, in the bitterness of liis heart, and the rush 
 of his fiery temper, he had felt able to cope even with is father, 
 and dare and suffer peril or misery, if only he might save Cle- 
 men't, and redeem the evil whicli had been wrought ; now, in 
 the glad light of morning, with the sights and sounds of daily 
 life and daily toil around him, spirit, and heroism, and self- 
 devotion had vanished, and all that he could feel was the con- 
 sciousness of his father's degradation, and the stain of disgrace, 
 which had not even the strength of passionate feeling and impulse 
 to enable it to be endured. 
 
 The test of our true selves is to be found in tlie morning reso- 
 lution and the morning feeling ; and Ronald had yet to acquire 
 the temiDer of mind which can be as resolute to begin work, 
 without previous excitement, as to pursue it, when circumstances, 
 both moral and physical, have aroused the imagination, and 
 given force to the nervous energies. 
 
 Yet that quiet walk along the sea-shore was soothing to him, 
 and in its measure supporting. The ocean is always great, and 
 it was the feeling of greatness which Ronald needed. The hard 
 beach, furrowed with ridges, spread for about half a mile before 
 him, crossed at times by little streams, tinged with deep yellow 
 from the iron-ore of the rocks. The water in some places was 
 deep above his ankles ; yet he turned neither to the right nor 
 left, but went on, directing his course by a dark spot visible at 
 the height of about one-third of the cliff. This, on a nearer 
 approach, was seen to be a hollow, perhaps the opening of a 
 cave, perhaps only a cavity formed by the mouldering away of 
 the rocks. There were many such along the coast, and report 
 said they were often used by the smugglers for the concealment 
 of contraband goods. 
 
 The cliff at this point projected far into the sea, and at high 
 tide could only be passed with difficulty, by scrambling over the 
 huge broken rocks which, having fallen from above, were heaped 
 around its base. Ronald, however, made his way over them 
 with the ease which showed that every stone was a familiar 
 resting-place, and paused only upon the summit of one of the 
 highest rocks, when a glance along the beach showed that no 
 one was in view ; then stepping upon the nearest point of tha
 
 CLEVE HALL, 353 
 
 cliff, a few bounds brought him, slightly out of breath, but in no 
 other way exhausted, to a level with the opening, which was 
 now seen to be not so much a cave as a passage, formed partly 
 by nature, partly by the hand of man. 
 
 It was carried for a distance of about twenty feet inwards, and 
 where the cliff had fallen away, it had been built up by stones ; 
 then it terminated in a more regular cave, remarkable only for 
 being a clear, hollow space, capable of containing perhaps a 
 dozen men. The walls were smoothed artificially, but one large 
 stone had been left at the further end, probably to serve as a 
 seat. The place was evidently used for the purposes of rest or 
 concealment. Some burnt sticks showed that a fire was occa- 
 sionally lighted in it, the smoke escaping through vent-holes 
 at the side ; a hammer and hatchet lay in the corner, and a 
 rough, wooden bench, and small deal table, gave it some appear- 
 ance of a human habitation. 
 
 It was empty, however, now ; and Ronald, throwing himself 
 upon the ground, rested his back against the wall of sandy rock, 
 and bending his head forward, so as to catch the glimpse of sea 
 discoverable at the extremity of the passage, awaited in gloomy 
 meditation his father's arrival. 
 
 The delay was not long. Five minutes had scarcely passed, 
 when a long, shrill whistle from below gave notice of an ap- 
 proach. Ronald answered it, but without moving from his 
 resting-place ; and not till his father appeared in sight, ascend- 
 ing the cliff by what was something of a regular pathway, did he 
 remove his gaze from the fixed point in the far horizon, upon 
 which his attention seemed to have been concentrated. 
 
 Then he rose slowly, and went forward a few steps. The 
 greeting was abrupt on both sides ; yet Captain Vivian expressed 
 himself well satisfied with Ronald's punctuality. ' I should have 
 been here myself before,' he said, in a tone of indifference, as 
 he sat down upon the bench ; ' but there were more searchers 
 being sent out for this young scamp. A pretty game he has 
 played us ! ' 
 
 He raised his eyes stealthily to Ronald's face, as he spoke, 
 seeking, probably, to read there the difterence between his even- 
 ing and his morning mind. 
 
 Ronald replied, that if searching was still going on, he was 
 willing to take his part as before. 
 
 'Tiiat's as may be. I don't see why we are to put ourselves 
 out of our way any more for those who, if the opportunity came, 
 
 z
 
 354 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 would' do us an ill turn as soon as not. The boy 's off, and let 
 those look after him who have driven him off.' 
 
 ' Driven him ! ' repeated Ronald. 
 
 ' What else has done it, but the being shut up with books, and 
 tied to his aunt's apron-strings ? What boy of any spirit would 
 bear it ? Not you, Ronald, I am sure.' 
 
 ' If I were in Clement's place, and did not bear it, I should be 
 to blame,' answered Ronald. 
 
 ' Eh ! what .'' But it's folly even to name you two in the same 
 breath ; even Bertha Campbell would own that. You have seen 
 her, I suppose, this morning ?' 
 
 It was a conciliatory question, but Ronald's answer was cold. 
 ' No ; I came here direct, as you had appointed.' 
 
 'Good! — obedience for ever, say I. It's Mr Lester's lesson, 
 isn't it, Ronald ? ' 
 
 ' i\Ir Lester tells me I am bound to obey you in all things in 
 which I lawfully may,' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Good again ! ' repeated Captain Vivian. He rested his 
 elbows upon his knees, and leaned his forehead upon his hands. 
 Presently he looked up, and said, ' Lawfully— what docs he mean 
 by that, Ronald ? ' 
 
 ' I understand, though I mayn't be able to explain,' replied 
 Ronald. 
 
 ■' You understand ; that won't do for me. What I understand 
 is the question. It's my belief that Mr Lester and I have dif- 
 ferent views upon that same point of obedience. Before long it 
 may be w^e shall test them.' 
 
 ' I am willing, I hope, father,' replied Ronald, ' to show you 
 all the obedience you have a right to require ; but ' — he paused 
 for a second, the flash of his father's eye startled him — •' I should 
 be sorry to have the trial carried too far. Perhaps, though, you 
 will tell me without delay what you wish, for you do wish some- 
 thing.' 
 
 His frankness seemed to take Captain Vivian by surprise. He 
 hesitated, stammered, uttered a few broken words, and at length 
 laughed ; but it was a dreary, skeleton laugh — the body without 
 the soul ; and the wind bore it through the arched passage, and 
 its echo died away in the faint wailing of the breeze which mur- 
 mured over the sea. 
 
 Ronald spoke again : ' I thought we were to plan another 
 search ; if you have nothing to say, we ought to lose no time,' 
 He moved, as though he would have gone out.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 355 
 
 ' Sit down ;' Captain Vivian touched Ronald's shoulder with 
 his stick. 'You are a brave boy, Ronald ; I trust you.' 
 
 ' I hope so, father. I don't know what I have done to cause 
 distrust.' 
 
 * Yes, I trust you. You wouldn't go against your father, 
 Ronald.' 
 
 ' Never, father, never ! ' But Ronald's voice was faint, for his 
 heart beat quickly. 
 
 ' I thought not — I knew not ; I told Goff you couldn't.' 
 
 ' Goff! father, do you consult him about me V 
 
 ' I didn't consult, we talked it over. He doesn't do you 
 justice, Ronald.' 
 
 ' A matter of very little consequence,' was Ronald's answer. 
 
 ' To you, perhaps — not so to me. Ronald, if I didn't trust 
 you ' — he paused. 
 
 ' Well, father ; if you didn't trust me ?' — Ronald looked at 
 Captain Vivian steadily, and the gaze which he encountered 
 sank. 
 
 ' If I didn't trust you, I couldn't ask you to help me out of a 
 difficulty.' 
 
 A pang of doubt shot through Ronald's heart, yet still he an- 
 swered quietly : ' You know that you may reckon upon me in 
 all things in which there is no breach of the laws of God and 
 man.' 
 
 ' Umph ! ' the limitation was unsatisfactory. Captain Vi- 
 vian considered a little. 'Are you ready for a long story, 
 Ronald ? ' 
 
 So steadily was the question uttered that even Ronald could 
 not perceive the trace of any inward agitation. 
 
 'I will hsten,' was all he could say. He rested against the 
 rock, and turned his face from his father ; but the changed 
 voice, which spoke in accents low and deep, made him look 
 round again. 
 
 ' A promise, an oath never to betray, that must be given first.' 
 
 ' A son may be trusted without an oath,' replied Ronald. 
 
 ' Not so ; he may be led away.' 
 
 ' Never to betray his father to ruin.' 
 
 ' A quibble ! an unworthy quibble ! ' exclaimed Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' Yet all which I will give,' replied Ronald. 
 
 A look of fierce anger crossed Captain Vivian's face : yet there 
 was less real indignation in the softer tone in which he said, 
 ' Then my son will not promise, but forsakes me.'
 
 356 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'Your son will promise to do nothing, and to reveal nothing, 
 to his father's injury.' 
 
 ''A play upon words; but' — Captain Vivian took out his 
 watch — * there is no time to argue the point.' 
 
 'No arguments would alter me. If I am worthy to receive 
 confidence at all, I am worthy to receive it freely. Father, if 
 this is all you have to say, I will leave you.' 
 
 ' Proud boy ! wilful from your childhood. But you must — 
 you shall hear. Betray me, and a father's curse will be yours, 
 and it lights surely and heavily,' 
 
 Ronald shuddered, but he was silent. 
 
 Captain Vivian went on : 'I take your promise, I hold it to 
 be binding. You have heard Bertha Campbell's threats ; you 
 know what she is always hinting at, aiming at. She talks of my 
 standing between the General and Edward Vivian ; — did she 
 ever explain herself more clearly ? ' 
 
 Ronald felt his father's eye upon him as he answered, ' She 
 told me Mr Vivian's early history and yours.' 
 
 'She told it, did she? In her own way, doubtless. She said 
 nothing, of course, of deception, treachery, — how I was led on to 
 believe myself secure — encouraged, flattered, befooled, triumphed 
 over; as they thought,' he added, in an undertone, 'but I had 
 my revenge.' 
 
 ' She told me that you were led away by false hopes,' replied 
 Ronald. 
 
 ' False ! yes, false with a woman's falseness ! What that is, 
 let those tell who have experienced it. Flora Campbell deceived 
 not me only, Ronald ; she deceived her father and her mother. 
 Again and again they told me that I was safe, that she had no 
 other attachment, and her honeyed words and her treacherous 
 smile said the same. I loved her — Heaven knows how — I can't 
 talk of it ; and she might have made me what she would.' He 
 paused, and Ronald, touched by a confidence so unlike what he 
 had expected, said in a tone of sympathy, ' It must have been a 
 hard trial,' 
 
 He received no answer for some seconds. Then the momen- 
 tary softness seemed to have passed away, and Captain Vivian 
 spoke again : ' Mean spirits sink under hard trials, as they are 
 called. That was not my way : I lived for revenge, Ronald ; 
 you would do the same.' 
 
 * It would be my temptation,' he replied. 
 
 'Temptation! pshaw! What a man is made, that he must
 
 CLEVE HALL. 357 
 
 be. Neither you nor I could ever live to be trampled on. Yet 
 revenge must be taken according to circumstances ; and if it falls 
 in with profit, where 's the blame? What I did might not suit 
 all. Some would have called Edward Vivian out and shot him ; 
 but I had no fancy for that game.' 
 
 The mocking laugh which followed the words curdled the 
 blood in Ronald's veins ; and, without lifting up his eyes, he said, 
 in a hollow voice, 'You ruined him.' 
 
 There was the hesitation of a moment, but the assertion was 
 a relief, and Captain Vivian continued, hurriedly, ' Well ! let it 
 be said, I ruined him. He was a fool, Ronald ; it was not fit to 
 deal with him as with a man of spirit, and he threw the game into 
 my hands. For months he had let himself be led blindfold. He 
 told me all his follies ; I even wrote his letters for him. He had not 
 the sense, to see I was his rival : not, at least, till the very last. 
 Then he turned round and reproached me with plotting against 
 his happiness — he who, at the very moment, was plucking from 
 my grasp the prize I valued above all on earth. Surely, when 
 he had succeeded, I had a right to take the advantage he had 
 put into my hands. I knew his debts and his difliculties ; he 
 had placed me in possession of all before his miserable marriage, 
 and had arranged that I was to go to England, and see the old 
 General, and get from him all I could, whether in fair words or 
 good deeds. That, again, was his folly — for the General hated 
 me — but his fate blinded him. " QiiemDeus vult perdere pi'liis 
 dementat^ as they used to teach me at school. How I laughed in 
 my heart as he played into my hands. It so happened, too, that 
 just at that time I had another ally, — Goff, who was his servant. 
 Long before I had bought the fellow over to my side, and a good 
 deal I learned through him ; nearly enough to have stopped the 
 marriage, only, as ill luck would have it, they had a desperate 
 quarrel about a week before it came off, and Goff was turned 
 away at an hour's notice, and came straight to me. When the 
 deed was done, and the marriage could not be prevented, he was 
 my right hand in my plans, for he knew all the ins and outs of 
 Edward Vivian's life, and was as much his enemy as I was ; why 
 — he didn't tell me then, but I found out afterwards. There was 
 some question of honesty pending. Goff was never very scrupu- 
 lous, and there were threats of inquiry into his doings. But all 
 that was notliing to me. I had got the man I needed, and he 
 had got the master who suited him. We understood each other, 
 and he was willing to back me, and so we started for England
 
 35S CLEVE HALL. 
 
 directly upon tlic news of the marriage, I taking care not to 
 betray my disappointment, but still writing to Edward to trust 
 me, and I would put all straight with the General.' 
 
 A groan was uttered by Ronald. 
 
 Captain Vivian laughed faintly. ' Tut ! lad, cheer up. You 
 don't understand such matters. Well for you ! perhaps. Hut a 
 man who means to carry out a scheme mustn't be scrupulous ; 
 and you know it 's all gone by now. I was young then, and hot- 
 headed, and what I 'd set my heart to do I would do. 'Twouldn't 
 be the same now. Cheer up,' he repeated, as Ronald still hid 
 his face from him. 
 
 ' Go on,' was all he said ; and his father went on, yet less 
 carelessly than before. He was approaching that part of his 
 story where even his hardened spirit shrank from the confession 
 of its guilt. 
 
 ' We came to England, and saw the General ; and there was 
 a long talk about the marriage and the money affairs. He was 
 primed to take offence, and, of course, I didn't let matters appear 
 too smooth. I had full credentials given me some weeks before, 
 so there was no question that I was an accredited agent. To do 
 the old man justice, he was so straightforward he would have run 
 his head against a stone wall, if it had been built up right before 
 him. He took my word for truth, and if there was a doubt, Goff 
 was at hand as a witness. So we told him some pretty gambling 
 histories, — a little embellished, perhaps, as was fair — and the 
 marriage history as a conclusion; and he was willing to consider 
 me as his son's friend, and talk over arrangements for settling the 
 debts. But that wasn't quite my notion. He was stiff and hard, 
 but there was a twinkle in his eye which told of yielding and 
 forgiving ; and if it had come to that, good-bye to all hope of 
 revenge. No ; I wasn't to be baulked in that way ! ' Captain 
 Vivian uttered the last words as though addressing himself, for 
 something seemed to check him when he would have pro- 
 nounced Ronald's name ; and he rose up, and walked once or 
 twice up and down the cave, and went to the extremity of the 
 passage to look out upon the sea. Then he came back again, 
 and said, in a tone of icy unconcern, ' That was the tug of war 
 between us, but I gained the day. When nothing else would 
 answer, I handed him a paper which did for Vivian : a promissory 
 note for five thousand pounds.' 
 
 Ronald started up. ' A forgery, father ! Say it was not a 
 forgery ! O God ! have mercy ! '
 
 CLEVE HALL. 359 
 
 Miserable he -was, but not so miserable as the wretched man, 
 from whose face every tint of colour had faded, and who stood, 
 haggard, yet defiant, convicted by the confession of his o\yn 
 mouth. 
 
 A long, long silence — whilst the waves plashed softly upon the 
 smooth-sanded beach, and the cry of the sea-gull was faintly 
 heard amongst the rocky cliffs. 
 
 Captain Vivian was the first to recover himself. ' The deed 's 
 done, Ronald, and the day's gone by; and if you wish for sor- 
 row, I 've had sorrow enough. But, good or bad, it 's not for a 
 son to go counter to his father, or refuse to lend a helping hand 
 when the time is come to save him from ruin.' 
 
 Ronald did not answer, and he continued — 'It's what I have 
 always looked to. When it has crossed my mind that things 
 might take an awkward turn, I felt I had a friend at home. 
 Your mother said it.' 
 
 ' My mother ! Thank God, she did not live to see this day ! ' 
 and Ronald, roused for a moment, sank again into his former 
 attitude. 
 
 A trace of emotion was visible in Captain Vivian's face. 
 
 * Thank God, too !' he said ; 'but she would have helped me.' 
 
 'Father, what would you have me do?' Ronald looked up 
 steadily, with a glazed eye, and a countenance which in those 
 {&\\ moments seemed to have been stamped with the suffering of 
 years. 
 
 ' Edward Vivian is in England,' was the reply. 
 
 ' Yes ; I know it.' 
 
 ' He has been at Encombe ; he is coming again. When he 
 does come, it will be to reclaim his inheritance.' 
 
 Ronald only bent his head in assent. 
 
 ' His success will be my ruin,' continued Captain Vivian, 
 
 * unless . There is a paper, Ronald — that which did the 
 
 mischief ; it is in Bertha Campbell's hands. How she got it 
 passes my comprehension, but it is there. It would be proof 
 certain, and your father would end his days as a convicted felon. 
 That paper must be in my possession before another day has 
 passed over our heads.' He paused, and in a lower tone, added, 
 ' You must contrive to lay hold of it.' 
 
 Captain Vivian's penetrating glance rested upon his son, and a 
 secret, yet irresistible, influence seemed to compel Ronald to con- 
 front his gaze. Their eyes met, but neither of them spoke for 
 some seconds.
 
 
 360 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * Well ! ' burst at length from Captain Vivian's lips. 
 
 * You must find another to execute your purpose,' was the 
 answer. 
 
 'Traitor !' exclaimed Captain Vivian. 
 
 Ronald continued, in a tone cold and hard, as if ever)' feeling 
 were petrified. ' Mr Vivian's claim is just ; to destroy the proof 
 of his innocence would be unjust.' 
 
 The rocky walls of the cavern rang with a fearful imprecation, 
 and, standing before his son, Captain Vivian poured forth a tor- 
 rent of reproaches, which yet only served to deepen the immov- 
 able expression of Ronald's face. When his father's violence had 
 in a degree exhausted itself, he said — 'Ask me what you will 
 that may be granted without sin, and, were it to give up my life, 
 it should be done.' 
 
 Captain Vivian laughed scornfully. ' Sin ! — to save a father, 
 by the destruction of a paltry paper ! The boy is mad.' 
 
 'Then God grant that the madness may last!' replied Ronald. 
 Changing his tone, he continued, in a voice of pleading earnest- 
 ness, which might have been the whisper of that womanly tender- 
 ness inherited from his mother — ' Father, you have asked a 
 favour of me, and I have refused to grant it. I have no right, 
 therefore, to seek kindness from you ; yet I do — I must. Miss 
 Campbell's warnings are clear to me now, so also are her promises. 
 Trust her — trust Mr Vivian — and, by all that is sacred, I do 
 affirm my conviction that you are safe.' 
 
 Captain Vivian looked at him wildly. 
 
 ' Yes,' repeated Ronald, ' safe by their own promises, by all 
 tlic obligations of gratitude. Once I have saved Mr Vivian's life 
 — once I assisted in saving his daughter. He acknowledges the 
 claim ; I have heard it from his own lips— no matter how or 
 when — but, for my sake, he will dread to injure you. As surely, 
 father, as there is truth in man, he v/ill be true to you, if only you 
 will trust him.' 
 
 He was interrupted mockingly. ' And give myself up to the 
 nearest magistrate .'' Ronald, you are a desperate fool ! ' and 
 Captain Vivian paced the floor of the cave with short and hurried 
 steps. 
 
 After a few seconds he stopped. ' You have seen Edward 
 Vivian ; I guessed as much. Let me know the how and the 
 when.' 
 
 ' I saw him the last evening that he was here ; we had met 
 upon the Croome, and he had betrayed himself I knew then
 
 CLEVE HALL. 361 
 
 tliat there was enmity between )'ou. I did not know for what 
 cause.' 
 
 ' Mean, wretched boy! Plotting against your father, deceiving 
 him for months ! And Edward Vivian — an idiot still, preach- 
 ing of promises and trust, when v/ealth or ruin wns at stake ! 
 The experience of centuries would not be enough for such a 
 man.' 
 
 ' It was I, father, who extracted the promise. I who spoke of 
 trust. I who do, and will, trust.' 
 
 ' And you who sold yourself to his purpose, and promised to 
 aid him for your fathei^'s destruction.' 
 
 'O God! pardon me! Have pity upon me! I am very 
 miserable.' Ronald's spii'it gave way, and he cast himself upon 
 the floor in an agony of grief. 
 
 Captain Vivian stood by him silently. Whatever might be his 
 feelings of indignation against his son for having kept from him 
 iiis communication with Mr Vivian, it was not then the moment 
 to show it. Too much depended upon Ronald's consenting to be 
 a partner in his schem.es, to admit of any expression which 
 would be likely to repel and irritate him ; and during those first 
 few moments of suffering there was sufficient time for self-re- 
 collection to convince him that if his object was to be obtained, 
 it must be by very different means than threats or violence. 
 
 When Ronald, somewhat calmed by the outburst to which he 
 had given way, at length rose and moved towards the entrance 
 of the cave, willing, apparently, to put an end to the confer- 
 ence, he was stopped by a voice which sounded rather like the 
 entreaty of a brother, than the command of a parent : — * And you 
 leave me, then, Ronald, to ruin?' 
 
 ' I leave you, father, because I cannot help you as you would 
 be helped ; but I will wait your orders at home.' 
 
 ' Home ! I have none. I am a wanderer, sent forth by my 
 own child. Is it so that you keep your mother's last wish t^ 
 
 Ronald put his hands before his eyes. ' My brain is dizzy — • 
 I can't think ; give me but an hour's rest.' 
 
 ' When v/e are in safety, — not before. Your father's sharrie 
 will be yours also.' 
 
 ' I know it ; oh yes, 1 know it too well ! ' 
 
 ' And if it is so that Edward Vivian is under such deep 
 obligation, he can never find fault with you for taking from him 
 what, according to your own story, he would never consent to 
 make use of as proof.'
 
 362 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 ' I don't know, father ; I can t understand. My head is 
 burning.' Ronald leaned against the wall for support. 
 
 Captain Vivian went on slowly. ' He says that he is willing 
 to hush the case. It may be so, but I won't put my head into 
 the lion's mouth ; or, if I do, I will first draw his teeth. Granted 
 that he takes no measures against me, who is to answer for the 
 General ? I have not lived fifty years in the world to be duped 
 by promises. Tlie paper must be mine ; if not by fair means, 
 then by foul. But with you, Ronald, it would be an easy matter. 
 Bertha Campbell puts faith in you, even to folly.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! I have no excuse. I could make no pretence.' 
 
 'Pshaw!' Captain Vivian's tone relapsed into coarse good- 
 humour, as he fancied himself gaining the ascendant. 'You 
 don't think I have learned what I have \\'ithout forming my plans 
 accordingly. The thing is easy enough. Mr Lester had the 
 paper ; it must have been given him by the General. In my 
 folly I fancied that the old man, in his stiff, family pride, would 
 destroy it, that it might never tell the tale of his son's misdeeds. 
 Doubtless Edward Vivian and his friend are, at this moment, 
 planning to make use of it. But while there's life there 's hope. 
 It is not in their possession now. Bertha Campbell has it, — she 
 keeps it about her in her pocket-book. I learned that by ways 
 which you would never guess. You must go to her with news 
 of the boy — of Clement ; the story is easily concocted. He shall 
 be suspected to have gone off on a lark, with some strange 
 friend of Goffs, — a smuggling friend, if you will,' and Captain 
 Vivian tried to laugh. 'You may guess that they'll be back 
 some particular day, and have a fuss about the date ; anything 
 to induce her to bring out tlie book. Then let Goff or me be 
 near, with some sudden message which shall make her lay it 
 down at the right moment, and leave you with it, and good luck 
 to your cleverness in taking advantage of the opportunity. A 
 good scheme, eh ? Don't you think so ?' and he pryed keenly 
 into Ronald's pale and stony face. Obtaining no answer, he 
 added — 'What's an easy job for you, would be desperately 
 difficult for mc. She's on her guard the moment she sees me. 
 Ten to one that I should ever get admittance to the house ; and 
 twenty to one that, if I did, I should make her forget herself 
 enough to leave the book with me. And there's no time for 
 failure; what's done must be done to-night, or good-bye to 
 Encombe, and hurrah for Botany Bay ! ' 
 
 Ronald neither moved nor spoke.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 363 
 
 'Well, are j'ou agreed ?' was his father's next impatient query. 
 
 He shook his head, but he could not utter a word. 
 
 'Senseless boy ! this is no time for jesting. Say, shall we be 
 off?' 
 
 'Impossible !' The word seemed to come from the depths of 
 his heart. 
 
 Captain Vivian caught its accent of resolution. ' Impossible! 
 Let Heaven be witness, it shall not be impossible. Yet stay; it 
 may be as well to hear the wise reasons which you can produce 
 for bringing your father's gray hairs to the grave in shame.' 
 
 ' It is false and unjust ; and I have pledged myself to repair 
 injustice,' was Ronald's answer. 
 
 ' Pledged yourself against me !' 
 
 'Not against you,' replied Ronald, 'but to restore Mr Vivian 
 to his right. Father, your son would sacrifice life for you, but 
 he cannot sacrifice honour. And if your plan were carried out,' 
 he continued, more calmly, 'it could but partially save you ; a]l 
 feeling of obligation as regards myself would be cancelled. Mr 
 Vivian would be your open enemy, and mine also, and every 
 motive of self-justitica.tion would induce him to sift the matter 
 to the bottom. What the event would be, who can say ? Dis- 
 grace ; yes, at least, disgrace!' he repeated, shuddering at the 
 word. 
 
 'A noble, cautious boy! Most sagely prudent! And what 
 then would be your wise advice ?' 
 
 ' A wrong has been done,' replied Ronald ; ' therefore let the 
 wrong be repaired. I do not ask, father, that you shall put your- 
 self into danger, or trust even Mr Vivian as I would trust him. 
 If you will, let us leave the country, and place ourselves in safety, 
 and then let the confession be made by writing. So far all will 
 be done that could be to replace Mr Vivian in his right position 
 with the General. As regards the debt, let me work. Father, 
 you do not know how I can work, — how I can endure. Give 
 me but this object, and death only shall hinder me from obtain- 
 ing it. And when we have restored to General Vivian, or to his 
 family, the sum unlawfully taken from them, even though we 
 may never return to England, we yet may live honoured and 
 free.' A gleam of bright hope shot across Ronald's face as he 
 stood up proudly ; and the expression of his young and noble 
 features told how earnestly, how unwaveringly, the plan he had 
 proposed would be carried to its conclusion. 
 
 But the unhappy man fo whom he addressed himself was too
 
 364 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 far entangled in his own snares to be willing to adopt it. He 
 did not indeed ridicule it ; perhaps even a softened look of ad- 
 miration might have been traced in his countenance ; but he put 
 the idea aside, as he would the dream of a simple child, and 
 merely replying, ' Good enough, perhaps, for some people, if it 
 were only possible,' again inquired whether Ronald would con-, 
 sent to yield obedience to his will. 
 
 And Ronald answered, 'On this point, never!' And both 
 were silent. 
 
 Then Captain Vivian spoke once more abruptly — 'So the 
 boy's doom is fixed.' 
 
 Ronald caught his arm. 'The boy? Clement? Father, you 
 know where he is.' 
 
 Captain Vivian withdrew himself, and strode to the entrance 
 of the cave, muttering as he went. 
 
 ' Father, in mercy — in pity tell me ! Let me save him.' 
 
 * You may, but you will not,' was the answer. 
 
 'Cruel, cruel!' exclaimed Ronald, and he covered his face 
 with his hands. 
 
 ' Do my bidding, and he is safe,' continued Captain Vivian. 
 ' Refuse, and this very day I leave England, and give him up to 
 his fate.' 
 
 'His fate! what fate? O father! where is he? Let me 
 only know that I may judge.' There was yielding in Ronald's 
 tone, and in his words. 
 
 Captain Vivian returned again into the cave, and sat down. 
 ' Where he is, I can't say just now. Where he may be, I can 
 guess. In a desperate scrape, — in prison, probably, before the 
 night is over our heads.' 
 
 Ronald looked at him in wild terror. 'In prison? Then he 
 has been tempted, — led away.' 
 
 His father interrupted him. 'Led away! The boy's of an 
 age to judge for himself.' 
 
 ' Help me, — help me! — what can I do for him ? ' And Ronald 
 clasped his hands together in the anguish of his entreaty. 
 
 * I have told you. I am not going to trust more to a son who 
 won't stretch out his hand to save his father from public disgrace. 
 Clement's fate is in your hands.* 
 
 ' I can't tell, — I cant think.' Ronald threw himself upon 
 Lis knees, and words of earnest but incoherent prayer burst 
 from him. 
 
 His father turned av/ay, — he could not mock him.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 365 
 
 The long, shrill, well-known whistle ! Ronald started up. 
 
 ' 'Tis he! Gofif!' exclaimed Captain Vivian. 'He comes to 
 know your determination.' 
 
 Ronald's fa.ce had recovered its expression of calm resolution. 
 ' Tell him that I will not do evil that good may come. Father, 
 God grant you repentance and pardon.' 
 
 He would have rushed away, but a powerful grasp arrested 
 his movements. ' We will talk of this again, in another place ; 
 you go with me now to the Grange.' 
 
 Ronald had no means of escape. They were met at the foot 
 of the cliff by Goft". A hasty glance and murmured words told 
 that the interview had been fruitless, and Ronald had no will to 
 enter into explanation with his father's base accomplice. 
 
 They reached the Grange. Captain Vivian led the way into 
 the house. He had not uttered a word on the way. Now he 
 said, moodily, ' We have much to talk of still. Ten miautes 
 hence I will call you, and you shall hear more of my plans ; in 
 the meantime, you will wait in your room.' Ronald hurried to 
 his chamber unspeakably thankful for the few moments of rest 
 and solitude. He did not know that he was watched, he did not 
 see that his steps were followed ; but as once more he knelt by 
 the side of his rough bed, seeking relief in prayer, he heard the 
 heavy lock of his door turned on the outside, and realised that 
 he was a prisoner. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE same glorious sunrise which Ronald had beheld as he 
 walked along the beach, was watched also by Bertha 
 Campbell, whilst she stood at her bedroom window. Yet to 
 her, as to him, it brought but little perception of beauty. 
 
 She had stood there very late on the preceding night, and she 
 had stationed herself there again long before dawn ; and now 
 she was lingering still with that heavy load of wearing suspense 
 and responsibility which dca.dens both heart and intellect to 
 every sense but that of wretchedness. 
 
 Bertha had but a woman's power, and even that had never 
 been fully exercised. She did not know what she could do, and 
 she was not confident what she ought to do. That last night had
 
 \ 
 
 366 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 been a terrible trial. Mrs Campbell's nervous, angry uneasiness, 
 the children's fears, and her own infinitely worse forebodings, were 
 all to be borne ; and they were borne with Bertha's characteristic 
 composure, but the trial did not work the less inwardly. Messages 
 were sent, and men despatched in all directions, and every neces- 
 sary inquiry was made ; and at length, about half-past eleven 
 o'clock. Captain Vivian and Ronald made their appearance at the 
 Lodge, to announce that they had traced Clement to the shore, 
 where he had been seen in company with some strange men, sup- 
 posed to be a party from Cleve, but beyond this, no tidings had 
 been heard. Mrs Campbell found comfort in this. It proved, 
 she said that he had not fallen over the cliffs, or been drowned. 
 She thought it might be a boy's freak, — perhaps planned for the 
 very purpose of frightening them, and she confidently anticipated 
 his return the next day ; but Bertha's mind had, fron the begin- 
 ning, been more harassed by the idea of his being led into evil 
 company than by the dread of an accident ; and the information 
 only confirmed her worst forebodings, except that it seemed to 
 exonerate Captain Vivian and Goff from any share in misleading 
 him. She had parted from Ronald with the earnest assurance, on 
 his part, that he would, with the earliest dawn of light, prosecute 
 his inquiries, and would not rest till they were satisfied ; and then 
 she had gone to rest but not to sleep. Conscience, stimulated by 
 anxiety, was busy with reproaches, and, perhaps, not all u nfounded. 
 She felt that she had not watched over Clement rightly ; she had 
 lived apart from him, allowing herself to be engrossed with inte- 
 rests peculiar to herself, and not realising that, having been placed 
 towards him in the position of a mother — or, at least, of an elder 
 sister — she was called upon for sympathy which should draw him 
 out, and make his home happy. Mr Lester had often warned 
 her that irritation and coldness might drive him to seek amuse- 
 ment from home ; and yet she had not always — she had very 
 seldom, indeed — been able to command herself. So she had 
 thrown him entirely upon Ella's companionship ; and this — way- 
 ward, indolent, proud, and self-indulgent — had tended to 
 strengthen his faults, and made him fall a more easy victim to 
 slight temptations. 
 
 Doubtless Bertha exaggerated her own shortcomings, and 
 ascribed to them worse consequences than could properly be 
 said to fall to their share. We are all responsible for our mis- 
 doings, whatever may be the defects of those set over us ; and 
 Clement had received instructio'^ and warning sufficient 10 kc.p
 
 CLEVE HALL. 2,6j 
 
 him from evil, if he had been incUned to attend to them. But it 
 is nevertheless true, and it is one of the great mysteries of our 
 present state of being, that the influence which we exercise with- 
 out thought, daily and hourly, is working, either for good or ill, 
 upon the moral character, and consequently upon the eternal 
 condition of those with whom we dwell. 
 
 We go on, it may be, sinning and repenting, — making faint 
 resolutions, and breaking them, fancying we are in the right way, 
 and that if we offend, our offences are those of human infirmity, 
 upon which God will look mercifully ; and so, searching only in- 
 to our own hearts, we are, upon the whole, satisfied. 
 
 But there is another reckoning, — it will be seen at the Judg- 
 ment Day, — which tells the efi'cct of every hasty word, every 
 proud, cold look or tone, upon the hearts of those who dwell with 
 us. God have mercy upon us when that revelation is made ! 
 
 Even now its bitterness is, at times, forestalled. Petulance, 
 coldness, selfishness, proud reserve, an overweening love of 
 power, labour silently, day by day, in raising up barriers in our 
 homes ; and at length some unlooked-for circumstance shows us 
 that the work is done, — that we have estranged affection ; and 
 lost respect ; it may be that we have saved ourselves, but ruined 
 the souls intrusted to us. 
 
 Not that all which has been said could be applicable to the 
 case of Bertha Campbell. With her the evil was but in its in- 
 fancy, and she was beginning to open her eyes to it, before Cle- 
 ment's unlooked-for disappearance had called forth her self- 
 reproach so bitterly. But it was quite true that Clement had 
 often been induced to linger with Ronald, or to idle his time 
 upon the shore, because Bertha's cold words, and constant habit 
 of finding fault, made home distasteful to him. It was quite 
 true that his indolence and wilfulness had been fostered, because 
 Bertha, by never taking any interest in his pursuits, had thrown 
 him entirely upon Ella for sympathy ; and now, when foreseeing 
 the fatal consequences which might arise from such apparently 
 trivial circumstances, it was not to be supposed that she could 
 exactly discriminate what her own share in the evil had been. 
 
 They were very mournful moments which she passed standing 
 by the window, watching, as she thought, but in reality lost in 
 reverie ; and the sun, as it rose higher in the eastern sky, brought 
 to her mind only a burdensome sense of chill and darkness in her 
 own heart, rendered more evident by the contrast of external 
 brightness. She was physically weary also ; her rest had been
 
 368 CLEVE HALL, ' 
 
 broken, and the atmosphere of a Decenriber morning, though the 
 season was unusually mild, made even the fur cloak in which she 
 had wrapped herself, a very insufficient covering. Yet it required 
 an effort to dress and prepare for the business of the day. All 
 order seemed broken up : she did not know what to do,— what 
 to think of ; and this to a mind usually regulated like clock-work 
 was a considerable addition to every other trouble. 
 
