UC-NRLF B 3 SMb 51D THE HILLYARS AND TIE BURTONS: -'"^r*^ •0'^ A STOEY OF TWO'^ PAMlEtES. i*y •r* r-^-r-i> BY ^'^tfL i-') HENRY KINGSLEY, AUTHOR OF 'GEOFFRY HAMLYN," " KAVENSHOE," ETC. BOSTON: TICKNOR AND FIELDS 1865. author's edition. SE COND EDITION. University Press: Welch, Bigklow, and Company, Cambridge. THIS TALE IS DEDICATED TO MY WIFE. V**^,'* r^^ —-<>*.. -r.^ I mT^ PREFACE /^^^"^ '" In this story, an uneducated girl, who might, I fancy, after a year and a half at a boarding-school, have devel- oped into a very noble lady, is arraigned before the reader, and awaits his judgment. The charge against her is, that, by an overstrained idea of duty, she devoted herself to her brother, and made her lover but a secondary person. I am instructed to reply on her behalf, that, in the struggle between incli- nation and what she considered her duty, she, right or wrong, held by duty at the risk of breaking her own heart. I know what / think about the old question between love and duty; but, since what I think is not the least consequence, I shall not state my conclusions. I have used all my best art in putting the question before the reader, and must leave him to draw his own. I am only sorry to see such a very important social question (a question which, thanks to the nobleness of our women, comes en visage to us continually) so very poorly han- dled. CONTENTS. Chapter Pagb I, Mr. Secretary Oxton thinks Gerty Neville little BETTER THAN A FoOL 1 n. James Burton's Story: shows the disgraceful lowness OF HIS Origin 6 III. James Burton's Story: Cousin Reuben .... 11 IV. The Colonial Secretary sees Snakes and other Vermin 13 V. James Burton's Story: the Ghost's Room is invaded, AND James puts his Foot through the Floor . . 18 VI. James Burton's Story: the Preliminaries to the mo- mentous Expedition to Stanlake . . • ,^- .24 VII. The Battle of Barker's Gap 31 Vin. James Burton's Story: the Immediate Results of the Expedition to Stanlake 37 IX. Sib George Hillyar 44 X. Erne makes his Escape from the Brazen Tower . . 48 XL The Secretary sees nothing for it but to Submit . 52 Xn. Disposes of Samuel Burton for a time .... 57 XIII. James Burton's Story: the Golden Thread begins to RUN off the Reel 60 XIV. The Gleam of the Autumn Sunset . . • . . . 68 XV. In which the Snake crreps out of the Grass . . 72 XVI. James Burton's Story: Erne and Emma ... 76 XVII. Erne and Reuben 81 XVin. Jajvies Burton's Story: Reuben and Sir George Hillyar 84 XIX. Samuel Burton goes into the Licensed Victualling line 91 XX. James Burton's Story: Reuben e^ctertains Mysterious AND Unsatisfactory Company 96 XXI. Gerty goes on the War-Trail 101 XXII. James Burton's Story: Very Low Company . . . 108 X CONTENTS. XXIII. James Burton's Story: the Hillyars and the Burtons AMONG the ToJIUS 113 XXIV. Homeward Bound 121 XXV. Gerty's First Innings 125 XXVI. James Burton's Story: James and his Sister fall out 133 XXVII. James Burton's Story: the Ghost shows a Light for the First Time . » 136 XXVIII. Affairs at Stanlake 146 XXIX. James Burton's Story: the Beginning of the Bad Times 151 XXX. James Burton's Story: in which two great Pieces of Good Fortune befall us, — one Visible, the other Invisible 158 XXXI. George begins to take a new interest in Reuben 163 XXXII. Gerty's Hybernation Terminates 171 XXXin. J. Burton's Story: the Ghost shows a Light for the Second Time 173 XXXI V. Sir George's Escritoire 180 XXXV. James Burton's Story: Miss Brown's Troubles come to an End, while Mr. Erne Hillyar's fairly com- mence 186 XXXVI. Le Roi est Mort. — Vive le Roi 190 XXXVII. James Burton's Story: Erne's Nurse .... 193 XXXVIII. Sir George Hillyar is Witness for Character . 196 XXXIX. Uncle Bob surprises Erne 201 XL. The Last of the Church-yard 205 XLI. Emma's Work begins to be cut out for her . . 210 XLII. Emma astonishes a good many People : the Members OF HER Family in particular 215 XLIII. Emma gives the Key to the Landlord . . . 224 XLIV. James Burton's Story: our Voyage, with a long De- scription OF SOME QUEER FiSH THAT WE SAW . . 230 XLV. Gerty in Society 241 XL VI. The Letter, which was not from Mrs. Nalder . . 246 XLVII. Sir George Hillyar starts on his Adventure . 251 XLVIII. James Burton's Story: the Forge is lit up once more 256 XLIX. In which two Bad Pennies come back .... 266 L. Trevittick's latent Madness begins to appear . 271 LI. Changes in the Romilly Home 281 LH. Feeds the Boar at the Old Frank? .... 289 Lni. James Burton's Story: the Clayton Menage . . 299 CONTENTS. xi LIV. Emma's Visit 303 LV. The Land Sale 306 LVI. The Burnt Hut Coivipany 313 LVII. The Last of the Forge 318 LVin. Erne goes on his Adventures 321 LIX. James Oxton goes out, and Widow North comes in 324 LX. Too Late! Too Late! 328 LXL Husband and Wife 332 LXn. Gerty's Anabasis 335 LXHL Samuel Burton gets a Fright 341 LXIV. Samuel Burton's Resolution 344 LXV. Ex-Secretary Oxton gets a Lesson .... 347 LXVI. Something to do 351 LXVIL The Backstairs History of Two Great Coalitions . 863 LXVin. Samuel Burton makes his Last Appearance at Stan- lake 360 LXIX. Sir George and Samuel close their Accounts, and Dissolve Partnership 363 LXX. Eeuben's Temptation 371 LXXI. James Burton's Story 376 LXXn. The Omeo Disaster 381 LXXHL The Midnight Meeting 389 LXXIV. The Sky brightening 391 LXXV. Emma's angelic Ministrations 395 LXXVL Jame^Burton's Story: Captain Arkwright goes back ONCE MORE 403 LXXVn. The Cyclone 405 LXXVni. James Burton's Story: No Answer .... 412 LXXIX. Conclusion _. . . 417 THE IIILLYARS AND THE BUETOXS. CHAPTER I. MR. SECRETARY OXTON THINKS GERTY NEVILLE LITTLE BETTER THAN A FOOL. The Houses were " up " and the Colonial Secretary was in tlie bosom of his family. It had been one of the quietest and pleasantost little sessions on record. All the Government bills had slid easily througli. Tliere had been a little hitch on the new vScab Bill ; several members with infected runs opposing it lustily ; threatening to murder it by inches in committee, and so on : but, on the Secre- tary saying that he should not feel it his duty to advise his Ex- cellency to prorogue until it was passed, other members put it to the opposing members whether they were to sit there till Christ- mas, with the thermometer at 120°, and the opposing members gave way with a groan ; so a very few days afterwards his Ex- cellency put on his best uniform, cocked hat, sword and all, and came down, and prorogued them. And then, taking their boys from school, and mounting their horses, tliey all rode away, east, north, and west, through forest and swamp, over plain and moun- tain, to their sunny homes, by the pleasant river-sides of the interior. So the Colonial Secretary was in the bosom of his family. Pie was sitting in his" veranda in a rocking-chair, dressed in white from head to foot, with the exception of his boots, which were shining black, and his necktie, which was bright blue. He was a tall man, and of noble presence, — a man of two-and-forty, or thereabouts, — with a fine fearless eye, as of one who had con- fronted the dangers of an infant colony, looking altogether like the highly intellectual, educated man he was ; and on every but- ton of his clean white coat, on every fold of his spotless linen, in every dimple of his close-shaved, red-brown face, was written in large letters the word, Gentleman. lie had come down to one of his many stations, the favorite 1 A 2 THE HlLlTAr.S AND THE BURTONS. o^ie,- lying silxKut sixty miles along the coast from Palmerston, the capital of Cooksland ; and, having arrived only the night before, was dreaming away the morning in his veranda, leaving the piles of papers, domestic and j)ai-liaineiitary, which he had accu- mulated on a small table beside him, totally neglected. For it was impossible to work. The contrast between the burnino^ streets of Palmerston and this cool veranda was so ex- quisite, that it became an absolute necessity to think about that and nothing else. Just outside, in the sun, a garden, a wilder- ness of blazing flowers, sloped rapidly down to the forest, who.-e topmost boughs were level with your feet. Through the forest rushed the river, and beyond the forest was the broad, yellow plain, and beyond the plain the heath, and beyond the heath the gleaming sea, with two fantastic purple islands on the horizon. The Colonial Secretary had no boys to bring home from school, for only six months before this he had married the beauty of the colony, Miss Neville, who was at that moment iu the garden with her youngest sister gathering flowers. The Secretary by degrees allowed his eyes to wander from the beautiful prospect iDcfore him, to the two white figures among the flowers. By degrees his attention became concentrated on tliem, and after ^ time a shade of dissatisfaction stole over his handsome face, and a wrinkle or two formed on his broad forehead. Why was this ? The reason was a very simple one : he saw that Mrs. Oxton was only half intent upon her flowers, and was keeping one eye upon her lord and master. He said, " Bother- ation." She saw that he spoke, though she little thought what he said; and so she came floating easily towards him through the flowers, looking by no means unlike a great white and crimson Amaryllis herself. She may have been a thought too fragile, a thought too hectic, — all real Australian beauties are so ; she looked, indeed, as though, if you blew at her, her hair woukl come off like the down of a dandelion, but nevertheless she was so wonderfully beautiful, that you could barely restrain an ex- clamation of delighted surprise when you first saw her. This being came softly up to the Secretary, put her arm round his neck, and kissed him ; and yet the Secretary gave no outward signs of satisfaction whatever. Still the Secretary was not a " brute " ; far from it, " My love," said Mrs. Oxton. " Well, my dear," said the Secretary. " I want to ask you a favor, my love." " My sweetest Agnes, it is quite impossible. I will send Ed- ward as sub-overseer to Tullabaloora ; but into a Government place he does not go." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 8 " My clear James " " It is no use, Agnes ; it is really no use. I have been accused in the public papers of placina; too many of my own and my wife's family. I have been taunted with it in the House. There is great foundation of truth in it. It is really no use, if you talk till doomsday. AVhat are you going to give me for lunch ? " Mrs. Oxton was perfectly unmoved ; she merely seated herself comfortably on her husband's knee. " Suppose, now," she said, " that you had been putting your- self in a WMcked passion for nothing. Suppose I had changed my mind about Edward. Suppose I thought you quite right in not placing any more of our own people. And suppose I only wanted a little information about somebody's antecedents. What then ? " " Why then I have been a brute. Say on." " My dearest James. Do you know anything against Lieuten- ant Hillyar ? " " H'm," said the Secretary. " Nothing new. He came over here under a cloud ; but so many young men do that. I am chary of asking too many questions. He was very fast at home, I believe, and went rambling through Europe for ten years ; yet I do not think I should be justified in saying I knew anything very bad against him." " He will be Sir George Hillyar," said Mrs. Oxton, pensively. " He will indeed," said the Secretary, " and have ten thousand a year. He will be a catch for some one." " My dear, I am afraid he is caught." "No! Who is it?" " No other than our poor Gerty. She has been staying at the Barkers', in the same house ^vith him ; and the long and the short of it is, that they are engaged." The Secretary rose and walked up and down the veranda. He was very much disturbed. " My dear," he said at last, " I would give a thousand pounds if this were not true." '' Why ? do you know anything against him ? " " Well, just now I carelessly said I did not ; but now