 The post was late, and Mrs Campbell's excitement much in- 
 creased in consequence. The point to which every one looked 
 was Mr Lester's return, and this, Mrs Campbell now asserted, 
 was impossible. There were no ktters, and, if he did not write, 
 it was certain he would not come. It was in vain that Bertha 
 pointed to the clock, and showed that the postman was only five 
 minutes behind his time, which was a common occurrence, and 
 therefore there was no need to despair. Mrs Campbell's fears 
 were as quickly excited as her hopes, and her anxiety showed 
 itself by incessant suggestions and orders, mingled with com- 
 plaints of Bertha's quietness, which she called indifference, and 
 reproaches against Mr Lester for being absent ; whilst every 
 now and then she wandered into murmurs against General 
 Vivian, and reminiscences of things said and done in bygone 
 years, which had doubtless, in her own mind, some connection 
 with the present uneasiness, yet which it was not very easy to 
 follow. 
 
 Bertha bore all quietly, not attempting to reason, but listening 
 to what was said, with her head turned towards the window. At 
 last she observed, in a very calm voice, ' I think that is Rachel 
 coming up the garden.' 
 
 Louisa w^as at the front door with lightning speed. ' A letter, 
 Rachel ! — have you heard ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he comes to-night,' was Rachel's answer, but her face 
 was only partially brightened ; yet she followed Louisa quickly 
 to the parlour, and meeting Bertha at the threshold, repeated 
 the fact instantly. 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' was Bertha's whispered ejaculation, and she 
 kissed Rachel heartily; but it seemed as though she had no 
 power to say more. 
 
 ' Come here, my dear— sit down by me; tell me what message 
 your papa sends,' said Mrs Campbell, beckoning Rachel to her. 
 
 Rachel sat down and unfolded her letter, with a slight feeling 
 of pride at being the bearer of an important communication. 
 
 Btrtha sat opposite, her breath coming quick and faint.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 369 
 
 * He says/ began Rachel, reading aloud, — * " My friend seems 
 better, and I think it possible I may bring him down with me 
 for a little change ; we may be at home to-morrow night. Don't 
 depend upon us, but don't be surprised if you see us." — ' That 
 is very nice, isn't it ?' she added, looking up doubtfully in Mrs 
 Campbell's face, as if nothing could be very nice just then to any 
 one. 
 
 * Yes, my dear ; but I wish, — oh, dear ! Bertha, what time 
 does the coach come in ? ' 
 
 ' There are two coaches,' rephed Bertha. ' Mr Lester doesn't 
 say which he shall come by.' 
 
 Rachel turned immediately to Mrs Campbell to answer the 
 question : ' Papa comes by the five o'clock coach generally, — ■ 
 when he does go away, that is. Dear Miss Campbell,' and she 
 addressed herself to Bertha, with an accent of gentle sympath)-, 
 ' won't it be a comfort to you to have him back 1 ' 
 
 * Yes, great ; but the letter with the receipted bill may go 
 astray.' 
 
 Even at that moment of anxiety. Bertha's mind would fix it- 
 self upon anything which happened to be irregular. 
 
 ' Oh ! it won't signify. Everything will be right when papa 
 comes.' Rachel paused, for she was thinking of Clement, yet 
 could not bring herself to mention his name. She repeated again : 
 ' Everything will be right when papa comes.' 
 
 * Do you think Clement will come with him?' asked the 
 blundering Fanny, who had only paid a half attention to what 
 was being said. 
 
 Louisa caught up her words ; ' Fanny, how silly ! You always 
 do say such silly things. What bill was it, Rachel .'' ' 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear ; it is not your concern,' said Bertha, 
 alive directly to her duty as monitor. 
 
 Louisa still persisted ; ' But I thought. Aunt Bertha, that you 
 didn't send the bill ; it was in your pocket-book.' 
 
 " What bill, Louisa .'' You astonish me. What do you mean 
 by prying into every person's concerns in this way ? ' 
 
 * I didn't pry. Aunt Bertha' — and the angry flush rushed to 
 Louisa's cheeks ; ' but if you remember, when I told you yester- 
 day that Anne at the Rectory was still fussing about a lost paper, 
 you said, "Oh ! she needn't trouble herself; Rachel knows all 
 about it ; I took it, and put it in my pocket-book." I remember 
 quite well that was what you said, and I told it to Anne when 
 1 saw her, as we came back from our walk.' 
 
 2 A
 
 370 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'I wish you to have no gossip -witli Anne of any kind,' 
 observed Bertha, quickly ; ' I won't have you speak to her.' 
 
 ' I don't think Anne gossips more than other people,' muttered 
 Louisa. 
 
 ' She does, though,' exclaimed Fanny, anxious to put in her 
 opinion upon the state of passing affairs. ' She was talking a 
 long, long time to Goff last evening, after wc came home — I saw 
 her from my window ; and he looked so ugly and fierce, I wonder 
 she wasn't frightened at him.' 
 
 ' I want to hear no more of either of them,' observed Bertha. 
 She turned to her mother, and added — ' I am thinking of going 
 to the Hall. Miss Vivian will be anxious to know what we have 
 heard and done.' 
 
 ' I don't know what there is to tell,' replied Mrs Campbell ; 
 ' I can't understand myself what any one is doing.' 
 
 ' The gardener is gone off to Cleve, trying to trace the men who 
 were on the shore last night,' answered Bertha, without endea- 
 vouring to excuse herself; 'and there is another man sent to give 
 notice to xhe police; and Job Horner is over the hills by Barney 
 Wood's cottage ; and Ronald said he and his father would search 
 along the cliffs, and keep a watch upon the beach, I don't think 
 we can do anything more till Mr Lester comes, — only wait;' 
 and she sighed deeply. 
 
 * I wish you could cheer one up, Bertha ; you always take the 
 l)lack side. Poor boy ! I am sure he will be back soon. But 
 those dreadful men must have led him into it for a freak. I am 
 sure he will be back this evening. "Where did you say you were 
 
 going ? ■ 
 
 * To the Hall,' replied Bertha. ' I think some one ought to 
 see Miss Vivian. Rachel, will you go with me? Fanny and 
 Louisa have colds.' 
 
 Mrs Campbell, not choosing her consent to be taken for granted, 
 began to make objections. She disliked, she said, to be left ; if 
 persons came in, she shouldn't be able to see them, and Bertha 
 ought to stay at home and give orders ; and Bertha acquiesced, 
 and began to prepare for the children's lessons. And then Mrs 
 Campbell changed her mind, and was surprised that Bertha could 
 be so indifferent, and thought that all kinds of stories might 
 reach the Hall if some one did not go and explain matters. She 
 was in that irritable, nervous state in which nothing can please, 
 and when to see others quiet is only an aggravation of suffering. 
 But Bertha felt that she must do something, if it were only for
 
 CLEVE HALL. 371 
 
 the sake of the children. No good could accrue to them by sit- 
 ting down in idle lamentations, or walking continually from one 
 room to the other, and looking out of every window ; so a com- 
 promise with JMrs Campbell's conflicting Avishes was made at 
 last ; and it was settled that Bertha should wait till after the early 
 dinner, set the children to their lessons, and hear all that might 
 be heard of the result of the different inquiries, and in the after- 
 noon walk with Rachel to the Hall ; whilst Louisa and Fanny 
 were left with their grandmamma. 
 
 This was the best arrangement Bertha could think of, but it 
 did not thoroughly satisfy her. She disliked leaving the childi'en 
 at home, for with Louisa's curiosity there was always the dread 
 of gossip with the servants, and though Betsey at the Lodge 
 was very discreet, the same could not be said of Anne at the 
 Rectory. In spite of her promises of amendment, Bertha had 
 reason to believe that she was by no means thoroughly to be 
 trusted ; and the little hint which Fanny had thrown out re- 
 specting the last evening's conversation with Goff, rested in her 
 mind with a very uneasy feeling. Anne had nothing to tell, so 
 far as Bertha knew, which all the world might not hear ; but 
 Goff's constant communications made it evident that he must 
 have some object in keeping up the acquaintance. Bertha re- 
 solved that Mr Lester should be put thoroughly upon his guard, 
 and Anne's place was already, in her own mind, vacant. That 
 was not, however, to be thought of at present ; Mr Lester was to 
 return in the evening; and then all this trouble, anxiety, and 
 responsibility would be lessened, even if before that Clement did 
 not make his appearance. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 BERTHA and Rachel had a very cjuiet walk. They were 
 both too thoughtful to talk — at least, at first. Rachel often 
 looked round, fancying she might hear or see something of 
 Clement. Bertha went on, apparently noticing nothing, but in 
 reality with eye and ear thoroughly open, whilst the mind was 
 dwelling upon the most painful and, as it might have been sup- 
 posed, absorbing topics. And absorbing they were, only all 
 connected with the one idea of Clement's absence. She thought
 
 372 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 of what he mi^ht have been led to do ; of his father's horror ; 
 Mr Lester's pain ; General Vivian's indignation ; the downfall 
 of that fabric of hope which for the last few months they had 
 been building. And then her own share in it ! That came back 
 again and again, and always with the despairing feeling that she 
 did not know how to amend, that she gave offence without mean- 
 ing it, and had no power of expressing her feelings, and was 
 thoroughly misunderstood— even by Edward Vivian, for whom 
 the best years of her life had been sacrificed. At length the 
 lonely feehng could be borne no longer, and it came out to 
 l^achel, in answer to a passing observation of delight at the pro- 
 spect of her father's return. ' Yes, it will be very nice for you. 
 It must be very delightful to have some one to whom you can 
 say everything.' 
 
 * So pleasant ! ' exclaimed Rachel ; and then, checking herself 
 as though it were wrong to think of anything pleasant just then, 
 she said, 'But it won't be pleasant to-night,— unless we have 
 news, that is.' 
 
 Bertha avoided the painful allusion, and answered the first 
 part of the speech : ' Very few people have that happiness, 
 Rachel ; you should learn to make the most of it.' 
 
 ' I do try, I hope ; but I suppose grown-up people don't want 
 it as much as children.' 
 
 ' Yes, they do— quite as much,' said Bertha, abruptly. 
 
 ' But they don't want human beings to tell things to, I sup- 
 pose,' replied Rachel, reverently, yet timidly. 
 
 ' They want them, but they don't find them,' continued Bertha, 
 ' and that is why they are unhappy.' 
 
 ' I shall tell everything to papa as long as I have him,' said 
 Rachel : ' but if he were not with me, I don't think I could go 
 and talk in the same way to any one else.' 
 
 ' Then you would miss it dreadfully,' replied Bertha. 
 
 * Yes, dreadfully ; I know that. It used to make me unhappy 
 to think about it, till papa said that love for him was like a step- 
 ping-stone, that it was meant to teach me how I was to love 
 God ; and since that, I have tried sometimes, when he has been 
 away, to think that I had God to go to ; and now and then — not 
 always, only now and then— it seems as if that would make up 
 ior everything.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! Rachel — now and then ; but what one wants is to 
 feel it always,' said Bertha. 
 
 'It would be wonderfully pleasant, wouldn't it?' replied
 
 CLEVE HALL. 373 
 
 Rachel. ' How it would help one in the world ! But, dear Miss 
 Campbell, persons who are as good as you are must always 
 feel it.' 
 
 ' Oh no, Rachel ; what a mistake !' and Bertha stopped sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Rachel was thoughtful and silent. Presently she said, with- 
 out any attempt at a preface, ' One day I was going up the hills, 
 feeling very tired, and trying so to get on, and then being quite 
 out of breath ; and at last papa came, and put his hand at my 
 back, and it made such a difference — I went on almost without 
 feeling it. And afterwards papa reminded me of it, and said it 
 was like the different ways in which I could go through life ; 
 trying to overcome difficulties by myself, and thinking I had a 
 point to reach, and then God would love me, and be pleased with 
 me— that, he said, was acting from duty alone ; or else, feeling 
 that God was really with me now, helping me on at every step ; 
 and loving me, not because I had done the things, but because I 
 was trying to do them — and that, he said, would be acting from 
 love. And, do you know, Aliss Campbell — it is so odd — I have 
 had it in my mind ever since ; and when I feel cross and lazy— 
 and I do very often — then I think that God is quite close to me. 
 And I have a kind of fancy — I hope it does not sound irreverent 
 — that He is really putting His hand at the back of my heart, 
 and telling me, that if I will move. He will keep it there, and 
 make the tiresome things easy. Is there any harm in such 
 thoughts ? ' 
 
 'No harm, dear Rachel' — and a melancholy smile crossed 
 Bertha's face — ' if you can really keep such notions in your 
 head.' 
 
 'And it is true, isn't it ?' continued Rachel, earnestly. ' Not, 
 of course, quite as I say— that is only my way of fancying it ; 
 but you know God does love us now, and help us on, and make 
 things easy.' 
 
 * Yes, of course ' — but Bertha's answer was not quite as hearty 
 as Rachel had expected ; yet she went on, as was her wont, with 
 her own thoughts. 
 
 ' It makes such a difference to me now I think of these things. 
 When I only try to do what is right, it all seems hard, and I get 
 cross with myself because I don't do all I want to do — it is just 
 like a cold, sharp March wind blowing over one ; but when I 
 have the other feeling, it is like sunshine, and I go on so happily. 
 It is quite a pleasure to do disagreeable things, because, you
 
 374 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 know, the Hand is there to help me ; and when they are done, 
 I can turn round and . see that God is pleased. I wish I 
 could make you understand ; it is almost like seeing, it is so 
 real.' 
 
 * Yes, very real, undoubtedly.' 
 
 The full, implicit, childlike belief lit up Rachel's thoughtful 
 eyes with a brilliancy that was even startling— and the flush of 
 excitement was on her cheek ; and in her eagerness she paused 
 in her walk, and resting her hand on her companion's arm, 
 looked at her with a gaze which thrilled through Bertha's heart, 
 for it might have been the expression of an angel's love. 
 
 Strange ! the power which touches one heart by the influence 
 of another. That look did its work. Not then — Bertha's 
 thoughts were too occupied, her heart was too full of home cares 
 to understand it — but it lingered by her till other days, haunting 
 her with its only half-understood meaning ; it did more than Mr 
 Lcstei-'s instruction, more than Mildred Vivian's suggestions — 
 for it was the soul speaking to the soul ; and He who made the 
 soul, gave its language a power beyond words. It was Bertha's 
 first vivid perception of the softening influence of the motive of 
 love. 
 
 The short conversation ended there as suddenly as it had 
 begun. Bertha felt, though she did not quite know why, that 
 she could not continue it ; and Rachel had said what was in her 
 mind, and relapsed into silence. They walked for a short dis- 
 tance ; Bertha pondering upon Rachel's simplicity, wishing that 
 Ella was like her, and thinking that she might have been if she 
 had been brought up in the same way. 
 
 That, however, was a mistake; the two characters were essen- 
 tially unlike, and what was extremely good for one would have 
 been very bad for the other. 
 
 Mildred Vivian's personal rules and suggestions as to strict 
 self-scrutiny were absolutely necessary for Ella, because she never 
 took the trouble to think about herself at all. They would have 
 been injurious to Rachel, by engendering self-consciousness, and 
 irritating a naturally sensitive conscience into a state of constant 
 scruple and morbid search into the state of her own feelings. 
 Ella required to be taught to live in herself— Rachel out of her- 
 self. But Bertha was not quick in perceiving such distinctions, 
 and the medicine which was good for one, she would have con- 
 sidered good for all. 
 
 Her meditations were not left long uninterrupted ; a man's
 
 CLEVE HALL. 375 
 
 quick tread was heard behind her, whilst at the same moment a 
 rough voice called out, 'Why, Miss Campbell, you walk so fast, 
 one would think you were running for a wager.' 
 
 Bertha stopped, telling Rachel to go on, and let her speak to 
 Captain Vivian alone. He had probably, she thought, something 
 to communicate to her about Clement ; and since his kindness 
 in the search of the preceding evening, she felt a strange mixture 
 of suspicion and cordiality towards him. 
 
 Captain Vivian came up and held out his hand : ' Good day to 
 you. Miss Campbell. I was thinking of coming up to the Lodge, 
 but I was afraid it would be no good.' 
 
 'Then you have heard nothmg?' said Bertha, in a tone of 
 keen disappointment. 
 
 He shook his head : ' Two of my men have been out, round by 
 Cleve, trying to liear something of the fellows we traced last 
 night ; and Ronald's oft" somewhere. We must have some tid- 
 ings before night.' 
 
 ' I trust so ;' but Bertha's tone was not hopeful. 
 
 ' Come, cheer up ; it 's no use to be cast down,' continued 
 Captain Vivian, rather good-naturedly. "Tis but a boy's freak, 
 after all. I 'd have done the same at his age. But \vhcre may 
 you be going now?' 
 
 'To the Hall. Miss Vivian and the General will be anxious.' 
 
 ' You have heard, of course, that the old General is ill,' said 
 Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' Yes, we had a message. He had an attack of faintness last 
 night, but he is better this morning.' 
 
 ' He does not leave his room though, and at his age attacks of 
 faintness are serious matters.' 
 
 ' Yes, but Miss Vivian doesn't seem alarmed. Is there any- 
 thing else you think we can do ?' 
 
 ' Nothing, unless when do you expect Mr Lester 
 
 home ? ' 
 
 Notwithstanding Bertha's newly-awakened friendliness, she 
 had an instinct of caution, and answered ambiguously, that it 
 was not quite certain. 
 
 ' It ought to be. Haven't you sent a message to him?' 
 
 ' No.' Bertha was caught in a snare then, and felt herself 
 obliged to add, ' He may be at home this evening.' 
 
 ' Ah ! very good. The sooner he comes the better. And his 
 friend comes with him, doesn't he.''' 
 
 * I can't say.' Bcrllia looked up in surprise.
 
 376 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Captain Vivian laughed : ' You '11 think I have a wonderful 
 knowledge of what goes on ; but it so happened that one of my 
 men was at the Rectory just now, about this business, and heard 
 say that Mr Lester was expected, and perhaps a friend with him ; 
 so you see I 'm no ma;j;ician after all.' 
 
 ' No.' Yet Bertha felt uncomfortable. 
 
 'They'll be hero by the hve o'clock coach, I suppose?' 
 
 * Probably, if they come at all.' 
 
 Captain Vivian considered a moment ; then his eye glanced 
 at Rachel, who was standing a few paces of, just sufficient to be 
 beyond reach of hearing: 'You have a little companion with 
 you, I see. Is she going to the Hall, too ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; we arc rather in a hurry. I must wish you good-bye, 
 if you really have nothing more to say.' 
 
 ' Nothing more just now ; but I may have. What time shall 
 you be coming back from the Hall ? ' 
 
 ' I can't quite tell ; it depends on how long 1 may be kept 
 there.' 
 
 ' But you '11 not come home in the dark, I suppose ?' 
 
 * I shall have a servant with me, if I do,' replied Bertha, rather 
 surprised at his thoughtfulncss. 
 
 ' Oh !' Not a very well satisfied 'Oh ! ' and Captain Vivian's 
 face bore a gloomy and troubled expression, though he tried to 
 laugh, and said, ' I would offer myself as an escort, only I know 
 you would not accept me.' 
 
 Bertha showed involuntarily how she shrank from the sugges- 
 tion, and she began a hurried excuse. He laughed again, ' Of 
 course, I don't offer myself; only perchance you'll be anxious 
 to know what we've been doing, and as it will be rather oul 
 of my way to come to the Lodge, perhaps we might manage 
 to meet again half way. What do you say.? Shall it be the 
 turning into Encombe Lane, just as you get out of Cle\e 
 Wood ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say ; I don't know.' Bertha did not at all like to 
 promise a second interview. Even this, short though it was, 
 made her nervous and impatient. 
 
 ' Ronald promised to let me know everything,' she added, after 
 a moment's thought. ' Perhaps you could be kind enough to send 
 him to the Lodge, even if you can't come yourself. I don't at all 
 know what time I shall be returning from the Hall myself, or 
 whether it will be before dusk or after ; — the days close in sij 
 soon,'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 377 
 
 ' I can't say for Ronald ; he 's off somewhere. He mightn't 
 be back before midnight ; anyhow, I dare say you 'II hear nev/s 
 before long.' 
 
 He turned from her without even wishing her good-bye. 
 
 Bertha fancied she had made him angry, and feared she might 
 be throwing away a hope for Clement. But in another minute 
 he returned : ' I say, do you chance to have an almanac in your 
 pocket ? I wanted to make a reckoning about some sea matters 
 I happen to be acquainted with, which might help us to a 
 glimpse of Clement.' 
 
 Bertha took out her pocket-book, and asked what he wanted 
 to know. 
 
 ' I cant explain exactly. Perhaps you'd just let me look one 
 minute,' and he held out his hand for it. 
 
 Villain though he was, the moment was too anxious for him 
 to be quite calm. The faltering tone of his voice struck Bertha, 
 and she instinctively hesitated. 
 
 ' Oh ! I beg pardon ; I didn't mean to pry into secrets.' 
 
 ' There are no secrets,' said Bertha, slightly blushing ; and not 
 knowing what excuse to make, she was on the point of giving it 
 to him. At that instant Rachel ran up to her : ' O iNIiss 
 Campbell ! some one so like Clement— so very like ! He has 
 just gone down the lane to the common : do come ! ' And 
 Bertha forgot everything else, hurriedly replaced the book in 
 her pocket, and ran after Rachel. 
 
 It was happy for her that Captain "V^ivian's muttered exclama- 
 tion was lost upon her. Standing upon a bank overlooking the 
 Common, he satisfied himself, by his small telescope, that Rachel 
 was quite mistaken, and then walked away across the fields to 
 the village. 
 
 He went on, looking neither to the right nor left — gloom on 
 his brow, passion and fierce disappointment in hisheait. Could 
 he but have possessed himself of the paper, so close within his 
 grasp, all might have been well. But the opportunity was gone, 
 and now what remained .'' 
 
 The question could only bo solved by an interview with Goff, 
 and to his cottage Captain Vivian repaired. His own mind was 
 bent upon escape. Perhaps he was weary of the load which for 
 eighteen years had burdened his breast, reminding him day and 
 night that the hour of discovery and retribution might be at 
 hand ; perhaps, too, the morning's conversation with Ronald had 
 touched some latent feeling of remorse, which made him long to
 
 378 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Ilec not only from danger, l)ut from the scenes associated with 
 the pangs of a guilty conscience. 
 
 But the influence of the comrade with whom he had connected 
 liimsclf was more powerful than the weak impulse of a heart 
 softened only because it despaired of success. When told of the 
 failure in the attempt to obtain the paper from Bertha, Goff only 
 scoffed at Captain Vivian's cowardice, and insisted that if the 
 undertaking were entrusted to him, he would even now gain pos- 
 session of it before the evening closed in. 
 
 They had succeeded, he said, hitherto ; Clement was in their 
 power, a hostage. Through him any terms which they chose to 
 impose were certain to be accepted by Mr Vivian. Why was all 
 to be given up without one more effort ? Even if they failed as 
 regarded the paper, he would, if it depended upon himself, brave 
 the question, and by threatening Clement's life, force Mr Vivian 
 to destroy it. It was not even certain, indeed, that the paper 
 was that which they imagined — notwithstanding all they had 
 learned from Mr Lester's servant, they were acting only upon 
 suspicion ; and if it were not, nothing could be more senseless 
 than to flee and leave the game in their enemy's hand. 
 
 His arguments were plausible, and aided by one which he had 
 always found sufficient to stimulate the sinking spirit of his com- 
 jjanion. To bind Mr Vivian to secrecy would be to complete 
 the revenge already taken, by shutting him out for ever from the 
 hope of restoration to the General's favour ; whilst by driving 
 him from Encombe, and probably from England, they would be 
 left free to carry on their schemes as before. Goff dwelt upon 
 these points cunningly and successfully ; yet it was long before 
 any fixed agreement could be attained between minds so diffe- 
 rently bent, and each with a deeply-rooted selfishness of purpose 
 — Goff, desperately bold, and willing to run all hazards for the 
 furtherance of his own schemes, and the opportunity of pursuing 
 his profitable trade at Encombe ; Captain Vivian shrinking 
 from the prospect of meeting the man whom he had injured, 
 dreading the evils which his misdeeds had brought upon him, 
 and brooding in bitterness of heart over Ronald's alienation and 
 his own degrading position. 
 
 A compromise between the two was at length effected. It was 
 arranged that Captain Vivian should linger upon the shore or 
 amongst the cliffs till dusk, taking care to conceal himself care- 
 fully from observation ; whilst Goff should be on the watch for 
 the return of BcrLha from the Hall, when he was to make
 
 CLEVE HALL. 379 
 
 another attempt to obtain possession of the precious paper. In 
 the event of success, immediate notice was to be given to Cap- 
 tain Vivian, who might then put in practice the scheme which 
 he had so long planned — meet Mr Vivian, threaten him with 
 Clement's perilous position, as certain to be engaged in a 
 smuggling affray, and induce him, in the hope of saving his boy 
 from danger and public disgrace, to agree to any terms of silence 
 with regard to the past which his cousin might demand. 
 
 If, on the contrary, the important document on which so 
 much depended could not be secured, Captain Vivian still in- 
 sisted upon escaping without delay. A boat was therefore to be 
 in readiness which would carry him off to his vessel. In that 
 case, Clement was to be left to his fate, Ronald, the only person 
 likely to help him was a prisoner, and to remain so till night ; 
 there would, consequently, be no one to interfere with the ini- 
 quitous scheme, so cruelly laid, to ruin him in his grandfather's 
 eyes, and raise, if possible, a still more formidable barrier than 
 that which now existed between Mr Vivian and the General. 
 All minor arrangements as to Ronald's release and future move- 
 ments were left till the main points were settled. Goff agreed 
 apparently to the plans proposed ; but he had his own views for 
 the future, and his own plans as to their furtherance. They 
 were such as could not be communicated ; yet in the secrecy of 
 his heart there lay a desperate and fixed resolution that, come 
 what might, the stake for which he had already dared so much 
 should not be yielded without a struggle, even, if it were neces- 
 sary, to .death. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 GLOOM and silence brooded over the oak-panelled apart- 
 ments, the deserted lobbies, and mazy corridors of Cleve 
 Hall. Stealthily passed the measured footsteps of the old ser- 
 vants ; and when, occasionally, a lighter or a quicker tread 
 ventured to break upon the stillness, it seemed a profanation of 
 the solemn grandeur of the stately mansion. General Vivian 
 would not leave his dressing-room ; Greaves waited upon 
 him, Mildred sat with him, Ella occasionally went in and out 
 with messages. He was not ill, it was said, and he would not 
 consent to sec a doctor. That was not surprising; he hated
 
 33o CLEVE HALL. 
 
 doctors, and professed to have no faith in them ; and he was 
 never known to be nervous about himself. He often talked of 
 death, but never seemed to realise in himself the possibility 
 of dying ; and he was not going to die now, as far as any one 
 could judge. The attack of the preceding evening had passed 
 and left no very marked effects. Yet he would neither leave his 
 room nor enter into conversation, nor do anything except attend 
 to what he called necessary business. That he appeared to be 
 engrossed in, only Mildred saw that his eye was often fixed as in 
 inward thought when it seemed to be resting on the papers or 
 book before him ; whilst his hearing, lately rather impaired, had 
 suddenly acquired a singular keenness — the distant opening or 
 shutting of a door, the roll of a waggon, even the shouts of 
 children in the distance were all observed. No, whatever there 
 might be of mental suffering, there was nothing of death in the 
 quick flash of his eye and the instantaneous turn of his head ; 
 but rather life, — vivid, active, most keenly sensitive, yet crusted 
 over by an exterior so petritied that only those who watched him 
 narrowly, and understood him by the experience of years, could 
 have traced the current that flowed underneath it. 
 
 Mildred seldom sat with him in the morning ; he said, gene- 
 rally, that it was an interruption to him, but now he could scarcely 
 bear her out of his sight. Yet he spoke to her seldom, and then 
 never upon the subject so paramount in its importance to both. 
 It had come, and it was gone. Who could tell what he thought 
 of it, or how it would influence him ? 
 
 Mildred was brave by nature — the gift of moral cccirage had 
 been hers from infancy — yet she could not venture to break in 
 upon this ominous silence. Her father's character was still an 
 unknown and unexplored region. Though they had lived 
 together, one in interest and in love, for years, she could rarely 
 venture to speculate upon the way in which events, or words, or 
 actions would be taken by him. She could not say but that by 
 attempting to turn the stream into one channel, it would, in 
 resistance, be diverted into the opposite course. All with him 
 was artificial ; — not untrue or put on for show ; but his was 
 a heart which had been drilled into obedience to self-imposed 
 laws, and the free instincts of nature had been curbed till it 
 might have seemed that they had ceased to act. 
 
 Long and weary were the hours that morning ; memory lin- 
 gering upon the past, fear busy with the future, and a sharp, 
 present anxiety goading the natural despondency incident to
 
 & 
 
 CLEVE HALL. 381 
 
 such a position into suffering which it was almost impossible to 
 conceal, 
 
 Clement's disappearance had been known at the Hall on the 
 preceding evening, yet not so as to occasion any peculiar uneasi- 
 ness. But in the morning, soon after Mildred and Ella had 
 finished their breakfast together, another message brought the 
 intelligence that he had not been at home all night, that a search 
 had been instituted, ponds dragged, messengers sent out, — but 
 hitherto all in vain, except that there was a report cfF'his having 
 been seen in company with some desperate-looking men on the 
 road to Cleve. 
 
 Mildred's head turned sick and faint with fear. Almost her 
 first thought was of her father, and strict orders were instantly 
 given that the General was not to be alarmed, — it might do him 
 injury. Greaves, who was the only person that ever waited upon 
 him, promised to be careful. Yet Mildred could not be satisfied 
 unless she sat in his room ; and it was a source of infinite 
 thankfuhiess that, on this most trying morning, he was not only 
 willing but even desirous of having her with him. Still, every 
 time the door opened she fancied that some one was about to 
 enter with painful tidings ; and Ella's careworn face was 
 sufficient in itself to have excited the General's remark, if his 
 thoughts had not been otherwise and so intently preoccupied. 
 
 ' You had better sit down quietly and read ; you disturb me, 
 coming in and out so often,' said the General, impatiently, as 
 Ella entered for about the sixth time, to glance at Mildred, and 
 tell her by mute signs that nothing new had been heard. 
 
 ' Thank you, grandpapa, but I have my music to practise/ and 
 Ella went out again. 
 
 The General did not like a will contrary to his own, however 
 smrdl the matter in question might be, and Mildred seeing it, 
 ventured upon an apology: ' Ella won't come in again, sir; she 
 was only anxious to see whether I was comfortable.' 
 
 ' She might have trusted that to me. You are not uncomfort- 
 able, are you?' 
 
 * Oh no! not at all, but' Mildred fancied she heard 
 
 distant voices, and stopped to listen ; then remembered she had 
 better not do anythin;.; to attract attention, and murmured some- 
 tliing unintelligible, whilst the General looked at her a moment 
 in surprise, and continued his writing. 
 
 A long silence followed — in the room, at least ; below there 
 rcrtainlv were loud voices, ^Mildred was in an agony to stop
 
 3^2 CLEVE ITAEL. 
 
 ihcm, but tliG General look no notice until two persons wore 
 licard talking in the lobby 'leading to his room : ' Ring the bell, 
 will you, Mildred? I think it is within your reach. I won't 
 have that noise in the house.' 
 
 Mildred rang, and the General laid down his pen, preparatory 
 to a reprimand. 
 
 Greaves entered, turning the handle of the door noiselessly. 
 
 'Who is that talking in the passage, Greaves?' 
 
 'Mrs Robinson, sir' — and Greaves looked at Mildred, douljt- 
 ing how much more he was at liberty to say. 
 
 ' Mrs Robinson ! What has she come for ? ' 
 
 'To speak to Miss Vivian, I believe, sir, upon business. I 
 was just coming to say so.' 
 
 ' Let her come in. There arc no secrets, I suppose, Mildred ?' 
 
 Mildred turned very pale ; but the General was busied with 
 himself rather than with her. He was working himself up into 
 stern coldness. Of all persons he would least have desired 
 to sliow weakness, either in feeling or in action, before Mrs 
 Robinson. 
 
 It was a curious meeting. vShc came in as stiff and rigid as 
 himself, and made her respectful yet rather proud curtsey, and 
 sat down at a little distance from the table — all without speak- 
 ing. And the General bent his head, and hoped she was well, 
 with the stiff civility of a gentleman of the old school ; but the 
 merest stranger might have perceived that they did not like each 
 other. 
 
 Mildred broke the silence : she asked whether Mrs Robinson 
 had come about parish business. 
 
 ' Not exactly, ma'am. Mr Lester, they say, is to be home this 
 evening, so I could go to him if I wanted anything.' 
 
 The observation was made quite unconcernedly, yet Mildred 
 read in the tone that it was intended for her comfort. 
 
 ' My lodger comes back to Encombe with Mr Lester, I believe, 
 ma'am,' continued Mrs Robinson ; and Mildred involuntary made 
 an eager gesture, which the General perceived, though his eyes 
 never moved apparently from his letter. 
 
 'You have had a lodger, have you, Mrs Robinson ?' he said, 
 inquiringly. 
 
 'Yes, sir, a little while ago.' 
 
 ' A little while ? but how long ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say exactly how long, sir ; it might have been three 
 months or more.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 383 
 
 ' Oh ! * the General's pen moved with greater decision. 
 
 ' Does he come with Mr Lester did you say ?' asked Mildred ; 
 and in spite of herself her voice trembled. 
 
 ' I believe so, ma'am, but I don't know whether he is going to 
 stay at the farm again.' 
 
 The General laid down his pen and listened. 
 
 Mrs Robinson went on quite unmoved : ' I was going to send 
 down to the Rectory to learn for certain, but our farm people 
 are all engaged. They have been all day, and I don't know 
 when they will be at leisure ; and as I was coming up here, I 
 thought I would ask, ma'am, whether you had heard anything 
 about ]\Ir Lester's plans. But, perhaps, you haven't, so I won't 
 disturb you ; ' and Mrs Robinson rose from her seat, and was 
 about to retire, when the General spoke again ; 'You don't take 
 in lodgers, Mrs Robinson, do you, generally.'" 
 
 ' Only sometimes, sir, in the summer. This was a very civil- 
 spoken gentleman.' 
 
 ' And he is coming again, you say ?' 
 
 ' There is a talk of it, sir.' 
 
 ' I thought you said he was to be here with Mr Lester.' 
 
 A scrutinising glance accompanied the words, which mij^ht 
 have perplexed any one but Mrs Robinson. She, however, was 
 perfectly imperturbaljle, and answered, ' He may come with Mr 
 Lester, sir, but I can't be certain. I thought Miss Mildred 
 might have heard. I won't disturb you any more, sir, now. I 
 wish you good morning.' A respectful curtsey ! and Mrs 
 Robinson addressed Mildred, as though merely completing her 
 sentence : ' If you were coming into your bedroom, ma'am, I 
 might show you the patterns of print for the school children ; I 
 got them at Cleve yesterday. Mayn't I help you?' Without 
 waiting for an answer, she handed to Mildred the crutches 
 which were her support in walking, and offered her arm. 
 
 Mildred turned to the General : ' My dear father, I shall be 
 back again directly ; you don't want anything before I go, do 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing.' The General looked as if he would have said 
 more, but Mrs Robinson did not give him the opportunity. She 
 fidgeted with Mildred's shawl, and talked about the cold, and 
 luirried her to the door. The General called out, ' Mildred, you 
 must be back directly ; I want you to copy a letter for mc.' 
 
 Mrs Robinson answered for her with another curtsey : ' I 
 won't keep Miss Mildred five minutes, sir;' and the General,
 
 384 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 having no other excuse for detaining them, suffered them lo 
 
 go- 
 
 ' The General looks ill this morning, ma'am,' was Mrs Robin- 
 son's first remark, after the door closed behind them. 
 
 ' He fainted last night,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' I heard so, ma'am ; perhaps there wasn't so much harm in 
 tliat. He has kept clear of Master Clement.' 
 
 Mildred stopped, and leaned against the door of her own 
 chamber, which she had just reached : ' You are come to tell 
 me something about him. Granny ? ' 
 
 'Just come in, my dear, and lie down for a moment. I '11 go 
 presently and tell Greaves to take the General's lunch up, and 
 then he won't fuss so at your staying.' 
 
 She led Mildred into the room, placed her on the sofa, and 
 continued, without requiring any questions to be asked : ' He 's 
 oft" with the smugglers. Miss Mildred— certain ; and the Cap- 
 tain 's in some way at the bottom of it.' 
 
 Mildred caught her hand : ' Quick, quick ; how do you 
 Icnow ?' 
 
 But Mrs Robinson was not to be turned aside from her own 
 course : ' One of our farm boys was coming over the hills last 
 night, behind Miss Campbell and the children. He saw Master 
 Clement stay behind, as they were near the village ; the Cap- 
 tain was close by — he'd been following them. He went up to 
 Master Clement, and they talked a little,— the boy saw him go 
 ofif with the Caotain to the Grange, for his road lay the same 
 way.' 
 
 'We heard something of that last night,' interrupted Mildred, 
 
 ' The Captain says he went home afterwards,' continued Mrs 
 Robinson ; 'but the boy declares that, as he was going across 
 the common an hour later, he heard voices off towards the 
 Point, and one he was sure was Master Clement's. He had a 
 message to carry to Rock Farm, out by Cleve, and he went ; 
 and coming back, there was a light upon the Point, as if 
 men were moving about with a lantern, when all of a sudden 
 it disappeared. Joe was going along the path near the edge of 
 the cliff then. He didn't like much, he says, to go and put 
 himself in the way of meeting them, for he knew they must be 
 folks that \\ouldn't fancy being interfered with ; and so he kept 
 quiet amongst the bushes and the furze for some little time; 
 and he declares that he quite plainly heard a party of them 
 scramble down. Master Clement was one, he's pretty certain.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 385 
 
 bnl he thinks that he didn't much wish to go. The boy didn't 
 wait to see what became of them ; only he knows all the boats 
 along the beach, and he s.iys that Mark Wood's was there in 
 the mornintr, and it's not there now. And Mark himself isn't 
 at home ; and the child Barney's been questioned, and they've 
 got out of him that his father had settled beforehand to be away 
 all night. Putting things together, its pretty clear, ma'am, what 
 the young gentleman 's been after.' 
 
 No voice came. Mildred's hands were folded together, and 
 her countenance expressed the most intense dejection. 
 
 ' I shall go and tell Greaves to take up the General's luncheon ; 
 and you '11 have yours brought in here, my dear,' continued Mrs 
 Robinson. ' It was best for you to know the worst at once.' 
 Not waiting for Mildred's assent, she departed to give her orders. 
 
 Poor Mildred ; she did indeed feel crushed. Edward— Mr 
 Lester — Bertha ; none could help her now. Far better than 
 others did she know the fixed prejudice, the stern laws which 
 governed her father's conduct. F'ar more truly could she read 
 that martyr spirit of self-torture, Vv-hich had shown itself for years 
 in General Vivian's every word and action. If there had been a 
 glimmering of hope before, it had faded since the preceding even- 
 ing, and now it was utterly quenched. An offence deadly in the 
 rigid judgment of General Vivian, even if capable of extenuation 
 in the eyes of the world, had been laid to her brother's charge ; 
 and when her last hope was in the acknowledgment of his taults, 
 and a final appeal to mercy, on the plea that its punishment had 
 been borne unmurmuringly for eighteen years, a further excuse 
 for severity was to be found in the fact, that the sins of the father 
 had descended as an heirloom to the son — that Clement was 
 what his father had been, when he brought sorrow and desolation 
 to Cleve. 
 
 Mrs Robinson returned. Greaves was gone up to the General 
 with his luncheon, and would take care that Miss Mildred should 
 r.ot be wanted again just yet ; only she remarked that it would 
 not do to stay away very long — people might come upon business 
 to see the General, and talk ; and the story was getting about 
 fast. 
 
 ' He must know it before long,' replied Mildred, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 ' It mayn't be till to-morrow, ma'am ; and before that Mr Lester 
 
 and Master Edward will be hcrc> and it will be better broken to 
 
 hjm.' 
 
 2 B
 
 386 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * And that unhappy boy ! What will become of him ?' said 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' My husband and two of the men will be down upon the shore 
 to-night waiting, if they should land again,' replied Mrs Robinson. 
 ' But it 's scarcely to be thought they '11 be back so soon. It 's the 
 spirit of a Campbell that's in him,' she muttered to herself. 
 
 Mildred looked at her sadly and reproachfully; 'A Vivian, 
 rather, Granny ; Edward might have done the same.' 
 
 ' Master Edward would never have taken to such a low set,' 
 exclaimed Mrs Robinson, with sudden animation. ' When he 
 consorted with the Captain, he was not at all the man he is now. 
 No, no. Miss Mildred ; my dear, it 's the Campbell blood ; and 
 when once it 's in, there 's no rooting it out.' 
 
 Mildred would not argue the point for Mrs Robinson, like the 
 General, was strong in her prejudices. She could only murmur, 
 ' What tidings for Edward and Mr Lester !' 
 
 ' I 've been thinking of going on to Cleve to meet them,' con- 
 tinued Mrs Robinson. ' It would be better for Master Edward 
 to hear it from some one who is up to things, and can help him 
 to keep his own counsel. He was never to be trusted when 
 things took him by surprise.' 
 
 Mildred took her hand affectionately. 'Always kind and 
 thoughtful,' she said. 'Yes, it would be better; but, dear 
 Granny, it is giving yourself a great deal of trouble.' 
 
 Mrs Robinson drew back her hand rather proudly. ' I was 
 not one of the family for eight-and-twenty years for nothing,' 
 she said. ' Who should I take trouble for but those who are 
 like my own kin ? Master Edward will be wishing to put himself 
 foremost in the search ; but he mustn't.' 
 
 ' No, indeed. But, Granny, my father must know of his being 
 here before many days are over. He has been told now that he 
 is in England.' 
 
 ' Know it ? does he ? ' Almost for the first time Mrs Robin- 
 son's face changed colour, and she spoke anxiously : ' Ah! Miss 
 Mildred, my dear, who had the courage to tell him? ' 
 
 ' I had, Granny ; there was no one else.' 
 
 Mrs Robinson shook her head sorrowfully. ' Ah! no one. It 
 has all come upon you. Strange that it hasn't carried you to 
 your grave. But he's softened ; surely he's softened?' 
 
 ' I fear not. You saw him just now. He has been Hke that 
 ever since — sharp in manner ; and when he has spoken, saying 
 only a few words.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 387 
 
 'Conscience troubles him,' was Mrs Robinson's comment. 'I 
 knew he had a meaning in his questions.' 
 
 'Yes, I knew it too. He is full of suspicion. He thinks we 
 are all plotting. What will it be when he hears about Clement?' 
 
 ' He will say, as I do, that it is the Campbell blood, and there's 
 no hope for it. O INIaster Edward ! — the marriage was the 
 worst thing of all. But you mustn't stay here, my dear. The 
 General will be asking questions, and it will never do to let him 
 know what 's going on till Mr Lester comes. Let me help you 
 back to him, and then I '11 set off for Cleve.' 
 
 Mildred could scarcely summon resolution sufficient to move ; 
 and said she dreaded encountering the General's questions, and 
 felt she had a thousand other things to say to Mrs Robinson. 
 
 * It won't do to wait, my dear, or — hark ! There 's a visitor, I 
 heard the bell.' She left Mildred, and went to the head of the 
 stairs to listen. 
 
 Her face w^as discomposed when she returned : 'Miss Campbell 
 and Miss Rachel. Miss Campbell wants to see you. We mustn't 
 let the General know she is here. He is not in a mood for that. 
 Hadn't I better send Miss Ella to talk to him ? and perhaps he 
 will let her copy his letter.' 
 
 Mildred smiled gratefully — ' So like you, and the old times, 
 Granny ; managing for every one. Perhaps it will be best ; and 
 ]\Iiss Campbell can come and see me here. And Rachel,' — she 
 considered a moment, — ' Rachel must wait in the morning-room. 
 Thank you so much for arranging it,' she added, as she pressed 
 Mrs Robinson's hand affectionately. 
 
 ' No thanks, my dear ; but God help you and all of us.' 
 
 The prayer was needed, for Mildred's complexion was of a livid 
 paleness ; and even that one day of anxiety seemed to have made 
 her cheeks thinner, and shrunk her slight frame. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 BERTHA and Mildred met as old friends. The one common 
 fear had melted away whatever remains of bygone antipathy 
 might have been lingering in their minds. Bertha entered, tired 
 with her walk, and worn with suspense and watchfulness ; but 
 Mildred's hearty 'Thank you for coming ; I have been hoping
 
 3S8 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 you would,' cheered and encouraged her ; and when she un- 
 fastened her bonnet, and sat down by the fire, they might have 
 appeared to be even sisters in cordiahty. 
 
 Mildred began the conversation, for she had the most to tcU. 
 Mrs Robinson's intelligence had given a definite form to her 
 fears, and so, after the first startling announcement had in a 
 measure relieved her. She believed, she said, that Clement's 
 absence was a boyish freak,— the love of adventure,— that he had 
 gone for a sail and would return. She thought they might 
 expect him at any moment ; and her mind did not rest upon the 
 thought of him with overwhelming uneasiness, except so far as 
 his conduct might ultimately influence his father's fortunes. 
 
 And Bertha sat still and listened, taking in what was said, yet 
 not able to receive comfort from the removal of suspense. Cle- 
 ment was more, personally, to her than his father could be ; and 
 Mrs Robinson's intelligence confirmed the worst suspicions which 
 she had entertained. Mildred had lived in retirement, hearing 
 only of evil, never being brought in contact with it. Bertha had, 
 from circumstances, learned the real facts and roughnesses of 
 life ; and the dangers which to the one were a dream of imagi- 
 nation, were to the other a vivid and terrible reality. When 
 Mildred at length paused, Bertha sat for some time in deep 
 thought. She was pondering in her own mind a question which 
 had suggested itself whilst Mildred had been speaking — the paper 
 in her possession, should it be shown to her ? — or would it be a 
 breach of confidence .'' She could not decide, and the doubt 
 made her reply in an abstracted tone to Mildred's inquiry, 
 whether she could think of anything necessary to be done on 
 Clement's account before Mr Lester's return. 
 
 'You are not satisfied with what Mrs Robinson says?' con- 
 tinued JMildred, anxiously. 
 
 'Not quite. Did you tell me, — did you say that the farm 
 people would be on the shore watching for him ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; it seemed all that could be done. And Mrs Robinson 
 herself is gone to Cleve to meet Mr Lester. He will be here, if 
 he comes at all, soon after five.' 
 
 ' There must be no if,' murmured Bertha to herself. She rose 
 and looked out of the window ; it commanded a distant view of 
 the sea. 
 
 Mildred followed her with her eye ; ' You don't see any- 
 thing?' 
 
 * Not close. There are several vessels far out in the horizon.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 389 
 
 How the days close in ! '—Bertha took out her watch : 'five- 
 and-twenty minutes to four.' 
 
 Mildred started— 'And I have been away from my father all 
 this lime ; yet there seems a great deal to say still' 
 
 A q\iick step was heard along the passage, and Ella ran into the 
 room. 
 
 'Aunt Mildred, grandpapa wants you this minute— this very 
 minute ; let me help you ?' she gave Mildred her arm. 'Aunt 
 Bertha, I will be back with you in a minute ; please wait for 
 me.' 
 
 'And bring Rachel up,' said Mildred ; 'she must be tired of 
 being alone. I am afraid I shall not come back ; but you will 
 rest here without me,' she added, addressing Bertha. 
 
 ' Shan't you come back ? ' said Bertha. ' I wished' 
 
 ' Grandpapa is in such a hurry,' whispered Ella. 
 
 Yet Mildred lingered : ' I don't think there is anything to 
 settle, or that we can do.' 
 
 ' Grandpapa wants you to help him to find a paper,' continued 
 jrila- ' one he has lost out of the box in his study. He has had 
 the box up, and has been looking for it.' 
 
 Mildred turned pale, and sat down. ' I don't feel very well, 
 Ella dear. Tell grandpapa I will come to him as soon as I pos- 
 sibly can.' Ella left the room. 
 
 Bertha gave Mildred some water. ' Thank you. I ought not 
 to be so silly ; but it brought back last night to me. I thought 
 I would not say anything till I had seen Mr Lester ; but I had 
 better tell you now. There is no real hope for Edward. He 
 drew a bill for five thousand pounds, payable after — after my 
 father's death. That was his offence— you understand now. 
 But no, you can't— no one can understand my father who has 
 not lived with him.' 
 
 Bertha put down the glass upon the table, and said, very 
 quietly, ' I had heard of this.' 
 
 'And I had not!' exclaimed Mildred. 'Does Mr Lester 
 know it ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; I think he must. I think General Vivian 
 must have given him the paper.' 
 
 'He said it was mislaid. Last night he looked for it,' said 
 Mildred, hurriedly. ' Once'— and she sighed deeply—' I fancied 
 it was a mistake, and that his mind was wandering. He didn't 
 mention it again this morning ; but then he was not up till late, 
 and he has had business ever since he was dressed.'
 
 390 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Is this it ? ' Bertha produced the paper from her pocket-book, 
 unfoklcd it, and gave it into Mildred's hands. 
 
 Tears, bitter, scakling tears of anguish coursed each other 
 down Mildred's worn face ; less, perhaps, for the offence which 
 had been so deeply repented, than for the agonising remembrance 
 of the direful evils which had followed in the train of that one 
 act — death, desolation, exile ; and she laid her head upon Bertha's 
 shoulder, and murmured, 'Edith ! my sister ! if he had told her 
 the truth, she would not have died.' 
 
 She held the paper in her trembling hands, and tried to 
 read it. 
 
 Bertha bent her head down to examine it : ' That is not like 
 Edward's signature now,' and she pointed to a peculiar turn in 
 the letter V. 
 
 Mildred assented mechanically. 
 
 * It is a very careful signature, not such as a man would write 
 in a fit of desperation,' continued Bertha. 
 
 Mildred looked at it now more closely : ' Yes, it is very care- 
 ful ; ' but it did not seem to strike her that it was in any other 
 way peculiar. 
 
 Bertha's heart sank. It would be too cruel to suggest the 
 possibility of forgery, if after all the idea were but the coinage 
 of her own imagination ; and concealing her disappointment, she 
 said, ' I should scarcely have thought it an offence so unpardon- 
 able, after eighteen years of suffering and repentance.' 
 
 * It might not have been with any one but my father ; but — 
 I can't talk of it — may I have it to take to him ?' 
 
 Bertha hesitated, and said she had no right to give it up ; it 
 was found in Mr Lester's pocket-book, and she must return it to 
 him. 
 
 Mildred looked annoyed: 'It is my father's,' she observed; 
 ' he is inquiring for it.' 
 
 ' He must have given it himself to Mr Lester,' replied Bertha. 
 
 ' I don't know — at any rate it is his.' 
 
 Just then Ella came back: 'Aunt Mildred! Aunt Mildred! 
 indeed you must come ! You can't think what a state grandpapa 
 is getting into.' 
 
 Mildred turned to Bertha : ' Trust me vvith it ; I will keep it 
 for Mr Lester if I can. My father may have forgotten that he 
 gave it, and it would work upon his mind terribly to think he 
 had lost it.' 
 
 'You are at liberty to say where it was found,' replied Bertha,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 391 
 
 rather proudly, ' and to assure Genei-al Vivian that immediately 
 on Mr Lester's return I will speak to him about it. I can't 
 possibly do more.' She replaced the paper in the pocket-book ; 
 but seeing Mildred's face of vexation, she added, ' You must 
 forgive me ; but it is against my conscience.' 
 
 Mildred scarcely trusted herself with a reply. She merely 
 said, ' I hope you are right ; I cannot tell,' and left the room. 
 
 Bertha waited about ten minutes at the Hall after seeing 
 Mildred. Ella came back to her, and they went down-stairs 
 and talked with Rachel. Ella was uneasy about Clement, yet 
 not so much so as Bertha expected, now that she knew what 
 had become of him. Hers was not an anxious nature ; and 
 besides, she had often heard Clement boast of what he would 
 do some day, Avhen he was his own master, and so it seemed 
 less strange to her that he should take the opportunity of Mr 
 Lester's absence to indulge himself in an adventure ; and she 
 decided that he must be back either that evening or the next 
 morning. She seemed unable to understand the.possibility of 
 danger, and her sense of duty and obedience was not yet suffi- 
 ciently strong to make her regard the offence in the same light 
 as Rachel. 
 
 It was very trying to Bertha to hear the kind of discussion 
 which went on, and to listen whilst Ella talked confidently of 
 things of which she knew nothing, and excused faults which were 
 likely to be of the utmost importance to so many in their conse- 
 quences. It was an exaggerated form of the trial which all must 
 bear who are in earnest in education, insisting upon duties and 
 habits which children will think trifles, because they have not 
 the understanding to see whither they are tending. Often she 
 was tempted to break in upon the conversation, and remind Ella 
 that, whatever might happen, she must be answerable for many 
 of Clement's misdeeds, since it was from her he had first imbibed 
 the spirit of disobedience. But Bertha's conscience was busy 
 with herself also ; and besides, she was learning to leave Ella 
 for awhile to the nurture of God's providence — the clouds, and 
 rain, and sunshine of life — which, when the weeds have been 
 taken from the soil, and the heart is in consequence open to 
 good impressions, will do far more for its improvement than any 
 direct culture. 
 
 Ella was unwilling to let them go. She prized their society 
 more now that she had so little of it ; and since Mildred had 
 been so occupied with General Vivian, the hours had seemed lone
 
 392 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 and lonely. Bertha also waited in the vain expectation that 
 Mildred would return, and that she should hear the result cf 
 the interview with the General. She was not thoroughly satis- 
 fied with her own pertinacity — there had been some pride in it ; 
 yet strict right was on her side, feeling on Mildred's. She 
 thought that, if Mildred came back, they would discuss the 
 point again ; but the clock in the hall striking a quarter to four, 
 and reminding her that if she lingered longer it would be dark 
 before they arrived at home, she set oft" with Rachel, after giving 
 a promise to Ella that the very earliest tidings of Clement should 
 be sent to the Hall. 
 
 There were two ways by which they might reach the Lodge : 
 one through the Cleve Woods and the village ; the other across 
 the Common and the clifts. Bertha chose the latter ; she could 
 then look over the sea, and w-atch for the vessels which miglit 
 be coming in. There were several in the distance, and she was 
 tempted to linger and observe them. They walked near the 
 edge of the cliff, and looked down upon the shore. Rachel re- 
 marked that there were fewer boats than usual on the beach. 
 But there was one near the Point which she thought looked like 
 Mark Wood's. That seemed rather to contradict the report 
 brought by Mrs Robinson ; and Bertha, uncomfortable at any- 
 thing which disturbed what was now her settled impression as 
 regarded Clement, said they would go nearer, and make certain 
 of the fact. 
 
 ' There are two men out there,' said Rachel, pointing to a spot 
 v.-here the Cleve plantations joined the open Common ; ' perhaps 
 they can tell us.' 
 
 ' I don't see them,' replied Bertha. ' Oh yes, there they are, 
 keeping close by the edge. I wonder whether they belong to 
 the Grange.' 
 
 ' If they do, they are smuggling people,' said Rachel. 'And 
 they will be sure to be civil to us ; they always are to ladies and 
 children.' 
 
 ' But not if we ask questions about their boats,' replied Ber- 
 tha ; ' they will think that interference.' 
 
 'Will they ?' and Rachel went nearer to the edge of the cliff, 
 and looked over it again. 'Do come where I am, dear Miss 
 Campbell. Now that it is low tide, one can tell so well how they 
 get up to the cave. Don't you see the kind of steps up the cliff.'" 
 
 ' Ves ;' but Bertha cared more for the boat than for the cave 
 just then.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 393 
 
 Kachel went on in rather an excited tone, keeping close to 
 Bertha as she spoke : ' Shouldn't you like to go into the cave ? 
 Anne told me a long time ago it was such an odd place, and 
 that the preventive men never can find the smugglers when they 
 get in there ; they always escape. But I don't talk to Anne 
 now about such things,' she added, seeing that Bertha's coun- 
 tenance was grave. ' I have never done it since papa told me 
 not.' 
 
 Bertha was not jrrave on account of anvthing whicli Rachel 
 said, she was watching the men who had left the path by the 
 plantations, and were coming towards them, across the Com- 
 nion. 
 
 ' Isn't that Gofi", Rachel ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ; it's too tall.' But Rachel looked a second time, and 
 changed her mind : ' Yes, though, I think it must be ; he walks 
 like him.' 
 
 ' Never mind the boat,' said Bertha, turning quickly home- 
 wards. ' It is too late to wait.' 
 
 ' Tliey are not coming this way, they are going towards the 
 Point,' observed Rachel. 
 
 They went on a few paces further. Rachel looked back : 
 
 * How very strange ! He 's gone, — one of them — all of a sudden. 
 There were two. Miss Campbell, weren't there ?' 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear ; come on. You can't see because of 
 the brushwood.' 
 
 ' Yes, I can indeed ;' and Rachel could not resist another 
 stealthy glance. 'The brushwood couldn't possibly hide liim. 
 Dear Miss Campbell, do you know, that is where Clenient says 
 the smugglers get down in some way to the shore. We never 
 could find out how ; but he says they do. It has something to 
 do with the cave.' 
 
 ' Never mind, my dear, now ; it doesn't concern us.' 
 
 ' I think the short man is coming behind us,' said Rachel. 
 
 * .Shall I look ?' 
 
 ' No, don't look; come on.' 
 
 'Are you frightened, dear Miss Campbell, you walk so fast ?' 
 
 Bertha slackened her pace. 
 
 'The Common seems so long always,' said Rachel, in a timid 
 voice. 
 
 * We should have done better to go by the village,' observed 
 Bertha ; but then she reproached herself for alarming Raclicl 
 without cause, and added : ' It is only that I dislike meeting that
 
 394 " CLEVE HALL. 
 
 man Goff, if it is he ; but we shall be near the Cliff Cottages 
 soon,' 
 
 *No, indeed— not for a long time ; the nearest is half a mile 
 off. But there is the gamekeeper's cottage behind us. The man 
 won't do us any harm, will he ?' 
 
 'Oh no, of course not! What harm can he do us?' Yet 
 Bertha's trembling heart belied her brave words. 
 
 ' If we could go across to the plantation, we should be near the 
 gamekeeper's ; and Hardman would walk home with us,' said 
 Rachel. 
 
 Bertha thought for an instant. * Perhaps it might be better. 
 We can get in at the little gate, and you can run on and ask 
 Hardman.' 
 
 'And leave you ?' 
 
 ' Yes — you will be back again directly ; and he won't follow us 
 into the plantation.' 
 
 Again Rachel glanced round. ' He is coming, but he is not 
 very near. We had better go this way;' and she went on in the 
 most direct course, finding her path through the furze, without 
 considering the prickles, and not stopping until, nearly out of 
 breath, they reached the plantation gate. It was locked. 
 
 ' Get over it, and run on to the cottage,' said Bertha. 
 
 ' And you will come too ?' 
 
 ' Yes, after you ; only you will be quicker than I shall.' 
 
 Rachel clambered over the gate, and wished to wait and assist 
 Bertha ; but her help was refused, and she hurried on through 
 the plantation, and was soon out of sight. 
 
 Bertha put her foot on the first bar, but the gate was an awk- 
 ward one to mount, and she slipped back, and nearly fell. Look- 
 ing back, she saw the man coming towards her. She tried a 
 second time — a bramble caught her dress and entangled it. He 
 was so close now that she could hear his footsteps — nearer and 
 nearer. She tore away her dress — made a third attempt — 
 reached the second bar, and was upon the point of jumping 
 over, when a hand grasped her shoulder, whilst another covered 
 her mouth, and a harsh voice said, * Silence ! as you value your 
 life.' 
 
 She turned. It was Goff. 
 
 Fear was gone then. She confronted him without shrinking: 
 ' Your business with me ?' 
 
 ' You have a paper signed by Edward Vivian ; give it me.' 
 
 ' If I have, I will keep it ; you have no right to it.'
 
 CLEVE HALL, 395 ~ 
 
 'Power is ri^it. I must have it !' and he touched the trigger 
 of a pistol concealed under his coat, adding: 'Take care; this 
 is no child's play.' 
 
 ' Let that come which God may appoint, I will not give it,' 
 replied Bertha. 
 
 He again put his hand upon her mouth. ' Attempt to scream 
 and you are a dead woman. Now, let me see everything you 
 have in your possession.' 
 
 Bertha threw her keys and handkerchief upon the ground. 
 
 'That's not all — the pocket-book;' and, seeing she hesitated, 
 he thrust his hand himself into her pocket, and drew it out. 
 
 The first paper which presented itself was the old, discoloured 
 bill. Holding her very firmly with one hand, Goff unfolded it 
 with the other ; and then, putting his face close to hers, mut- 
 tered : ' The first word that whispers to man or w^oman what has 
 passed, your life is not worth an hour's purchase.' Still keeping 
 the paper, he relaxed his grasp ; and Bertha, with a speed which 
 only extreme fear could have given, climbed the gate, and ran 
 towards the gamekeeper's cottage. 
 
 Goff carefully tore the paper to atoms, and scattered it to the 
 winds; and making his way across the Common to the headland, 
 disappeared almost instantaneously amongst the brushwood. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE path which Rachel had taken towards the gamekeeper's 
 cottage was not very well known to her. It was seldom 
 that she had occasion to go through that part of the plantation ; 
 but it seemed direct enough, and she ran on without fear till she 
 came to a point where it branched off in two opposite directions 
 — one leading to the right, into the wood ; the other to the left, 
 keeping near the outer fence. She paused for an instant, and 
 then chose the latter, under the impression that Hardman's 
 cottage was near the Common. On she went till she was out of 
 breath ; but the cottage did not appear ; and at length she 
 became fully alive to the fact of having missed her way. But 
 she was not frightened for herself, only worried for Berlha. She 
 was safe within the plantation, and the cottage certainly could 
 not be very far off, and there must be some cross paths leading
 
 \ 
 
 396 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 to it. It would be a verj- long way back ; and wishing to take 
 a short cut, she proceeded still a little further, and then saw to 
 her great satisfaction, a chimney rising from amongst the trees 
 to the right. The sight gave her renewed vigour, and she ran 
 forward hopefully, until turning an angle in the path, she dis- 
 covered that the cottage just seen was not in the plantation, but 
 on the outskirts of the Common, and immediately in front of the 
 (J range. 
 
 The dreary old house, which was full in her view as she leaned 
 for an instant over the fence, showed her how far she had gone 
 out of her way ; but the sight of the cottage was a comfort. It 
 was inhabited by a man and his wife, very civil, respectable 
 people, who would be as willing to render her any assistance as 
 the gamekeeper; and now that she had made such a stupid 
 blunder, it seemed wise to take advantage of their help. And 
 Rachel, trained to decision from infancy, lost no time in thinking 
 what she would or would not do, but mounted the fence, tearing 
 her dress and hurting her hand in the act, and in another minute 
 was at John Price's door. 
 
 A knock, but no answer— a second knock, eciually unsuccess- 
 ful. The door was locked ; and when Rachel peeped in at the 
 latticed window, she could see no symptoms of fire. John Price 
 and his wife had evidently gone out together. Exceedingly 
 vexatious that was ; and something like fear did then creep over 
 Rachel's heart, for the light was growing faint, and the Common 
 looked interminably dreary ; and she had a notion, that if she 
 were once to find herself again in the plantation alone, she would 
 never be able to make her way out. 
 
 And what was that coming across the Common, looking like a 
 speck, but certainly moving ? Could it be Goff? Rachel hid 
 herself on the other side of the cottage, and did not venture to 
 peep round the corner for several seconds ; when she did the 
 black speck was gone. But she was still fearful it might be Goff ; 
 and how could she cross that piece of the Common again to get 
 into the plantation, if he were lurking near? 
 
 A thought struck her— but not a very bright one— should she 
 go on to the Grange ? Perhaps Ronald would be there, and he 
 would be sure to help her. But no, it must not be ; her papa 
 would not like it. Yet she looked with longing eyes at the rough 
 road, worn into ruts, which conducted to the farm premises and 
 the back of the house. Just then a man, whom Rachel felt nearly 
 sure was lohn Price, came froni a paddock behind the cottage,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 397 
 
 and turned iiito the road as if going up to the house. Rachel 
 ran after him and called, but he did not hear. The road termin- 
 ated by a gate opening into the flirm-yard, which was heavy for 
 her to open, and this trouble delayed her a little ; and by the 
 time she had managed to get through, she had lost sight of the 
 man. This could not well have happened unless he was gone 
 to the back of the house, for Rachel must have seen him — at 
 least, so she thought — if he were crossing the yard ; and she 
 passed through the gate which separated the farm premises from 
 the shrubbery, and found herself in a small overgrown flower 
 garden, completely screened from the rest of the grounds and 
 from the farm-yard by tall trees rising up immediately in front of 
 the high turret built at one angle of the house. It was difficult 
 to know what to do next. She dared not go round to the front 
 of the house and ring at the bell, and run the chance of meeting 
 Captain Vivian — and she did not like the thought of skulking 
 about at the side ; still less could she make up her mind to go 
 all the w ay back alone ; and at last she ventured to call ' John ! 
 John Price, is that you ?' 
 
 An answer ! — but not as Rachel had expected. A voice came 
 from above, from a window high up in the turret: 'Rachel here! 
 What is the matter ? ' 
 
 It was Ronald's voice, and Rachel actually screamed with 
 delight. 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! don't speak loud. What is the matter?' 
 
 Rachel told her tale. She had been with Miss Campbell, and 
 they were late and frightened ; and Goff had come in their way, 
 and they wanted some one to go home with them. She had left 
 Miss Campbell waiting at the plantation gate. 'Please come, 
 Ronald ; be quick,' was the end. 
 
 He spoke again, in a voice so low that she could scarcely catch 
 his words : ' Come near, Rachel — under the window, as close as 
 you can. I can't come to you, I am kept here as a prisoner. 
 They have fastened my door. I can't get away, unless you will 
 help me.' 
 
 * Help you, oh yes ; I will go round directly.' 
 
 He stopped her with a voice agonising in its eagerness : ' Stay, 
 Rachel : be silent and listen. Don't be frightened, no one will 
 hurt you ; they may hurt me. Have you seen any one here?' 
 
 Rachel's excitement was perfectly subdued now; she answered, 
 * No one, except one man ; I think it was John Price.' 
 
 ' Where is he now ?'
 
 398 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 \ 
 
 ' I can't tell, I think he went round at the back.' 
 
 * Go to the corner of the house, and look if he is there still : 
 don't show yourself.' 
 
 Rachel did as she was desired, and came back : ' I can't see 
 any one.' 
 
 ' You are certain it was not Goff ?' 
 
 ' Quite, it was a taller man ; and Goff is out upon the 
 Common.' 
 
 ' It was not — my father?' he uttered the name reluctantly. 
 
 ' I don't think it could have been ; it was not like him.' 
 
 A pause. Rachel thought of Bertha, and said, ' Can you come 
 with me, Ronald?' 
 
 ' If you will — Rachel, will you do as I bid you?' 
 
 ' Yes — that is, if I can ; ' and Rachel's voice trembled a little. 
 
 ' You must go round to the back door ; don't be frightened. 
 If you meet any one, say what you said to me about wanting 
 help, but don't mention my name. In that case you must go 
 home, for you won't be able to do anything for me. But tell 
 Miss Campbell from me that I am a prisoner here ; that 
 Clement is in great danger ; that if I could be set free I might 
 aid him ; but that, anyhow, there must be a watch kept upon 
 the shore, for Clement is with the smugglers, and there will be 
 a landing to-night, and a skirmish with the coastguard. Do 
 you understand ? ' 
 
 'Yes, quite.' 
 
 * That is what you are to do if you do meet any one ; but I 
 don't think you will.' He paused, as if hesitating whether it 
 would be right to say more : ' What I am going to ask you to do, 
 Rachel, I would not ask, only it may be a question of Clement's 
 safety, and of other things — more than I can tell now. Will you 
 doit?' 
 
 * If papa would not mind — if there is nothing wrong,' 
 
 ' There can be no wrong, and — but you will be frightened.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, Ronald ; God will keep me from being fright- 
 ened.' 
 
 ' I would ask you to get me a ladder, but you couldn't bring 
 it ; and you might be seen by the farm people. I could fasten 
 the sheets and blankets of my bed together, and let myself 
 down, but the window is too high. I want more ; if you could 
 go into the house, you could give them to me.' 
 
 'Yes, — how?' Rachel's heart a little failed her. 
 
 ' There is an attic over mine — you see the window ; — if you
 
 CLEVE HALL. 399 
 
 were in that attic, you could let them down to me, and I could 
 catch them.' 
 
 * Yes, I see ; but I don't know the way— and I shall be heard.' 
 Ronald's heart smote him. It seemed putting the poor child 
 
 in such danger. And yet not really so ; if she were discovered, 
 the punishment would fall upon him. But her fear — no, it was 
 cc^vardly to let her sufter for him ; and he looked again out of 
 the window, and calculated the possibility of reaching the ground 
 without more help. A broken leg, if not a broken neck, seemed 
 the best he could expect. And in the meantime what might not 
 be plotting against Clement ! Not without a purpose, surely had 
 he been detained a prisoner, threatened with unknown danger if 
 he attempted to obtain help, kept hour after hour in expectation 
 of Captain Vivian's return ; and now, just when he was growing 
 desperate with anxiety and indignation, escape was within reach, 
 yet in a form in which he could not make up his mind to avail 
 himself of it. It was a moment of cruel uncertainty, ended by 
 Rachel. 
 
 ' Ronald, I have prayed to God to help me, and I will do what- 
 ever you wish.' 
 
 Still Ronald hesitated : ' Are you sure you won't be frightened.' 
 ' I will try not to be ; please tell me what I must do ? ' 
 
 * Dear Rachel, I can never thank you enough.' 
 
 * Let me do it, Ronald ; thank me afterwards. Must I go into 
 the house.' 
 
 * Yes, at the back door ; it is almost always open. A long 
 passage leads from it straight into the hall ; the kitchen is away 
 at the right. Old Mrs Morris and the girl are not likely to be 
 in the passage. When you get into the hall, you will see the 
 staircase ; and you must go up. There is a lobby at the top. 
 The farthest door on the right opens into a passage by the back 
 staircase. Then you must go up the stairs, up to the very top ; 
 and just before you will be the door of the attic above me.' 
 
 * Stay, let me say that over again,' said Rachel, speaking firmly, 
 though she trembled from head to foot. She repeated the direc- 
 tion correctly, and added : ' What then ? ' 
 
 ' You must open the window, and let down the sheets ; I will 
 catch them. After that you had better come back, and wait for 
 me here.' 
 
 ' Yes ; is there anything else ?' 
 
 * Nothing — except, if you meet any one in the passage, give 
 your message about wanting some one to go home with you. If
 
 40O CLEVE HALL. 
 
 you meet any one on Lhc stairs, or in the bedroom, say it was I 
 who sent you ; and no harm will come to you, whatever may to 
 mc' 
 
 Raclicl moved away a few steps, but returned : 'Arc you sure 
 I shan't meet Captain Vivian?' 
 
 ' Very nearly ; I can't be quite sure. Dear Rachel, don't ^^o 
 if you are frightened.' 
 
 ' I won't be frightened. This way, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, to the right — round the corner.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' and Rachel was gone. 
 
 The back door was soon reached. Rachel would not give her- 
 self time for thought, and entered. The passage was very long 
 and dark, and she heard voices talking in the kitchen, quite close, 
 so it seemed, but no one came out. A heavy swing door closed 
 the passage ; she pushed it open, feeling almost sure that she 
 should meet some one on the other side ; but there was no one, 
 and her light footsteps sounded ominously loud on the uneven 
 stone floor of the large hall. On one side of the hall were the 
 doors opening to the other parts of the house ; on the other tlic 
 wide, shallow staircase. Rachel touched the first step, and it 
 creaked. She stood still, and thought she heard a door slam — 
 her heart beat so that she could scarcely move ; but on she went, 
 and creak, creak, went the stairs, so loudly that it made her bold. 
 She reached the lobby in safety. Then her recollection became 
 confused. Was she to go straight forward or turn to the right .'' 
 Straight forward she thought, and she pushed open a door. A 
 pair of man's boots caught her eye, and she almost screamed, — 
 happily not quite, and recovering herself, went back again, seeing 
 that she was wrong. The back staircase was before her; as she 
 opened the right-hand door, a girl was singing below in the 
 kitchen — that was a great comfort. She almost ran up the stairs, 
 but they were steep and worn, — they grew worse and worse as 
 she went on ; and v.-hen she stood, as she thought, at the top, 
 there were others still above. Again she paused to take breath. 
 A door did slam then, — there was no doubt of it, — a door below ; 
 and there was a footstep on the stairs, slow and heavy. Rachel's 
 knees tottered. She hurried on : the slow step came behind, 
 and stopped at the foot of the last flight. Was it coming higher? 
 No ; to Rachel's inexpressible relief, old Mrs Morris, the house- 
 keeper, slept in one of the lower rooms : and she could hear her 
 muttering to herself whilst wandering about her chamber, and 
 then descend again with the same ponderous tread as before,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 401 
 
 Rachel was now in the attic — a large, comfortless apartment, 
 with two beds, which seemed haJf buried under the sloping roof. 
 The window was high, and slie had to climb a chair to unfasten 
 it ; and the chair was heavy, so that she could not lift it, but was 
 obliged to drag it along the floor. 
 