when the gentleman coolly proposes himself for my brother-in-law ! It is perfectly intolerable 1 " " Do you know anything special, James?" " No. But look at the man, my love. Look at his insolent, contradictory manner. Look at that nasty drop he has in his eyes. Look at his character for profligacy. Look at his unpopu- larity in the force; and then think of our beautiful little Gerty being handed over to such a man. Oh I Lord, you know it really is " k THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " I hate the man as much as you do," said Mrs. Oxton. " I can't bear to be in the room with him. But Gerty loves him." " Poor little bird." "And he is liandsome." " Confound him, yes. And charming too, of course, with his long pale face and his dolce far-niente, insolent manner, and his great eyes like blank windows, out of which the Devil looks once a day, for fear you might forget he was there. Oh ! a charming man ! " " Then he will be a baronet, with an immense fortune ; and Gerty will be Lady Hillyar." "And the most unfortunate little flower in the wide world," said the Secretary. "I think you are right," said Mrs. Oxton, with a sigh. "See, here she comes ; don't let her know I have told you." Gertrude Neville came towards them at this moment. She was very like her sister, but still more fragile in form ; a kind of caricature of her sister. The white in her face was whiter, and the red redder ; her hair was of a shade more brilliant brown ; and she looked altogether like some wonderful hectic ghost. If you were delighted with her sister's beauty you were awed with hers ; not awed because there was anything commanding or deter- mined in the expression of her face, but because she was so very fragile and gentle. The first glance of her great hazel eyes put her under your protection to the death. You had a feeling of awe, while you wondered why it had pleased God to create any- thing so helpless, so beautiful, and so good, and to leave her to the chances and troubles of this rouo-h world. You could no more have willingly caused a shade of anxiety to pass over that face, than you could have taken the beautiful little shell parra- keet, which sat on her shoulder, and killed it before her eyes. The Secretary set his jaw, and swore, to himself, that it should never be ; but what was the good of his swearing ? " See, James," she said to him, speaking with a voice like that of a stock-dove among the deep black shadows of an English wood in June, " I am going to fill all your vases with flowers. Idle Ag- nes has run away to you, and has left me all the work. See here ; I am going to set these great fern boughs round the china vase on the centre-table, and bend them so that they droop, you see. And then I shall lay in these long wreaths of scarlet Kennedia to hang over the fern, and then I shall tangle in these scarlet 1)assion-flowers, and then I sliall have a circle of these belladonna ilies, and in the centre of all I shall jiut this moss-rosebud, — " For the bride she chose, the red, red, rose, And by its thorn died she, " James, don't break ray heart, for I love him. My own THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 5 brother, I have never had a brother but you ; try to make the best of him for my sake. You will now, won't you ? I know you don't like him, — your characters are dissimilar, — but I am sure you will get to. I did not like him at first; but it came upon me in time. You don't know how really good he is, and how bitterly he has been ill-used. Come, James, say you will try to like him." What could the poor Secretary do but soothe her, and defer any decided opinion on the matter. If it had been Mr. Cornelius Murphy making a modest request, the Secretary would have been stern enough, would have done what he should have done here, — put his veto on it once and forever ; but he could not stand his favorite little sister-in-law, with her tears, her beauty, and her caresses. He temporized. But his holiday, to which he had looked forward so long, was quite spoilt. Little Gerty Neville had wound herself so thoroughly round his heart ; she had been such a sweet little confidant to him in his courtship ; had brought so many precious letters, had planned so many meetings ; had been, in short, such a dear little go-between, that when he thought of her being taken away from him by a man of somewhat queer character, whom he heartily despised and disliked, it made him utterly miserable. As Gerty had been connected closely with the brightest part of a somewhat stormy life, so also neither he nor his wife had ever laid down a plan for the brighter future which did not include her ; and now ! — it was intolerable. He brooded for three days, and then, having seen to the more necessary part of his station-work, he determined to go and make fuller inquiries. So the big bay horse was saddled, and he rode thoughtfully away; across the paddocks, through the forest, over the plain, down to the long yellow sands fringed with snarling surf, and so northward towards the faint blue promontory of Cape Wilberforce. % THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER II. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : SHOWS THE DISGRACEFUL LOWNESS OF HIS ORIGIN. I AM of the same trade as my father, — a blacksmith, — al- though I have not had hammer or pincers in my hand this ten years. And although I am not in the most remote degree con- nected with any aristocratic family, yet I hold the title of Honor- able. The Honorable James Burton being a member of the Supreme Council of the Colony of Cooksland. As early as I can remember, my father carried on his trade in Brown's Row, Chelsea. His business was a very good one, -^— what we call a good shoeing trade, principally with the omnibus horses. It paid very well, for my father had four men in his shop ; though, if he had had his choice, he would have preferred some higher branch of smith's work, for he had considerable me- chanical genius, and no small ambition, of a sort. I think that my father was the ideal of all the blacksmiths who ever lived. He was the blacksmith. A man with a calm, square, honest face ; very strong, very good-humored, with plenty of kindly interest in his neighbors' affairs, and a most accurate memory for them. He was not only a most excellent tradesman, but he possessed those social qualities which are so necessary in a blacksmith, to a very high degree ; for in our rank in life the blacksmith is a very important person indeed. He is owner of the very best gossip-station, after the bar of the public-house : and, consequently, if he be a good fellow (as he is pretty certain to be, though this may be partiality on my part), he is a man more often referred to, and consulted with, than the publican ; for this reason : that the married women are jealous of the publi- can, and not so of the blacksmith. As for my father, he was umpire of the buildings, — the stopper of fights, and, sometimes, even the healer of matrimonial differences. More than once I have known a couple come and " have it out" in my father's shop. Sometimes, during my apprentice- ship, my father would send me out of the way on these occasions; would say to me, for instance, " Hallo, old man, here 's Bob Chit- tie and liis missis a-coming ; cut away and help mother a bit." But at other times he would not consider it necessary for me to go, and so I used to stay, and hear it all. The woman invariably began ; the man confined himself mostly to sulky contradictions. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 7 My father, and T, and the men, went on with our work ; my flxther would throw in a soothing word wherever lie could, until tlie woman began to cry ; upon wliich my father, in a low, confiden- tial growl, addressing the man as "• old chap," would persuade him to go and make it up witli her. And he and she, having come there for no other purpose, would do so. My mother never assisted at this sort of scenes, whether seri- ous or trifling. She utterly ignored the shop at such times, and was preternaturally busy in the house among her pots, and pans, and children, ostentatiously singing. When it was all over she used accidentally to catch sight of the couple, and be for one mo- ment stricken dumb with amazement, and then burst into voluble welcome. She was supposed to know nothing at all about what had passed. Sweet mother ! thy arts were simple enough. She was a very tall woman, with square, large features, who had never, I think, been handsome. When I begin my story my mother was already the mother of nine children, and I, the eldest, was fifteen ; so, if she had at any time had any beauty, it must have vanished lonor before ; but she was handsome enouo;h for us. When she was dressed for church, in all the colors of the rain- bow, in a style which would have driven Jane Clarke out of her mind, she was always inspected by the whole family before she started, and pronounced satisfactory. And at dinner my sister Emma would perhaps say, " Law ! mother did look so beautiful in church this morning ; you never ! " She had a hard time of it with us. The family specialities were health, good humor, and vivacity ; somewhat too much of the last among the junior members. I, Joe, and Emma, might be trusted, but all the rest were terrible pickles ; the most un- luckly children I ever saw. Whenever I was at work with father, and we saw a crowd coming round the corner, he would say, " Cut away, old chap, and see who it is " ; for we knew it must either be one of our own little ones, or a young Chittle. K it was one of the young Chittles, I used to hold up my hand and whistle, and father used to go on with his work. But if I was silent, and in that way let father know that it was one of our own little ones, he would begin to roar out, and want to know which it was, and what he 'd been up to. To which I would have to roar in return (I give you an instance only, out of many such) that it was Fred. That he had fallen off a barge under Battersea Bridge. Had been picked out by young Tom Cole. Said he liked it. Or that it was Ehza. Had wedged her head into a gas-pipe. Been took out black in the face. Said Billy Chittle had told her she was n't game to it. These were the sort of things 1 had to roar out to my father, while I had the delin- quent in my arms, and was carrying him or her indoors to moth- 8 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. er ; the delinquent being in a triumphant frame of mind, evidently under the impression that he had distinguished himself, and added another liower to the chaplet of the family honor. I never saw my mother out of temper. On these, and other occasions, she would say that, Lord 'a mercy ! no woman ever was teased and plagued with her cliildren as she was (and there was a degree of truth in that). That she didn't know what would become of them (which was to a certain extent true also) ; that she hoj^ed none of them would come to a bad end (in which hope I sincerely joined) ; and that finally, she thought that if some of them were well shook, and put to bed, it would do 'em a deal of good, and that their Emma would never love them any more. But they never cared for this sort of thing. They were not a bit afraid of mother. They were never shook; their Kmma continued to love them ; and, as for being put to bed, they never thought of such a thing happening to them, until they heard the rattle of brother Joe's crutch on the lloor, when he came home from the night-school. Brother Joe's crutch. Yes ; our Joe was a cripple. With poor Joe, that restless vivacity to which I have called your at- tention above, had ended very sadly. He was one of the finest children ever seen ; but, when only three years old, poor Joe stole away, and climbed up a ladder, — he slipped, when some seven or eight feet from the ground, and fell on his back, doub- ling one of his legs under him. The little soul fluttered between earth and heaven for some time, but at last determined to stay with us. All that science, skill, and devotion could do, was done for him at St. George's Hospital ; but poor Joe was a hunchback, with one leg longer than the other, but with the limbs of a giant, and the face of a Byron. It is a great cause of thankfulness to me, when I think that Joe inherited the gentle, patient temper of his father and mother. Even when a mere boy, I began dimly to understand that it was fortunate that Joe was good-tempered. "When I and the other boys would be at rounders, and he would be looking intently and eagerly on, with his fingers twitching with nervous anxiety to get hold of the stick, shouting now to one, and now to another, by name, and now making short runs, in his excitement, on his crutch ; at such times, I say, it used to come into my boy's head, that it was as well that Joe was a good-tempered fellow; and this conviction grew on me year by year, as I watched with pride and awe the great intellect unfolding, and the mighty restless ambition soaring higher and higlier. Yes, it was well that Joe had learned to love in his childhood. Joe's unfailing good humor, combined with his affliction, had a wonderful influence on us for good. His misfortune being so THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 9 fearfully greater than any of our petty vexations, and his good temper being so much more unfailing than ours, he was there continually among us as an exam[)le, — an example which it was impossible not to ibllow to some extent ; even if one had not had an angel to point to it for us. For, in the sense of being a messenger of good, certainly my sister Emma was an angel. She was a year younger than me. She was very handsome, not very pretty, made on a large model like my mother, but with fewer angles. Perhaps the most notice- able thinix about her was her voice. Whether the tone of it was natural, or whether it had acquired that tone from being used almost exclusively in cooing to, and soothing, children, I cannot say ; but there was no shrillness in it : it was perfectly, nay sin- gularly clear ; but there was not a sharp note in the whole of sweet Emma's gamut. She was very much devoted to all of us ; but towards Joe her devotion was intensified. I do not assert — because I do not be- lieve — that she loved him better than the rest of us, but from an early age she simply devoted herself to him. I did not see it at first. The first hint of it which I got was in the first year of my apprenticeship. I had come in to tea, and father had relieved me in the shop, and all our little ones had done tea and were talking nonsense, at which I began to assist. We were talking about who each of us was to marry, and what we would have for dinner on the auspicious occasion. It was arranged that I was to marry Miss de Bracy, from the Victoria Theatre, and we were to have sprats and gin-and-water ; and that such a one was to marry such a one ; but on one thing the little ones were agreed, that Emma was to marry Joe. When they cried out this, she raised her eyes to mine for an instant, and droi)ped them again with a smile. I wondered why then, but I know now. On my fifteenth birthday I was bound to my father. I think that was nearly the happiest day of my life. The whole family was in a state of rampant pride about it. I am sure I don't know what there was to be proud of, but proud we were. Joe sat staring at me with his bright eyes, every now and then giving a sniff of profound satisfaction, or pegging out in a restless man- ner for a short expedition into the court. Emma remarked sev- eral times, "Lawk, only just to think about Jim!" And my younger brothers and sisters kept on saying to all their acquaint- ances in the street, " Our Jim is bound to father," with such a very triumphant air, that the other children resented it, and Sally Agar said something so disparaging of the blacksmith-trade in general, that our Eliza gave her a good shove ; upon which Jane Agar, the elder sister, shook our Eliza, and, when Emma came out to the rescue, put her tongue out at her j which had 1* 10 THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. sucli an effect on Emma's gentle spirit that she gave up the con- test at once, and went in-doors in tears, and for the rest of the day tohl every friend she met, "■ Lawk, there, if that Jane Agar did n't take and put her tongue out at me, because tiieir vSally shoved our Ehza, and I took and told her she had n't ought to do it " : and they retailed it to other girls again ; juld at hist it was known all over the buildings that Jane had gone and put her tongue out at Emma Burton ; and it was unanimously voted that she ought to be ashamed of herself. We were simple folk, easily made happy, even by seeing that the other girls were fond of our sister. But there was another source of happiness to us on that auspicious fifteenth birthday of mine. That day week we were to move into the great house. Our present home was a very poor place, only a six-roomed house ; and that, with nine children and another ajiprentice be- sides myself, was intolerable. Any time this year past we had seen that it was necessary to move : but there had been one hitch to our doing so, — there was no house to move into, except into a very large house wdiich stood by itself, as it were fronting the buildings opposite our forge ; which contained twenty-five rooms, some of them very large, and which W' as called by us, indifferently, Church Place, or Queen Elizabeth's Palace. It had been in reality the palace of the young Earl of Essex , a very large three-storied house of old brick, with stone-mullioned windows and door-ways. Many of the windows were blind, bricked up at different times as the house descended in the social scale. The roof was singularly high, hanging somewhat far over a rich cornice, and in that roof there was a single large dormer-window at the north end. The house had now been empty for some time, and it had al- ways had a great attraction for us children. In the first place it was empty ; in the second place, it had been inhabited by real princesses ; and in the third, there was a ghost, who used to show a light in the aforementioned dormer-window the first Friday in evei-y month. On the summer's evenin^js w^e had been used to see it towerino; aloft between us and the setting sun, which filled the great room on the first floor with light, some rays of which came through into our narrow street. Mother had actually once been up in that room, and had looked out of the window westward, and seen the trees of Chelsea farm (uoav Cremorne Gardens). What a room that would be to play in ! Joe pegged down the back -yard and back again with excitement, when he thought of it. We were going to live there, and father was going to let all the upper part in, lodgings, and Cousin lieuben THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 11 CHAPTER III. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : COUSIN REUBEN. And Cousin Reuben had applied for lodgings from the very- moment he heard of our move, and was actually coming to live | with us. Was this as satisfactory as all the rest of it? Why, no. And that is why I made that pause at the end of the last chapter. We had noticed that a shade had passed over our father's face; and, we being simple and affectionate people, that shade had been reflected on ours, though we hardly knew why. For our Cousin Reuben was a great favorite with all of us. He had been apprenticed to a waterman, but had won his coat and freedom a few mouths before this. He was a merry, slangy, dapper fellow, about seventeen, always to be found at street-cor- ners, with his hands in his pockets, talking loud. We had been very proud of his victory ; it was the talk of all the water- side ; he rowed in such perfect form, and with such wonderful rapidity. The sporting papers took him up. He was matched at some public-house to row against somebody else for some money. He won it, but there was a dispute about it, and the sporting papers had leading articles thereon. But the more famous Reuben became, the more my father's face clouded when he spoke of him. That birthday-night I was sleepily going up to bed, when my father stopped me by saying, " Old man, you and me must have a talk," whereupon my mother departed. " Jim," said he, as soon as she was gone, " did you ever hear anything about your cousin Reuben's father ? " I said quickly, " No ; but I had often thought it curious that we had never heard anything of him." '•The time is come, my boy, when you must know as much as I do. It is a bitter thing to have to tell you; but you are old enough to share the family troubles." And I heard the following story : — Samuel Burton had been a distant cousin of my father's. When about twelve years old, he had ex[)ressed a wish to go into service, and his friends had got for him a place as page or steward-room boy, in the family of an opident gentleman. At the time of his goinii there the heir of the house was a mere infant. As time went on, his father, anxious for him to escape the contaminations of a pubUc school, sent him to a highly ex- 12 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. pensive private tutor ; and the boy selected Samuel Burton, his favorite, to accompany him as his valet. Tiie father had been anxious that his boy should escape the contamination of a public school, — the more so, because, at the age of thirteen, he was a very difficult and somewhat vicious boy. The father took the greatest care, and made every possible in- quiry, The Rev. Mr. Easy was a man of high classical attain- ments, and unblemished character. There were only two other pupils, both of the most respectable rank in life, — one, the son and heir of Sir James Mottesfont; the other, son of the great city man, Mr. Peters. Nothing could be more satisfactory. Alas ! the poor father in avoiding Charybdis had run against Scylla. In avoiding the diluted vice of a public school, he had sent his son into a perfectly undiluted atmosphere of it. Young Mottes- font was an irreclaimable vicious idiot, and Peters had been sent away from a public school for drunkenness. In four years' time our young gentleman " was finished," and was sent to travel with a tutor, keeping his old servant, Samuel Burton (who had learned something also), and began a career of reckless debauchery of all kinds. After two years he was angrily recalled by his father. Not very long after his return Samuel Burton married (here my father's face grew darker still). Hitherto his character, through all his master's excesses, had been most blameless. The young gentleman's father had conceived a great respect for the young man, and was glad that his wild son should have so staid and respectable a servant willing to stay with him. A year after Samuel was married a grand crash came. The young gentleman, still a minor, was found to be awfully in debt, to have been raising money most recklessly, to have been buying jewellery and selling it again. His creditors, banding themselves together, refused to accept the plea of minority ; two of their number threatened to prosecute for swindling if their claims were not settled in full. An arrangement was come to for six thou- sand pounds, and the young gentleman was allowanced with two hundred a year and sent abroad. Samuel Burton, seeing that an end was come to a system of plunder which he had carried on at his young master's expense, came out in his true colors. He robbed the house of money and valuables to the amount of thirteen hundred pounds, and dis- appeared, — utterly and entirely disappeared, — leaving his wife and child to the mercy of my father. This was my father's account of his disappearance. He con- cealed from me the fact that Samuel Burton had been arrested and transported for fourteen years. The poor