 A fearful noise that was ! But Mrs Morris was by that time 
 in the kitchen again, and Rachel was grown desperate in her 
 boldness ; and at length, after considerable difficulty, the window 
 was unfastened, a sheet dragged from the bed and let down, and 
 in a moment caught by Ronald from below. 
 
 ' Any more ? — do you want any more ?' she ventured to say. 
 
 'Yes, one more. Stay; not till I put out my hand;' and 
 Rachel, stationed at the attic window, looked down, and saw the 
 man whom she had fancied to be John Price, but whom she re- 
 cognised now as one of Goff's constant companions, pass through 
 the farm-yard. 
 
 When he was out of sight, Ronald waved his hand from the 
 window : ' Now, then.' 
 
 The second sheet was let down. 
 
 ' Is that all ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; come down quickly.' 
 
 Rachel left the window open, and went to the head of the stair- 
 case. Her impulse was to rush. And she did rush, not heeding 
 the creaking of stairs, or listening for the sounds of doors, or 
 voices, but going on blindly, desperately — by the worn steps, 
 across the lobby flitting like a gust of wind down the broad 
 staircase, and across the hall, till she had passed through the 
 dark passage, and was again in the open air, and under Ronald's 
 window. 
 
 Ronald looked out : ' Rachel, are you there ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, safe. Are you coming ? ' 
 
 ' Directly. I am tying them together. Keep close under the 
 wall, — away to the left.' 
 
 She waited, it seemed, an interminable time : she did not 
 understand what he meant to do. 
 
 The rope of sheets was fastened at the top, and was let down, 
 
 ' Now, Rachel, keep away ; don't be afraid, it will hold me,' 
 
 She hid her face, and prayed. 
 
 When she looked up, he was standing by her side : ' O 
 Ronald ! I am ro thankful ! ' Her voice was faint and trembling. 
 
 He pressed her hand earnestly; ' Thank Ciod first, Rachel ; — 
 you afterwards ; ' and they went on together in silence. 
 
 1 V
 
 402 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Their steps were directed towards the gamekeeper's cottage. 
 There Ronald proposed, in case Bertha was gone, to give Rachel 
 in charge to some person who might accompany her home, whilst 
 he went in search of Mr Lester or Mr Vivian. It was the only- 
 plan he could form on the spur of the moment ; but as he went 
 on it occasioned considerable misgiving. He was not able at first 
 to think. Every dark object, every gate-post or trunk of a tree, 
 suggested the idea of some one tracking his footsteps, or slopping 
 him on the way ; but when they had crossed the Common, and 
 were again within the shelter of the plantation, he ventured to 
 pause for a moment, to consider whether the course he had de- 
 termined upon would be the best he could adopt. 
 
 So little knowledge had he of his father's movements, that he 
 was unable to tell to what degree the danger which he supposed 
 menaced Clement, might or might not implicate Captain Vivian ; 
 and the doubt upon this point, so intensely painful, pressed upon 
 him overwhelmingly, at the very moment when it was most 
 necessary to act with decision. 
 
 True, Mr Vivian had promised to take no advantage, to his 
 father's injury, of any communication which he might make. But 
 this was not now the point. Whatever might be his duty here- 
 after, as regarded the terrible secret which had that day been 
 confided to him, there was no time now to ponder upon it, — 
 Clement was his object. But in saving Clement he might be 
 brought into personal opposition with his father. If Captain 
 Vivian should, himself, join the smuggling party ; by aiding Mr 
 Vivian, Ronald might be forced to act against him. The thought 
 was horrible. But how could he leave Clement, knowing that 
 machinations were going on, having promised again and again 
 that he would watch over him ? It seemed equally impossible ; 
 the sense of honour and gratitude, which lay as a burden upon 
 his conscience, forbade it. He stood for a few moments irre- 
 solute, gazing upon the flag-staff on the headland, as is was seen 
 through an opening in the trees. 
 
 Rachel drew near : ' Look Ronald ; there is a light on the 
 Point. Is it any one moving ? ' 
 
 ' It is a fire, not a lantern.' 
 
 ' A fire there ! What for ? ' 
 
 ' Never mind, there are often fires on the Point.' 
 
 Rachel continued : ' Some one said one day that they were 
 always lighted by smugglers; will it have anything to do \\ith 
 Clement ? '
 
 CLEVE HALL 403 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 ' May we come on, Ronald? Miss Campbell will be so tired 
 and frightened.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I had forgotten ; ' and he went on quickly, still, how- 
 ever, looking towards the Point. 
 
 ' Are you very much afraid for Clement, Ronald ? ' 
 
 * I don't know ; I hope not. See, Rachel, there is the cottage. 
 .Should you mind going to the door alone?' 
 
 ' I would rather not, if you don't care ;' and she drew nearer 
 to him. ' If Hardman should be out, or Miss Campbell shouldn't 
 be there, what should I do ? ' 
 
 ' But I would wait for you here ; I would be within sight.' 
 
 ' Hark ! there is a voice — papa's voice ; and there he is at the 
 door, and Miss Campbell with him. He must have come by the 
 Cleve coach. Mrs Robinson went to tell him about Clement.' 
 
 ' Mrs Robinson ! Did she know ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, about his having gone with the smugglers, I don't 
 know how she heard it. Please let me go;' and she would have 
 sprung foward, but Ronald kept her back. 
 
 ' Listen, Rachel. I can't see Mr Lester. Tell him what I 
 .caid. He must watch for Clement on the beach. Say to hina 
 that I will watch too. Say to Miss Campbell that I remember 
 my promise, and ' — his voice failed him — ' good-bye, Rachel. I 
 shall never forget this evening.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, and thank you so very, very much, Ronald.' 
 
 She ran to the cottage, and Ronald turned into a narrow track 
 in the wood. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE day closed ominously, though the upper part of the sky 
 was clear, for thick masses of vapour were collecting in 
 the horizon, and gusts of wind rushed threateningly over the 
 chafed waves. 
 
 Captain Vivian, wrapped in a rough seaman's coat, watched 
 the failing light from the shelter of the rocks gathered around 
 Dark Head Point. Immovable as he stood for a long time, he 
 could scarcely have been distinguished from them ; yet as the 
 glimmer became fainter and more faint, he might have been seen 
 slowly ascending the rough path cut in the cliffs, till he stood
 
 ^ 
 
 404 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 before the passage entrance to the cave, in wliich he and Ronald 
 had met that morning. The light yet lingered within, forcing 
 its way through apertures in the rock ; and flinging himself up- 
 on the ground, so as to command the entrance, Captain Vivian 
 placed a pistol by his side, lighted his cigar, and waited, as it ap- 
 peared, with tolerable tranquillity the course of coming events. 
 
 His watchfulness, however, was not chiefly directed to the 
 entrance of the cave ; more frequently he turned his head towards 
 the large stone near the rough hearth, and several times he took 
 his cigar from his mouth and listened. He grew impatient at 
 length, and rose and paced the cave ; and once he touched the 
 stone, as if to move it ; but then something checked him, and 
 he sat down again near, still listening. 
 
 The long, low whistle so familiar to him was heard at last, 
 very faint, coming, as it seemed, from within the rock. Captain 
 Vivian answered it, and immediately pushed aside the stone, 
 rolling it from him with the strength of a giant. Behind it only 
 the side of the cave was discovered ; but the surface was uneven, 
 and pieces of the rock had been detached one from the other, 
 and heaped together against it. Some of these Captain Vivian 
 removed carefully, and a small opening was seen behind it. He 
 ixit his head close to it : * Goff ! * 
 
 'Ay, Captain ! ' 
 
 It was but the work of a minute to remove a few more of the 
 stones, and an opening was made large enough to admit the body 
 of a man ; and through this opening crept Goff. 
 
 ' Better close our door, only not too close,' said Captain Vivian. 
 He pushed the stone against the opening, but without building 
 it up as before. 
 
 Goff sat down on the wooden bench without speaking. 
 
 ' Successful,' said Captain Vivian. 
 
 He nodded his head. 
 
 'What! in earnest?' and a gleam of wild exultation shot 
 across Captain Vivian's face. 
 
 ' What else should a man be but in earnest ! They may search 
 to the poles now for the bits of their precious paper.' 
 
 Captain Vivian drew a deep breath : ' One of ten thousand ! 
 Did she give it .-" 
 
 ' Give it ! she 'd have fought single-handed first ; but it's quick 
 work with a woman.' 
 
 'You have done her no harm!' exclaimed Captain Vivian, 
 quickly.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 405 
 
 Goff laughed : ' Frightened her httlc wits out of her, no more. 
 You might have done the same if you 'd had but a grain more of 
 pluck in you. But now to business.' 
 
 Captain Vivian sat silent ; and Goft' spoke again : ' The work 's 
 not done, — remember that, Captain.' 
 
 He started. The mood of thought had passed away, and the 
 first success stimulated his longing for greater. ' I 'm ready,' he 
 said ; 'the time draws near. Mr Lester and Edward Vivian are 
 returned.' 
 
 ' You have seen them ? ' 
 
 ' I watched amongst the brushwood, after we parted, till they 
 v\-cre in sight. They came by the Cleve road, and went straight 
 to Hardman's cottage. I came off to the shore then. If they 
 had an inkling of the state of affairs, their object must have 
 been to get help.' 
 
 ' Then they will be here soon,' said Goff'. 
 
 ' I care not,' was the reply. ' Edward Vivian is in my power 
 now. I will meet him, and make him yield to any terms of 
 silence as to the past.' 
 
 ' When and where ? ' 
 
 ' Here on the shore. I will watch for him. You have sent 
 abroad the report of the landing?' 
 
 'It's over the village by this time,' replied Goft". 'A hint I 
 gave to the boy Styles has set it going. The preventives are on 
 the look-out ; and the woman at the farm has been spreading 
 the talc at the Hah. I heard Bertha Campbell and Rachel 
 Lester talking of it as I followed them when they first came out 
 of the Hall grounds. They little thought I was so near.' 
 
 'We light the beacon then, and the vessel makes to shore.' 
 
 'Yes. When the first lire burns, she tacks in ; at the second, 
 she sends off the boat with Clement on board. Between the two, 
 therefore, is the time for Edward Vivian, if you still keep your 
 purpose.' 
 
 ' Keep to it ! It will be my triumph or my revenge.' 
 
 ' There might be a surer one,' muttered Goff, handling his 
 pinlol. 'But as you will — safe 's safe, all the world over. But 
 liow if Edward Vivian refuses to give in ? ' 
 
 'Then let they boy meet his fate ; and for ourselves — there's 
 the boat and escape to the vessel, and a run on the coast opposite 
 till we see the turn things take. There 's no fear.' 
 
 'Fear?' and Goff laughed scornfully. 'HI had feared I 
 should never have ventured myself i"to the deep waters wiih
 
 \ 
 
 406 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 you, Captain : you arc the last to lend a helping hand to get 
 one out. But it's settled then.' 
 
 ' Yes, settled — certain. We keep near the boat, and can be 
 off at a moment's warning if necessary. It's waiting by the 
 East bay ; I took care it should be in readiness before I joined 
 you just now on the Common.' 
 
 ' The beacon must be lighted,' said Goff, surlily. 
 
 Captain Vivian was silent. 
 
 ' Do you repent, Captain ? Will you leave it to me to settle?' 
 
 ' Repent ! when we have triumphed ! ' There was scorn Ijut 
 no triumph in Captain Vivian's tone ; perhaps he thought of 
 Ronald. 
 
 Goff spoke more lightly : ' Stop a minute then, whilst I light 
 the beacon which will bring the little craft to her duty; and we'll 
 go along the beach towards the boat. We shall have a watch 
 over Edward Vivian at the same time, for he'll be down before 
 another half hour is over.' 
 
 Goff left the cave as he had entered it, and in a few minutes 
 returned again. 'It burns bravely,' he said. 'We'll leave the 
 passage open — with only the door shut, I mean. It may be use- 
 ful.' He pushed the stone again into its place. * Now for the 
 boat.' 
 
 They went down the cliff together ; as they reached the bottom, 
 Captain Vivian approached his companion, and drew him within 
 the shadow of the rocks : ' Hist ! hist ! d'ye see ?' 
 
 Three men were walking at a little distance along the shore. 
 They exactly intercepted the course which must be taken to 
 reach the boat. 
 
 'Preventives!' whispered Captain Vivian. 'They'll not 
 disturb us yet.' 
 
 ' I 'm not sure ; the middle one has something like Edward 
 Vivian's stalk.' 
 
 The men drew nearer, then turned again ; they were evidently 
 keeping watch. 
 
 ' Risk it, and go by,' muttered Captain Vivian. 
 
 ' Not safe. We don't know what he may be up to ; and we 
 must catch him alone for your purpose— and for mine too,' was 
 added in an undertone. 
 
 They stood still deliberating. Goff looked up at the cliff, con- 
 sidering whether it were possible to scale it. It was rugged, but 
 not by any means inaccessible ; yet he seemed unwilling to 
 attempt it. 'It's safest where we are,' he said: 'keep down
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 407 
 
 amongst the rocks, and bide your time. He must pass this way ; 
 if not, 1 '11 give him a hint that will send him. Leave me to look 
 after the boat : when needed, it shall be in the inner bay. Yet 
 stay ; — how is the second blaze to be cared for ? I said it 
 should be lighted at the East Point.' 
 
 ' If Edward Vivian comes I will take him there. The boat 
 will then be below us, ready.' 
 
 'Good! Then you set the second light yourself.' 
 
 ' Ay, and Edward Vivian's obstinacy shall kindle it ; and when 
 it blazes it shall destroy his hopes for his boy for even' 
 
 An hour and a half later the moon had risen ; but her light 
 was obscured by passing clouds, and the wind was still moaning 
 sadly and occasionally rising into shrill, prolonged howls. But 
 it was a land wind, and the sea was as yet sufficiently calm to 
 enable a boat to approach the shore. 
 
 The little smuggling vessel was riding at anchor at a consider- 
 able distance to the west of the headland. The sands were 
 covered, for it was recently high tide; and heavy weaves crashed 
 upon the stones of the beach, and tossed themselves against the 
 sea-weed-covered rocks. 
 
 There were no signs of any one upon the beach ; but once, as 
 the moon glided forth from the clouds, her light touched a figure 
 moving high up along the face of the cliff, to the east of the 
 headland ; and then, in a sudden lull of the wind, came the rush 
 of loose stones detached from their position. 
 
 The flash of a dark lantern was seen from behind the rocks 
 below the Smugglers' cave ; and two men in the dress of the 
 coastguard advanced and looked up towards the cliff. 
 
 ' They've not given us the slip, surely ?' 
 
 ' Not they ; and if they have, thei^e are enough waiting for 
 them. 'Twas but a fall after the rains.' 
 
 The man who had spoken first stepped cautiously over the 
 rocks to a little distance, and then returned. 
 
 ' They 've help waiting for them, Ryan,' he said : ' I heard a 
 call above there, behind us.' 
 
 'A call ! — for us, perhaps.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I saw them away to the right. Now look, they are 
 moving.' 
 
 A very keen sight might perceive the objects pointed out, but 
 they were now stationary again. Ryan seemed certain that they 
 belonged to the coastguard, though he kept his attention directed 
 towards them.
 
 1 
 
 4oS CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Why, Dennis, man,' he said, 'the landing was to be made to 
 the west, so their friends would be away oeyond the Point !' 
 
 * I don't hold all that for gospel,' replied Dennis. * Ten to 
 one but the hint we had was putting out a false light ; I thought 
 so at the time. Now, don't you see ? They 're creeping along 
 again.' 
 
 Four persons could now clearly be distinguished near the edge 
 of the cliff, but the dim light was not at all sufficient to determine 
 their dress; and a rather eager discussion began in an undertone 
 between Ryan and Dennis, — the latter insisting that they should 
 move to the east side of the Point, and keep guard upon tlic 
 movements of the suspicious individuals above ; Ryan as firmly 
 b.olding to his determination to remain where he had been placed, 
 accoixling to a hint given through a boy in the village, known to 
 be connected with tiic smugglers, that the landing would be 
 made, if possible, west of the headland. 
 
 'A few steps up the cliff would settle the matter quietly,' said 
 Dennis, tired at length of endeavouring to persuade his comrade 
 of a fact of which he himself was firmly convinced. ' Keep your 
 stand here, man, if you will ; I shall be with you in half a second, 
 if there 's need.' 
 
 Without waiting for an assent, he climbed up several feet, and 
 threw himself with a spring upon a square projecting rock, 
 standing forth like a table, from which his eye could reach any 
 objects moving either to the right or left along the cliffs, besides 
 commanding an extensive reach of the coast. 
 
 Voices sounded above, but they were not distinguishable. 
 The cliff was in this place tolerably easy of ascent, for it was 
 v;orn into ledges ; and the preventive man, accustomed to scale 
 it under all circumstances, found no difficulty in approaching 
 slill nearer, so as at length to be very near the summit, yet not 
 himself within view. 
 
 Mr Lester's voice was the first recognised : ' The coast- 
 guard fellows are away beyond the Point ; that ought to be our 
 direction.' 
 
 Hardman, the gamekeeper, answered : ' They are all along, 
 sir. Three of them have been upon the shore, near the boat- 
 house, for the last hour, so John Price here says. He saw them 
 as he came back, after taking Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel 
 home. We might ask them what they are after.' 
 
 'No, no,' interposed another voice, stopped suddenly by Mr 
 Lester.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 409 
 
 ' Impossible to ask them, Hardman. They have then- duty to 
 perform, without respect of persons. It must be our own work.' 
 
 A shde of stones, as Dennis retreated down the cliff to give 
 the information he had gained to his companion, startled the 
 little party into silence. 
 
 Mr Lester drew Mr Vivian aside: 'Once more, Vivian, 
 think : this can be no work for you.' 
 
 ' If it is not mine, it is no one's. I am resolved. And I can 
 defend myself now : I am armed.' 
 
 ' No protection from a pistol bullet ; but you are wilful ;' and 
 Mr Lester turned to Hardman. ' We had better separate ; the 
 cliffs for you, the shore for us. If the landing is made safely, 
 and Clement is of the party, you have but to meet him and force 
 him to return with you ; if there should be an affray, twenty 
 pounds reward to each, if you succeed in saving him from being 
 engaged in it.' 
 
 * Twenty pounds ! Forty ! fifty ! a hundred ! ' exclaimed Mr 
 Vivian ; then seeing the men's start of surprise, he checked him- 
 self, and added, ' What sum can be too great to save General 
 Vivian's grandson from public disgrace?' 
 
 The men touched their hats in silence, and moved on along 
 the cliffs. Mr Vivian and i\Ir Lester took a more difficult path 
 downwards. 
 
 The descent was about half made when Mr Vivian stopped : 
 ' I know a better road than the shore, Lester. The tide is high, 
 and we shall have hard work to get 011. There is a ledge along 
 the cliff— or there used to be in the old days.' 
 
 ' It passes the cave ; I know it.' 
 
 'Above or below, as we will. It will carry us round the 
 Point if needful, and if your head is firm ; and we shall command 
 
 the shore.' 
 
 ' My head will carry me wherever your heart carries you, 
 
 Vivian.' 
 
 They moved on slowly for some distance. The ledge was 
 narrow and uneven — in some places the cliff sank perpendicu- 
 larly below them to the depth of a hundred and fifty feet ; in 
 others it was more a path over fallen rocks and projections. 
 
 ' Look ! Lester,' — Mr Vivian delayed for an instant— 'one of 
 the preventive men in his hiding-place.' He pointed to some 
 large rocks, brought out into strong relief by the passing of the 
 moon from amongst the clouds. It was just possible to distin- 
 guish a man crouching behind them.
 
 ^ 
 
 410 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'Yes; that seems as if the landing would be on this side. 
 The figure below stood up in a listening attitude. ' We had 
 better not make ourselves remarked,' whispered Mr Lester, and 
 they drew back from the edge ; but Mr Vivian seemed inclined 
 to pause. 
 
 ' I might get something out of him,' he said, ' if I were down 
 on the beach alone. None of them know me ; and a few chance 
 C[uestion3 might help us a good deal as to the point at which 
 these fellows will land. Wait here, and I will see what I 
 can do,' 
 
 Mr Lester demurred to the separation ; but Mr Vivian's eager- 
 ness would not stand opposition, and he immediately began the 
 descent. It was much more difficult in this spot than he had ex- 
 pected ; and, in trying to find a safe footing, he was led away 
 from the place where he had, as he thought, seen the preventive 
 man hiding ; and when at length he stood upon the beach, the 
 rocks appeared heaped one upon another in such confusion that, 
 without instituting a regular search, it would have been impos- 
 sible to discover him. 
 
 Feeling provoked with himself for his useless trouble, Mr 
 Vivian walked along the shore to the East Point, under the 
 idea that he should probably meet the other preventive men of 
 whom Hardman had spoken. His thoughts were painfully busy, 
 and his attention in a measure withdrawn from the purpose 
 before him. That rolling, tossing sea was as the image of a 
 remorseless fate ; its dark-green glassy hollows were types of 
 the dangers which had opened in his own path, and seemed now 
 about to engulf his boy. And on it came, — pitiless, irresistible, 
 foaming in its mocking brightness, tossing itself in the pride of 
 its tremendous power. Could there be the hope of success in 
 struggling against it ? Mr Vivian's heart failed him for the 
 moment, for in the keenness of his fears for his boy, he forgot 
 that to the tide of life's dangers, as to the flow of the great 
 ocean, the decree has been pronounced, ' Hitherto shalt thou go, 
 and no farther.' He wandered on to the East Point. A boat 
 was lying close under the cliff, upon a point of sand left by the 
 tide, which had just begun to ebb, but there were no signs of the 
 preventive men ; and it seemed better to make his way back to 
 ]\Ir Lester. He turned ; but suddenly found himself confronted 
 by a square-built man, wearing a slouched hat very much drawn 
 over his face, and a shaggy sailor's coat. They stopped as by 
 mutual consent.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 411 
 
 ' Rather a rough evening,' remarked Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' Rough now, and likely to be rougher before nightfall,' was 
 the reply. The words were uttered in a tone of careless bold- 
 ness, and they struck Ivir Vivian's ears with a painful shock of 
 recollection ; yet he was not certain, and he dreaded to betray 
 himself. The man placed himself directly in his way, and con- 
 tinued, 'Are you going farther?' 
 
 ' I thought of reaching Dark Head Point yonder. There is 
 no way of ascent here.' 
 
 'An easier one than you think for ;' and the man struck his 
 foot upon a little step cut in the cliff. ' These steps will carry 
 you to the top direct, and from thence it 's plain sailing to the 
 Point.' 
 
 ' Thank you, but I prefer the shore.' Mr Vivian would have 
 passed on. 
 
 ' We don't part quite so quickly ' — the slouched hat was pushed 
 back, and the speaker stood forth in the moonlight : ' Edward 
 Vivian, there is no disguise from me ; I know you, and I would 
 have a word with you.' 
 
 'John! — at last!' and Mr Vivian instinctively looked round 
 to see if they were alone. 
 
 ' At last met, and well met ! ' 
 
 ' Well met — never ! There is that between us which it were 
 wise the ocean should bury.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; yet old ocean herself cannot always keep her 
 secrets.' 
 
 'I have business on my hands which cannot wait,' said Mr 
 Vivian. ' Since you know me, you will know also that I am 
 likely to give you many more opportunities of explanation.' 
 
 ' Were it the business of the united world, it must wait my 
 pleasure ; and for once ' — and Captain Vivian laughed bitterly 
 — ' our interests are the same. I would speak to you of 
 Clement.' 
 
 ' Clement ! — my boy !' Mr Vivian started forward, and his 
 voice was lov/ered with intense eagerness: 'John! you have 
 done many a deadly deed to me and mine, but help me to save 
 him, and' he paused. 
 
 That very evening, when he had met Berlha at the cottage, 
 he had heard, in hurried words, interrupted by anxiety for 
 Clement, the suspicions, almost the certainty, of his cousin's 
 deep treachery. He dared not promise to forgive. 
 
 'And what ! — what offer of good will Edward Vivian make to
 
 ^ 
 
 412 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 tlic man wliom he basely deceived — whom he robbed of all that 
 his heart desired !/ 
 
 ' Deceived ! — robbed ! — but you have the strong hand over 
 me, John. Say what you will, we will seek another occasion for 
 that talc.' 
 
 'This night's meeting is our first and last. Do you suppose 
 tliat I intend to wait tamely and witness my enemy's triumph? 
 I must be a diilcrcnt man no^v from what I was eighteen years 
 ago for that to be ! ' 
 
 'The questions between yourself and me are too complicated, 
 and lie too far back, to be reached at a time like this,' replied 
 Mr Vivian. 'They concern not my present need; and be the 
 consequences what they may, I will not enter upon them.' He 
 would have passed on. 
 
 ' The questions between yourself and me do indeed lie far 
 back,' replied Captain Vivian, placing himself again in his way, 
 and setting his teeth firmly together ; ' but if they are not reme- 
 died now they will never be ; and, what is more, the hour will 
 come — yes, even before this night has passed over your head — 
 when you will wish that the sea had sunk you in its depths rather 
 than you had refused to listen to me.' 
 
 ' If your words apply to my unhappy boy,' replied Mr Vivian, 
 ' I say again, you have the strong hand over me. Speak your 
 will.' 
 
 ' Not here ; we may be interrupted. The preventive men are 
 on the look-out, and will be coming by.' 
 
 ' Here, or nowhere. From this point I keep watch over the 
 shore, and may aid my boy when he may not be able to aid 
 himself.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! the boy's fate is in my hands. Till I lift my finger 
 not a shadow of harm can happen to him.' 
 
 'You!' Mr Vivian drew back from him, and murmured, 
 ' Can revenge be carried so far ?' 
 
 * So far ! ay, and much farther ! Will you come ? He placed 
 one foot upon the chff. 
 
 Mr Vivian hesitated. 
 
 ' Trust me, or we part instantly, and Clement's fate is fixed,' 
 
 'I follow you;' but Mr Vivian laid his hand upon his pis- 
 tols. 
 
 Captain Vivian saw the movement, and laughed : ' Coward ! ' 
 he exclaimed j ' if I had willed you mischief, could I not cany 
 out my purpose now, even here as we stand .'' But even in the
 
 CLEVE HALL. 413 
 
 (!a}-s when you did me the deepest wronj, j-our hfe was safe in 
 my hands.' 
 
 'You are right!' was Mr Vivian's bitter reply; 'the hfe of 
 the body was always safe ; it was the hfe of the heart at which 
 you aimed ! But go on, we are at least equal in power ;' and 
 silently and hastily he followed Captain Vivian up the rugged 
 steps. 
 
 They stood together on the top of a cliff which had a lower 
 elevation than Dark Head Point, yet, like it, commanded a wide 
 view over the sea. The little smuggling vessel was still at anchor 
 to the west of the Point. There were no lights on board, nor any 
 signs of movement. On the summit of the headland several 
 figures were indistinctly seen, and two were pacing up and down 
 at some distance from the East Point. Captain Vivian cast a 
 hasty glance around him, and then drew near a pile of dried 
 fern, furze, and brushwood, collected as it might have appeared 
 accidentally, or perhaps with the intention of being carried away 
 for fuel. 
 
 ' We are safe from interruption here,' he said. ' The pre- 
 ventives have gathered together after their prey yonder,' — and 
 he pointed to the headland. ' They may wait to-night, and to- 
 morrow night, and the next, if I will it, — or, rather, if you will it.' 
 
 ' Let us have few words, John ; for what purpose have you 
 brought me here ? * 
 
 ' To give you the opportunity of saving your boy from disgrace 
 and deadly peril. He is on board that vessel yonder : when I 
 raise my signal he will come on shore. Would you know who 
 are after him ! Three men on the headland — three on the 
 shore — others waiting within call. But the smugglers are not 
 men to give up their prize without a struggle. They will put 
 your boy first, thinking it for their safety, and that the pre- 
 ventives will deal gently with him. Trust to that, if you will. 
 His life is in danger ; and should he escape, his deeds will be 
 blazoned over the country, as a disgrace to the proud name he 
 bears.' 
 
 * Serpent !' exclaimed Mr Vivian ; 'and it is your doing.' 
 
 * That matters not. If it has been mine, it will be yours. Say 
 but the word, and the smuggler lies quietly at her anchorage ; 
 the preventives are outwitted ; and a boat brings your boy on 
 shore, with nothing against him but the rumour of his frolic' 
 
 ' Your price ? — name it ! ' I'hc tone was agony but iIl-con« 
 cealed by a cold haughtiness.
 
 ^ 
 
 414 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' I might take you at your word and ruin you, but you are 
 poor enough ah'eady ' — and Captain Vivian laughed mockingly, 
 ' I have no wish to injure you ; I require only that, whatever 
 your purpose may be in returning to Encombe, there shall be 
 no raking up of the grievances of past days — a small favour 
 to demand for saving your son from disgrace, and it may be 
 death.' 
 
 ' A small favour, indeed ; too small if it had not a hidden 
 meaning. John' — and all the bitterness of long-smothcrcd 
 enmity broke out in the words — ' from my heart I distrust 
 you.' 
 
 ' From my heart I hate you, might have been better,' was the 
 sarcastic reply. 
 
 ' No ; I may have had cause enough, but God knows I have 
 forgiven,— I would forgive, if I dared. You have played a des- 
 perate game against me. I see it now, for my eyes have been 
 opened. It was you who ruined me with my father.' 
 
 'And you who ruined me with the woman who should have 
 been my wife.' Then, with a taunting sneer, which perhaps 
 concealed the pang of some painful memories, Captain Vivian 
 continued : ' Let bygones be bygones ; it is all I ask.' 
 
 ' And if it is only by recalling bygones that I can explain my- 
 self to my father, then to promise is my destruction.' 
 
 ' And not to promise is your boy's.' 
 
 Mr Vivian turned away to control the agony of his feelings, 
 'We will endeavour to understand each other,' he continued, 
 after a moment's pause. ' It is useless to endeavour to persuade 
 me that the stipulation you demand is of no consequence. It 
 is, and it must be, of the very utmost consequence to me ; yet, 
 do not think to deceive me, too well I know that it is far more 
 so to you.' 
 
 'Prove it! prove it!' exclaimed Captain Vivian, scornfully. 
 He clenched his hand and muttered between his closed teeth, 
 ' Would I have put myself in your power if you could prove 
 it?' 
 
 ' I care not for legal proof ; but were the deed hidden in the 
 depths of the earth, it should come forth to clear me with my 
 father, and to be an eternal dishonour to you. I make no stipu- 
 lations with a forger.' 
 
 ' As you will.' Captain Vivian slowly took a match-box from 
 his pocket, and held it as if about to strike the light : ' The first 
 blaze, and the boat makes for the shore.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 415 
 
 'Stay! jtay!' exclaimed Mr Vivian. 'There may be a coin- 
 promise.' 
 
 ' No compromise ! Silence for ever with the General and with 
 the world upon all points — sworn for yourself, your sister, Mr 
 Lester, and Bertha Campbell.' 
 
 ' My oath must be for myself ; I cannot bind others.' 
 
 ' It must be given by them also, — and to-night, before two 
 more hours have passed.' 
 
 * My father is generous ; he will never raise a word against 
 you when he finds that I am under a promise of secrecy.' 
 
 ' General Vivian's generosity ! Ask me rather to trust to the 
 mercy of the winds and of the waves. Silence or disgrace : 
 make your choice between them.' 
 
 He struck the light. Mr Vivian caught him by the arm, and 
 the movement brought the burning match in contact with the 
 light, dry brushwood. The flame sprang into the air, and fast 
 and wide spread the mshing blaze, hissing and crackling among 
 the withered leaves and the broken twigs, — and far away across 
 the sea gleamed the cold light of the moon, — darkened by one 
 black speck, as the smuggling-boat made its way over the surging 
 waters to the shore. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE shore was safe, for it was deserted before the boat had 
 landed. The four men who rowed, had loaded themselves 
 with the tubs, and were making their way towards the cliff. A 
 fifth lingered behind, and with him came Clement Vivian. He 
 walked slowly and doubtfully, — not with the eager energy of a 
 boy in the height of his adventurous spirits. His step was un- 
 equal ; his head turned quickly from one side to the other. 
 Perhaps he was planning an escape, but his companion kept 
 close by his side and urged him on. 
 
 They reached the foot of the cliffs, and the men paused and 
 gathered together. Mark Wood was foremost. They looked up 
 at the cliff, then took a survey of the shore. 
 
 ' Safe ! now for it ; along the ledge to the cave ! Come, 
 youngster ! ' and the man who seemed to have charge of 
 Clement stood back to put him first : ' It 's plain sailing.'
 
 4i6 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 \ 
 
 Clement delayed : ' I liavc had my frolic ; I will go no 
 farther.' 
 
 'What! that's new talking! — up I say.' He would have 
 pushed Clement forward, but the boy drew back indignantly : 
 ' Touch me again, if you dare.' 
 
 ' On, young Master — on, for your life ;' and Mark Wood drew 
 near, and pointed to a projecting angle of the cliff above them, 
 where a dark, immovable spot was to be seen. 
 
 The men, as with one consent, began to scale the cliff, not by 
 the path, but by ledges, corners, shelving rocks, often with a 
 footing which a goat could scarcely have held ; and not in the 
 direction of the cave, but away beyond the headland, to a point 
 which all seemed to know as by instinct. They reached a 
 smooth ledge, wide enough for them to stand together. The 
 cliff rose perpendicularly behind them ; before them a huge 
 rock, which seemed about to precipitate itself into the sea, threw 
 a dark shadow on their resting-place. They waited to take 
 breath. Clement, who had followed them with difficulty, 
 approached Mark: 'Is there danger? Are the preventives 
 abroad ? ' 
 
 ' Above and around, that black head was on the look-out, — 
 now on.' 
 
 Before Clement could ask another question, Mark was leading 
 the way again, but now in a different direction, towards the cave. 
 He stopped after he had gone some paces, and muttered a few 
 words to Clement's first guide. The man evidently differed from 
 him, and Mark spoke angrily, and went on by himself. The 
 four who were left kept close to Clement. A sound like a call, 
 which might, however, have been nothing more than the wind, 
 fell on the ear, and it was answered by Clement's guide. The 
 others interchanged a few words : ' The cave's free for us !' 
 
 < Was that the cry ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; didn't you hear .'' ' 
 
 ' All right ! ' and they went on. 
 
 They were drawing near the cave. From the west side it was 
 difficult of approach — the ledge was narrow, and the angle by 
 which it was entered sharp. The men settled their tubs on their 
 shoulders, and seemed prepared for a false step. Mark Wood, 
 who had been considerably in advance, came back. Clement 
 heard him say: 'I've a doubt that we're in for it. Hale; let 
 him go.' 
 
 'Go, and peach,' was Hale's answer, 'You are a fool; on
 
 CLEVE HALL. 417 
 
 with you.' He thrust Mark forward, and then looked back to 
 Ciemcnt : ' Keep close, youngster. If 1 throw you the tub, you '11 
 know how to carry it ; ' and they moved forward again, one by 
 one, with slow and cautious steps, clinging to the cliff, and 
 once or twice sliding where the footing was too unsteady for 
 support. 
 
 Mark turned the corner first ; Clement and Hale followed. 
 They were then before the entrance of the cave. 
 
 ' Now, youngster ! I must be left free.' Hale took the tub 
 from his shoulder. 
 
 'Best not,' whispered Mark, drawing him within the passage: 
 ' look below.' 
 
 A body of the coastguard were at the foot of the cliff : a little 
 behind lingered Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' In with you, man,— in : clear the way ; and Hale forced 
 Mark into the cave, and tossed the tub upon the ground. The 
 others followed his example. 
 
 A shout rose from below, and the preventive men hurried up 
 the chff, followed by Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' Stand to it boldly ! for your life.' The smugglers placed 
 tliemselves before the cave, and Clement stood with them,— his 
 spirit excited by the danger. 
 
 ' Clement ! Master Clement ! this way,' shouted Mark from 
 within ; but Clement did not or would not hear. The preventive 
 men were nearly on a level with the cave — Dennis and Ryan 
 foremost. 
 
 ' A step nearer, and we fire ! ' shouted the smugglers, and the 
 preventive men drew back. 
 
 There was a mutual pause. Whilst the two parties confronted 
 each other, Mr Vivian, unperceived, scrambling, clinging to the 
 side of the cliff, advanced to the smugglers' rear, and seized 
 Hale's arm. The preventive men rushed forward. Hale strove 
 violently to extricate himself, and his. companions came to his 
 rescue. A desperate, deadly struggle began. 
 