mother exerted herself as well as she was able ; but she had been brought up soft-handed, and could do but little. THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 13 Wlicn Reuben was about ten she died ; my father took the boy home, and ultimately apprenticed him to a waterman. " And now, my boy, you see why I am anxious about Reuben's coming to live with us. He comes of bad blood on both sides ; and his fiither is, for aught I know, still alive. Reuben ain't going on as I could wish. I don't say anything against those as row races, or run races, or ride races ; I only know it ain't my way, and I don't want it to be. There 's too much pot'us about it for our sort, my boy ; so you see I don't want him and his lot here on that account. And then he is a dapper little chap ; and our Emma is very pretty and sweet, and there may be mischief there again. Still, I can't refuse him. I thought I was doing a kind thing to a fatherless lad in calling him cousin, but I almost wish I had n't now. So I say to you, keep him at a distance. Don't let him get too intimate in our part of the house. Good night, old man." " Where are you going to put him, father ? " " As far oif as I can," said my father. " In the big room at the top of the house." " In the ghost's room ? " said I. And I went to bed, and dreamt of Reuben being woke in the night by a little old lady in gray-shot silk and black mittens, who came and sat on his bed and knitted at him. For, when my mother was confined with Fred, Mrs. Quickly was in attendance, and told us of such an old lady in the attic aloft there, and had confirmed her story by an appeal to Miss Tearsheet, then in seclusion, in consequence of a man having been beaten to death by Mr. Pistol and others. We were very few doors from Alsatia in those times ! CHAPTER lY. THE COLONIAL SECRETARY SEES SNAKES AND OTHER VERMIN. It was a hard hit in a tender place for the Colonial Secretary. He had started in life as the younger son of a Worcestershire squire, and had fought his way, inch by inch, up to fame, honor, and wealth. He was shrewd, careful enough of the main chance, and very ambitious; but, besides this, he was a good-hearted, affectionate fellow ; and one of his objects of am])ition had l)een to have a quiet and refined home, wherein he might end his days in honor, presided over by a wife who was in every way worthy of him. Perhaps he had been too much engaged in money- 14 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. making, perhaps he had plunged too fiercely into politics, per- haps he had never found a woman who exactly suited him ; but so it was, — he had postponed his domestic scheme to his other schemes, until he was two-and-forty, and might have postponed it longer, had he not met Agnes Neville, at a geological pic-nic, in the crater of Necnicabarla. Here was everything to be wished for : beauty, high breeding, sweet temper, and the high- est connection. Four of her beautiful sisters had married before her, every one of them to one of the best-bred and richest squatters in that wealthy colony. Mrs. Morton of Jip Jip ; Mrs. Hill of Macandemdah ; the Honorable Mrs. Packenhara of Langi Cal Cal ; and lastly, the beautiful and witty Mrs. Som- erton of Lai Lai and Pywheitjork.* He fell in love with Miss Neville at once ; their marriage was delayed, principally on account of troublesome political reasons, for six months, and in that time he had got to love, like a brother, her little sister, Gerty Neville, and the last and most beautiful of the six beauti- ful sisters. Even before he was married, he and Agnes had laid out all sorts of plans for her future settlement. He had even a scheme for taking her to Paris, getting her properly dressed there, and pitching her into the London season, under the aus- pices of his mother, as a gauntlet to English beauty. It was a hard hit for him. He had always been so especially hard on a certain kind of young English gentleman, who has sailed too close to the wind at home, and who comes to the colony to be whitewashed. He had fulminated against that sort of thing so strongly. From his j)lace in the House he had denounced it time after time. That his colony, his own colony, which he had heljjed to make, was to become a sewer or sink for all the rubbish of the Old Country ! How he had protested against and denounced that principle, whether applied to male or female emigrants ; and now Gerty was proposing to marry a man, whom he was very much inclined to quote as one of the most offensive examples of it. And another provoking part of the business was, that he would have little or no sympathy. The colony would say that the youngest Miss Neville had made a great catch, and married better than any of her sisters. - The fellow would be a baronet with £10,000 a year. There was a certain consolation in that, — a considerable deal of consolation ; if it had not been that the Secretary loved her, that might have made him tolerably con- tented with her lot. l>ut he loved her ; and the man, were he fifty baronets, was a low fellow of loose character ; and it was very hot; and so the Secretary was discontented. Very hot. The tide out, leaving a band of burning sand, a * One would not dare to invent these names. They are all real. THE IIILLYAnS AND THE BURTONS. 15 quarter of a mile broad, between sea and sbore. Where lie liad striu'k the sea first, at Wooriallock Point, the current, pourinj^ seaward off the spit of sand, had knocked up a trifling suH", which chafed and leaped in tiny waves, and looked crisp, and cool, and aerated. But, now he was in the lone bif^ht of the bay, the sea was perfectly smooth and oily, deadly silent and calm, under the blazing sun. The water did not break upon the sand, but only now and then sneaked up a few feet with a lazy whisper. Before him, for twelve miles or more, were the long, level yellow sands, without one single break as far as the eye could reach ; on his right the glassy sea, gleaming under the back- ground of a heavy, slow-sailing thunder-cloud; and on his left the low wall of dark evergreen shrubs, which grew densely to the looser and drier sands that lay piled in wind-heaps beyond the reach of the surf. Once his horse shied ; it was at -a black snake, which had crept down to bathe, and which raised its horrible wicked head from out its coils and hissed at him as he went by. Another time he heard a strange rippling noise, coming from the glassy, surfless sea on his right. It was made by a shark, which, com- ing swiftly, to all appearance, from under the dark thunder-cloud, headed shoreward, making the spray fly in a tiny fountain from his back-fin, w^hich was visible above the surface. As he came on, the smaller fish, snappers and such like, hurled themselves out of water in hundreds, making the sea alive for one instant ; but after that the shark, and the invisible fish he was in pursuit of, sped seaward again ; the ripple they had made died out on the face of the water, and the water in the bay was calm, still, and desolate once more. Intolerably lonely. He pushed his horse into a canter, to make a breeze for himself which the heavens denied him. Still only the long weary stretch of sand, the sea on the right, and the low evergreens on the left. But now^ far, far ahead, a solitary dot upon the edge of the gleaming water, which, as the good horse threw the ground be- hind him, grew larger and larger. Yes, it ivas a man who toiled steadily on in the same direction the Secretary was going, — a man who had his trousers off, and was walking bare-legged on the edge of the sea to cool his feet ; a man who looked round from time to time, as if to see who was the horseman behind him. The Secretary reined up beside him with a cheery " Good day," and the man respectfully returned the salutation. The Secretary recognized his man in an instant, but held his tongue. He was a tall, narrow-shouldered man, who might have been forty or might have been sixty ; as with most other convicts, his age was a profound mystery. You could see that he had been 16 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. originally what some people, hasty observers, would call a good- looking young man, and was even now what those same hasty observers would call a good-looking middle-aged man. His hair was gray, and he had that wonderfully clear dark-brown com- plexion which one sees so continually among old convicts who have been much in the bush. His forehead was high and bald, and his nose was very long, delicate, and aquiline, — so much was in his favor ; but then, — why, all the lower part of his face, up- per lip, mouth, lower lip and all, ^vere pinched up in a heap under the long nose. When I read " Little Dorrit," I was pleased to find that Mr. Dickens was describing in the person of M. Rigaud one of our commonest types of convict face, but Frenchified aud wearing a mustache, and was pleased also to see that, with his wonderfully close observation, he had not committed the mistake of making his man a brave and violent villain, but merely a cun- ning one. The Secretary looked down on the bald head and the Satanic eyebrows, wdiich ran down from high above the level of the man's ears and nearly met above his great transparent hook-nose, and said to himself, " Well, you are a more ill-looking scoundrel than I thought you the other day, though you did look a tolerable rogue then." The man saw that the Secretary had recognized him, and the Secretary saw that he saw it ; but they both ignored the fact. It was so lonely on these long sands, that the Secretary looked on this particular scoundrel as if he were a rather interesting book which he had picked up, and which would beguile the way. " Hot day, my man." " Very hot, your honor ; but if that thunder-cloud will work up to us from the west, we shall have the south wind up in the tail of it, as cold as ice. Your honor will excuse my walking like this. I looked round and saw you had no ladies with you." Not at all an unpleasant or coarse voice. A rather pleasing voice, belonging to a person who had mixed with well-bred people at some time or another. " By Jove," said the Secretary, " don't apologize my man. I rather envy you. But look out lor the snakes. I have seen two on the edge of the salt water ; you must be careful with your bare feet." " I saw the two you speak of, sir, a hundred yards off. I have a singularly quick eye. It is possible, your honor, that if I had been transported a dozen years earlier I might have made a good bushman. I was too effeminately bred also, Mr. Secretary. I was spoilt too young by your class, IMr. Secretary, or I might have developed into a bolder and more terrible rogue than I am." " What a clever dog it is ! " thought the Secretary. " Know- THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. 