 ' Clement ! Clement ! ' called out a voice of thunder, in the 
 tumult, ' up the cliff,— to the left ; for the sake of Heaven— for 
 your father's sake ! ' and the boy, terrified, yet excited, looked 
 round him with the impulse to obey. 
 
 ' Not to the cliffs— through the cave ; Mark Wood waits you 
 
 there.' 
 
 It was Ronald Vivian, who standing before the cave, spoke 
 hurriedlv, yet in tones low, and deep, and clear. 
 
 2D
 
 418 CLEVE HALL? 
 
 Clement paused for one moment in indecision, and the grasp 
 of Dennis, the preventive man, was laid upon his collar. 
 
 * A prisoner ! a prisoner !' he exclaimed ; but a sudden blow 
 from Ronald felled him to the ground. He rose again instantly, 
 and they grappled together. 
 
 ' Into the cave,' shouted Ronald, turning his head for a second; 
 and Clement waited no longer. 
 
 * Ronald Vivian to be dealt with at last ! ' burst from the lips 
 of Dennis, maddened at recognising the boy from whose hands 
 the blow had been received. 
 
 Mr Vivian heard the call : ' Save him ! — do him no injury ; I 
 will bear you free ; ' but his call was in vain. 
 
 The contest with Hale and his comrades had ended in Hale's 
 capture. The other smugglers had escaped, but not without 
 pursuit from the preventive men. Ryan, however, remained be- 
 hind, and came to the assistance of Dennis. 
 
 ' Yield, or we fire ! ' was the cry. 
 
 But Ronald fought desperately, for danger to him was safety 
 to Clement. 
 
 ' Yield ! Ronald, yield ; ' called Mr Vivian, and he placed 
 himself by his side. 
 
 A dark face, not till that moment seen, peered from behind a 
 rock, and a pistol was levelled at Mr Vivian's head. 
 
 'Ha! Goff! the scoundrel ! ' shouted Ryan, catching the out- 
 line of the well-known features. He moved aside, and a bullet 
 aimed at Mr Vivian, whizzed past, and Ronald, struck by it in 
 the shoulder, fell to the ground. 
 
 * Murder ! ' The cry echoed wildly amongst the rocks, as the 
 men, catching a momentary glimpse of Goff, followed him down 
 the cliff and along the shore. It was a frantic chase, over the 
 loose shingles, and rough stones, with masses of broken cliff im- 
 peding them. Goff kept close by the cliff, the path most difficult 
 of pursuit. On, with the speed of a maniac, — for safety or for 
 ruin ; on, to the East Point. Behind it, in a little cove, lies a 
 small boat ; and there waits Captain Vivian, ready, eager to 
 carry him to the vessel which will be his harbour of safety. 
 
 He was close upon the Point ; the path was difficult — the 
 moon had become darkened ; he stumbled, and the delay brought 
 his pursuers near. Their voices were heard high above the 
 booming of the waves and the increasing roar of the wind. Con- 
 cealment ! no, it was impossible ; the spot which he had reached 
 was bare of the sheltering rocks. Escape by the cliffs ! impossible
 
 CLEVE HALL. 419 
 
 also ; they rose frowning above him, — no longer easy of access. 
 He turned towards the edge of the shore, and shouted long and 
 loud ; and a little boat manned by one person rounded the 
 Point. It was lifted high by the waves, then again it sank, — for 
 a moment it might have been thought engulfed, — it could not 
 near the beach. 
 
 ' Rascal ! scoundrel ! ' shouted the preventive men. They 
 were rushing from the chff ; their feet were crashing the pebbles. 
 He almost felt their grasp ; — one plunge, and he was breasting 
 the waves towards the boat. The foaming water rose high, and 
 he was hidden ; it broke upon the shore, and his black, shaggy 
 head was seen rising as a spot in the moonlight. 
 
 Fierce and strong are the angry billows, — they are bearing 
 him away from the boat. He sees it, and one hand is uplifted, 
 and a howl of terror comes across the watery waste. He is 
 struggling, — his head is tossed as a plaything by the crested 
 waves. The boat is drawing near : he will be saved, — yes, he 
 must be ; — his hand is actually toucliing the boat. 
 
 And the grasp is faint, and the waves are strong, and — the 
 wretched, guilty head moves with one agonising effort, and sinks, 
 to be lost to sight for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 RONALD lay upon the ground, the blood oozing fast from 
 his shoulder ; by him knelt Mr Vivian, vainly endeavour- 
 ing to stanch the wound. The shouts of the men, and the cries 
 of pursuit, reached them as distant echoes. Mr Vivian thought 
 that Ronald had fainted, but he was still sensible, only growing 
 weaker and weaker — his sight becoming dim, his lips refusing 
 to utter a sound. Mr Vivian made him rest against his knee, 
 and spoke to him. There was a feeble smile upon the cold, 
 white lips ; and Mr Vivian took off his coat, and making it into 
 a pillow, laid Ronald's head gently upon it, and leaving him for 
 an instant, went a few steps forward and called, but received no 
 answer. The spot a few minutes before so dizzy with tumult 
 was now utterly deserted. 
 
 He came back again, and groped his way into the cave. It 
 ■yvas quite dark ; but something soft lay on tlie ground, — a coat,
 
 420 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 and he took it up and felt in the pocket. It contained a small 
 flask. I\Ir Vivian brought this out into the light, and moistened 
 Ronald's lips with the brandy ^\•hich was in it, ajid covered him 
 with the coat. He was a little revived then, and it seemed 
 possible to move him within the shelter of the rock ; but the 
 start when he was touched showed that the attempt would be 
 agony. 
 
 In despair I\Ir Vivian called ngain ; and this time a voice 
 answered him, but from within the cave ; and the rattle of stones, 
 accompanied by a few hasty ejaculations, was followed by the 
 appearance of Mark Wood. 
 
 He came forward with stealthy steps, glancing doubtftiUy at 
 Mr Vivian ; but the sight of Ronald's ghastly features seemed to 
 give him courage to draw near. ' You called,' he said. 
 
 'Yes, I called.' Mr Vivian pointed to Ronald. 'He has been 
 wounded in the skirmish, and we must move him.' 
 
 'The sharks! Cowardly villains ! Arc they gone?' Mark 
 went a few steps down the cliff.' 
 
 Mr Vivian called him back: ' Gone now, but they may return. 
 It was not they who did it.' 
 
 ' All safe now,' muttered Mark. He put his arm under Ronald 
 tenderly. 
 
 ' We must have more help,' said Mr Vivian. 
 
 'By and by; we '11 take him inside first. Stay!' — he lighted a 
 match and set fire to a brand, which he thrust into a crevice of 
 the rock, — ' that will do to show the way. Now then ;' 3.nd with 
 Mr Vivian's assistance he raised Ronald, and disregarding the 
 moaning which showed the suffering he caused, bore him into 
 the cave. 
 
 Some straw and dried iern leaves lay in a heap in one corner, 
 and over this Mr Vivian stretched the coat with which Ronald 
 had beeii covered. He was then laid upon it ; and Mark pro- 
 ceeded to collect together some dried sticks, which he lighted. 
 
 Mr Vivian looked at him with some surprise. ' Is he safe ?' 
 he said. ' The preventive men may be back.' 
 
 'Safe enough just now. We've left a couple of kegs in their 
 way at the foot of the cliff, which they '11 seize, and then, ten to 
 one, be off. They've caught Hale, and are after the others.' 
 
 'But if they look for him?' and Mr Vivian glanced at 
 Ronald. 
 
 ' He's as safe here as elsewhere. If we tried to get him home, 
 we should meet them on the cliffs. An hour hence it will alj
 
 CLEVE HALL. 421 
 
 be right enough. Now, give him another taste of the brandy- 
 flask, and see if he '11 come-to more.' 
 
 The warmth of the fire, and the cordial, had the effect desired 
 for a {^w moments, but Ronald soon sank back again into his 
 former state ; and ]\Ir Vivian, greatly alarmed, insisted upon the 
 necessity of summoning more aid. I\Ir Lester, he said, was cer- 
 tainly within reach. 
 
 'The parson! He's off home with the young gentleman. 
 'Twas he who met me, and bade me come back. I shouldn't 
 have ventured myself so soon again within reach of the sharks, 
 if it hadn't been for him.' 
 
 Ronald slowly opened his eyes, and by the lurid light of the 
 fire "six Vivian saw that his lips moved. He bent down, and 
 heard the word ' Clement.' 
 
 'Safe, thank God!' 
 
 Ronald smiled, and his head fell back. 
 
 They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour longer in silence 
 — ^Mark keeping up the fire, and occasionally watching at the 
 entrance of the cave ; whilst J\lr Vivian, supporting Ronald, 
 stanching his wound, and from time to time forcing him to 
 sip the flask of brandy, succeeded at length in restoring him to 
 some degree of strength. 
 
 His sufterings, however, became greater as his power increased. 
 A suppressed groan followed every attempt to move him, and a 
 clearer consciousness brought a look of anguish to his face, which 
 Mr Vivian vainly endeavoured to read. 
 
 ' If we had another hand we might move him now,' said Mark, 
 returning to Ronald's couch, after another survey of the clift'. 
 
 Ronald raised his hand, as a sign against it. 
 
 Mr Vivian replied to the gesture : 'You must not remain here, 
 Ronald ; it will kill you. Mr Lester will come, and we will carry 
 you very gently.' 
 
 He looked impatient, and beckoned lo Mark. Mr Vivian 
 moved aside. 
 
 ' .Sad work. Master Ronald,' said Mark, compassionately. 
 ' What made you mix yourself up with us ?' 
 
 ' My father,' murmured Ronald, taking no notice of the ques- 
 tion, — 'where is he ?' 
 
 Mark glanced at Mr Vivian, who was, however, too far off to 
 hear the answer. 
 
 ' Gone on board by this time. He was to be off to the vessel, 
 so we were told, as soon as the second light flamed up.'
 
 \ 
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' On board, — away ! ' A look of convulsive agony crossed 
 Ronald's face. 
 
 'Not away yet. She's off there still, I take it; and pretty 
 close she was five minutes ago.' 
 
 ' I must see him.' 
 
 ' To be sure ; he '11 be back, if not to-night, to-morrow.' 
 
 * No, no ; to-night, — now.' 
 
 * Not so easy that — the Captain 's not to be sent for in a mo- 
 ment ; and he's gone for a purpose.' 
 
 * It must be, — it must. Mark, who knows ? I may be 
 dying.' 
 
 'Not so bad as that, Master Ronald. You've had a good 
 knock, however it happened ; but you '11 come round. Let me 
 just go and get a helping hand, and we'll have you at the Grange 
 before half an hour's over our heads.' 
 
 The mention of the Grange renewed Ronald's excitement, and 
 he exclaimed vehemently, ' Not there.' 
 
 His accent caused Mr Vivian to draw nearer. Ronald raised 
 his glassy eyes to his with a glance of mingled confidence and 
 despair; and as Mr Vivian stooped to be nearer to him, he took 
 hold of his hand, and held it within his own, and tried to speak, 
 and then the words seemed to fail, and he muttered something 
 unintelligible. 
 
 ' You have a wish — let me hear it ; it shall be granted.' 
 
 ' Let my father come, now — safe.' 
 
 * He shall come, and be safe, if it is in my power to bring him ; 
 we will take you home, and you shall see him.' 
 
 ' Here ! here : — not home.' 
 
 Mark interposed, and drew Mr Vivian aside. ' It would never 
 do,' he said, 'to take Master Ronald at his fancy ; it might be 
 easy enough to get hold of the Captain, who was sure to be on 
 board the vessel, and within call ; — but to leave him there on 
 the ground — he would be shot himself sooner.' 
 
 * It frets him to insist upon moving him,' replied Mr Vivian ; 
 'and it will really make but little difference. Let Captain Vivian 
 come, if you know where to find him ; and when he comes, let 
 me go into the village for further help. I will bring back a sur- 
 geon with me. There will be less delay then, and '- 
 
 A faint call from Ronald summoned Mr Vivian again to his 
 side. His face was bright with thankfulness : ' Let Mark tell 
 him quickly. To-morrow' — and the light of his eye became 
 darkened, and his voice grew fainter — ' I may not need him.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 423 
 
 LIr Vivian pressed his hand aftectionately, and repeated the 
 order. 
 
 Yet Mark stih hngered. "Twas a mad errand/ he said, as he 
 once more appealed to Mr Vivian ; ' and hkely to be the boy's 
 death — waiting there instead of being tended. And if the Cap- 
 tain came, it might be sore work for them ; no one knew what he 
 would be like when things went contrary. If they might have 
 
 taken Ronald to the Grange' He stopped suddenly, for a 
 
 moan escaped from Ronald, drawn from him by excessive pain. 
 Yet even then he waved his hand for Mark to leave him ; and 
 Mr Vivian seconding the entreaty, the man departed. 
 
 The time of Mark's absence seemed hours to Mr Vivian. 
 It would have been unendurable but for the thought of Clement's 
 safety — that was comfort through everything , and Ronald's 
 wan face was a sufficient reproach, when impatience was about 
 to master him. Yet as the moments passed on, many doubts as 
 to the prudence of agreeing to his wish suggested themselves : 
 danger from the preventive men ; the possibility that Mark 
 would not be able to manage his boat ; the difficulty of landing 
 again ; — obstacles which Mark had not appeared to contemplate, 
 but which seemed aggravated, as Ronald's suffering evidently in- 
 creased, and the necessity for surgical aid became more and more 
 urgent. 
 
 He scarcely thought of himself, his own fears and hopes and 
 plans for the future. He could but look at the pale countenance 
 of the noble boy, so suddenly struck down in the pride of his 
 strength, and think of the short, stormy life, with its strong im- 
 pulses, its earnest resolve, and unflinching will — and ponder 
 upon the deep mystery that one so formed for good should have 
 been placed under the dominion of evil. It was a thought only 
 to be borne by the remembrance of that inscrutable Wisdom 
 which * searcheth the heart,' and ' knoweth what is in man,' and 
 will require only what has been given. And bitterly in contrast 
 rose up before Mr Vivian's memory the recollections of his own 
 boyhood — with virtuous examples, the rules of strict rectitude, 
 the support of an honourable name, the prospect of a fair in- 
 heritance to lure him to good ; yet all deserted, and bringing 
 upon him only a severer condemnation. What we might have 
 been ! It is a terrible thought to realise ? 
 
 'Mr Vivian,' — Ronald stretched out his hand and touched 
 him ; ' are they coming ?' 
 
 * I don't know ; I think not ; but I will see.' He went out to
 
 424 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 look, and returned : 'The boat has left the vessel ; I can't tell 
 who is in it.' 
 
 * My father will be here — you must go.' 
 
 'Not till he comes.' 
 
 'Yes, before— no v.- ; raise mc.' And Mr Vivian lifted him 
 up, and made him support himself against the wall. He spoke 
 more easily then, and seemed relieved by the change of position : 
 ' Now go, please ; quickly.' Yet as Mr Vivian looked towards 
 the entrance of the cave, he held him back ; ' One word. I have 
 done what I could ; are you satisfied ?' 
 
 ' Fully— entirely — thankfully; more than tongue can tell.' 
 
 ' But I have not done all. I will try.' 
 
 ' But not now, O Ronald, is it for my sake you would see 
 your father ? ' 
 
 'I told Miss Campbell I would do the utmost ; if I am to die, 
 I must do it.' 
 
 ' You have done everything that could be required ; and more, 
 a thousand times. It is for Clement's sake that you are here 
 now.' 
 
 ' The utmost,' repeated Ronald ; ' it was my promise. Tell 
 her I kept it. And you will pardon him if the offence were ' — 
 he stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' I know what it was.' 
 
 Ronald let Mr Vivian's hand drop, and turned his face to the 
 wall. 
 
 Mr Vivian continued, quietly, ' I will not tell you now, 
 Ronald, how it was discovered. But one thing may satisfy you, 
 ■ — there is no legal proof ; I could not bring it home to him, 
 if I would.' 
 
 Ronald turned slowly round and fixed his ghastly eyes upon 
 him : ' Then the evil to you is done.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * And without remedy ? ' 
 
 ' Without remedy from him, except by his own confession : 
 that might indeed help me with my father.' 
 
 * You shall have it. When it is in your hands, and I am gone, 
 Mr Vivian, you will save his name from disgrace.' 
 
 Mr Vivian seized his hand : ' Disgrace cannot attach to the 
 name you bear, Ronald : whatever your father may have done 
 to tarnish it, you have nobly redeemed it.' 
 
 He did not smile nor answer, but a tear rolled down his cheek, 
 and his lip quivered with anguish. He recovered himself again
 
 CLEVE HALL. 425 
 
 quickly, and pointing towards the entrance, said : * Look out ; 
 when they are at the foot of the cliff, you must go. Hark ! ' 
 
 ' God bless you, and help you, Ronald ; ' and Mr Vivian held 
 Ronald's hand with lingering affection. 
 
 'Go! go!' 
 
 Ronald's face grew troubled and eager ; yet as Mr Vivian left 
 the cave, his eye rested upon him with an expression that would 
 fain have asked him to return. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 < T7 H ! Ronald ! my lad ! in a scrape and calling for me to 
 J—-' help you out ! That comes of not keeping to quarters. 
 How on earth you got loose passes me.' Captain Vivian entered 
 the cave blusteringly. He would not listen to Mark's request 
 to tread with caution, and in the dim light of the dying embers 
 scarcely distinguished where his son lay stretched upon his 
 rough bed. 
 
 ' No one here,' said Mark, groping around, and collecting some 
 more sticks. 'You'll see. Captain, that it's as I said; he's 
 mortal bad' — and he held a lighted brand so as to cast a gleam 
 upon Ronald's face, and then walked away to the entrance. 
 
 Captain Vivian snatched the brand from him, drew near, 
 looked, — then throwing the torch aside, staggered back against 
 the wall. 
 
 ' Father ! ' Ronald's voice was hollow as a call from the grave. 
 
 Captain Vivian threw himself on the ground beside him. 
 
 ' Shot ! my boy, my poor boy ! The rascals ! But we'll be 
 revenged. We'll get you on board, and look after you, and 
 you '11 do well ; there 's no doubt of that. Many's the u;_;ly touch 
 I 've had myself. Here I Mark.' 
 
 ' Stay, father. I must not go ; listen.' 
 
 * Listen ! to be sure. The rascals ! I '11 be revenged.' 
 
 ' It was not they. It matters not who it was ; I would forget 
 revenge.' 
 
 ' Forget it : you may ; but I tell you, Ronald, the rccl^oning 
 shall be kept till the last hour of my life — ay, and paid too.' 
 
 ' Then your reckoning must be with Goff. He raised the 
 pistol ; I saw him. It was levelled at Mr Vivian.'
 
 426 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 No answer came, only a quick gasp of breathless horror. 
 
 * It is for Mr Vivian to revenge/ continued Ronald. ' Father ! 
 can you hear me ? can you listen to me ? ' for Captain Vivian 
 was kneeling upright, — his form rigid, his eyes fixed. 
 
 'Revenge! let him seek it down in the green ocean— down, 
 down ; he will not iuid it. Let him look for it, — it is gone.' 
 
 ' Father ! speak to me, — oh, horrible ! ' and Ronald raised him- 
 self for a moment, and sank back shuddering and exhausted. 
 
 ' He's gone, my boy ; don't think of him, Ronald. Rouse up 
 —we '11 forget. Where 's Mark ? ' 
 
 Mark came, and Ronald's lips were moistened with brandy, 
 and he found strength to utter, ' Is he killed ? ' 
 
 ' Drowned, Master Ronald,' said Mark, coolly. ' I heard it 
 said as I came across the Common ; but I don't understand the 
 rights of it all.' 
 
 'Drowned, Ronald, my boy ;' and Captain Vivian stood up, 
 and drew near to Mark with an air of restored confidence. 
 ' But we won't talk of him now. Mark and I will puV you into 
 the boat, and be oft" to the vessel, and see to you to-night ; and 
 to-morrow, if it's needed, we'll get more help — but I 'm a clever 
 surgeon myself.' 
 
 Ronald motioned Mark away : ' Raise me, father. Drowned, 
 lost in the deep waters ! ' He hid his face with his trembling 
 hand. ' O God ! have mercy ! it is Thy judgment.' 
 
 ' Cheer up, my boy ; don't think.' 
 
 ' He is gone, father. I may be going too. Where? — where?' 
 he repeated, and he caught his father's hand, and held it with all 
 the little strength he retained. 
 
 ' We can't think ; we don't know till the time comes. Why 
 trouble yourself, my poor lad ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is time now ; there is no other time. Father, think, 
 repent. God will hear now.' 
 
 * Too late for me ! ' and Captain Vivian's voice slightly 
 trembled. ' Vv^'ell enough for you.' 
 
 ' His body lies beneath the waves, his soul is before God,' 
 murmured Ronald, shuddering ; ' and he had so many crimes to 
 burden it.' 
 
 ' May be so ; but none can tell what excuses may be at hand 
 for him or for any one. There 's no need to talk of him.' 
 
 ' Father ; yes, — let me but speak now. If only one sin could 
 be lightened, death would be less terrible. Is it not so ? tell 
 me ; answer.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 427 
 
 * If it could be, but past is past.' 
 
 * No, no, it is present ; it never dies ; it will come full again. 
 But it may be repented of, then it cannot harm.' 
 
 ' j\Iy poor lad ! He's wandering.' Captain Vivian bent down 
 anxiously. 
 
 ' Father, I speak truth ; I know what I say. Oh ! by the 
 thought of that fearful death — that awful judgment, do not turn 
 from me.' 
 
 'If sorrow's necessary, I'm sorry enough,' was the moody 
 answer ; ' but I didn't come here to talk of it.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed,' and Ronald almost sat upright in his eagerness. 
 * It was for that I sent for you. I may be dying ; God knows. 
 I could not carry the load to my grave. Father, our name has 
 been pledged to dishonour, — disgrace ; it has caused Mr Vivian's 
 ruin.' 
 
 ' Not caused it : it was his own doing. None could have 
 touched him if he hadn't dealt the first blow himself,' 
 
 ' But the work he began — it was completed by you.' 
 
 ' Then it 's done, and it can't be undone.' 
 
 * It may be. Oh ! indeed it may. It may be acknowledged, and, 
 to the utmost extent of your means, the sum may be restored.' 
 
 ' Acknowledge ! Resto-re ! Why, he knows all ; he would pur- 
 sue me to the last gasp to be revenged on me. He would take 
 from me every penny I possess, and leave me to beggary if it 
 were possible.' 
 
 'He has promised to forgive, and his word is honour. If 
 it were not, when we have injured others, God will never forgive 
 us, without confession and reparation.' 
 
 * I don't know where you learned your teaching ; it's not my 
 doing.' 
 
 ' I learned it from my mother, when I said my prayers to her. 
 She talked of it when she was dying. She would repeat it now. 
 Father, your confession may replace Mr Vivian at once in his 
 home.' 
 
 ' And balk me of the last hope of carrying out the revenge for 
 which alone I did the deed. Was it the paltry money, boy, for 
 which I hazarded ruin ? Would the miserable thousands have 
 tempted me ? If they had been multiplied ten, twenty, a hun- 
 dred, a thousandfold, I would have scorned them all rather than 
 lose my revenge,' 
 
 * God also can revenge,' replied Ronald, faintly. 'And you 
 are safe ; he says himself there is no Ic^^al proof,'
 
 428 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' If there had been, would I have ventured myself within his 
 grasp ? No ; he has chosen his course, let him follow it out' 
 
 * To-night will go against him,' said Ronald. 
 
 ' Of course ; I know it. I should never have troubled myself 
 with the boy if I had not known it. He may thank his stars 
 that it is no worse, — that the young scapegrace is not now 
 in the hands of the magistrates. Let him make his way with 
 the General as he can, with only his bare words to fortify him, 
 and Clement's folly to stand against him.' 
 
 ' Mercy ! father ! His life has been most miserable.' 
 
 ' He had no mercy on me,' was the bitter reply. 
 
 Captain Vivian was about to rise, and again summon Mark, 
 but Ronald's feeble hand rested on his arm. 
 
 * Father ! if the gurgling waters were closing round you, as 
 they closed over that wretched man, would you not wish that 
 you had done it ? ' 
 
 ' I could never wish that I had disgraced myself.' 
 
 ' The disgrace was when the deed was done. God help us to 
 bear it.' 
 
 ' We will not bear it,' exclaimed Captain Vivian. ' We will be 
 off. We will set up our fortunes in another place.' 
 
 'The future is with God,' said Ronald. ' May it please Him 
 to spare me that sorrow.' 
 
 ' What ! would you forsake me ? ' 
 
 ' I would die, if it be God's will, for life without honour is very 
 terrible.' 
 
 ' Mad boy ! yet you wish me to disgrace myself.' 
 
 'Because what you call disgrace is to ine the only road to 
 honour. Father, grant my request, and if God should spare me, 
 I will follow you, labour with you, slave with you, die with you, 
 — so that the path you take is one in which there is no sin. 
 Refuse me, and there is another duty before me. The debt 
 to General Vivian shall be repaid, and by my hands. I will 
 travel the world over, but I will work ; I will toil, if necessary, 
 with the poorest ; I will live the life of an anchorite, and die the 
 death of an outcast ; rather than he shall be defrauded of one 
 penny of that which is his just due. We part to-niglit for 
 ever ! ' 
 
 The words might have seemed prophetic, for Ronald sank 
 back exhausted with his own energy, and pale and motionless as 
 in death. 
 
 ' Ronald, my boy, speak to me, only one word.' Captain
 
 CLEVE HALL. 429 
 
 Vivian bent over liim in agony. He opened his eyes, and at 
 that moment Mark re-entered the cave. 
 
 * Quick, Captain, one way or t'other. They are coming from 
 the chff. The strange gentleman, and the surgeon, and Mr 
 Lester, If you've any reason for wishing to be off, you'd best 
 be quick.' 
 
 Captain Vivian looked at Ronald. ' Wc '11 take him with us.' 
 
 'Can't be. He's too far gone. We may come for him to- 
 morrow. They'll take care of him to-night; but you must be 
 quick,' and mark went out again to watch. 
 
 'leather!' Ronald held Captain Vivian's hand; his glassy 
 eyes rested on him long and steadily. 
 
 The hand was withdrawn, and with the other Captain Vivian 
 roughly dashed away a tear. 
 
 ' If I die, still think of me.' 
 
 ' Think of you ! Ronald, Ronald! forgive what I have done to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Not mine, God's forgiveness. Oh ! if the truth were told. 
 It might be written, even now, before you go. Then I should be 
 at peace.' 
 
 ' There is no forgiveness for such as I, Ronald.' 
 
 * Yes, father, yes ; one act ; it may be the entrance on the 
 right way. God grant us to meet at the end.' He spoke very 
 feebly. 
 
 Captain Vivian pondered. ' If it is done, I go disgraced by 
 my own word, never to be heard of again in England.' 
 
 Ronald raised his hand to his head : ' My eyes are dizzy ; I 
 can't see you. Will you do it ? Will you write .'" 
 
 Captain Vivian took a card from his pocket, wrote a few words 
 upon the back, and put it into Ronald's hands. ' It is done,' he 
 said ; 'your father is a lost man.' 
 
 ' Saved ! saved ! ' exclaimed Ronald, and he fell back and 
 fainted. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THAT had been a long and intensely trying day to Mildred 
 Vivian. Wlicn Bertha left her she had spent several hours 
 with her father, vainly endeavouring to persuade him to dis- 
 miss the thought of the lost paper, until Mr Lester could appc;ir
 
 43° CLEVE HALL. 
 
 himself to account for it. But General Vivian was not easily to 
 be, persuaded in any matter, least of all in the control of his own 
 mind, when he was touched upon one of the tenderest points of 
 honour. 
 
 His keen sense of justice was connected with the strong feeling 
 of personal claim to his property, and this had aggravated his 
 indi.^niation, when his son's supposed misdeed was first brought 
 before him. But the offence had been punished, as he said to 
 himself, rightfully, and then he felt at liberty to bury it from all 
 knowledge but his own. 
 
 That Mr Lester, Mildred, above all. Bertha, should be ac- 
 quainted with it, wounded him almost beyond endurance, and 
 the mind which had so long allowed itself to be warped by a one- 
 sided justice, was no longer proof against the prejudice which in 
 any other case he would have despised. 
 
 He spoke to Mildred of plots and conspiracies ; he questioned 
 her as to the stranger whom Mrs Robinson had received at the 
 farm, and whom she imagined might return. He would allow 
 of no evasion, and drew from her at length the confession that 
 Edward was expected— that he might be at Encombe that very 
 night. He was satisfied then so far that he asked no more 
 questions ; but it was evident that his mind had taken a wrong- 
 turn, and that the step his son had made in coming back to 
 England, unsummoned, was likely to prove a stumbling-block, 
 rather than an assistance, in the way of his restoration to 
 favour. 
 
 Mildred was very gentle and patient, but she could not help 
 being sad, and this irritated the General. It was a reproach to 
 him. He said at last that he would be left alone, and when Ella 
 offered to read to him as usual, he refused ; and then Mildred 
 went back to her own room, to bear, as best she might, the burden 
 which had fallen upon her. 
 
 Night drew on, and still the General did not send for her. She 
 tried to work, and made Ella read aloud, but it was impossible to 
 attend. She was thinking of her brother, and longing for news 
 of Clement. Greaves was on the watch, and came in every now 
 and then to tell her anything he had heard, but it was all un- 
 satisfactory. The smugglers were certain to land ; they had a 
 traitor amongst them, supposed to be Mrs Robinson's farm-boy, 
 Joe Styles, and he, it was said, had given warning to the preven- 
 tive men who were on the watch. No doubt if they did l.ind 
 there would be a desperate struggle.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 431 
 
 Then came a report from the gamekeepers. Mr Lester and 
 his friend had arrived ; they had walked over the cUffs from 
 Cleve to Encombe, and had gone straight to Hardman's, and 
 from thence to the shore. Somebody declared that Miss 
 Cainpbell and Miss Lester had been very much frightened 
 by a smuggler on their way home, but it was thought that it 
 could not be true, because the smugglers were proverbially civil 
 to ladies. 
 
 Eight o'clock came, and tea was brought. Mildred sent a 
 message to know if they might have it with the General, in his 
 room ; but the answer was brought — No, the General would 
 drink tea alone ; Miss Ella might go to him afterwards. That 
 WMS a little comfort, and when Ella was gone, Mildred lay quietly 
 on the sofa, feeling it a relief to be as anxious as she pleased, 
 without the fear of dispiriting Ella. 
 
 Nine o'clock ! Ella came down and said grandpapa was tired. 
 Greaves was to go to him in a quarter of an hour. He would not 
 have Mildred see him again, because it was such a trouble to her, 
 but he sent his love, and begged she v.'ould take care he had his 
 sleeping-draught. 
 
 * Ring the bell, Ella, and I will ask about it,' said IMildred. 
 The bell was rung, but not answered directly. 
 
 ' Ring again, my love, I can't think what the servants are 
 doing.' 
 
 They waited still some time. 
 
 'Just open the door a little, Ella ; I am sure I hear a good deal 
 of talking.' 
 
 Greaves was trying to silence some one who was speaking, and 
 he came himself to answer the bell. 
 
 'The General will want you, Greaves, in a quarter of an 
 hour; he is going to bed. I rang to remind you of the sleeping- 
 draught.' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am.' Greaves looked at Ella, doubtfully. 
 
 ' Go again to grandpapa, Ella ; tell him Greaves will bring 
 him his draught directly. I send him my very best love, and 
 trust he will have a good night. Greaves,' and Mildred turned 
 to the butler almost before Ella was out of the room, — ' you have 
 news.' 
 
 ' Not much, ma'am ; that is, — pray don't be frightened, Miss 
 Mildred; it's better than could have been thought. Master 
 Clement is safe.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! but he must have been with the smugglers.'
 
 432 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 '•He was wich llicm, and landed with them,' replied Greaves, 
 rather sternly ; ' and the preventives wore down upon them, and 
 there was a skirmish, more than an hour ago that was. But 
 Master Clement got away, I am told. Some say Mr Bruce, that 
 came with Mr Lester, this evening, helped him ; others, that it 
 was the Captain's son ; but anyhow, he got free, and Mr Lester 
 went home with him. One of the smugglers was taken, and ' — - 
 
 ' Well ? what ? ' 
 
 ' It 's an ugly story, the rest, ma'am. I can't say how much is 
 true. But that wretched fellow, Goff, is put out of the way.' 
 
 ' Killed ? By the preventive men ? How horrible ! ' and Mil- 
 dred turned very pale. 
 
 'Worse than that, if the tale's true. Hardman, who was 
 watchiiig about the cliffs with Mr Lester, says that he had kept 
 himself hid when the skirmish began, and just at the end fired 
 deliberately at Mr Bruce.' 
 
 Mildred uttered a scream of horror. 
 
 Greaves paused for a moment . ' The General 's waiting, ma'am, 
 I must not be long.' 
 
 'Biit Mr Bruce— Mr Bruce ! ' faintly ejaculated Mildred. 
 
 ' He escaped, ma'am ; which was all very well ; though, being 
 a stranger in these parts, one doesn't seem to care so much about 
 him. But the poor young gentleman at the Grange has been 
 mortally wounded, and there's many a sad heart for him. The 
 preventives were after Goff in a moment, and, trying to escape, 
 he was drowned.' 
 
 Even in his haste to go to the General, Greaves watched Mil- 
 dred's countenance narrowly ; but she exercised immense self- 
 control, and uttering inwardly her thankfulness for her brother's 
 safety, only said aloud : ' O Greaves, how terrible ! so desperate 
 — so unprepared. And the poor boy, what have they done with 
 
 him?' 
 
 ' Carried him off to Mark Wood's cottage in the Gorge ; so 
 I 'm told, ma'am ; though I can scarce believe it, with the Grange 
 so near at hand. But they say, too, that he insisted upon it, and 
 that the Captain is off somewhere. People think there must be 
 something more in it all than a mere smuggling fray ; and why 
 that fellow Goff should have had a spite against Mr Bruce, no 
 one can say. ' 
 
 ' Yes, very strange ; very strange, indeed ! ' but Mildred spoke 
 wanderingly. ' Was that the hall bell ? She raised herself uj>. 
 and listened-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 433 
 
 Greaves listened too, * I think so, ma'am •, I will see,' and he 
 left the room. 
 
 Mildred's heart beat with painful rapidity ; everything seemed 
 to swim before her ; her eyes were dim, and her knees trembled 
 She tried to hearken, but could catch no sound. The rush of 
 Soaring waves, the noise of tumultuous voices, the phantom sounds 
 of an excited imagination, were filling her ears with their ghostly 
 echoes ; and the undertone of voices approaching, with the tread 
 of footsteps across the stone hall and along the corridor, mingled 
 with her fancies, so that she could scarcely distinguish their 
 reality. 
 
 Yet the door opened, and two persons entered, Mr Lester first, 
 and Mildred's exclamation of pleasure was changed into a sharp 
 cry of almost terrified delight, as the next moment her brother 
 knelt by her side. 
 
 She flung her arms round his neck ; her tears fell fast and 
 long. When she did speak it was to say, ' I have prayed for this, 
 and God has heard me ! ' 
 
 Mr Lester looked round and closed the door. ' I sent Greaves 
 away, but he may come back. Remember, you are still to be 
 cnreful.' 
 
 'Not after to-morrow,' exclaimed Mr Vivian. 'All must be 
 decided then.' 
 
 ' So soon ! — My father must be prepared, O Edward ! yon 
 little know what you have to contend with. And it seems — if 
 I could but keep you here with me as you are,' — and again she 
 clung to him, as though fearing he would escape from her grasp. 
 
 ' It is useless to delay,' replied Mr Lester ; ' and we have 
 arguments, Mildred, which may work a great change in General 
 \'ivian's feelings. You are ignorant of the charge brought against 
 your brother, and therefore you cannot hope, as we do, that it 
 may be refuted.' 
 
 'I do know it,' said Mildred; and turning to Mr Vivian, 
 with a look of sad, yet tender reproach, she added : ' When I 
 learned the truth, I judged my father more reverently and charit- 
 ably. He was wounded in the point on which his feelings are 
 the most sensitive.' 
 
 ' Not by me !' and Mr Vivian started to his feet. ' As there 
 IS truth in heaven, Mildred, it was a forgery ; a base, miserable 
 forgery ! ' 
 
 ' The paper ! — the handwriting ! Is it possible ? ' 
 
 ' It was not mine. I would have died rather than do s\ich a
 
 \ 
 
 434 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 deed. John Vivian is responsible for it. I have heard the ac- 
 kncwledgment from his own lips.' 
 
 * O Edward ! God indeed be thanked ! ' She sat silent for 
 some seconds, then turned to Mr Lester: 'I can't imderstand, 
 The paper— -did my father know about it? — did he give it to 
 you ? He says that he has forgotten it.' 
 
 'There is a mystery about that/ replied Mr Lester. * Mis3 
 Campbell says it was found in my pocket-book. I had not the 
 most remote idea that it was in my possession. Yet I can so far 
 account for it, that on the day when I was here, talking with 
 General Vivian about Clement, a box of papers was upset, and 
 several were scattered. I picked up all, and restored them, as I 
 thought; but this I must have carried off accidentally. Miss 
 Campbell says she recollects seeing it drop out with my handker- 
 chief, when she was conversing v/ith me the same evening, and 
 that I took it up, without looking at it, and put it in my pocket- 
 book. Of course she did not know then what it was.' 
 
 'And you have it, and will return it, and it will all be 
 proved.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Mildred, no,' exclaimed Mr Vivian ; ' that is a sore 
 point ; it is gone. Almost the last act of that wretched man 
 Goff, who has to-night been summoned to his dread account, 
 was to take it from Miss Campbell by force, and to destroy it.' 
 
 Mildred sank back on the sofa. 
 
 'I have nothing but my word to support me,' continued Mr 
 Vivian, — ' that, and Bertha Campbell's evidence that the paper 
 was taken from her. Yet what need is there of more t ' And 
 he drew himself up proudly. 
 
 ' He does not know my father.' Mildred spoke despondingly 
 to Mr Lester. 
 
 ' I hope he does. I can't imagine General Vivian's doubting 
 him.' 
 
 ' Doubt me ! ' Mr Vivian withdrew the hand which had 
 been clasped in Mildred's, and strode up and down the apartment 
 rapidly : ' Let him breathe but the thought, and I will go back 
 to Jamaica — to India — I care not where ? Doubt me ? — doubt 
 his son ? — a Vivian ! ' . ., . . 
 
 ' Edward ! dearest, he is old ; his mind has lost its elasticity, 
 and it has been warped by sorrow.' 
 
 ' Yes, through me, — my faults. O Mildred, Mildred ! help 
 me to be patient ! ' 
 
 'God will help us all,' replied Mildred; 'only let us trust
 
 CLEV£ HALL. 435 
 
 Him. My father may believe, yet he may insist upon proof. Is 
 there no other to be brought forward ? ' 
 
 ' None, at least forthcoming at present. John Vivian is 
 beyond our reach ; if he were not, I scarcely see how we could 
 substantiate our charge.' 
 
 ' And Clement's conduct will work against you,' continued 
 Mildred. ' He must, perhaps he ought, to hear of it.' 
 
 ' To condemn me for my boy's follies ! Mildred, is that 
 justice .'' ' 
 
 ' It may be his justice,' replied Mildred ; and a long pause 
 followed. 
 
 Mr Vivian broke it : 'It matters not, Mildred ; delay cannot 
 help us. If it would, I could not bear it. Even now, the sus- 
 pense of my position is often almost maddening. Let my father 
 reject, — let him even doubt my word, if he will ; the honour of 
 a Vivian rests not on words, but on the consciousness of the in- 
 most heart. One thing at least he cannot take from me, — the 
 comfort of having cleared myself in your dear eyes ; of having 
 seen you, — talked with you, — looked again upon the old, familiar 
 walls. Home ! my childhood's home ! ' and his eye wandered 
 round the well-known apartment. ' Does my father know what 
 home is ? ' 
 
 'Too well ! dearest Edward. If he had cared for it less, he 
 might have been less severe in his endeavour to uphold it.' 
 
 ' Rejected again ! Dishonoured ! doubted ! ' murmured Mr 
 Vivian. ' Yet I have loved and reverenced him, oh ! so deeply. 
 Mildred, he must see me ; he must give me his blessing. I 
 cannot die in peace without it.' 
 
 ' Hope, Edward. I have lived upon it for many years. It 
 may seem impossible,' she added, speaking to Mr Lester, 'to re- 
 ject such evidence; yet no one can calculate upon the turn his 
 feelings may take.' 
 
 ' He will not reject it,' replied Mr Lester. ' I have no fear 
 upon that point ; it would be an insult to his feelings as a gentle- 
 man. I have but one misgiving, that the old prejudice may still 
 linger so as to bias his mind, and that the absence of proof 
 will, without his being aware of it, rankle in his breast. I believe 
 he will grant John Vivian's offence, and yet I do not say that he 
 will forgive your brother, so as to restore him to his inherit- 
 ance.' 
 
 * Then be it so !' exclaimed Mr Vivian. ' Let the paltry acres 
 go ; it was not for them that I grieved when he disinherited mc,
 
 4.36 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 and it is not for them that I have sought him now. Let him aC' 
 knowledge that I am not the base wretch he thought me, and 
 admit me to intercourse with my home, and I will be content. 
 The labour of my own intellect shall, through God's aid, support 
 me for the future, as it has supported me during the past, and 
 when I die I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that not even 
 to my father was I indebted for my own prosperity, or that of 
 my children.' 
 
 ' Proud, dearest Edward, still,' said Mildred, gently. 
 
 * O Mildred ! does not this unjust world make one so ?' 
 < Yes,' and Mildred sighed ; ' it is one's struggle.' 
 
 ' To bear punishment and own it to be punishment, Mildred, 
 that is what I find so hard. Yet I have had many years in 
 which to learn the lesson.' 
 
 * And many things to teach it you. I must hear all before 
 long.' 
 
 * Not till you have told me all. One question I must ask 
 now.' His voice became tremulous and sank, and Mr Lester 
 withdrew himself, and walked to the other end of the apartment. 
 ' Mildred, did Edith think of me as my father did ? ' 
 
 ' Not as he did. He would not tell her what he thought the 
 truth.' 
 
 ' But she suspected me ?' 
 
 * She feared, and the fear '• 
 
 ' Killed her ; I knew it. God forgive and aid me ! ' 
 ' She had been ill and anxious before,' continued Mildred ; 
 ' the shock was very great, but it might only have aggravated, 
 not caused the evil. She had a brain fever at the time, but she 
 rallied from it, and lived many months afterwards.' 
 
 * And did she speak of me ? Did you talk together ?' 
 'Alas! no, that was my grief; but it was all pent up; it 
 
 worked inwardly. It was very strange, she who had been so un- 
 reserved before.' 
 
 'John Vivian's doing,' he murmured. ' Can it be possible to 
 forgive? And all that time she considered me a wretch, Mil- 
 dred ; lost — sunk.' 
 
 ' Forget it now, Edward. If the dead know the secrets of the 
 living, she has long since learned that you were innocent. It 
 not, the day will come when she must know it. It was God who 
 appointed her trial and ours.' 
 
 ' She thought me guilty,' he continued; 'and I was so, though 
 not as she believed. O Mildred, the indescribable wretched-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 437 
 
 ness of that time ! — but for my wife, I must have been over- 
 whelmed by it.' 
 
 'And the years of misery that have followed!' continued 
 IMildred : ' w^hen my father thinks of them he must yield.' 
 
 ' Yet remember, Mildred, it must be to justice, not compassion. 
 He did me wrong unknowingly ; when he is convinced of his 
 error, he must do me right freely. I can accept nothing but 
 pardon for the offence I did commit — restitution for the suffer- 
 ings borne for those which I did not commit.' 
 
 ' You are like him,' said Mildred, smiling sadly. 
 
 'Then there is the more hope that we may understand each 
 other. For my own reputation's sake, — my character in the 
 sight of the world,— I must demand a full acknowledgment that 
 I have been wronged.' 
 
 'And for his own reputation's sake, — his character in the 
 sight of the world,— he will demand a full proof that he has 
 wronged you.' 
 
 Mr Vivian was silent, and very thoughtful. 
 
 The remembrance of Bertha's refusal to deliver up the paper 
 crossed Mildred's mind, but she would not speak of it ; her 
 brother's countenance showed feelings which needed no aggra- 
 vation. 
 
 Mr Lester came up to them : 'We must go now, Vivian ; re- 
 member we have business on our hands, and explanations to be 
 made to the preventive men, — possibly to the magistrates also, 
 if we wish to prevent inquiry as to Clement's share and Ronald's, 
 and your own, in this unhappy affair ; and to-morrow early I 
 have promised to be at the Gorge.' 
 
 ' To see Ronald?' inquired Mildred. 'Is it not a miserable 
 place for him ? ' 
 
 ' Not miserable, but very uncomfortable. He insisted upon 
 being taken there, as well as he could insi&t upon anything, 
 so utterly exhausted as he was. He dreaded the Grange evi- 
 dently.' 
 
 ' He will have no one to take care of him or nurse him.' 
 
 ' I said so. I urged Mark to carry him to the Rectory, but 
 his agony of distress at the idea was so great that wc were 
 forced to give way. The old woman who has the charge of 
 Barney is a tolerable nurse, and Mark has given him up his 
 own bed, and is off himself to get out of the way of observation. 
 Vivian and I went with Ronald, and saw that he was in no 
 want of anything for the present ; and so we must leave it.
 
 438 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 To-morrow he may rally, — and then we may Ijri^'-g hhii to 
 reason.' 
 
 * You don't speak very anxiously,' said Mildred. 
 
 ' The medical opinion is favourable. A good deal of the ex- 
 haustion we found proceeded from his having eaten nothing foi" 
 many hours. But I don't venture to say he will recover.' 
 
 Mr Vivian had been standing by them in silence. He bent 
 over his sister and kissed her : ' My doing ! Mildred ; the curse 
 falls on all connected with me.' 
 
 ' Dearest Edward ! — the curse is taken away when there is 
 repentance.' 
 
 ' Not in this world, as regards temporal suftering,' he replied, 
 
 ' Save that the suffering may be converted into blessing,' ob- 
 served Mr Lester. ' And for Ronald, sorrow would be idle : 
 should he live, he will live to redeem his name ; should he die, 
 who can doubt thai, mercy is in store for him ?' 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 < 'T^HE General has had another attack of faintness, sir ; Miss 
 
 X Vivian is with him.' 
 
 That was the information which greeted Mr Lester when he 
 appeared at the Hall the following morning. Greaves looked 
 uneasy, and spoke anxiously, but said that Dr Lawes assured 
 them there was nothing to be alarmed at. 
 
 The intelligence was seconded by a note from ISIildred, written 
 in pencil : 'We must be patient. It is worry of mind. Nothing 
 can be said to him yet.' 
 
 Patience was comparatively easy now — at least, for Mr Vivian. 
 He had taken up his abode at the farm in preference to the Rec- 
 tory ; and thither Ella was sent, to make what might be called 
 her first acquaintance with her father. Louisa and Fanny also 
 were with him ; whilst Bertha was preparing Mrs Campbell's 
 mind for his return. Only Clement was absent. 
 
 Mr Vivian's was one of those easily depressed, easily excited 
 minds, which seem never entirely to lose their elasticity; and 
 now that personal danger was at an end, and he was restored to 
 the free companionship of his family, he would scarcely allow the
 
 CLEVE HALL. .439 
 
 happiness of the present moment to be disturbed by any fears for 
 the future. He was charmed with Ella's talents, Louisa's sense, 
 and little Fanny's beauty, and turned from any remembrance of 
 Clement's misconduct, till it was forced upon him at last, when 
 Mr Lester came, and it was necessary to inake inquiry into all 
 that had taken place. 
 
 Clement's story was short, but full of warning. He had not 
 offended to the full extent intentionally — that was his excuse ; 
 and yet every word he spoke showed that most fatal of all in- 
 tentions, the determination to follow a weak self-will. 
 
 To do him justice, he did not for a moment endeavour to evade 
 blame by equivocation. The first most marked and wilful 
 wandering from the right path had been the concealment of his 
 visit to the Grange. Had it been confessed, Mr Lester's strict 
 injunctions would have supported his weakness, and probably 
 enabled him to withstand further temptations. But once on the 
 downward path, and the impetus of evil carried him easily for- 
 ward. His vanity had been excited by the praises bestowed upon 
 his quickness in figures ; and, under the pretence of being further 
 useful to Captain Vivian, he had for the fourth time been enticed 
 by him to the Grange, as he was returning from the hills. 
 Clement knew he was doing wrong — he quite confessed it ; but 
 Captain Vivian, he said, was pressing. In the course of conver- 
 sation it was suggested to him that Captain Vivian's vessel was 
 at Encombe, and upon the point of making a short sail of about 
 an hour round by Cleve ; if he would only go on board, he was 
 to have a good lesson in seamanship, and might return almost 
 before he was missed. 
 
 The offer, accompanied by flattering prophecies that he would 
 make a first-rate sailor, was too tempting to be refused. And 
 Clement went with Captain Vivian to the cliff ; and then finding 
 it growing dusk, wished to return. But he was laughed at, as 
 being inclined to sneak out of an adventure, and told that the 
 moon would be up directly ; and so having, as he fancied, no 
 good excuse, he went. Captain Vivian, he thought, meant to 
 accompany him, but at the last moment he put him in charge 
 of Mark Wood. 
 
 From that time Clement's existence had been one almost of 
 terror. The vessel sailed in the direction of the opposite coast ; 
 and he found himself in the hands of men who would neither 
 listen to him nor explain their intentions. They treated him 
 civilly, but were deaf to his remonstrances, except that Mark
 
 440 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 Wood asstired him, from lime to time, that no personal injury 
 \vas intended him. 
 
 If he had erred greatly, the agony of mind of that one night 
 had been a punishment in which seemed condensed the lesson 
 of a life. Of what went on in the vessel, Clement was very 
 ignorant. They had met and spoken with another vessel, and 
 he imagined had received contraband goods on board ; but 
 he was kept close in the cabin, and indeed, was too ill a great 
 part of the time to enter into anything but his own sufferings. 
 
 Mark Wood waited upon him, and told him when they were 
 about to return ; l:)ut, as they neared the shore, Mark left him, 
 and another man. Hale, took charge of him. He felt himself 
 then a prisoner, and, from the casual observations which were 
 dropped before him, understood the nature of the expedition in 
 which the men were engaged, and resolved, at all hazards, to 
 leave them as soon as they touched the land. But this he soon 
 found to be impossible. Hale kept close to him, and had even 
 threatened to shoot him if he attempted to escape. The result 
 Mr Lester and his father already knew. 
 
 It was all told concisely and abruptly, drawn from him in a 
 great measure by questions ; and when, at last, the history was 
 ended, Clement stood humbled and silent, not even venturing to 
 ask for forgiveness. His father pitied him ; perhaps there were 
 too many and too keen recollections of his own follies to con- 
 demn him. Mr Lester pitied him also, yet his manner was 
 coldly stern. One comment only he made upon the facts he had 
 heard : ' Absence of intention, Clement, will not save us from 
 the consequences of our faults. There is a straight and narrow 
 path to heaven ; no one who leaves it intends to go to hell.' 
 
 ' I have had a lesson for life, sir ; I don't mean to forget it,' 
 replied Clement. 
 
 'A lesson for eternity, it ought to be, Clement. If small dis- 
 obediences will produce such terrible consequences on earth, we 
 may be quite certain that they will, without repentance, produce 
 a thousandfold more terrible consequences hereafter. I would 
 say it to you, and to Ella also. Neither of you have, as yet, 
 learned what strict duty means ; and if you do not learn it now, 
 it will be taught you by the bitter experience of life.' 
 
 Clement turned to his father. From him it seemed that he 
 expected greater palliation of his faults ; but Mr Vivian sat with 
 his forehead resting on his hands. Only once he looked up for 
 a moment, and said that he should like Ella to be sent for.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 441 
 
 She came, bright, excited, full of hope and happiness, having 
 only just begun to realise that the quiet, strange Mr Bruce could 
 possibly be her own father. The sight of Clement, and the grave 
 countenances which she saw, awed and subdued her. She sat 
 down by her father, and he put his arm round her, and looked 
 at her tenderly, but his eyes were dimmed with tears, and he 
 did not speak. 
 
 ' You have forgiven him, dear papa,' whispered Ella. 
 
 ' Mr Lester says he is not the only person to require forgive- 
 ness,' replied her father, evasively. 
 
 Ella looked up inquiringly. 
 
 'Am I very strict, Ella,' observed Mr Lester, ' in saying that, 
 if your influence had always been exerted on the side of obedi- 
 ence, last night's sufferings might have been spared us ?' 
 
 Ella's colour rose. She could bear her Aunt Mildred's gentle 
 and sympathising reproof, but Mr Lester's cold, severe tone 
 touched her pride. 
 
 She was not aware, she said, that any influence of hers had 
 induced Clement to join the smugglers. 
 
 ' I didn't join them, Ella,' exclaimed Clement ; ' I wouldn't 
 for the world have been mixed up with such a low set. I was 
 taken off against my will. But I was very wrong,' he added, 
 more gently. 
 
 Ella glanced at him in surprise. 
 
 ' You will think me hard, I know, Ella,' continued Mr Lester; 
 ' but I can easily make you see that I have reason on my side. 
 Who encouraged Clement to spend the time that should have 
 been devoted to study upon the shore, and so gave him desultory 
 habits ?' 
 
 Ella blushed, and was silent. 
 
 * Who set him the example of disrespect, disobedience, wilful- 
 ness, in small everyday matters ; and so led him into the same 
 in greater ones ? Who never would allow that punctuality to hours 
 was a duty ; and so made him think it of little consequence 
 whether he stayed with those men or not ? Who used to excite 
 him by talking of chivalry, and adventure, and daring— and for- 
 got that the noblest daring is that which shall conquer self? ' 
 
 No reply ; but Ella leaned her head on her father's shoulder, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 Clement was much distressed. ' If you wouldn't be angry with 
 her, sir. Indeed it was my own doing. I ought to have known 
 better ; and I did, too.'
 
 443 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 ' Ella won't be angry with me by and by,' said Mr Lester ; 
 ' she would rather hear the truth.* 
 
 * I am not angry, now,' — and Ella looked up, and half smiled 
 through her tears ; — * Aunt Mildred has told me all before.' 
 
 ' And Aunt Mildred has taught you to be a very different 
 person from what you were, Ella,' replied Mr Lester, kindly ; 
 ' and if there had not been something of a sense of justice in my 
 mind, which made me feel that you could scarcely be exonerated 
 from a share in Clement's faults, I doubt if I should have spoken 
 to you as I have ; certainly I should not have chosen to do so the 
 first day of your father's being with you.' 
 
 ' Mr Lester has lectured me, too, very often,' said Mr Vivian, 
 kissing her fondly. ' You know he was my tutor, so he was 
 accustomed to it years ago. God grant they may profit by it 
 better than I did,' he added, in a lower voice. 
 
 Clement came forward boldly ; ' I am willing to bear any 
 punishment, sir, which my father or you may think right. And 
 I would rather.' 
 
 ' You have had your punishment, Clement, from God ; if that 
 should fail, nothing else will have any effect.' 
 
 'And you won't trust me, sir, again.' 
 
 * Yes, you will ; it is impossible not to trust him,' exclaimed 
 Ella. 
 
 * I trust him entirely, implicitly — as a general trusts a prisoner 
 on his parole,' said Mr Vivian, quickly. 
 
 Mr Lester was silent. 
 
 Clement looked disheartened ; Ella inclined to be angry. 
 
 ' Shall I tell you, Clement, why I scarcely dare to say I trust 
 you ?' replied Mr Lester. ' Not only because of that one in- 
 stance of deception, most grievous though it was, for I believe 
 you are heartily ashamed of it; but because your besetting sin — 
 almost more fatal to a man than to a woman — is vanity.' 
 
 Clement winced under the accusation. 
 
 * It is very painful, I know, to hear it. It is such a weakness 
 so entirely opposed to a manly spirit, that we are apt to give it 
 any name rather than its true one. You think that you like 
 adventure — deeds of enterprise ; what you really like is admira- 
 tion of any kind. Let it come from your father, from me, from 
 the fishermen on the shore— it matters not who or what may be 
 the source — if you are admired, you are satisfied. There, Clement, 
 is your snare.' 
 
 'Yes, sir, I know it.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 443 
 
 Mr Lester's countenance brightened a little, and he laid his 
 hand affectionately on Clement's shoulder; 'Remember it as well 
 as know it, and I shall be satisfied. Own that you are vain ; 
 repeat it to yourself ; think of it ; watch against it ; pray most 
 earnestly that you may be saved from it, and you will, through 
 God's mercy, be all that we most earnestly desire ; for a man 
 who is fighting against vanity posts a sentinel upon eye, and ear, 
 and tongue, and every imagination of the heart : yield, and there 
 is no surer way to mar success in this world, or to destroy your 
 hopes for another.' 
 
 Clement stood silent ; and Ella, longing to withdraw attention 
 from him, said, rather lightly ; ' You won't tell me my great fault, 
 Mr Lester.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I don't know you as well as I do Clement,' he re- 
 plied, coldly \ ' besides, I have said enough for one morning.' 
 
 ' But I should like to know ; please tell me.' 
 
 ' Really ? — can you bear it ? ' 
 
 'Clement can bear it, and so can I, I hope,' replied Ella, 
 drawing herself up. 
 
 ' I could see one great fault peeping out in the way you spoke 
 just then,' replied Mr Lester — ' pride !' 
 
 'Yes, I know I am proud,' said Ella. 
 
 ' But you are not ashamed of it.' 
 
 ' It is very wrong, I am quite aware of that.* 
 
 ' But it does not lower you, you think, in the eyes of others. 
 You wouldn't shrink from being called a proud person ?' 
 
 'Not very much'— and Ella coloured, though she almost 
 smiled. 
 
 ' No ; and there is the great danger of pride ; — persons are 
 not ashamed of it. I have known many who rather pride them- 
 selves upon it. But, Ella, that is not according to God's judg- 
 ment ; and it will be no satisfaction to us, when heaven is lost, 
 to know that it was through a sin which we fancied was a noble 
 one,' 
 
 ' I don't know that I thought it noble exactly,' observed Ella, 
 ' only not so silly as some others.' 
 
 ' But even in that you arc mistaken,' replied Mr Lester. 
 ' Proud persons don't think they are ridiculous, but they are so ; 
 and many times, when ihcy imagine they have only been uphold- 
 ing their dignity, they have actually made themselves absurd.' 
 
 Ella looked grave and uncomfortable, and said that it was very 
 difficult to know when she was proud.
 
 444 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'Of course it is,' replied Mr Lester. 'You think tTiiat pride 
 is a family fiiiling, and you admire it for its antiquity. I can 
 trace it back farther than you do, Ella; it was Satan's sin when 
 he rebelled against God.' 
 
 Ella looked towards her father, to hide from Mr Lester the 
 blush which crimsoned her cheek. 
 
 ' Pride and indolence,' whispered Mr Vivian — ' these, I have 
 always been told, were my child's great faults.' 
 
 ' Yes, papa, indolence, I know ; but I never thought so much 
 about pride, and ' 
 
 ' And what ?' 
 
 * It seems hard upon me.' 
 
 ' It is just what I used to say, Ella; he was so very unsparing 
 when he told me my faults.' 
 
 ' But I would rather know them ; I would rather he should 
 tell me of them. I don't want any one to think better of mc than 
 I am ; only it always seemed that indolence was much worse than 
 pride.' 
 
 ' There is not much to choose between them, I am afraid,' said 
 Mr Vivian. 
 
 ' But pride ! — people would be nothing without pride,' ex- 
 claimed Ella, and she sat up, and turned to Mr Lester for an 
 answer. 
 
 'Nothing without self-respect,' replied Mr Lester; 'and that 
 must be founded upon truth, and those who see themselves truly 
 can never be proud.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean by self-respect.' 
 
 'A respect for ourselves as being God's creatures, redeemed 
 and sanctified by Him ; made the dwelling-place of His Spirit, 
 and destined to live with Him hereafter. That respect will make 
 us fear to do, or say, or think anything which may lower us in 
 His eyes ; but, when we have done so, it will force us at once to 
 acknowledge our fault, because it is only by that acknowledgment 
 that we can be restored to His favour.' 
 
 'That scarcely meets Ella's notions,' said Mr Vivian, as he 
 watched his child's face ; ' she is thinking of this world.' 
 
 'Well, then, as regards this world ; self-respect, Ella, is but a 
 phase of that foundation of all things — truth. Proud people 
 place themselves in false positions ; persons with self-respect see 
 exactly what they have a claim to. No one calls a prince proud 
 because he requires to be honoured as a prince; self-respect 
 teaches him to claim such attention. But when he forgets that
 
 CLEVE HALL. 445 
 
 other persons have their stations requiring honour also, then 
 pride begins, and self-respect ceases. In this point of view, 
 however, self-respect is only a natural virtue, and may be pos- 
 sessed where there is no real religion. The genuine feeling is 
 that which I spoke of iDefore, and which must always go hand in 
 hand with humility. But we have had enough lecturing upon 
 faults this morning,' added Mr Lester, suddenly stopping, and 
 changing his tone. ' I must go and see after my other parishioners, 
 and talk a little to Rachel. I only saw her for a minute last night, 
 and she had a wonderful story to tell me of her adventures yes- 
 terday.' 
 
 He held out his hand to Ella ; she took it shyly but cordially, 
 and said, ' Thank you.' Her heart was quite full. 
 
 ' Don't consider me very severe, dear child, if you can help it ; 
 I only want you to be perfect now papa is come.' 
 
 He went up to Clement, who was standing in the background. 
 
 ' It may be all forgotten,' said Mr Vivian, ' may it not V 
 
 'Yes, indeed, as far as I am concerned. And one thing, 
 Clement, I say from my heart— I trust you now more than I 
 have ever done before. I am sure you are heartily sorry.' 
 
 Clement's eyes sparkled through tears. ' You shall have cause, 
 iir ; indeed, I don't mean to forget.* 
 
 'God bless you, my dear boy, and give you strength to keep 
 your resolution.' 
 
 Mr Lester departed, and Clement threw himself into his 
 father's arms, and sobbed. 
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 WEARY and anxious were the hours spent by Mildred Vivian 
 in her father's sick-chamber. She was told there wns 
 nothing to fear ; she scarcely thouglit there was ; and yet the 
 suspense and watching, the sense of personal helplessness, the 
 boding care for her brother, the longing to search into the depths 
 of her father's thoughts, aggravated every symptom in her eyes. 
 One fear after another presented itself. He lay still and silent, 
 and she thought that some sudden weakness had paralysed hij 
 powers. He was restless, and she fancied that fever was coming
 
 446 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 on. He looked flushed, and she thought there was a rush of 
 blood to the head. But the fear which most haunted her was 
 that of paralysis. Such an attack, coming at his age, might 
 weaken his mental powers, and render futile all endeavours to 
 explain her brother's conduct. She was with him constantly, 
 but he said very little to her. He did not sleep, but his mind 
 seemed absorbed with thoughts which he would not communi- 
 cate, but which seemed working and goading him almost be- 
 yond endurance. 
 
 As he neither questioned her concerning Mr Lester's return, 
 nor referred to the missing paper, Mildred feared to agitate him 
 by bringing the subject before him. Yet it was evident that 
 such a state of things could not long continue. The feelings 
 preying upon him would inevitably work their way fatally, if 
 some stop were not put to them ; and on the fourth day after 
 the beginning of this miserable suspense, Mildred ventured to 
 mention Mr Lester's name, and ask whether her father would be 
 willing to see him. 
 
 ' If he will, he may come ; ' that was all the answer ; but it 
 was sufficient for Mildred, and she despatched a messenger to 
 the Rectory, with the request that Mr Lester would, if possible, 
 be at the Hall in the course of the afternoon. 
 
 The General insisted upon dressing and sitting up, then, 
 though he had been told that to rise might bring back the 
 giddiness and faintness. He was very weak, but he would 
 scarcely allow Greaves to wait upon him, and when he went 
 into his dressing-room, he ordered his books and papers to be 
 brought, and endeavoured to write a letter, but his hand shook 
 so much, that he was obliged to give up the attempt. Mildred 
 was sitting with him at the time, and offered to write for him. 
 He refused. ' It was no matter of consequence,' he said, 'and 
 would do just as well another day. His hand was a little shaky 
 from lying in bed so long.' It was evident that he did not 
 choose to be thought ill. 
 
 Luncheon came, and he made an effort to eat, but nothing 
 suited his taste. He was full of complaints, and at last took 
 only a little wine and water and a biscuit ; even that he only 
 pretended to eat, and soon put it aside, and sent for the news- 
 paper. 
 
 Greaves brought the Times. 
 
 * Not that ; the county paper. Where is it?' 
 
 Greaves looked at Mildred.
 
 CLEVE HALL. 447 
 
 ' I thought you wouldn't care to read that, sir, and I took it to 
 tny room,' replied Mildred. 
 
 ' Bring it,' and Greaves went unwillingly. 
 
 He came back. ' I am very sorry, ma'am, I have looked every- 
 where in the morning-room, and can't find it.' 
 
 Mildred regarded him scrutinisingly : 'Are you sure it is not 
 there, Greaves ? ' 
 
 'Very nearly, ma'am. I will look again if you wish it.' 
 
 'Ask Miss Ella ; she may have it,' said Mildred ; but Greaves 
 showed no alacrity to obey. 
 
 'Ella! what has she to do with newspapers?' inquired the 
 General. 'You don't let her read them, do you ?' 
 
 ' Not often, sir; only' 
 
 The General interrupted her : ' Go and ask Miss Ella for the 
 paper, Greaves. Tell her to bring it herself if she has it.' 
 
 He sat bending over the fire, and did not even look at Mildred. 
 
 Ella came, the newspaper in her hand : ' Do you want me, 
 grandpapa ? Shall I read to you .-' ' 
 
 'What is there in the paper worth reading? Anything par- 
 ticular?' 
 
 Ella became as pale as death, — then the blood crimsoned her 
 very temples. 
 
 The General repeated the question : ' You have been reading 
 it yourself, child. What was there in it?' 
 
 'Aunt Mildred let me see the account of the smuggling fray,' 
 replied Ella. 
 
 ' What smuggling fray ? At Encombe ? Let me see it ? ' He 
 adjusted his spectacles, turned to the light, but could not read, 
 and gave the paper back to Ella. ' It tires me, my dear. Lying 
 in bed so long makes one's eyes weak. Read it out.' 
 
 Ella would fain have handed the paper to Mildred. The 
 General observed it. 
 
 ' Read it yourself, my dear ; don't trouble your aunt.' 
 
 And Ella read a long, prolix account of the landing of the 
 smugglers, and the watchfulness of the coastguard, with some 
 uncomfortable particulars of the struggle between them, and the 
 detail of Goff's death. Then she stopped. 
 
 ' Is that all, my dear?' 
 
 * Nearly all, grandpapa.' 
 
 'Well, make haste, finish it. Mr Lester will be here.' 
 
 * It isn't exactly about the smugglers, grandpapa ; it is 
 only '
 
 \ 
 
 ] 
 
 448 CLEVE HALL, 
 
 * Read it, — read it, child.' 
 
 Ella's voice shook so that her words were scarcely intelligible \ 
 * We regret to say, that a rumour is abroad implicating a young 
 gentleman of honourable birth in this disgraceful affair. The cir- 
 cumstances are very mysterious, but are said to be connected 
 with a train of unfortunate events by which the succession to one 
 of the finest estates in the county has been alienated.' 
 
 'What?' General Vivian caught the paper from her hand and 
 looked at it, though it was clear he could scarcely distinguish 
 the words. ' Carry it to your aunt, Ella.' 
 
 * I have read it, sir, thank you. Ella, you may go.' 
 
 The storm was about to burst when Ella closed the door. 
 
 Mildred said timidly, 'I did not like to worry you, sir, when 
 
 you were so unwell.' 
 
 ' Nothing worries me- When did it happen ?' 
 
 ' Four nights ago, sir : the evening you were taken ill the 
 
 second time.' 
 
 * Where is the boy ? ' 
 
 'At home, sir, with Mrs Campbell. But indeed the papers 
 are hard upon him.' 
 
 * Of course, when they say disagreeable things. Does he mean 
 to take up smuggling as a profession ? ' 
 
 ' My dear father ! indeed, indeed, you are cruel upon him. 
 He did not join them, — at least not willingly ; he was led away.' 
 
 * No doubt : all persons are who go wrong.' 
 
 ' I think, sir, if you could hear him, — if you could see him, 
 you would judge him more gently. He is so entirely penitent 
 for his folly.' 
 
 *A11 persons are when they are suffering from the conse- 
 quences.' 
 
 *But he is so young,' continued Mildred, — 'such a mere boy; 
 and he did not in the least intend to go with the smugglers, — lie 
 was entrapped. It was Captain Vivian's doing.' 
 
 * Doubtless the same game which he played years ago.' 
 
 * Mr Lester will say more for poor Clement than I can,' 
 continued Mildred ; 'he has heard all the particulars, and he is 
 thoroughly convinced that Clement is deeply grieved for what 
 has happened, and is resolved to amend.' 
 
 ' I never said that Clement was not grieved. But since Mr 
 Lester knows everything,' — and there was a peculiar stress upon 
 the words, — ' no doubt he can explain mpre of the mysterious 
 circumstances alluded to.'
 
 & 
 
 CLEVE HALL. 449 
 
 Mildred looked thoroughly disheartened ; ' I would rather Mr 
 Lester should talk to you, my dear lather. I know all so indis- 
 tinctly, — by hearsay.' 
 
 ' Hearsay troubles itself with things which very little concern 
 it,' observed the General, 'when it remarks upon the disposition 
 \\hich it may please me to make of my property. Whoever 
 wishes, however, to know my final and irrevocable decision 
 upon the subject, is perfectly welcome to do so. The old lands 
 of the Vivians shall never, with my consent, descend to the 
 hands of base swindlers, or be wasted by the companion of 
 smugglers.' 
 
 'Edward a swindler! My dear, dear father, how little you 
 know ! ' 
 
 ' What else is it but swindling,' continued the General, 'to 
 promise that which you have no power to pay ; to give away 
 that which is not your own ; to mortgage an inheritance which 
 a single word may alienate ? Like father, like son. Let them 
 go. And for you, Mildred, and Mr Lester,' — he paused — his 
 words came thickly — ' you may plot too deeply for your own 
 honour and for mine.' 
 
 ' Father, you mistake me ; you do me wrong.' Mildred's 
 voice was eager, and her cheek flushed with all the inherent 
 pride of her race ; but in one moment it was checked. ' I am 
 sorry,— forgive me — I will not speak of myself; but, indeed, you 
 jire unjust to Mr Lester. And for Edward, oh believe me ! there 
 is indeed a mystery, but he never did the deed for which you 
 disinherited him. The paper brought before you was a base 
 forgery.' 
 
 General Vivian's eye was stony and fixed, his face was rigid. 
 Mildred drew near, and sat down beside him. 'My dearest 
 father ! You hear it ; it is truth. Edward himself says it. 
 May he not — will you not let him come to you and tell you so ?' 
 
 He regarded her almost vacantly, yet he repeated the word, 
 ' Forgeiy ?' 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' she continued ; 'you can't doubt him. It was 
 revenge, — Captain Vivian's revenge. It is ccrtnin.' 
 
 '■ Let me sec the paper.' The General passed his hand across 
 his forehead. 
 
 ' Dearest father ! will you listen to me ? Shall wc wait ? Mr 
 Lester is coming, and will explain.' 
 
 ' I must see it, — it was his handwriting — his own. Give it 
 me, — in the bo.x ; but it is gone, Mr Lester took it. O Mildred ! 
 
 2 F
 
 450 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 my child! plots, plots, cvcn-\vlicre !' and he turned his head 
 away from her, and rested it in ultcr feebleness and exhaustion 
 against the bnck of his chair. 
 
 Mildred allowed him to remain thus without interruption for 
 some seconds ; then she again said, very gently : ' Mr Lester's 
 coming will make all clear to you, sir. He will be here almost 
 directly.' 
 
 He kept her hand clasped in his, clutching it at times convul- 
 sively. She thought he did not hear when the hall-door bell 
 rang ; but he raised himself with a sudden effort, pushed her 
 aside, and tried to draw the table near to him, then sank back 
 again powerless. 
 
 Mildred watched him with anxiety. 'If it is Mr Lester, dear 
 sir, will you see him ?' 
 
 He bent his head in assent, and again tried to sit up. Mildred 
 put a cushion behind him, and made him rest his feet on a foot- 
 stool. Even at that moment, it struck her how old and worn he 
 looked — much older than his age. ' Shall I stay for Mr Lester, 
 o'- will you see him alone ?' she asked. 
 
 ' Stay: put a chair; tell Greaves to bring me my draught first.' 
 