17 mg that he can't take me in, and yet trying to do it througli a mere instinct of deceit, which has become part of liis natiin;. And his instinct sho^Ys him that this careless frankness was tlie most likely dodge to me, who know everything, and more. By gad, it is a wonderful rogue ! " He thought tliis, but he said : " Fiddlededee about terrible rogues. You are clear now ; why don't you mend your ways, man ? Confound it, why don't you mend your ways ? " " I am going to," said the other. " Not, Mr. Colonial Secre- tary, because I am a bit a less rogue than before, but because it will pay. Catch me tripping again, Mr. Oxton, and hang me." " I say," said the Secretary ; " you mus' n't commit yourself, you know." " Commit myself!" said the man, with a sneer; "commit my- self to you! Haven't I been confidential with you? Don't I know that every word I have said to you in confidence is sacred? Don't I know that what you choose to call your honor will pre- vent your using one word of any private conversation against me ? Haven't I been brought up among such as you? Haven't I been debauched and ruined by such as you? Commit myself! I know and despise your class too well to commit myself. You dare 7iH use one word I have said against me. Such as I have the pull of you there. You dare n't, for your honor's sake." And, as he turned his angry face upon the Secretary, he looked so much more fiendish than the snake, and so much more savage than the shark, that the Secretary rode on, saying, " Well, my man, I am sorry I said anything to offend you " ; and, as he rode on, leaving the solitary figure toiling on behind him, he thought somewhat like this : " Curious cattle, these convicts ! Even the most refined of them get at times defiant and insolent, in their way. What a terrible rogue this fellow is ! He saw I recognized him from the first. I hate a convict who turns Queen's evidence. I wonder where he is o;oino;. I wish I could turn him over the border. I hate having convicts loose in my little colony. It is an infernal nuisance being so close to a penal settlement ; but there is no help for it. I wonder where that rogue is making for ; I wish he would make for Sydney. Where can he be going ? " One cannot help wondering what the Secretary would have said had he known, as we do, that this desperate rogue was bound on exactly the same errand as himself. That is to say, to fore- gather with Mr. George Hillyar, the man who was to be a bar- onet, and have £10,000 a year, and who, God help us, was to marry Gerty Neville. " Let me see," said the Secretary. " That fellow's real name came out on his trial. What was it ? Those things are worth B 18 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. remembering. Samuel Barker, — no, it was n't Barker, because that's the name of the Cape Wilberforce people. Rippon, that ^Yas the name ; no, it was n't. What is his name ? Ah ! Rippon and — Rippon and Burton. Ah! for the man's name was Samuel Burton." CHAPTER V. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : THE GHOST'S ROOM IS INVADED, AND JAMES PUTS HIS FOOT THROUGH THE FLOOR. In due time, — that is to say, a fortnight after my fifteenth birthday, — w^e moved into the new house. It was eight o'clock on a bright summer's morning when my father got the key from Mr. Long, unlocked the gate in the broken palings which sur- rounded the house, and passed into the yard, surrounded by his whole awe-stricken family. There was no discovery made in the yard. It was common- place. A square flagged space, with a broken water-butt in one corner under an old-fashioned leaden gargoyle. There was also a grindstone, and some odd bits of timber which lay about near the pump, which was nearly grown up with nettles and rye- grass. In front of me, as I stood in the yard, the great house rose, flushed with the red blaze of the morning sun ; behind were the family, — Joe leaning on his crutch, with his great eyes star- ing out of his head in eager curiosity; after him the group of children, clustered round Emma, who carried in her arms my brother Fred, a large-headed stolid child of two, wdio was chroni- cally black and blue in every available part of his person with accidents, and who was, even now, evidently waiting for an oppor- tunity to distinguish himself in that line. Joe had not long before made acquaintance with kind old Mr. Fauli<;ner, who had coached him up in antiquities of the house ; and Joe iiad told me everything. We boys fully expected to find Lord Essex's helmet lying on the stairs, or Queen Elizabeth's glove in the passage. So when father opened the great panelled door, and went into the dark entry, we pushed in after him, staring in all directions, expecting to see something or another strange ; in which we were disap{)ointed. There was nothing more strange than a large entrance-hall, a broad staircase, with large balustrades, somewhat rickety and out of the perpendicular, winding up one side of it to the floor above, and a large mullioned THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 19 window half-way up. Our first difficulty arose from Frank, my youugest brotlior but one, declining to enter the house, on the grounds that Sliadrach was hiding in the cellar. This difficulty being overcome, we children, leaving father and mother to inspect the ground-floor, pushed up stairs in a body to examine the de- lectable regions above, where you could look out of window, over Shepherd's nursery-ground, and see the real trees waving in the west. On reaching the first floor, my youngest brother, Fred, so to speak, inaugurated, or opened for public traffic, the staircase, by falling down it from the top to bottom, and being picked up black in the face, with all the skin off his elbows and knees. Our next hitch was with Frank, who refused to go any further because Abednego was in the cupboard. Emma had to sit down on the landing, and explain to him that the three holy children were not, as Frank had erroneously gathered from their names, ghosts who caught hold of your legs through the banisters as you went up stairs, or burst suddenly upon you out of closets ; but respect- able men, who had been dead, lawk-a-mercy, ever so long. Joe and I left her, combating, somewhat unsuccessfully, a theory that Meshech was at that present speaking up the chimney, and would immediately appear, in a cloud of soot, and frighten us all to death ; and went on to examine the house. And really we went on with something like awe upon us. There was no doubt that we were treading on the very same boards which had been trodden, often enough, by the statesmen and dandies of Queen Elizabeth's Court, and most certainly by the mighty woman herself. Joe, devourer of books, had, with Mr. Faulkner's assistance, made out the history of the house; and he had communicated his enthusiasm even to me, the poor simple blacksmith's boy. So when we, too, went into the great room on the first floor, even I, stupid lad, cast my eyes eagerly around to see whether anything remained of the splendor of tho grand old court, of which I had heard from Joe. Nothing. Not a bit of furniture. Three broad windows, which looked westward. A broad extent of shaky floor, an im- mense fire-place, and over it a yellow dingy old sampler, under a broken glass, hanging all on one side on a rusty nail. Joe pounced upon this at once, and devoured it. " Oh, Jim ! Jim!" he said to me, "just look at this. I wonder who she was " ? " There 's her name to it, old man," I answered. " I expect that name's hern, ain't it? For," 1 said hesitatingly, seeing that Joe was excited about it, and feeling that I ought to be so myself, though not knowing why, — " for, old man, if they 'd forged her name, maybe they 'd have done it in imother colored worsted." 20 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. This bringing forth no response, I felt that I was not up to the occasion ; I proceeded to say that worsteds were uncommon hard to match, which ask our Emma, when Joe interrupted me. " I don't mean that, Jim. I mean, what was her history. Did she write it herself, or who wrote it for her ? What a strange voice from the grave it is. Age eighteen ; date 1686; her name Alice Hillyar. And then underneath, in black, one of her beautiful sisters has worked, ' She dyed 3d December, that yeare.' She is dead, Jim, many a weary year agone, and she did this when she was eighteen years old. If one could only know her history, eh? She was a lady. Ladies made these common samplers in those times. See, here is Emma. Emma, dear, see what I have found. Take and read it out to Jim." Emma, standing in the middle of the deserted room, with the morning sunlight on her face, and with the rosy children cluster- ing round her, read it out to us. She, so young, so beautiful, so tender and devoted, stood there, and read out to us the words of a girl, perhaps as good and as devoted as she was, who had died a hundred and fifty years before. Even I, dull boy as I was, felt there was something strange and out-of-the-way in hearing the living girl reading aloud the words of the girl who had died so long ago. I thought of it then ; I thought of it years after, when Joe and I sat watching a dim blue promontory for two white sails which should have come plunging round before the full south wind. It was but poor doggrel that Emma read out to us. First came the letters of the alphabet ; then the numbers ; then a house and some fir-trees ; then : — " Weep not, sweet friends, my early doom. Lay not fresh flowers upon my tomb; But elder sour and brlony. And yew bough broken Vrom the tree My sisters kind and beautiful ! My brothers brave and dutiful! !My mother deare, beat not thy breast, Thy hunchbacked daughter is at rest. See, friends, I am not loath to go ; My Lord will take me, that I know." Poor as it was, it pleased Joe ; and as I had a profound belief in Joe's good taste, I was jileased also. I thought it somewliat in the tombstone line myself, and fell into the mistake of suppos- ing that one was to admire it on critical, rather than on senti- mental grounds. Joe hung it up over his bed, and used to sit up in the night and tell me stories about the young lady, whom he made a clothes-peg on which he hung every fancy of his brain. He took his yellow sampler to kind old Mr. Faulkner, who told him that our new house, Church Place, had been the fam- ily place of the Hillyars at the close of the seventeenth century. THE lULLYAES AND T^IE BURTONS. 21 And then the old man put on his hat, took his stick, called his big dog, and, taking Joe by the hand, led liim to that part of the old churcli burial-ground which lies next tiie river ; and there he showed him her grave. She lay in tliat fresh breezy corner which overlooks the flashing busy river, all alone. " Alice Kill- yar; born 16G8, died 1G8G." Her beautiful sisters lay else- where, and the brave brothers also; though, by a beautiful fiction, they were all represented on the family tomb in the chancel, kneeling one behind the other. It grew to be a favor- ite place with Joe, this grave of the hunchbacked girl, wdiich overlooked the tide ; and Emma would sit with him there some- times. And then came one and joined them, and talked soft and low to Emma, whose foot would often dally with the letters of his own surname on the worn old stone. The big room quite came up to our expectations. We exam- ined all the other rooms on the same floor ; then we examined the floor above ; and, lastly, Joe said : " Jim, are you afraid to go up into the ghost's room ? " " N — no," I said ; " I don't mind in the day time." " When Rube comes," said Joe, " we sha'n't be let to it ; so now or never." We went up Yery silently. The door was ajar, and we peeped in. It was nearly bare and empty, with only a little nameless lumber lying in one corner. It was high for an attic, in conse- quence of the high pitch of the roof, and not dark, though there was but one window to it; this window being a very large dormer, taking up nearly half the narrow end of the room. The ceiling was, of course, lean-to, but at a slighter angle to the floor than is usual. But what struck us immediately was, that this room, long as it was, did not take up the whole of the attic story. And, look- ing towards the darker end of the room, we thought we could make out a door. We were afraid to go near it, for it would not have been very pleasant to have it opened suddenly, and for a little old lady, in gray-shot silk and black mittens, to come pop- ping out on you. We, how^ever, treated the door wdth great sus- picion, and I kept watch on it while Joe looked out of window. When it came to my turn to look out of window, Joe kept watch. I looked right down on the top of the trees in the Rec- tory garden ; beyond the Rectory I could see the new tavern, the Cadogan Arms, and away to the northeast St. Luke's Church. It was a pleasant thing to look, as it were, down the chimneys of the Black Lion, and over them into the Rectory garden. The long walk of pollard