 That caused a little delay, which Mildred did not regret, 
 earnestly though she longed for the interview to be over. It was 
 a breathing time ; it gave her a moment for prayer. Greaves 
 bustled about in the room longer than seemed necessary ; but he 
 did good ; he distracted the General's attention and roused him. 
 He said, at last, 'That will do, go.' And the irritable tone wns 
 a comfort to Mildred. 
 
 One glance interchanged between Mildred and Mr Lester told 
 little to either of aught except suspense. I\lr Lester went up to 
 the General : ' I am afraid I find you ill, sir.' 
 
 'Better, thank you ; I am sitting up.' 
 
 ' Yes : he has kept his bed the last four days,' observed Mildred. 
 ' I don't exactly know what has been the matter.' 
 
 ' Gout hanging about. You have been to London, Mr Lester.' 
 
 ' For a day or two, sir. I returned just before you were taken 
 ill, and should have called to see you if I had been allowed, but 
 they said you ought to be kept quiet.' 
 
 ' I have business with )'ou.' 
 
 ' Have you, sir? Might it not be as well to delay it till you 
 are rather stronger ?' 
 
 ' I am obliged to you, but I am the judge of my own strength. 
 You have a paper of mine. I gave it' . He stopped, and
 
 CLEVE HALL. 451 
 
 looked diatressed, and turned with an appealing glance to 
 Mildred. 
 
 ' No, dear sir ; if you recollect, you did not give it. It was 
 that which worried you. But Mr Lester Avill tell you about it. 
 He was telling me last night.' 
 
 That acknowledgment was repented of as soon as made, for a 
 frown rested on the General's face. 
 
 ' It must have been taken up by me accidentally,' observed Mr 
 Lester, 'the day I was with you, sir, looking over your papers. 
 That is the only way I can account for its having come into my 
 possession. Certainly I was not aware that I had it, until IMiss 
 Campbell told me she had found it in my pocket-book.' 
 
 ' Campbell ! Campbell ! ' muttered the General to himself. 
 * Is she in it ?' The mention of the name had evidently awakened 
 some old prejudice and dislike. He spoke more distinctly, ' I 
 must have it back ; it is important. Mildred says' , 
 
 * What is quite true, sir, — that it is a forgery,' 
 
 ' I would look at it,— fetch it for me, Mildred. I beg your 
 pardon, IMr Lester, I don't know who has it, — it has been taken 
 from me — I must see it.' The tone became more and more 
 excited. 
 
 ]\Iildred and Mr Lester glanced at each other in alarm. 
 
 ' What makes you look so ? Why don't you speak out ? If 
 it's a forgery, why isn't it proved? It shall be proved; I will 
 have it tried. The last penny I have shall be spent to try it.' 
 
 ' If you will see your son, sir,' said Mr Lester, mildly, 'he will 
 convince you. Had you not better see him? He is at En- 
 combe, longing to be admitted to you.' 
 
 General Vivian turned round upon him sharply: ' Is that your 
 object, Mr Lester ?' 
 
 ' My object is to see justice done, sir.' 
 
 ' And mine,— mine too. I don't doubt you, Mr Lester. You 
 are a gentleman. Where is tlic paper ?' 
 
 'Destroyed, sir ;' — there was no escape from a direct answer; 
 — 'by a most unhappy mischance. The villain Goff, Captain 
 Vivian's witness, and the sharer, I presume, in the profits of his 
 crime, took it by force from Miss Campbell, as she was returning 
 the other evening from the Hall, and tore it to atoms. How he 
 obtained the information that she had it I cannot tell.' 
 
 The General was quite silent. 
 
 ' I need not say, sir, that Miss Campbell's word is above sus- 
 picion.'
 
 452 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'You saw the paper, JNIr Lester?' 
 
 'No, sir; I knew nothing about it until my return from 
 London.' 
 
 ' I saw it,' exclaimed Mildred. 
 
 'Then you can tell ; yes, you must be the best judge of all. 
 Was it your brother's handwriting?' and the General's eye 
 rested upon her with its cold, clear, scrutinising glance. 
 
 Mildred felt herself defeated by her own words. She could 
 only say that certainly it was very like it, but that of course it 
 would be, to be a successful forgery. She had not examined it 
 minutely. 
 
 'And Miss Campbell obtained possession of it,' murmured 
 the General to himself. 
 
 'Accidentally, sir. She found it by mistake in my pocket- 
 book.' 
 
 ' Where it should have been left, ]\Ir Lester. It was not Miss 
 Campbell's business to pry into the concerns of another family.' 
 
 ' She meant no harm, my dear father. It was very natural ; 
 she felt the paper to be of importance.' 
 
 ' Of the greatest importance. So much so, Mildred, that 
 without it ' — he stopped — ' Mr Lester, I don't doubt you.' 
 
 ' Then, sir, you w ill see your son.' 
 
 ' My son, — tell him from me that I forgive him.' 
 
 'My father! My dear, dear father, have pity upon him! 
 His heart yearns to see you,' exclaimed Mildred. 
 
 ' I have pity, I forgive him. Justice forbids me to do more 
 without proof. Mr Lester, bid him look after his boy, or there 
 will yet be a further disgrace awaiting us. Mildred, ring for 
 Greaves. I would go to my room.' 
 
 Mildred delayed, with her hand on the bell, and looked en- 
 treatingly at Mr Lester, then doubtfully on her father. 
 
 The General read their countenances. 
 
 ' Vou think me hard. If you could stand in my place, you 
 would judge me better.' He tried to rise himself from his 
 chair, but he was too weak. And as he sat down again, and 
 leaned his head upon his hands, Mildred saw tears trickle 
 through them. 
 
 She kissed his forehead, and he did not repel her, though he 
 would not notice her. 
 
 She whispered to him : ' Is there not comfort in the thought 
 of his innocence?' And then he dashed away the hand which 
 lay upon his, and told her to leave him.
 
 CLEVE HALL. ^._ 453 
 
 Mr Lester made one more effort. * General Vivian ! "\o\\ 
 speak of justice. It is unjust to refuse to see your son, and to 
 hear what he can say in his own defence.' 
 
 ' Proof,' murmured the General ; ' let him bring proof.' 
 
 ' But if he cannot, my dearest father ; if you insist upon that 
 which it is impossible to obtain?' 
 
 The General shook his head, his clearness of intellect seemed 
 failing again. 
 
 ' We must not urge it,' whispered Mr Lester to Mildred. 
 
 She rang the bell, and when Greaves came, Mr Lester left the 
 room, the General taking no notice of his departure. 
 
 CHAPTER LI 1 1. 
 
 RONALD VIVIAN sat in a large arm-chair, by the side 
 of the low, open hearth in Mark Wood's cottage. Bar- 
 ney's couch was opposite : the child was much attenuated, and 
 his face expressed more constant pain. In a distant corner, 
 Mother Brewer was busied in knitting a pair of small woollen 
 socks. The traces of what might have been years of sickness 
 and sorrow were visible in Ronald's worn countenance ; yet still 
 more visibly was stamped upon it the energy which might still 
 struggle and conquer, grounded upon the endurance which 
 might suffer but would never yield. 
 
 His wound was not deep, though it was ^•cry painful. Lie 
 spoke of it himself now as something light, scarcely worthy of a 
 thought. Yet it distressed him so much to move, that it was 
 clear that great care would be needful before it could be ex- 
 pected to heal. Barney was trying to amuse himself with 
 cutting out figures, but it was an effort to him to hold the 
 scissors. From time to time he looked up wistfully at Ronald, 
 whose eyes were closed. 
 
 ' He's asleep, isn't he V said the old woman, laying down her 
 knitting. 
 
 'Not asleep, thank you, mother;' and Ronald opened his 
 his eyes, and smiled. 
 
 'Why do you shut up your eyes if you ain't sleepy?' asked 
 Barney, rather sharply. 
 
 ' Because it rests tbcm. When one's ill one's eyes ache '
 
 454 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 * I 'm ill, but my eyes don't adic. Is it 'cause they shot you, 
 that your eyes arc bad ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose it is ; but I dare say they won't ache long. You 
 know I 'm getting well.' 
 
 'Sooner talked of than done, — that,' muttered Mother Brewer 
 from her corner ; and I^arney turned round and looked at her, 
 but did not trouble himself to ask what she said. 
 
 ' I don't want you to get well, Ronald. I like you best to be 
 ill ; only you can't play so easy.' 
 
 ' I don't know that it's very kind of you, Barney, to wish that 
 I should always be ill ; but I suppose you mean it so.' 
 
 'You'll be going off if you get well,' said Barney; 'and 
 father said one day that if you didn't you 'd go to heaven with 
 me, and that 's what I should like.' 
 
 ' But, Barney, you know we may travel the same way, and meet 
 at the end, though we don't go quite together, I 've got a good 
 deal to do before I get to heaven.' 
 
 ' I dare say you'd be let off, if you asked,' said Barney ; ' and 
 you 'd like best to go.' 
 
 Ronald was silent. 
 
 'You would like it, sure,' continued the child; 'everybody 
 likes to go to heaven, 'cause it 's so beautiful. I want to see the 
 golden streets : Mother Brewer thinks that they shine as bright 
 as Miss Rachel's picture-frame yonder, when the sun's on it. 
 Shouldn't you like to see them ? ' 
 
 Ronald still delaying his answer, the question was repeated 
 again, rather querulously. ' Yes, by and by ; very much indeed/ 
 was the reply. But Ronald spoke as if his thoughts were scarcely 
 in his words. 
 
 'It's wicked of you if you don't wish it,' continued Barney. 
 ' Parson Lester says, nobody ever speaks cross there, or says bad 
 words.' 
 
 * No indeed, they don't,' said Ronald, sadly. 
 
 'And there are beautiful angels all dressed in white, and sing- 
 ing wonderful,' continued Barney ; 'and a river so clear, you can 
 see quite through, and fine trees, and fruits. Don't you want to 
 go?' 
 
 ' If God is pleased to take me, I hope I shall be quite glad to 
 go,' replied Ronald. ' But, Barney, I don't think God does 
 wish me to go yet ; and so I would rather stay and do His work 
 here.' 
 
 ' Work ! what work ? Captain John don't work.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 455 
 
 * But I must.' 
 
 * Fishing ?' asked Barney. 
 
 A smile came over Ronald's face ; but Barney looked at him 
 quite steadily and earnestly. 
 
 ' Not that kind of work, but trying to make m)self good ; and 
 others too/ he added, in a lower voice. 
 
 'That's not work,' said Barney ; ' that's praying.' 
 
 'But praying is a kind of work, because sometimes it is a 
 trouble to say one's prayers.' 
 
 'I don't like it, sometimes ; but that's 'cause I'm not good. 
 \\'hen I get to heaven I shan't say my prayers to Mother Brewer ; 
 and then I shall attend.' 
 
 'Ah ! but, Barney, we must learn to attend before we get to 
 heaven : and we must do a great many other things besides, 
 which are hard to us, and we must try to set a good example.' 
 
 ' What 's 'sample ? ' asked Barney. 
 
 ' Behaving v. ell before others,' replied Ronald, ' and so shov^-- 
 ing them how to do the same.' 
 
 'Well, then, if you and I go to heaven, we can set a good 
 'sample there.' 
 
 ' But peop'e don't want to have any examples set them in 
 heaven, because they live with God and Jesus Christ, and so 
 they have the best example before them, and never do wrong.' 
 
 Barney was thoughtful. Presently he said : ' Father don't set 
 me a good 'sample ; he says bad words, and speaks out. And 
 Captain John don't set you one, does he ?' 
 
 ' He speaks out sometimes,' replied Ronald, evasively. 
 
 ' Then do you mean to set him a good 'sample instead ? ' 
 
 'If I can.' 
 
 'And that's why you want to stay,' said Barney, still looking 
 as if he were pondering deeply. In another moment he turned 
 his head aside and sobbed as if his little heart would break. 
 
 'Barney ! my poor child !' — Ronald was going to move from 
 his chair, but was stopped by the old woman, who put down her 
 knitting and went up to the couch, 
 
 ' What 's the matter now ? what's a crying for ? Come, stop j 
 be a good boy, leave off,' said Mother Brewer, alternating between 
 anger and coaxing. 
 
 ' I want to be put next Ronald, in my chair,' sobbed Barney. 
 
 'You shall be put next me if you leave off crying ; but I can't 
 let you come till you do,' said Ronald. 
 
 The child exercised sin'nilar self-command. His tears were
 
 45(5 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 swallowed almost instantaneously ; but his neck still heaved 
 convulsively. 
 
 The old woman placed him in a high chair, propped him up 
 Avith pillows, and carried him to the opposite side of the hearth. 
 
 He put his hand in Ronald's, but did not speak till Mother 
 lirewer had retired again to her corner ; then he hid his face on 
 Ronald's shoulder and whispered in a voice interrupted by sobs ; 
 ' I don't want to stay and set father a 'sample. Must I ?' 
 
 Ronald passed his arm lovingly, for support, round the poor, 
 little skeleton frame, and answered : ' I don't think God wants 
 you to stay, Barney ; He only wants you to be good whilst you 
 are here.' 
 
 ' I '11 be \'ery good, — I won't cry once, and I won't look about 
 when I say my prayers, and 1 '11 say all my hymns through ; 
 only I don t want it to be long; it pains me so;' and again 
 he began to cry, but more gently, from weakness and over ex- 
 citement. 
 
 Ronald let him rest quietly, and hoped he might go to sleep ; 
 and he did close his eyes for a few moments, but opened them 
 again to say in a dreamy voice, ' You '11 come too, Ronald ? ' 
 
 And Ronald answered, cheerfully, ' Yes, soon ; by and by ;' 
 and that seemed to satisfy him. At length he fell asleep, and 
 Ronald, motioning to the old woman, he was taken back to his 
 couch, and laid upon it. 
 
 Mr Lester came whilst Barney was still asleep. He saw- 
 Ronald regularly ; and his visits were comforting, yet not to 
 himself quite satisfactory. Ronald was very reserved, and 
 seemed unwilling to say what was on his mind ; and though 
 Mr Lester knew what had passed between him and Mr Vivian, 
 and that he was fully acquainted with his father's conduct, he 
 dared not bring forward a subject so full of pain. Yet there 
 were many allusions to it. Ronald's chief interest was for Mr 
 Vivian, and the probability of his being admitted to an inter- 
 view with the General, and obtaining his pardon. Almost the 
 iirst question he asked when he saw Mr Lester the day after the 
 smuggling skirmish, had reference to this point ; and he was now 
 frequently referring to it. It was indeed an engrossing subject 
 of thought ; for on the failure of the meeting depended the 
 necessity, so intensely painful, of coming forward with his 
 father's written confession. Mr Lester once proposed that Mr 
 Vivian should come and see him, but Ronald seemed to dislike 
 the idea. Ho had not even as yet begged to see Miss Campbell,
 
 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 457 
 
 though he always sent a message to her. A spirit of torpor 
 seemed, for the most part, to have succeeded his natural daring 
 excitement of temperament ; and he was willing to sit for hours 
 brooding over the fire, now and then apparently asleep, but in 
 reality alive to everything which might take place around him. 
 
 He was more like himself this day^, for Barney had done him 
 good by making him anxious, and when the old woman had left 
 him alone with Mr Lester, there was a topic to enter upon at 
 once, without the preliminary questions as to his own health, 
 which were always irksome to him. 
 
 ' He is looking worse to-day,' was his remark, made in a low 
 voice, as he pointed to the child. 
 
 Mr Lester went up to the couch, and stood for a few moments, 
 watching Barney's irregular breathing and the burning spot on 
 his little, thin check. 
 
 * Yes, he does look a good deal worse,' he said, coming back 
 to Ronald's chair, and drawing his own near the fire. ' Has the 
 doctor seen him?' 
 
 * He is coming by^ and by ; but no doctor will help him now ;' 
 and Ronald brushed his hand across his eyes. 
 
 * One can't wish it ; it would be no good to him to keep him.' 
 'And it won't matter to me,' said Ronald. 'Anyhow, 1 
 
 shouldn't be here to see him ; and I would rather think of him 
 as safe.' 
 
 ' And look forward to joining him,' replied Mr Lester. ' That 
 may be before very long for any of us ; though it may seem long 
 to you, Ronald, with life before you.' 
 
 ' I mustn't think of that yet,' replied Ronald. Cli.mging the 
 subject, he said quickly : ' Is Mr Vivian still at the farm ?' 
 
 'Yes.' Mr Lester seemed doubtful what further to add. 
 
 'And the General is not better, then .'' ' 
 
 'Yes, he is better, in a way ; though he lool.s iil.' 
 
 'Then you have seen him, sir?' and Ronald waited for an 
 answer, with evident anxiety. 
 
 ' For a little while, just before I came here. He is a singular 
 man, Ronald. The wall of prejudice and warped principle is too 
 strong for us.' 
 
 Ronald leaned forward eagerly. ' It mustn't be. O Mr 
 Lester!' and his voice sank, 'if he has dealt hardly uninten- 
 tionally, surely, surely he will make amends.' 
 
 Mr Lester's reply was delayed for a few seconds. Presently 
 he said, not looking at Ronald, ' He knows all, but I can't
 
 458 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 say what impression it has made upon him ; he demands 
 proof.' 
 
 Ronald's face, before very pale, became quite colourless. 
 ' Then he would have vengeance,' he said. 
 
 ' He would call it justice, not vengeance.' 
 
 ' And it would be justice,' murmured Ronald. 
 
 'But he cannot have it; there can be no legal proof ; your 
 father is safe. My poor boy ! ' and Mr Lester laid his hand 
 upon Ronald's, * you mustn't think of that.' 
 
 * I do ; I think of it always, and I try to feel the comfort.' 
 
 ' You will do so by and by. You are weak now ; you can 
 scarcely realise it.' 
 
 ■ But I do realise it. I know that some might say I should 
 be content. They would feel the outward, not the inward 
 wound.' 
 
 ' Even that God can comfort, Ronald, and lie will as years 
 CO on.' 
 
 * He is very merciful ; I pray to Him to help me ; but to begin 
 life with disgrace ! ' And he shuddered. The next moment he 
 turned from the thought, and asked, ' Has the General seca 
 Mr Vivian.^' 
 
 * Not yet. There is an immense amount of hidden excitement 
 preying upon him, and I dread the consequences. It is the 
 strong-indulged will, and the warped spirit of manhood, working 
 upon the enfeebled body of age, and becoming its torture. No 
 one has, and no one, I believe, ever will, inOuence him.' 
 
 A long silence followed. Mr Lester again went to Barney's 
 couch, and looked at him attentively. When he came back, 
 Ronald was seated more upright, his face and attitude expressive 
 of some strong self-control. 
 
 He returned to the subject without any preface, and said : 
 * Then there is no hope ? ' 
 
 ' I don't allow myself to think so ; it is too hard and unnatural. 
 I must, to-morrow, speak to him myself, alone— as only a minis- 
 ter of God can speak. He has no right to demand proof against 
 his son's word.' 
 
 * He shall have proof, to-morrow,' repeated Ronald, quietly. 
 INIr Lester looked at him, doubting whether his ears had 
 
 rightly caught the words. 
 
 ' He shall have it, to-morrow,' repeated Ronald. ' If Mr 
 Vivian will meet me at the Hall, we will see the General to- 
 gether.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 459 
 
 Mr Lester felt uneasy. Ronald's voice was so changed and 
 hollow, and his eye had a fixed glare. ' You could not go with 
 him, my dear boy, even if you wished it,' he said, gently, * re- 
 member how weak you are.' 
 
 ' ]\Iark Vvood will help me. To-morrow, at three.' 
 
 ' My dear Ronald, this will not do ; you are dreaming of what 
 it is impossible you should perform. And your notions are 
 wrong. You can't think that you are bound to come forward in 
 this sad business. It is a feverish fancy.' 
 
 Ronald touched his pulse. ' Feel it, sir ; I am quite calm. 
 Say to Mr Vivian that I rely upon the promise solemnly made, 
 when I had aided in saving his child's life. Now, will you read 
 to me ? It will do me good.' 
 
 Mr Lester paused, but there was that in Ronald's countenance 
 which made him shrink from pursuing the subject or attempting 
 to gainsay his will, at least without consultation with Mr Vivian. 
 He read to him and prayed, and Ronald thanked him gratefully 
 and affectionately ; but he made no more reference to his deter- 
 mination, except by I'epeating when they parted, ' To-morrow at 
 three.' 
 
 The remainder of that afternoon Ronald spent in sitting by 
 Barney's couch, holding the child's hand, smoothing his pillow, 
 repeating verses of hymns, — trying, in every way that he could 
 think of, to soothe his pain. And from time to time the little 
 fellow dozed for a few moments, and then woke again to ask 
 that Ronald would please to say the prayer for God to make him 
 patient, for he was very tired of the ache. The other children 
 returned from school, and were taken into the back room by 
 jNIoiher Brewer, and kept quiet with playthings ; and about six 
 o'clock IMark Wood, who, hnding that he was likely to escape 
 detection, had ventured back to his cottage, came in and had 
 tea with them ; but Barney was in a great deal of pain just then, 
 and Ronald had no heart to join them, though he was very 
 weary. 
 
 The old woman put the little ones to bed early ; and I\Iark 
 said he would go into Clcve to get something from the doctor to 
 make his boy sleep ; but Mother Brewer muttered that there 
 was no need for that; he'd sleep sound enough before many 
 hours were over ; and Mark gave up his intention, and sat down 
 moodily by the fire. 
 
 So they went on till about eight o'clock ; about that time the 
 pain ceased entirely, but Barney was almost too exhausted to
 
 a6o CLEVE hall. 
 
 speak. He asked Ronald once to move, that father might kiss 
 him, and bade Mother Brewer say ' Good-night ' to httle 
 brothers and sisters, and tell them to be good; and after that he 
 went to sleep, and they thought he would wake refreshed, as he 
 had often done before after similar attacks. He was quiet for 
 more than two hours ; then he roused himself, and Mark gave 
 him a little water. The child looked at him intently for an in- 
 stant, and said, * Thank you, father. Please say prayers.' And 
 Mark knelt by the side of the little bed, and buried his face in 
 the coverlet. 
 
 Barney felt feebly for Ronald's hand ; ' You '11 set the 'sample, 
 Ronald, and then you'll come.' And the light grasp relaxed, 
 and Barney fell asleep, to wake to the sight of the golden streets, 
 and the river ot pure water, and the fruits of the trees of ever- 
 lasting life. 
 
 CHAPTER IJV. 
 
 BRIGHT were the gleams of the December sun, although it 
 had already passed its low meridian height, as Iidward 
 Vivian and Mr Lester walked slowly through the Cleve Woods 
 on their way to the Hall. They spoke of many things ; the past 
 perhaps more than the present or the future. It was a natural 
 feeling, which would fain linger over the recollections connected 
 with those scenes of happier days now, before the sentence might 
 again be spoken which was to be the decree of separation from 
 them for ever. 
 
 Mr Vivian was greatly depressed, yet a tone of only partially 
 subdued indignation occasionally escaped him. He felt bitterly 
 the doubt which had been cast upon his word, and would with 
 difficulty listen to Mr Lester's explanation. It was useless, he 
 said, to tell him that he was not doubted. If it were so, why 
 was he not received, and the v/rong acknowledged ? There 
 could be no alternative in such a case. Even duty to his father 
 seemed scarcely to call upon him to enter into more detailed 
 explanations. 
 
 ' Years ago it might have been so,' was Mr Lester's reply, 
 ' But you are fighting against a feeling first fostered as a dut}-, 
 and encouraged the more since it has been against natural in-
 
 CLFA'E HALL. 461 
 
 clination. General Vivian fears himself. lie has rested upon 
 his sense of justice, and made an idol of it ; and now, conscious 
 of his own weakness — such, at least, he would call it, — he dreads 
 being betrayed into an offence against it. He thinks himself 
 bound to treat you as he v.ould a stranger. There is prejudice 
 in this, the rankling of former grievances, but he does not see it. 
 His is the spirit of the old Roman, who would sit in judgment 
 upon his children, and condemn them.' 
 
 'I don't understand it,' exclaimed Mr Vivian, hastily. 'We 
 are Christians, not heathens.' 
 
 'Even so. But General Vivian's principles are — I say the 
 word in all reverence, and, of course, with great limitation — 
 heathen. I mean that he has formed his own standard of riglit, 
 without looking at that given in the Bible. If justice were the 
 one virtue alone to be upheld, where should we all be ? ' 
 
 J\lr Vivian stopped suddenly. ' It goads me,' he said ; ' it 
 makes me feel that I would give up everything and go. If it 
 were not for my children I think I could.' 
 
 ' Aly dear Vivian, that would be an action which you would 
 repent for ever. You have no right to act upon pride. Remem- 
 ber — forgive me for saying it — that your own conduct was the 
 first cause of offence. If it has since been exaggerated and mis- 
 construed, yet the original evil lies at your own door.' 
 
 'Your are right, Lester. I must bear all. And if I could see 
 him — oh ! were he ever so stern — ever so cruel — all angry 
 feelings would go. I could throw myself at his feet and ask for 
 pardon, as in my childish days. But he will not see me ; there 
 is no hope of it.' 
 
 Mr Lester, without answering, opened the little gate which 
 led into Mildred's flower-garden. From thence a private door 
 admitted them into the niorning-room. It was empty. Mildred 
 was with the General ; but her work-basket and books were 
 lying about ; she had been there only lately. 
 
 ' Eighteen years ! ' murmured Mr Vivian. ' It seems but 
 yesterday.' He went to tlic lower end of the room, and drew 
 aside the curtain from the picture hanging there ; looked at it 
 for several minutes, then covered it again, and sat down without 
 making any comment. 
 
 ' If Ronald should come, as he said, he must wait here,' ob- 
 served Mr Lester. 
 
 'Yes.' But Mr Vivian would take no coml'urt from tlie 
 thought of Ronald's promise. ' My father wants proof ; and
 
 462 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 words arc no prouis to him,' lie said, indignantly. 'And the 
 boy will not speak to hia fathei-'s prejudice. Who could ask it 
 of him .? I would not ai,-cept restoration on such terms.' 
 ' He was bent upon being here,' observed Mr Lester. 
 ' He was feverish and excited yesterday, no doubt. If he had 
 anything that would really help us, he would have come forward 
 before.' 
 
 ' He was not in a state to do so,' remarked Mr Lester. 
 
 ' I can't hope, Lester. I would rather fear the worst.' 
 
 And i\Ir Lester was silent, and rang the bell. 
 
 ' Will the General see me, Greaves 1 ' 
 
 Greaves, now fully aware of the interests at stake in the family, 
 looked important, and was doubtful. The General had slept 
 badly, and was, he thought, inclined to doze ; but he would see. 
 
 Ella and Rachel appeared at the window, and drew back, 
 startled at seeing gentlemen ; but they soon came forward again, 
 laughing. Rachel's bright eyes were raised lovingly to her 
 father, as she exclaimed, ' We didn't know you were here, papa. 
 Ella had been at the farni, and was coming back, and I said I 
 would walk with her. Mrs Robinson w^as coming too, and said 
 she would go back with me. There wasn't any harm, was 
 there ? ' 
 
 'None at all, my child ; but you mustn't disturb us now.' 
 
 ' Let them come in,' said Mr Vivian. He seemed glad of any- 
 thing which would distract his thoughts ; and Ella and Rachel 
 were admitted. 
 
 ' We saw Mark Wood, papa, as we were coming,' said Rachel ; 
 'he looked so very sad ; he was driving Hardman's little cart, 
 and said he was going to take Ronald out. I didn't like to ask 
 if Barney was worse.' 
 
 ' He died last night, Rachel. I was going to tell you.' 
 
 Rachel walked away to the window. Her father followed her, 
 ' We mustn't grieve for him, Rachel.' 
 
 ' No, papa, only — I will try not ; and she struggled against 
 her tears, and smiled, and then gave wciy again, and cried bitterly. 
 ' I don't want him back, but I loved him so.' 
 
 Ella looked very grave and sorrowful, yet she could not quite 
 feel with Rachel. She began telling her father about Barney, 
 and Mr Vivian was interested, and made her repeat to him what 
 Ronald had done for the child ; and when Greaves returned and 
 said that the General was ready, and would see Mr Lester, if he 
 would walk up-stairs, though he turned pale for the instant, yet
 
 CLEVE HALL. 463 
 
 he went on talking to Ella, whilst Rachel sat down on a stool in 
 the recess of the window, gazing at the pale sunlight which still 
 flickered upon the lawn. 
 
 Mr Lester passed through th.e dressing-room, and found Mil- 
 dred there. The door into the bedroom was open, so that he 
 could only press her hand kindly, and ask a few oi-dinary ques- 
 tions. The General's hearing was wonderfully quick for his age, 
 and he dared not stay to talk with her. 
 
 ' You will find him very weak,' she said, in an undertone, 
 when he asked what she thought of her father ; ' but he has 
 referred to nothing ; only he has been trying to write this 
 morning, sitting up in bed. Now he is dressed, and in his arm- 
 chair.' 
 
 The General looked at least eighty, but that might have been 
 his position, supported by pillows, and with only a partial light 
 falling upon him through the half-closed curtains. He spoke 
 with tolerable firmness, and thanked Mr Lester for coming, and 
 accepted his offer of reading to him. 
 
 ' Mildred is not strong enough to read much to me,' he said ; 
 ' and Ella has been out, they say, this morning. I should like 
 to hear the morning lessons for the day.' He spoke decidedly 
 as if he did not choose any other subject to be discussed, 
 
 Mr Lester turned over the pages of his Bible slowh', and 
 remarked that in another week it would be Christmas Day. 
 
 ' Yes ; I forgot it was so near, till Mildred reminded me. She 
 will receive your lists of the poor as usual.' 
 
 'You are very kind, sir. The poor people are extremely 
 grateful.' 
 
 'It is no kindness. Mr Lester ; it is their right. I am their 
 steward.' 
 
 ' I wish all persons with property would think the same, sir ; 
 but it is in many cases a difficult lesson to teach.' 
 
 ' I learned it in my childhood, from warning. When I came 
 into possession of my property, I vowed that the poor should 
 never be defrauded.' 
 
 ' It is a happy thought for old age. General, that the vow has 
 been kept ; and yet ' 
 
 'Well, sir, have you any fault to find with it?' and the 
 General turned his keen eyes upon Mr Lester. 
 
 ' I was thinking of the completeness of God's demands upon 
 us,' replied Mr Lester ; ' that one good deed will not stand in 
 the stead of another.'
 
 404 CLl'A'E 1 1. ILL. 
 
 The General was silent, but there was an uncomfortable, 
 nervous twitching about his mouth. 
 
 Mr Lester again turned to the Bible, and opened it, not at the 
 lesson for the day, but at the I'^.pistle of St James ; ' Wliosoever 
 >hall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty 
 of all.' 'That has always struck me as one of the most fearful 
 texts in the Bible,' he said. ' It strikes at the root of such a 
 common error. May I say to you, dear sir, that it has been 
 upon my mind very much since our parting yesterday ? ' 
 
 It was an immense effort to him, and he watched the General's 
 countenance with an anxiety which made his voice tremble. 
 
 ' You mean rightly, Mr Lester ; go on.' 
 
 ' You are most kind, most thoughtful, and considerate for 
 your poor neighbours, sir. It seems strange to beg that you will 
 be equally so toward your son.' 
 
 ' My conscience is clear upon that point,' replied the General, 
 'and my judgment, Mr Lester, lies with God. If I have wronged 
 my son, I will repair the wrong.' 
 
 'And see him, sir ; hear his confession; restore him to your 
 love ; that is what he asks ? ' 
 
 The General tried to take up a paper which lay upon the table, 
 but his hand trembled too much. ' I have tried to write it,' he 
 murmured to himself. 
 
 Mr Lester interrupted him. ' But will you not tell me, dear 
 sir ? Speaking is better than writing ; there is more truth in it. 
 
 ' No, sir, no ; I can't. Mr Lester, you mustn't urge it. I am 
 old — God knows I have been tried — you must leave me.' 
 
 ' I would speak to you, sir, because you are old. Life may be 
 very short, I would not have you go unforgiving to your grave.' 
 
 ' I do forgive — all. I did him wrong, perchance. He mayn't 
 have done what I thought. He says it ; Miss Campbell says it. 
 Let it be tried and proved ; but let me rest, let me rest, for my 
 days are few.' 
 
 ' There will be rest in mercy,' replied Mr Lester, solemnly ; 
 ' for so only can we hope for mercy. General Vivian, at whatever 
 risk, I must speak to you as God's minister. Whilst you thought 
 your son had dishonoured your name, there was doubtless an 
 excuse for the severity with which he was treated. Whether it 
 was right to cast off his children also, need not now be dis- 
 cussed. But you have at length the proof that you suspected 
 him wrongly. Not the proof which would stand, it may be, in a 
 court of justice, but the word of an honourable man, and the cor-
 
 CLEVE HALL. 465 
 
 responding testimony of a lady, who, whatever may be your pre- 
 judice against her family, lays claim to universal respect. If you 
 still persist in your suspicions, if "judgment without mercy" is 
 still to be your motto, think what will be your condition when 
 you are summoned to that awful account, at which our only 
 hope must be in the " mercy that rejoiceth against judg- 
 ment." ' 
 
 The General's countenance underwent many changes during 
 this speech, — surprise, anger, — then a more chastened, solemnised 
 feeling ; but it would have seemed that the indomitable will re- 
 mained unshaken. ' ]\Ir Lester, I asked you to read to me,' he 
 said, his voice sounding hollow and tremulous. 
 
 And Mr Lester read, and when he had finished reading, h;; 
 knelt in prayer ; and the General's voice was heard in the con- 
 fession, that he was a miserable sinner, that he had erred and 
 strayed from God's ways like a lost sheep. At the close Mr 
 Lester paused, remained for a few moments in silent jjetition, 
 and rose. 
 
 The General turned to him hastily : ' Your prayers are short, 
 sir,' he said. 
 
 * I leave it to yourself, General, to pray: " Forgive us our tres- 
 passes as we forgive them that trespass against us." ' 
 
 The old man turned away his head, and wept. 
 
 A knock was heard at the door ; it was Mildred. She came 
 in, and stood by the General's chair. 
 
 He gave her his hand without looking up : ' Mildred, child, 
 your father is very weak.' 
 
 'You have been tried, dear sir, very much. It is no wonder.' 
 
 ' Mr Lester would have me see him, Mildred. I would do it, 
 if it were right, — if it were good ; but it mustn't be,— there is 
 no proof. My people would be sacrificed ; and the Campbells, 
 — they are not to be depended on. Years ago they defrauded 
 and ruined us. He married a Campbell, and they uphold him. 
 The boy, too,— it would all be ruin.' He spoke with difficuhy ; 
 his eyes were dulled, and his voice was weak. Old feelings of 
 dislike and prejudice were working together, with more newlv - 
 excited mistrust, to cloud a mind already, in a degree, enfeel:)led 
 by illness. 
 
 ' Don't think of the future, my dearest father ; let it be as you 
 will. See him, that is all wc ask, — all he would ask either.' 
 
 ' But, Mildred, if I see him,— help me,— 1 said I wouldn't, — I 
 
 must keep my vow. I mustn't yield.' 
 
 2 G
 
 466 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 'You said it when you thought him guilty of a grievous 
 offence, dearest father ; he comes now to prove his inno- 
 cence.' 
 
 ' Proof ! proof ! ' The General repeated the words to himself 
 again and again. Then he said suddenly, ' Is he changed ?' 
 
 ' Not as much as I expected ; he looks older, of course. lUit 
 he is changed in mind wonderfully.' 
 
 The General shook his head, and motioned her from him : 
 'You tempt me, — go.' His complexion became of a livid pale- 
 ness. 
 
 Mr Lester gave him some water, and he recovered a little, and 
 murmured, ' To-morrow.' 
 
 Poor Mildred looked at Mr Lester in despair: 'And Ronald 
 Vivian is here,' she said, ' on business.' 
 
 The General caught at the word as a relief : ' Business ! let 
 me hear it. I am well enough now.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' whispered Mildred to Mr Lester. 
 
 To her surprise, Mr Lester answered quietly also, ' I will go to 
 him ; perhaps it may be as well.' 
 
 He left the room. The General leaned back in his chair, per- 
 fectly still. Mildred sat down by him. The minutes were very 
 long. She dared not speak to him again. Steps were heard 
 along the corridor, — in the dressing-room. The General moved, 
 and pushed away the footstool, and placed his writing-case before 
 him. 
 
 ' May we come in ? ' Mr Lester entered, Ronald with him : 
 another shadow darkened the doorway. 
 
 The General bent his head stiffly, with all his former precision 
 of manner. Ronald scarcely returned the greeting. His eye 
 took a rapid survey of the room, and rested on Mildred. She 
 moved to go. 
 
 •If it is private business, Mildred, you can leave us,' said the 
 General. ' Young gentleman, )ou look ill ; you had better sit 
 down.' 
 
 ' Miss Vivian, pray stay.' Ronald drew near the tabic, and 
 rested one hand upon it ; his countenance, naturally pale from 
 illness, was ghastly in its expression, but his eye was calm and 
 cold. ' I have intruded upon you, General Vivian,' he began. 
 
 ' No intrusion, young gentleman. I have had a slight illness, 
 but I am recovering. Can I, in any way, help you ?' 
 
 ' I have no claim upon you, sir. I am the son of— Captain 
 Vivian.'
 
 CLEVE HALL. 467 
 
 Mildred's eyeglanced uneasily at her father ; the ner\'Ous motion 
 of his mouth was visible again. 
 
 ' Captain Vivian may have done my family injury; yet I would 
 not visit the injury upon his son. What do you ask of me ?' 
 
 Ronald paused. 
 
 ' I beg you to explain yourself, quickly/ repeated the General, 
 rather sternly. ' What do you need ? ' 
 
 Ronald approached nearer. His figure was erect, whilst pride 
 was giving its impress to his countenance. 
 
 ' Speak, sir,' exclaimed the General. 
 
 And the tall form bent as though crushed by a mighty load, 
 and the agony of humiliation convulsed every feature, as, laying 
 a paper upon the table, Ronald said, * You require proof of your 
 son's innocence, General Vivian ; you have it.' 
 
 Mr Lester pushed a chair towards him, but he still stood- 
 
 ' Read it, Mildred,' said the General ; and Mildred read trem- 
 blingly : — 
 
 ' I forged the bill. They can take all I have to repay them- 
 selves. 
 
 ' John Vivian.' 
 
 The General caught the paper from her hand, and there was 
 a long, death-like silence. He looked at the words fearfully,— 
 doubtfully. 
 
 The shadow passed from the doorway, and Edward Vivian 
 knelt by his side. ' Father, forgive, — forgive me ! ' 
 
 The General sat as one paralysed ; but his hand rested with a 
 tremulous touch, on his son's head. 
 
 ' Pardon me, father ! Speak to me ! ' 
 
 The white lips moved, and the glassy eyes became dim ; and, 
 leaning forward, the old man threw his arm round his son's neck 
 and kissed him. 
 
 He looked up again, and his eye wandered for an instant round 
 the room, as if in search of Ronald ; but even in that moment he 
 had left the apartment, unnoticed by all save Mr Lester ; and 
 the General, worn and exhausted, could only say, 'I was so wrong 
 Edward, so wrong. God forgive me ! I was so wrong.' 
 
 The bells rang merrily from the tower of Encombe Church, 
 on Christmas morning ; cheerful were the greetings, hearty the 
 good-wishes which met at the entrance of the old Norman porch ; 
 and ferventlywent up thanksgivings to Heaven, whilst the notes
 
 468 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 f'f the Angels' Hymn rose, and echoed, and died away amidst 
 the arches. Eighteen years before, ]\Ir \'ivian had knelt in that 
 church, proud in his self-reliance, a young man ; with the hopes, 
 the fears, the follies, the offences of youth upon him. He knelt 
 there now, humbled, chastened, penitent, yet unutterably thank- 
 ful, with one prayer, earnest above all others, that his children 
 might never lc;irn the same lesson at the same price of sin and 
 suffering. 
 
 That day was the first of Christmas days spent as in the olden 
 time at Clove Hall, since sorrow and death had laid their chill 
 grasp upon it, and rendered it desolate. 
 
 The General, infirm and shaken though he was, sat at the head 
 of his table, and told of his plans for the poor, and discussed 
 alterations in his farm, and seemed to forget that the lapse of 
 years could be a difficulty in the way of his -son's understanding 
 anything which he wished him to undertake ; and Mildred, 
 suiiling as she had never smiled before since her sister's death, 
 talked with Ella of what must be done to make the old home 
 happy in its new character, and devised schemes by which they 
 might do all she needed in the village ; and read with her, and 
 have lessons, and be constantly with her ; helping her, as she 
 said, to grow old without feeling it. 
 
 I\Ir Vivian's feelings were mixed. IMoments there were when 
 he paused in the midst of his children's merriment, to think 
 anxiously of Clement's future course, and watch the impression 
 which he made upon his grandfather ; or to recur to the memories 
 of the past, and dwell upon the joys which could never come 
 again. But the sadness was transient, the brightness Listing ; 
 and when the recollections of those bygone days most oppressed 
 him, he could think upon the mercy vouchsafed to the re- 
 pentant upon earth, as the type of the free and perfect pardon of 
 Heaven. 
 
 It was a glad day of hope, a second spring in winter, the 
 beginning of the sunshine which was to gild the old General's 
 pathway, for the few remaining years of his earthly existence. 
 
 I\Irs Robinson, when she came in the evening to drink Master 
 Edward's health, in the dining-room, was heard to say, as she 
 went back to the servants' hall, that it did one's heart good to see 
 the General taking, as it were, a new lease of life ; and Greaves 
 as partial to the old master as Mrs Robinson was to the young 
 one, insisted that it was trouble which had furrowed the Generafs 
 cheek, and made him feeble before his time ; and now that trouble
 
 CLEVE HALL. 469 
 
 was gone, who was to say that the best landlord, and the kmdest 
 master in England, was not to outlive the halest and heartiest 
 among them ? 
 
 And there was gladness at the Rectory, quieter, yet perhaps, 
 with Mr Lester and Rachel, even fuller. Mrs Campbell and 
 Bertha were with them, and although missing the children's 
 mirth, it was impossible to feel otherwise than grateful and hapj^y 
 at the load of anxiety and responsibility which had been removed. 
 The object desired for years had been attained, and if, as is the 
 case in the attainment of all human wishes, success was accom- 
 panied by alloy, it seemed unthankful to allow the mind to rest 
 upon it. Bertha's energy already made her turn to the thought 
 cf being useful to Rachel, and finding employment amongst the 
 poor, iiiore congenial than that training of the mind which she 
 had yet to practise successfully for herself; and but for one 
 thought, she could have called it the happiest Christmas Day 
 that had been granted her for many a year. 
 
 There was an evening service ; the church was full. Bertha 
 sat near the east end with Rachel, and was amongst the last to 
 depart. JMr Lester was detained in the vestry, and they waited 
 for him, until all the lights were extinguished, except those in the 
 chanceh 
 
 They walked to the lower end of the church, and looked back. 
 ' Passing from darkness to light, like it will be from earth to 
 Heaven,' whispered Rachel. 
 
 A sigh answered her, but it did not come from Bertha. Some 
 one passed her quickly, froni the side aisle, and went out into 
 the porch. 
 
 A minute afterwards Mr Lester joined them, and they left the 
 church. The moon was shining on the tombstones, and a long 
 line of pale light was traced upon the distant sea. 
 
 ' Papa,' said Rachel, 'should you mind ? I should like to see 
 where Barney is buried.' Mr Lester took her hand, and they 
 went on together. Bertha lingered behind. 
 
 ' Miss Campbell ! ' She started ; though the voice was well 
 known, it was very changed. 
 
 ' Ronald ! here ! That ought not to be ; it is very impru- 
 dent.' 
 
 He tried to laugh. ' Mrs Robinson allowed me. I am at the 
 farm now, and well.' 
 
 ' Yes, I heard that. Mr Lester told me ; I had hoped to see 
 you, to thank you.'
 
 4/0 CLEVE HALL. 
 
 He would not liear her gratitude. ' I go to-morrow,' he said ; 
 'you will still think of and pray for me.' 
 
 'Go? Where? So soon? Surely General Vivian, Mr 
 Lester ' 
 
 He interrupted her : 'They have done all, and more than all, 
 I could have dared to expect. They would do far more than I 
 could allow.' 
 
 ' That may be pride, Ronald.' 
 
 'Pride! I\Iiss Campbell!' he repeated the word bitterly; 
 'pride for me ! yet it may be so. If it is, I pray God to make 
 me humble. But I do not feel that it is. They would provide 
 for me. I would accept their help, but only to provide for my- 
 seli; My father's property is heavily mortgaged. When the 
 debt to General Vivian is paid, if anything should remain of the 
 little that I might once have expected to inherit, it must of course 
 be appropriated for my fathers comfort. I go to make my own 
 way in the world.' 
 
 'Alone?' 
 
 ' Where my father is, there is my duty, and there will be my 
 home.' 
 
 ' O Ronald, what a sacrifice !' 
 
 ' You would not wish it to be otherwise ; you, who first taught 
 me the claims of duty ?' 
 
 ' No, I cannot, and yet the example may be terrible.' 
 
 ' I do not fear it,' he said, meekly : ' God, who saved me from 
 it, before I sought Him, will strengthen me to withstand it when 
 I have learned to seek Him.' 
 
 Bertha gave him her hand, — but her voice failed her. 
 
 ' From darkness to light, from earth to heaven,' said Ronald, 
 thoughtfully, ' I shall not forget it.' He looked towards the 
 little, new-made grave, beside which Rachel and Mr Lester were 
 standing. 
 
 They drew near it. Rachel was the first to see Ronald. She 
 ran up to him directly. ' I didn't know it was you, Ronald ; but 
 you don't mind our coming, do you ? I asked papa if I might.' 
 
 She felt instinctively that the little grave was his charge. 
 
 ' Who could mind, Rachel ? No one has more claim to be 
 here than you who made him happy.' 
 
 ' He doesn't suffer now,' said Rachel. ' I think of that.' 
 , ' I try to think of it too,' said Ronald. ' I shall more by and 
 by. When I am gone, Rachel, perhaps Mr Lester will let you 
 plant some flowers here. I should like that.'
 
 CLEVE HALT.. 471 
 
 *Yes, of course ; indeed, I will,' but Rachel was perplexed ; 
 she could not understand what he meant by going, and was too 
 shy to ask. She turned to her father, who had been talking with 
 Bertha. 
 
 'You must go home, my child,' said Mr Lester, ' it is too cold 
 for you, — and for Miss Campbell, — and, Ronald, for you, loo,' 
 and he kindly touched Ronald's shoulder.' 
 
 * Good night, Ronald. Did you understand? I promise, if 
 papa doesn't mind,' said Rachel. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Rachel.' He kept her hand for a moment, then 
 let it fall suddenly ; ' your word needs no promise.' 
 
 He watched her, so did Mr Lester, as she walked with Bertha 
 through the churchyard, till the gate closed behind them. 
 
 Then Tvlr Lester said : ' You go to-morrow, Ronald.' 
 
 ' To-morrow, sir. The vessel is even now read)', and my 
 father waits forme. When my way for the future is clenr, I will 
 write.' 
 
 ' May God guard you, Ronald, hitherto, as He has guarded 
 you before. You have no wishes that I can fulfil ? ' 
 
 *I had one, sir, but it has been told to Rachel. I have no 
 other, but^that my name may be forgotten.' 
 
 Mr Lester's voice faltered : ' That should not be the wish at 
 your age. Life is before you to redeem it.' 
 
 * In another country, in another home ; but never here,' re- 
 plied Ronald. 
 
 Mr Lester was silent. 
 
 ' I am not desponding,' continued Ronald; 'the load is taken 
 from me; I can breathe freely. Mr Lester, I would not have 
 you think of me as weak.' 
 
 ' Weak ! oh no, Ronald — most strong. I only pray you may 
 feel that there is hope always on earth.' 
 
 ' I have a work to do,' replied Ronald, 'therefore I must have 
 hope.' 
 
 'And it will be accomplished,' replied Mr Lester. 'The 
 prayers and the labours of such a son will surely be answered. 
 God bless you ! ' He wrung Ronald's hand and left him. And 
 Ronald, kneeling by Barney's grave, prayed fervently; and rose 
 strengthened and comforted, whilst still the little voice seemed 
 sounding in his ear, ' You '11 set the 'sample, Ronald, and then 
 you '11 come.' 
 
 Cleve Hall yet stands, gray and atcrn as him who was once its
 
 4?:: CLEVE HALL. 
 
 master ; the sea washes the sandy beach round the dark head- 
 land ; the Encombe Hills frown over the deep ravine. And, 
 whilst changes of joy and sorrow, of life and death, have passed 
 over the human hearts which sought tacir resting-place amidst 
 those scenes of beauty, the name of Vivian lives associated with 
 them, as in bygone years ; the heirloom descending from genera- 
 tion to generation. 
 
 Its echo has been heard even in distant lands. There is a tale 
 told of one — an exile, lonely, unaided, exposed to many and 
 dread temptations — who entered upon life with the inheritance 
 of a stained name and a ruined fortune, and looked back upon 
 it with a conscience which angels might approve, and a reputa- 
 tion which princes might have envied. It is said that he 
 laboured, — and successfully, — for one object ; the restoration of 
 a father who had sunk, it might have seemed, beyond hope ; and 
 that, in the progress of that work, — spent for the most part in the 
 drudgery of a merchant's office — he gathered round him, by the 
 force of an intense earnestness, young and old, the cultivated 
 and the ignorant, — warning, guiding, aiding them on their path 
 to heaven. 
 
 They tell of him, that he dwelt apart, mingling little with the 
 gaieties of life; a man of quiet exterior, gentle and reserved, and 
 with the deep traces of early suffering stamped upon his brow. 
 The happiness of a loving home was never his, the voices of 
 childliood never gladdened his hearth, — it maybe that he dreaded 
 to transmit the stain which he himself had felt so deeply. But 
 the w'idow and the orphan were his family ; the desolate, the 
 poor, the templed were his friends ; and when the honoured 
 Vivians of Cleve Hall recount the histories of their race, the 
 name of the exiled Ronald stands hrst in the list of those who 
 have been prized on earth because they sought their inheritance 
 in lica\cn. 
 
 THE END, 
 
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 Portraits on Steel and 11 Vignettes on 'Wood. 11 vols, crown 8vo. £2. 2s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 11 vols. fcp. 8vo. Is. each, sewed ; Is. 6d. each, cloth. 
 Black Poodle (The) and other Tales. By the Author of ' Vice Versfl.' Cr. 8vo. 64. 
 Brahoume's (Lord) Friends and Foes from Fairyland. Crown 8vo. Gs. 
 Harte (Bret) On the Frontier. Three Stories. 16mo. Is. 
 
 — — By Shore and Sedge. Three Stories. 16mo. Is. 
 In the Olden Time. By the Author of ' ilademoiselle Mori.' Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Melville's (Whyte) Novels. Cheap Edition. 8 vols. fcp. Svo. Is. each, sewed ; 
 
 Is. 6rf. each, cloth. 
 The Modem Novelist's Library. Crown 8vo. price 2s. each, boards, or 2s. Gd. 
 
 each, cloth 
 
 By the Earl of Beaconsfield, K.(J. 
 Lothair. 
 Sybil. 
 Coningsby. 
 Tancred. 
 Venetia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
 Contarini Fleming. 
 Alroy, Ixion, &c. 
 The Young Duke, &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 Endymion. 
 
 By Bret Harte. 
 
 In the Carquinez Woods. 
 
 By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 In Trust, the Story of a Lady 
 and her Lover. 
 
 By James Payn. 
 
 Thicker than Water. 
 
 By Anthony Trollope. 
 
 Barchester Towers, 
 
 The Warden. 
 By Major Whyte Melville. 
 
 Digby Grand. 
 
 Geperal Bounce. 
 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 The Gladiators. 
 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 Holmby House. 
 
 The Interpreter. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. 
 By Various Writers. 
 
 The Atelier du L.vs, 
 
 Atherstone Priory. 
 
 The Burgomaster's Family. 
 
 Elsa and her Vulture. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 
 
 The Six Sisters of the Valleys. 
 
 Unawares. 
 Gd. 
 Crown Svo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Oliphant's (Mrs.) Madam. Crown Svo. 3s. 
 Payn's (James) The Luck of the Darrells. 
 Reader's Fairy Prince FoUow-my-Lead. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 
 Sewell's (Miss) Stories and Tales. Cabinet Edition. Crown Svo. cloth extra, 
 gilt edges, price 3s. Gd. each :— 
 
 Amy Herbert. Cleve Hall. 
 The Earl's Daughter. 
 Experience of Life. 
 Gertrude. Ivors. 
 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 Katharine Ashton. 
 Laneton Pareonage. 
 Margaret Percival. Ursula. 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 11 
 
 Stevenson's (R.L.) The Dynamiter. Fcp. 8vo. 1,?. sewed ; Is. GJ. cloth. 
 
 — — Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and llr. Hyde. Fcp. 8vo. 1^. 
 
 sewed ; Is. 6tl. cloth. 
 Sturgis' My Friend and I. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 
 
 Bailej-'s Festus, a Poem. Crown 8vo. 125. Bd. 
 
 Bowdler's Family Shakespeare. Medium 8vo. lis. 6 vols. fcp. 8vo. 2ls. 
 Dante's Divine Comedy, translated by James Innes Minchin. Crown 8vo. 15.?. 
 Goethe's Faust, translated by Bii'ds. Large crown 8vo. l'2s. Gd, 
 
 — — translated by Webb. 8vo. 12^. Gd. 
 
 — — edited by Selss. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Ingelow's Poems. Vols. 1 and 2, fcp. 8vo. 12.?. Vol. 3 fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Home, with Ivry and the Armada. Illustrated by 
 
 Weguelin, Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. gilt edges. 
 The same. Annotated Edition, fcp. 8vo. 1>-. sewed, Is.Gd. cloth, 2i, 6d. cloth extra. 
 The same. Popular Edition. Illustrated by Scharf. Fop. 4to. 6d. swd.. Is. cloth. 
 Macdonald's (G.) A Book of Strife : in the Form of the Diary of an Old Sonl: 
 
 Poems. 12mo. 6s. 
 Permell's (Cholmondeley) 'From Grave to Gay.' A Volume of Selections. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 
 Reader's Voices from Flowerland, a Birthday Book, 2s. Gd. cloth, 3s. Gd. roan. 
 Robinson's The New Arcadia, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Shakespeare's Hamlet, annotated by George Macdonald, LL.D, 8vo. 12s. 
 Southey's Poetical Works. Medium 8vo. 14s. 
 Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 Virgil's ^neid, translated by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 
 — Poems, translated into English Prose. Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 
 AGRICULTURE, HORSES, DOGS, AND CATTLE. 
 
 Dunster's How to Make the Land Pay. Crown Svo. Ss. 
 
 Fitzwygram's Horses and Stables. Svo. 10s. Grf. 
 
 Horses and Roads. By Free-Lance. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Lloyd, The Science of Agriculture. 8vo. 12s. 
 
 Loudon's EncyclopcEdia of Agriculture. 21s. 
 
 Miles's Horse's Foot, and How to Keep it Sound. Imperial Svo. 12s. Gd. 
 
 — Plain Treatise on Horse-Shoeing. Post Svo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Remarks on Horses' Teeth. Post Svo. Is. 6(7. 
 
 — Stables and Stable-Fittings. Imperial Svo. 15s. 
 Nevile's Farms and Farming. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 — Horses and Riding. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 
 Steel's Diseases of the Ox, a Manual of Bovine Pathology. Svo. 16s. 
 Stonehenge's Dog in Health and Disease. Square crown Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Greyhound. Square crown Svo. 15s. 
 
 Taylor's Agricultural Note Book. Fcp. Svo. 2s. Gd. 
 Ville on Artificial Manures, by Crookes. Svo. 21s, 
 Youatt's Work on the Dog. Svo. 6s. 
 
 _ _ _ _ Horse. Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 London : LONGMANS, GEEEN, & CO.
 
 12 General Lists of Works. 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES. 
 
 The Badminton Library of Sports and Pastimes. Edited by t>ie Duke of Beaufort 
 and A. E. T. Watson. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8yo. 10*. Gd. 
 each. 
 
 Hunting, by the Duke of Beaufort, &c. 
 
 Fishing, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, &c. 2 vols. 
 
 Racing, by the Earl of Suffolk, &c. 
 Campbell-Walker's Correct Card, or How to Play at Whist. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 Dead Shot (The) by Marksman. Cro^\'n Svo. 10s. 6rf. 
 Francis's Treatise on Fishing in all its Branches. Post Svo. 15s. 
 Jefiferies' The Red Deer. Crown Svo. 4.!. 6d, 
 Longman's Chess Openings. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 Peel's A Highland Gathering. Illustrated. Crown Svo. lOs. Gd. 
 Pole's Theory of the Modern Scientific Game of Whist. Fcp. Svo. 2s. ed. 
 Proctor's How to Play Whist. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 Ronalds's Fly-Fisher's Entomology. Svo. lis. 
 Vemey's Chess Eccentricities. Crown Svo. 10s. 6d. 
 Wilcocks's Sea-Fisherman. Post Svo. 6s. 
 Year's Sport (The) for 18S5. Svo. 21s. 
 
 ENCYCLOP/EDIAS, DICTIONARIES, AND BOOKS OF 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 
 Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families. Fcp. Svo. 4s. Gd. 
 
 Ayre's Treasury of Bible Knowledge. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 Brande's Dictionary of Science, Literature, and Art. 3 vols, medium Svo. 63*. 
 
 Cabinet Lawyer (The), a Popular Digest of the Laws of England. Fcp. Svo. Ss. 
 
 Cates's Dictionary of General Biography. Medium Svo. 28^, 
 
 Doyle's The Official Baronage of England. Vols. I.-III. 3 vols. 4to. £5. 5*. ; 
 
 Large Paper Edition, £15. 15s. 
 GwUt's Encyclopfedla of Architecture. Svo. 52^. Gd. 
 
 Keith Johnston's Dictionary of Geography, or General Gazetteer. Svo. i2s, 
 Latham's (Dr.) Edition of Johnson's Dictionary. 4 vols. 4to. £7. 
 
 — — — — — — Abridged. Royal Svo. lis. 
 M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation. Svo. 63.?. 
 Maunder's Biographical Treasury. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Historical Treasury. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Scientific and Literary Treasury. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Treasury of Bible Knowledge, edited by Ayre. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Treasury of Botany, edited by Lindley & Moore. Two Parts, 12s. 
 
 — Treasury of Geogi-apny. Fcp. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Treasury of Knowledge and Library of Reference. Pep. Svo. Gs. 
 
 — Treasui-y of Natural History. Fcp. Svo. 6*. 
 
 Quain's Dictionary of Medicine. Medium Svo. 31.S. Gd., or in 2 vols. 34s. 
 
 Reeve's Cookery and Housekeeping. Crown Svo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 Rich's Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities. Cro^\Ti Svo. 7^. Gd, 
 
 Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. Crown Svo. 10s. Gd. 
 
 tire's Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines. 4 vols, medium Svo. £7. 7s. 
 
 WiUich's Popular Tables, by Marriott. Crown Svo. 10s. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 A SELECTION 
 
 OP 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WOEKS. 
 
 TEXT-BOOKS OF SCIENCE, MECHANICAL AND 
 PHYSICAL. 
 
 Abney's Treatise on Photography. Fcp. Svo. 3s. 6(7. 
 Anderson's Strength of Materials. 3s. 6d. 
 Armstrong's Organic Chemistry, os. 6d. 
 Ball's Elements of Astronomy. Gs. 
 Ban\v's Railway Appliances. 3s. 6d. 
 Bauerman's Systematic Mineralogy. 6s. 
 — Descriptive Mineralogy. 6s. 
 
 Bloxam and Huntington's Metals. 5*. 
 Glazebrook's Physical Optics. 6s. 
 Glazebrook and Shaw's Practical Physics.' 6s. 
 Gore's Art of Electro-Metallurgy. Gs. 
 
 Griffin's Algebra and Trigonometry. 3s. 6d. Notes and Solutions, 3^. Gd. 
 Jenkin's Electricity and Magnetism. 3s. 6d. 
 Maxwell's Theory of Heat. 3^. 6d. 
 
 Merrifield's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration. 3s. Gd. Key, 3.?. Gd, 
 Miller's Inorganic Chemistry. 3s. Gd. 
 Preece and Sivewi-ight's Telegraphy. 5s. 
 Rutley's Study of Rocks, a Text-Book of Petrology. 4^. Gd. 
 Shelley's "Workshop Aiipliances. 4s. 6d. 
 Thome's Structural and Physiological Botany. 6^, 
 Thorpe's Quantitative Chemical Analysis. 4s. 6il. 
 Thorpe and Muir's Qualitative Analysis. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Tilden's Chemical Philosophy. 3s. Gd. With Answers to Problems, is, Gd. 
 tJnwin's Elements of Machine Design. Gs. 
 Watson's Plane and Solid Geometry. 3s, 6d. 
 
 THE GREEK LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bloomfield's College and School Greek Testament. Fcp. Svo. 5s. 
 Bolland & Lang's Politics of Aristotle. Post Svo. 7s. Gd, 
 CoUis's Chief Tenses of the Greek Irregular Verbs. Svo. Is. 
 
 — Pontes Grjeci, Stepping-Stone to Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 — Praxis Graica, Etymology. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Verse-Book, Praxis lambica. 12mo. is. Gd. 
 Farrar's Brief Greek Syntax and Accidence. 12nio. 4s. Gd, 
 
 — Greek Grammar Rules for Harrow School. l2rao. Is. Gd, 
 Hewitt's Greek Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. 6d. 
 
 Isbister's Xenophon's Anabasis, Books I. to III. with Notes. 12mo. fSs. Gd, 
 Jerram's Graecfe Reddenda. Crown Svo. Is. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 14 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 Kennedy's Greek Grammar. 12mo. is. 6d. 
 
 Liddell & Scott's English-Greek Lexicon. 4to. ZGs. ; Square 12mo. 7s. Gd. 
 Linwood's Sophocles, Greek Text, Latin Notes. 4tli Edition. 8vo. 16*. 
 Mahaffv's Classical Greek Literature. Crown 8vo. Poets, 7s. Sd. Prose 'Writers, 
 
 7s.'CmJ. 
 Morris's Greek Lessons. Square 18nio. Part I. 2.s'. Gd. ; Part TL l.s. 
 Parry's Elementary Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Plato's Republic, Book I. Greek Text, English Notes by Hardy. Crown 8vo. 3s. 
 Slieppard and Evans's Notes on Thucydidos. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Thncydides, Book IV. with Notes by Bai-ton and Chavasse. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Valpy's Greek Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2*. Gd. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 White's Xenophon's Expedition of Cyrus, -with English Notes. 12mo. 7s. Gd. 
 WilMns's Manual of Greek Prose Composition. Crown Svo. os. Key, 5s. 
 
 — Exercises in Greek Prose Composition. Crown Svo. 4s. Gd. Key, 2.«. Gd. 
 
 — New Greek Delectus. Crown Svo. 3s. Gd. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Delectus. 12mo. 4s. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Anthology. 12mo. 5s. 
 
 Scriptores Attici, Excerpts with English Notes. Crown Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Speeches from Thncydides translated. Post Svo. 6s. 
 Yonge's English-Greek Lexicon. 4to. 21s. ; Square 12mo. 8s. Gd. 
 
 THE LATIN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bradley's Latin Prose Exercises. 12mo. 3s. (;</. Key, 5s. 
 
 Continuous Lessons in Latin Prose. 12mo. 5s. Key, 5s. Gd. 
 
 — Cornelius Nepos, Improved by White. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Eutropius, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Ovid's Metamorphoses, improved by White. 12uio. 4s. 6rf. 
 
 Select Fables of Phajdrus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Collis's Chief Tenses of Latin Irregular Verbs. Svo. Is. 
 
 Pontes Latini, Stepping-Stone to Latin Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd, 
 
 Hewitt's Latin Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Isbister's Cajsar, Books I.-VII. 12mo. 4s. ; or with Reading Lessons, 4s. Gd. 
 
 — Caesar's Commentaries, Books I.-V. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — First Book of Ciesar's Gallic.War. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 Jeffcott & Tossell's Helps for Latin Students. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 
 Jerram's Latin6 Reddenda. Crown Svo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Kennedy's Child's Latin Primer, or First Latin Lessons. ]2mo. 2s. 
 
 — Child's Latin Accidence. 12mo. Is. 
 
 Elementary Latin Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Elementary Latin Reading Book, or Tirocinium Latinum. 12mo. 2s. 
 
 — Latin Prose, Pa'.festra Stili Latini. 12mo. 6s. 
 
 — SubsidiaPrimaria, Exercise Books to the Public School Latin Primer. 
 
 I. Accidence and Simple Construction, 2s. 6f7. II. Syntax, 3s. Gf7. 
 
 — Key to the Exercises in Subsidia Primaria, Parts I. and II. price 5s. 
 
 — Subsidia Primaria, III. the Latin Compound Sentence. 12mo. Is. 
 
 — Curriculum Stili Latini. 12mo. 4s. Gd. Key, 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Palaestra Latina, or Second Latin Reading Book. 12mo. 5s. 
 
 London: LONGMA.NS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 15 
 
 Millington's Latin Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 3s, 6d. 
 
 — Selections from Latin Prose. Crown 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Moody's Eton Latin Grammar. 12mo. 2s. dd. The Accidence separately, Is, 
 Morris's Elementa Latina. Fop. 8vo. Is. 6rf. Key, 2.5. 6d. 
 Parry's Origines Romante, from Livy, with English Notes. 
 The Public School Latin Primer. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 — — — — Grammar, by Rev. Dr. Kennedy. 
 Prendergast's Mastery Series, Manual of Latin. 12mo. 2s 
 Kapler's Introduction to Composition of Latin Verse. 12mo. 3.s. 6d. 
 Sheppard and Turner's Aids to Classical Study. 12mo. 5s. Key, 6s. 
 Valpy's Latin Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. Key, 3,(. 6(/. 
 Virgil's ^Eneid, translated into English Verse by Coniugton. Crown 8vo. 96-. 
 
 — Works, edited by Kennedy. Crown 8vo. lO.s. Gd. 
 
 — — translated into English Prose by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9.s. 
 WaUord's Progressive E.xercises in Latin Elegiac Verse. 12mo. 2s. Gd. Key, 5s. 
 White and Riddle's Large Latin-English Dictionary. 1 vol. 4to. 21^. 
 
 White's Concise Latin-Eng. Dictionary for University Students. Royal 8vo. 12*'. 
 Junior Students' Eng.-Lat. &i Lat.-Eug. Dictionary. Square 12mo. 5s. 
 
 Crown Svo. 4*. 
 
 Post Svo. 76-. Gd. 
 Gd. 
 
 Key, 2s. Gd, 
 
 „ . , f The Latin-English Dictionary, price 3.?. 
 
 Separately I ^;j3j5„gli^,^,> - - ■ ^' ^ - - 
 
 Yonge's Latin Gradus. 
 
 Latin Dictionary, price Zs. 
 Post Svo. 9s. ; or with Appendix, 12.s. 
 
 WHITES GRAMMAR-SCHOOL GREEK TEXTS. 
 
 .S;sop (Fables) &, Patephatus (Myths). 
 
 32mo. Is. 
 Homer, Ihad, Book I. Is. 
 
 — Odyssey, Book I. 1.?. 
 Lucian, Select Dialogues. Is. 
 Xenophon, Anabasis, Books I. III. IV. 
 
 V. & VI. Is. Gd. each ; Book II. Is. ; 
 
 Book VII. 2s. 
 
 Xenophon, Book I. without Vocabu- 
 lary. 3(/. 
 
 St. Matthew's and St. Luke's Gospels. 
 24'. Gd. each. 
 
 St. Mark's and St. John's Gospels. 
 Is. Gd. each. 
 
 The Acts of the Apostles. 2s. Gd. 
 
 St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. Is. Gd. 
 
 The Four Gospels in Greek, -nith Greek-English Lexicon. Edited by John T. 
 AVhite, D.D. Oxon. Square 32mo. price 56-, 
 
 WHITE'S GRAMMAR SCHOOL LATIN TEXTS. 
 
 Nepos, Miltiades, Simon, Pausanias, 
 Aristides. dd. 
 
 Ovid. Selections from Epistles and 
 Fasti. Is, 
 
 Ovid, Select Myths from Metamor- 
 phoses. 9d. 
 
 rh»drus, Select Easy Fables, Sd. 
 
 Phsedrua, Fables, Books I. & II. Is. 
 
 Sallust, Bellum Catilinarium. 1.?. Gd. 
 
 Virgil, Georgics, Book IV. 1.?. 
 
 Virgil, yEneid, Books I. to VI. Is. each. 
 Book I. without Vocabulary, 3d. 
 
 Virgil, yEneid, Books VII. VIII. X. 
 XI. xn. is. Gd. each. 
 
 Cffisar. Gallic War, Books I. & II. V. 
 
 & VI. Is. each. Book I. without 
 
 Vocabulary, 3d. 
 Cffisar, Gallic War, Books III. & IV. 
 
 Csesai-, Gahic War, Book VII. 1^. Gd. 
 Cicero, Cato Major (Old Age). l.«. Gd. 
 Cicero, La?lius (Friendship). Is. Gd. 
 Eutropius, Roman History, Books I. 
 
 & II. Is. Books III. & IV. 1.?. 
 1 1 oraco,Odes, Books 1. II. & IV. li. each. 
 Horace, Odes, Book III. 1*. Gd. 
 Horace, Epodes and Carmen Seculare. 
 
 1*. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 16 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 
 
 Albitds's How to Speak Freucli. Fcp. 8vo. o.*. d/. 
 
 — Instantaneous French Exercises. Fcp. 2,s. Key, 2s. 
 Cassal's French Genders. Crown 8vo. 3.?. 6(7. 
 Cassal & Karchcr's Graduated French Translation Book. Part I. 3^. Gd. 
 
 Part II. 5s, Key to Part I. by Professor Cassal, price 5s. 
 Contansean's Practical French and English Dictionary. Post Svo. 3.?. 6f/. 
 
 — Pocket French and English Dictionary. Square ISmo. 1? Gd. 
 
 — Premieres Lectures. 12mo. 2.f. Gil. 
 
 — Fh-st Step in French. 12mo. 2.?. 6t7. Key, 3s. 
 
 — French Accidence, 12mo. 2^. 6(7. 
 
 — — Grammar. 12mo. 4s. Key, 3^. 
 Contansean's Middle-Class French Coui'se. Fcp. Svo. :^ 
 
 French Translation-Book, 8d. 
 Easy French Delectus, Sd. 
 First French Reader, Sd. 
 Second French Reader, Sd. 
 French and English Dialogues, 8(7, 
 
 Accidence, 8i7. 
 Sjmtax, 8(7. 
 
 French Conversation-Book, 8(7. 
 First French Exercise-Book, 8(7. 
 Second French Exercise-Book, 8(7. 
 Contansean's Guide to French Translation. 12mo. 3s. Gd. Key, 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Prosateurs et Pofetes Fran9ais. 12mo. 5^. 
 
 — Precis de la Litt^rature Fran(;aise. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 — Abrdg6 de I'Histoire de France. 12mo. 2.s. Gd. 
 
 rival's Chouans et Bleus, with Notes by C. Sankey, M.A. Fcp. Svo. 2,<!. 6(7. 
 
 Jerram's Sentences for Translation into French. Cr. Svo. Is. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 Prendergast's Mastery Series, French, 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 Souvestre's Pliilosophe sous les Toits, by Stifivenard. Square 18mo. 1^. 6(7. 
 
 Stepping-Stone to French Pronunciation. 18mo. Is. 
 
 Stifevenard's Lectures Francjaises from Modern Authors. 12mo. 4^. Gd . 
 
 — Rules and Exercises on the French Language. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Tarver's Eton French Grammar. 12mo. Gs. Gd. 
 
 THE GERMAN LANGUAGE. 
 
 Blackley's Practical German and English Dictionary. Post Svo. 3s. 6(7, 
 Bnchheim's Gei'man Poetry, for Repetition. 18mo. Is. Gd. 
 CoUis's Card of German Irregular Verbs. Svo. 2s. 
 Fischer-Fischart's Elementary German Grammar. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 6(7, 
 Just's German Grammar. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 — German Reading Book. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 Longman's Pocket German and English Dictionary. Square ISmo. 2s. Gd. 
 Naftel's Elementary German Course for Public Schools. Fcp. Svo. 
 
 German Accidence. 9d, 
 
 German Syntax. 9(7. 
 
 First German Exercise-Book. Sd. 
 
 Second German Exercise-Book. 9(7, 
 Prendergast's Mastery Series, German. 12mo. 2s. 6(7. 
 Quick's Essentials of German. Crown Svo. 3s. 6(7. 
 Selss's School Edition of Goethe's Faust. Crowu Svo. 5s. 
 — Outline of German Literature. Crown Svo. 4s. Gd. 
 Wirth's German Chit-Chat. Crown Svo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 German Prose Composition Book. 9(7, 
 First German Reader. 9(7. 
 Second German Reader, 9(7, 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, k. CO. 
 Spoltifiooode Jc Co. Printers, New-street Square, London.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES 
 .oiioi THI^ UNIVERSITY LIBRARY