limes, the giant acacias, and the little glimpse of the lawn between the boughs, was quite a new sight to me. I was enjoying the view, when Joe said : — 22 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. " Can you see the Cadogan Arms ? " « Yes." '" I wonder what the Earl of Essex would have tlionght if — " At this moment there was a rustling of silk in the dark end of the room, and we both, as the Yankees say, " up stick " and bolted. Even in my terror I am glad to remember that I let Joe go first, though he could get along with his crutch pretty nearly as fast as I could. We got down stairs as quick as pos- sible, and burst in on the family, with the somewhat premature intelligence, that we had turned out the ghost, and that she was, at that present moment, coming down stairs in gray -shot silk and black mittens. There was an immediate rush of the younger ones towards my mother and Emma, about whom they clustered like bees. Meanwhile my father stepped across to the shop for a trifle of a striking-hammer, weight eighteen pounds, and, telling me to follow him, went up stairs. I obeyed, in the first place, because his word was law to me, and, in the second, because in his com- pany I should not have cared one halfpenny for a whole regi- ment of old ladies in gray silk. TYe went up stairs rapidly, and I followed him into the dark part of the room. We were right in supposing that we had seen a door. There it was, hasped — or, as my father said, hapsed — up and covered with cobwebs. After two or three blows from the hammer, it came open, and we went in. The room we entered was nearly as large as the other, but dark, save for a hole in the roof. In one corner was an old tressel bed, and at its head a tattered curtain, which rustled in the wind, and accounted for our late panic. I was just begin- ning to laugh at this, when I gave a cry of terror, for my right foot had gone clean through the boards. My father pulled me out laughing ; but I had hurt my knee, and had to sit down. My father knelt down to look at it ; when he had done so, he looked at the hole I had made. " An ugly hole in the boards, old man ; we must tell Rube about it, or he '11 break his leg, may be. What a depth there is between the floor and the ceiling below!" he said, feelins; with his hammer ; " I never did, sure/y." After which he carried me down stairs, for I had hurt my knee somewhat severely, and did not get to work for a week or more. When father made his appearance among the family, carrying me in his arms, there was a .wild cry from the assembled chil- dren. My mother requested Emma to put the door-key down her back ; and then, seeing that I was really hurt, said that she felt rather better, and that Emma need n't. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 23 Some one took me from my father, and said, in a pleasant, clieery voice, — " liallo ! here 's our Jim boon a-trotting on the loose stones without his knee-caps. liokl up, old cliap, and do n't cry ; I '11 rim round to the infant-school for a pitch-plaster, and call at the doctor's shop as I go for the fire-engine. That's about our little game, unless you think it necessary for me to order a marvel tomb at the greengrocer's. Not a-going to die this bout? I thought as much." I laughed. We always laughed at Reuben, — a sort of small master in the art of cockney chaff ; which chaff consisted in put- ting together a long string of incongruities in a smart, jerky tone of voice. This, combined with consummate impudence ; a code of honor which, though somewhat peculiar, is rarely violated ; a reckless, though persistent, courage ; and, generally speaking, a fine physique, are those better qualities of the Londoner (" cock- ney," as those call him who don't care for two black eyes, et cetera)^ which make him, in rough company, more respected and " let alone " than any other class of man with whom I am acquainted. The worst point in his character, the point which spoils him, is his distrust for high motives. His horizon is too narrow. You cannot get him on any terms to allow the exist- ence of high motives in others. And, where he himself does noble and generous things (as he does often enough, to my knowledge), he hates being taxed with them, and invariably tries to palliate them by imputing low motives to himself. If one wanted to be fanciful, one would say that the descendant of the old London 'prentice had inherited his grandsires' distrust for the clergy and the aristocracy, who were to the city folk, not so intimate with them as the country folk, the representatives of lofty profession and imperfect practice. However this may be, your Londoner's chief fault, in the present day, is his distrust of pretensions to religion and chivalrous feeling. He can be chiv- alrous and religious at times ; but you must hold your tongue about it. Reuben was an average specimen of a town-bred lad ; he had all their virtues and vices in petto. He was a gentle, good- humored little fellow, very clever, very brave, very kind-hearted, very handsome in a way, with a flat-sided head and regular features. The fault as regarded his physical beauty, was, that he was always '• making faces," — " shaving," as my father used to call it. He never could keep his mouth still. He was always biting his upper-lip or his under-lip, or chewing a straw, or spit- ting in an unnecessary manner. If he could have set that mouth into a good round No, on one or two occasions, and kept it so, it would have been better for all of us. 24 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER VI. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : THE PRELIMINARIES TO THE MO- MENTOUS EXPEDITION TO STANLAKE. That same year also, Joe and I made a new acquaintance, in this manner: — It had become evident to me, who had watched Joe so long, that his lameness was to some slight extent on the mend. I began to notice that, in the case of our getting into a fight in the street (no uncommon case among the Chelsea street-children, even in this improved age, as I am given to understand), and being driven to retreat, he began to make much better weather of it. I was pleased to find this, for nothing on earth could have prevented his following me at a certain distance to see how I was getting on. The first time I noticed a decided improvement was this. We (Church Street — Burtons, Chittles, Holmeses, Agers, &c.) were at hot feud with Danvers Street on the west side of us, and Lawrence Street on the east. Lawrence Street formed a junction with Danvers Street by Lombard Street ; and so, when we went across the end of the sj^ace now called Paulton Square, we came suddenly on the enemy, three to one. The afiriir was short, but decisive. Everything that skill and valor could do was done, but it was useless. We fled silent and swift, and the enemy followed, howling. When round the first corner, to my astonishment, there was Joe, in the thick and press of the dis- ordered ranks, Avith his crutch over his shoulder, getting along in a strange waddling way, but at a most respectable pace. The next moment my fellow-apprentice and I had him by his arms and hurried him along between us, until the pursuit ceased, the retreat stopped, and we were in safety. I thought a great deal about this all the rest of the day. I began to see that, if it were possible to strengthen the poor lad's leg by gradual abandonment of the crutch, a much brighter future was before him. I determined to try. " Joe, old fellow," I said, as soon as we were in bed, " have you got a story for us ? " " No," he said, " I have n't. I am thinking of something else, Jim." ^'Wliat about?" "About the country. The country is here within three miles of us. I been asking Rube about it. He says he goes miles up THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 25 the river into it in his lighter. Real country, you knows, — stiles, and foot-paths, and cows, and all of it. You and me has never seen it. Lets we go." " But," I said, " wliat 's the good ? That there crutch of yourn (that 's the way I used to tiilk in tliose old times) would prevent you getting there ; and when you get there, old chap, you could n't get about. And, if the cows was to run after you, you could n't hook it over the gates and stiles, and such as you talks on. There- fore I ask you. What 's the good ? " " But the cows," urged Joe, " don't alius come rampaging at you, end on, do 'em ? " (That is the way our orator used to speak at twelve years old.) " Most times they does, I reckon," I replied, and turned my- self over to sleep, almost afraid that I had already said too much " about that there crutch of hisn." I had become aware of the fact that crutches grew, ready made, in Shepherd's nursery- ground, in rows, like gooseberry-trees, and was on the eve of some fresh discoveries in the same line, when Joe awoke me. '' Jim," he said, " Rube's barge goes up on the tide to-morrow morning ; let us see whether or no we can got a holiday and go ? " I assented, though I thought it doubtful that my father would give us leave. A month or so before he would have refused our request point-blank. Indeed, I should not have taken the trouble to ask him, but I had noticed that he had softened considerably towards Reuben. Reuben was so gentle and affectionate, and so respectful to my father and mother, that it was impossible not to yield in some way ; and so Reuben was more and more often asked into our great kitchen on the ground-floor, when he was heard passing at night up to his solitary chamber in the roof. At this time I began first to notice his singular devotion to my sister Emma, — a devotion which surprised me, as coming from such a feather-headed being as Reuben, who was by no means addicted to the softer emotions. I saw my father look rather uneasily at them sometimes, but his face soon brightened up again. It was only the admiring devotion of a man to a beauti- ful child. Reuben used to consult her on every possible occasion, and implicitly follow her advice. He told me once that, if you came to that, Emma had more head-piece than the whole lot of us put together. My father gave us his leave ; and at seven o'clock, on the sweet May morning, we started on our first fairy voyage up the river, in a barge full of gravel, navigated by the drunken one- eyed old man who had been Rube's master. It was on the whole the most perfectly delightful voyage I ever took. There is no craft in the world so comfortable as a coal barge. It has abso- lutely no motion whatever about it ; you glide on so imperceptibly 2 26 THE HILLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. that the banks seem moving, and you seem still. Objects grow slowly on the eye, and then slowly fade again ; and tliey say, "We have passed so and so," when aH the time it would seem more natural to say, " So and so has passed us." This was the first voyage Joe and 1 ever took together. AVe have made many voyages and journeys since, and have never found the way long while we were together ; we shall have to make the last journey of all separate, but we shall meet again at the end of it. O, glorious and memorable May-day ! New wonders and pleasures at every turn. The river swept on smoothly without a rip})le, past the trim villa lawns, all ablaze with flowers ; and sometimes under tall dark trees, which bent down into the water, and left no shore. Joe was in a frantic state of anxiety to know all the different kinds of trees by sight, as he did by name. Reuben, the good-natured, was nearly as pleased as ourselves, and at last " finished " Joe by pointing out to him a tulip-tree in full bloom. Joe was silent after this. He kept recurring to this tulip-tree all the rest of the day at intervals ; and the last words I heard that night, on dropping to sleep, were, " But after all there was nothing like the tulip-tree." In one long reach, I remember, we heard something coming towards us on the water, with a measured rushing noise, very swiftly ; and before we could say. What was it ? it was by us, and gone far away. We had a glimpse of a brown thin-faced man, seated in a tiny outrigger, which creaked beneath the pres- sure of each mighty stroke, skimming over the water like a swal- low, with easy undulations, so fast that the few swift runners on the bank were running their hardest. " Robert Coombes train- ing," said Reuben, with bated breath ; and we looked after the flying figure w^ith awe and admiratron, long after it was gone round the bend, and the gleaming ripples which he had made upon the oily river had died into stillness once more. I hardly remember, to tell the truth, how far we went up with that tide ; I think, as far as Kew. When the kedge was dropped, we all got into a boat, and went ashore to a public house. I remember perfectly well that I modestly asked the one-eyed old man, lately Rube's master, whether he would be pleased to take anything. He was pleased to put a name to gin and cloves, which he drank in our presence, to Joe's intense in- terest, who leant on his crutch, and stared at him intently with his great prominent eyes. Joe had heard of the old man's ex- traordinary performances when in liquor, and he evidently expected this particular dram to produce immediate and visible effects. He was disappointed. The old man assaulted nobody (he probably missed his wife), ordered another dram, wiped his THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 27 moutli on the back of his hand, swore an ingenious oath perfectly new to tlie whole of his aiulieuce, lit his pipe, and sat down on a bench fronting the river. Then, after a most affeotionate farewell with Renl)en, we turned to wall^ homewards, — Joe walking stoutly and bravely witli his crutch over his shoulder. "We enjoyed ourselves more on shore than on the river, for Joe said that there were wild tulips on Kew Green, and wanted to find some.* So we hunted for them, but without success. The tulip-tree at Fulham had given me incor- rect ideas, and I steadily looked up into the limes and horse- chestnuts for them. Then we pushed on again, and at the turnpike on Barnes Common we took our first refreshment that day. We had some bread and treacle in a cotton pocket- handkerchief, and we bought two bottles of ginger-beer ; and, for the first time in our lives, we " pic-nic'd." We sat on the short turf together, and ate our bread and treacle, and drank our ginger-beer. Last year, when Joe and I came over to the Exhibition as Commissioners, we, as part of our duty, were invited to dine with one of the very greatest men in England. I sat between Mrs. Oxton and a Marchioness. And during dinner, in a low tone of voice, I told Mrs. Oxton this story about the bread and treacle, and the ginger-beer. And, to my surprise, and rather to my horror, as I must confess, Mrs. Oxton, speaking across me, told the whole story over again to the Marchioness, of whom I was in mortal terror. But, after this, nothing could be more genial and kind to me than was that terrible Marchioness ; and in the drawing-room, I saw her, with my own eyes, go and tell the whole horrid truth to her husband, the Marquis. Whereupon he came over at once, and made much of me, in a corner. Their names, as I got them from Mrs. Oxton, were Lord and Lady Hainault. Then we (on Putney Common twenty years ago) lay back and looked at the floating clouds, and Joe said, " Eeuben is go- ing to marry our Emma, and I am glad of it." "" But he mus'n't," I said ; " it won't do." " Why not " ? " Father won't hear on it, I tell you. Rube ain't going on well." " Yes, he is now," said Joe, " since he 's been seeing so much of Emma. Don't you notice, Jim ? He has n't sworn a oath to-day. He has cut all that Cheyue Walk gang. I tell you she will make a man of him." * Joe was, to a certain extent, right. The common Fritillaria did grow there — fifty years before Joe was born. He had seen tiie locality quoted in some old botany-book. 28 THE HILLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. " I tell you," I said, " father won't liear tell on it. Besides, she 's only fourteen. And, also, who is fit to marry Emma ? Go along with you." And so we went along with us. And our first happy holiday came to an end by my falling asleep dog-tired at sup})er, with my head in my father's lap ; while Joe, broad-awake, and liighly ex- cited, was telling them all about the tulip-tree. I was awakened by the screams incident to Fred having fallen triumphantly into the fire, off his chair, and having to be put out, — which being done, we went to bed. After this first effort of ours, you might as well have tried to keep two stormy petrels at home in a gale of wind, as to keep Joe and me from rambling. My fiither " declined " — I can hardly use such a strong word as " refuse " about him — any more holidays ; but he compromised the matter by allowing us to go an expedition into the country on Sunday afternoon, — providing always that we went to church in the morning with the rest of the family, — to which we submitted, though it cost us a deal in omnibuses. And now I find that, before I can tell you the story of our new acquaintance in an artistic manner, I shall have to tell you what became of that old acquaintance of ours, — Joe's crutch ; be- cause, if we had not got rid of the one, we never should have made acquaintance with the other. On every expedition we made into the country, Joe used his crutch less and less. I mean, used it less in a legitimate man- ner ; though, indeed, we missed it in the end, as one does miss things one has got used to. He used it certainly to the last. I have known him dig out a mole with it ; I have known him suc- cessfully defend himself against a dog with it in a farmyard at Roehampton ; I have seen it flying up, time after time, into a horse-chestnut-tree, (we tried them roasted and boiled, with salt and without, but it would n't do,) until it lodged, and we wasted the whole Sabbath afternoon in pelting it down again. Latterly, I saw Joe do every sort and kind of thing with that crutch, ex- cept one. He never used it to walk with. Once he broke it short in two getting over a stile ; and my father sent it to the umbrella-mender's and had it put together at a vast expense with a ferrule, and kept Joe from school till it was done. I saw that the thing was useless long before the rest of the family. But, at last, the end of it came, and the old familiar sound of it was heard no more. One Sunday afternoon we got away as far as Penge Wood, where the Crystal Palace now stands ; and in a field, between that and Norwood, we found mushrooms, and filled a handker- chief with them. When we w^ere coming home through Batter- THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 29 sea, we sat down on a bank to see if any of them were broken ; after which we got up and walked home again. And then and there Joe forgot his crutch, and left it behind him on the bank, and we never saw it any more, but walked home very fast for fear we should be late for supper. That was the last of the crutch, unless the one Joe saw in the marine storekeeper's in Battersea was the same one, which you may believe or not as you like. iVll I know is, that he never got a new one, and has not done so to this day. We burst in with our mushrooms. Father and mother had waited for us, and were gone to bed ; Emma was sitting up for us, with Harry (of whom you will know more) on her knee ; and, as Joe came towards her, she turned her sweet face on me, and said, " Why, where is Joe's crutch ? " " It 's two miles off, sweetheart," I said. " He has come home without it. He '11 never want no crutch this side of the grave." I saw her great soul rush into her eyes as she turned them on me ; and then, with that strange way she had, when anything happened, of looking out for some one to praise, instead of, as many women do, looking out for some one to blame and fall foul of, she said to me, — "This is your doing, my own brother. May God bless you for it." She came up to bed with Harry, after us. As soon as she had put him to bed in the next room, I heard him awake Frank, his bedfellow, and tell him that Jesus had cured our Joe of his lameness. Now, having got rid of Joe's crutch, we began to go further afield. Our country rambles were a great and acknowledged success. Joe, though terribly deformed in the body, was grow- ing handsome and ttrong. What is more, Joe developed a qual- ity, which even I should hardly have expected him to possess. Joe was got into a corner one day by a Dan vers Street bully, and he there and then thrashed that bully. Reuben saw it, and would have interfered, had he not seen that Joe, with his gigantically long arms, had it all his own way ; and so he left well alone. We began to further afield, — sometimes going out on an omnibus, and walking home ; sometimes walking all the way ; Joe bringing his book-learning on natural objects to bear, and re- cognizing things which he had never seen before. Something new was discovered in this manner every day ; and one day, in a lonely pond beyond Clnpham, we saw three or four white flowers floating on the surface. '• Those," said Joe, " must be white water-lilies. I would give anything for one of them." In those days, before the river had got into its present filthy so THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. condition, — in the times when jou. could catch a punt full of roach at Battersea Bridge, in the turn of a tide, — nearly every Chelsea boy could swim. I very soon had my clothes off, and the lilies w^ere carried home in triumph. " Ah, mother ! " said my flither, " do you remember the lilies at Stanlake?" " Ah, father ! " said my mother. " Acres on 'em," said my father, looking round radiantly ; " hun- dreds on 'em. Yallah ones as well. Waterfalls, and chaney boys being poorly into cockle-shells, and marvel figures dancing as naked as they was born, and blowing tunes on whilk-shells, and winkles, and such like. Eh, mother ! " Mother began to cry. " There, God bless me ! " said my father ; " I am a stupid brute if ever there were one. Mother, old girl, it were so many years agone. Come, now ; it 's all past and gone, dear." Fred, at this moment, seeing his mother in tears, broke out in a stentorian, but perfectly tearless, roar, and cast his bread and butter to the four winds. Emma had to take him and walk up and down with him, patting him on the back, and singing to him in her soft cooing voice. There was a knock at the room-door just when she was oppo- site it, — she opened it, and there was Reuben ; and I saw my father and mother look suddenly at one another. " May I come in, cousin .'' " he said to my mother, in his pleas- ant voice. " Come, let 's have a game with the kids before I go up and sleep with the ghost." " You 're welcome, Rube, my boy," said my father ; " and you 're welcomer every day. We miss you. Rube, when you don't come ; consequently, you 're welcome when you do, which is in reason. Therefore," said my father, pursuing his argument, " There 's the place by the fire, and there 's your backer, and there 's the kids. So, if mother's eyes is red, it 's w^ith naught you 've done, old boy. Leave alone," I heard my father growl to himself (for I, as usual, was sitting next him) ; "is the sins of the fathers to be visited on the tables of kindred and affinity ? No. In consequence, leave alone, I tell you. He did n't, any how. And there was worse than his father, — now then." In a very short time we were all comfortable and merry, Reu- ben making the most atrocious riot with the " kids," my younger brotliers. But I saw that Joe was distraught ; and, with that pro- found sagacity which has raised me to my present eminence, I guessed that he was planning to go to Stanlake the very next Sunday. The moment we were in bed, I saw how profoundly wise I was. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 31 Joe broke out. He must see tlie " yallali " water-lilies ; the chaney boys and the marvel figures were nothing ; it was the yallah lilies. I, who had noticed more closely than he ray mother's behavior when the place was mentioned, and the look she gave my father when Rube came in, had a sort of fear of going there, but Joe pleaded and pleaded until I was beaten ; at last, I hap- pily remembered that we did not know in which of the fifty-two counties of England Stanlake was situated. I mentioned this little fact to Joe. He suggested that I should ask my father. I declined doing anything of the sort ; and so the matter ended for tlie night. But Joe was not to be beaten. He came home later than usual from afternoon school next day. The moment we were alone together, he told me that he had been to see Mr. Faulkner. That he had asked him where Stanlake was ; and that the old gentleman, — who knew every house and its history, within twenty miles of London, — had told him that it was three miles from Croydon, and was the seat of Sir George Hillyar. CHAPTER VII. THE BATTLE OF BAEKER"S GAP. The Secretary rode steadily on across the broad sands by the silent sea, thinking jf Gerty Neville, of how hot it was, of George Hillyar, of t .le convict he had left behind, of all sorts of things, until Cape ^Vilberforce was so near that it changed from a dull blue to a light brown, with gleams of green ; and was no more a thing of air, but a real promontory, with broad hanging lawns of heath, and deep shadowed recesses among the cliffs. Then he knew that the forty-mile beach was nearly past, and that he was within ten miles of his journey's end and dinner. He whistled a tune, and began looking at the low wall of evergreen shrubs to his ri";ht. At last, dray-tracks in the sand, and a road leading up from the shore through the tea-scrub, into which he passed inland. Hotter than ever here. Piles of drifted sand, scored over in every direction with the tracks of lizards of every sort and size ; some of which slid away, with a muscular kind of waddle, into dark places ; while others, refusing to move, opened their mouths at him, or let down bags under their chins, to frighten him. A weird sort of a place this, very snaky in appearance ; not by any 32 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. means the sort of place to lie down and go to sleep in on a hot night in March or Septeml:)er, when the wicked devils are abroad at night. Did any one of my readers ever lie down, dog-tired, on Kanonook Island, and hear the wretches sliding through the sand all night, with every now and then a subdued '• Hish, hish, hish?" As the American gentleman says in "Martin Chuzzle- "wit," " Darn all manner of vermin ! " At nightfall, he came to a little cattle-station, where he slept It was owned by a little gray-headed Irish gentleman, who played the bassoon, and who had not one grievance, but fifty ; who had been an ill-used man ever since he Avas born, — nay, even like Tristram Shandy, before. He had been unfortunate, had this Irish gentleman, in love, in literature, in commerce, and in poli- tics ; in his domestic relations, in his digestion ; in Ireland, in India, in the Cape, and in New Zealand ; still more unfortunate, according to his own showing, in Cooksland. He told all his grievances to the Secretary, proving clearly, as unsuccessful Irish gentlemen always can do, that it was not his own fault, but that thino^s in oreneral had combined against him. Then he asked for a place in the Customs for his second son. Lastly, he essayed to give him a tune on his bassoon ; but the mason-flies had built their nests in it, and he had to clean them out with the worm- end of a ramrod ; and so there was anot \er grievance, as bad as any of the others. The Secretary had to go to bed without his music, and, indeed, had been above an hour asleep before the Irish gentleman succeeded in clearing the instrument. Then, after several trials, he managed to get a good bray out of it, got out his music-books, and set to work in good earnest, within four feet of the Secretary's head, and nothing bu*: a thin board between them. The country mended as he passed inland. He crossed a broad half-salt creek, within a hundred yards of the shore, where the great bream basked in dozens ; and then he was among stunted gum-trees, looking not so very much unlike oaks, and deep braken fern. After this he came to a broad j^lain of yellow grass, which rolled up and up before him into a down ; and, when he came, after a dozen miles, to the top of this, he looked into a broad bare valley, through which wound a large creek, fringed by a few tall white-stemmed trees, of great girtii. Beneath him were three long, low gray buildings of wood, placed so as to form three sides of a square, fronting the creek ; and behind, stretching up the other side of the valley, was a large paddock, containing seven or eight fin(^ horses. Tills was the police-station, at which Lieutenant Ilillyar had been quartered for some time, — partly, it was said, in punishment for some escapade, and partly because two desperate esca^jed convicts THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 33 fi'om Van Diemen's Land were suspected to be in the neiglibor- hood. Here Georo;e llillyar had been thrown into the society of the Barkers, at whose house he had met Gerty Neville. The Secretary reined his horse up in the centre of the little quadranirle, and roared out, Hallo ! Whereupon a horse neighed in the paddock, but no other ellect was produced. He then tried a loud Cooe ! This time the cat jumped up from where she lay in the sun, and ran indoors, and the horses in the paddock began galloping. " Hallo ! Hi ! Here ! Stable guard ! Where the dense have you all got to ? Hallo ! " It was evident that there was not a soul about the place. The Secretary was very angry. " I '11 report him ; as sure as he 's born, I '11 report him. It is too bad. It is beyond anything I ever heard of, — to leave his station without a single man." The Secretary got off his horse, and entered the principal room. He looked round in astonishment, and gave a long whistle. His bushman's eye told him, in one instant, that there had been an alarm or emergency of some kmd, immediately after daybreak, while the men were still in bed. The mattresses and clothes were not rolled neatly up as usual, but the blankets were lying in confusion, just as the men had left them, when they had jumped out to dress. The carbines and swords were gone from the rack. He ran hurriedly out, and swung himself on to his horse, exclaim- ing, just as he would have done four-and-twenty years before at Harrow, " Well ! Here is a jolly row." It was a bare mile to the Barkers' Station. In a few minutes he came thundering into their courtyard, and saw a pretty little woman, dressed in white, standing in front of the door, with a pink parasol over her head, holding by the hand a child, with nothing on but its night-shirt. '' My dear creature," cried the Secretary, " what the dickens is the matter ? " " Five bushrangers," cried Mrs. Barker. " They appeared suddenly last night, and stuck up the O'Malleys' station. There is nobody killed. There was no one in the house but Lesbia Burke, — who is inside now, — old Miles O'Malley, and the housekeeper. They got safe away when they saw them coming. They spared the men's huts, but have burnt the house down." " Bad cess to them," said a harsh, though not unpleasant voice, behind her ; and out came a tall, rather gray-headed woman, in age about fifty, but with remains of what must have been remark- able bt-auty. '' Bad cess to them, I say, Mr. Oxton dear. 'T is the third home I have been burnt out of in twenty years. Is there sorra a statesman among ye all can give a poor old Phoenix 2* c 34 THE HILL YAKS AND THE BURTONS. beauty a house where she may die in peace? Is tliis your model colony, Secretary ? Was it for this that I keened over the cold liearthstone at Garoopna, when we sold it to the Brentwoods, before brave Sam Buckley came a-wooing there, to win the beauty of the world? Take me back to Gip})sland some of ye, and let me hear old Snowy growling througli his boulders again, tlu'ough the quiet summer's night ; or take me back to Old Ire- land, and let me sit sewing by the Castle window again, watching the islands floating on Corrib, or the mist driving up from the Atlantic before the west wind. Is this your model colony ? Is there to be no pillow secure for the head of the jaded, despised old Dublin flirt, who has dressed, and dizened, and painted, and offered herself, till she became a scorn and a by-word ? A curse on all your colonies ! Old Ireland is worth more than all of them. A curse on them ! " " My dear Miss Burke ! My dear Lesbia ! " pleaded the Secretary. " Don't talk to me. Hav'n't I been burnt out three times, by blacks and by whites ? Hav'n't I had to fight for my life like a man ? Don't I bear the marks of it ? There is no rest for me. I know the noise of it too well ; I heard it last night. Darkness, silence, sleep, and dreams of rest. Then the hoofs on the gravel, and the beating at the door. Then the awakening, and the ter- ror, and the shots, stabs, blows, and curses. Then murder in the drawing-room, worse in the hall. Blood on the hearthstone, and fire on the roof-tree. Don't I know it all, James Oxton ?" " Dear Lesbia," said the good-natured Secretary, " old friend, do be more calm." " Calm, James Oxton, and another home gone? Tell me, have you ever had your house burnt down ? Do Agnes or Gerty know what it is to have their homes destroyed, and all their little luxuries broken and dispersed, their flowers trampled, and their birds killed? Do they know this?" " Why, no," said the Secretary. " And, if it were to happen to them, how would you feel ? " " Well, pretty much as you do, I suppose. Yes, I don't know but what I should get cross." " Then, vengeance, good Secretary, vengeance ! Honor and hiirh rewards to the vermin-hunters ; halters and death for the vermin And so Miss Burke went in, her magnificently-shaped head seeming to float in the air as she went, and her glorious figure showing some new curve of the infinitely variable curves of female beauty at every step. And it was high time she should go in ; for the kind, good, honest soul was getting too much excited, and was talking more than was good for her. She had her faults, THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 35 tmd was, as you see above, very much given to a Celtic-Danish- Milesian-Norniau way of cxpressinijf licrself, which is apt to be classified, on tliis side of St. George's Channel, as Irish rant. But her rant had a good deal of reason in it, — which some Irish rant has not, — and, moreover, was delivered with such mag- nilicent accessories of voice and person, that James Oxton him- self had been heard to declare that he would at any time walk twenty miles to see Lesbia Burke in a tantrum. Even, also, if you are heathen enough to believe that the whole art of rhetoric merely consists in plausibly overstating your case, with more or less dishonesty, as the occasion demands, or your conscience will allow, yet still you must admit that her rhetoric was successful, — for this reason : it produced on the Colonial Secretary exactly the effect slie wished : it made him horribly angry. Those taunts of hers about his model colony were terribly hard hitting. Had not his Excellency's speech at the opening of the Houses con- tained — nay, mainly consisted of — a somewhat offensive com- parison between Cooksland and the other five colonies of the Australian group ; in which the perfect security of life and pro- perty at home was contrasted with the fearful bush-ranger-outrages in New South ^Yales. And now their turn had come, — Cooks- land's turn, — the turn of James Oxton, who had made Cooks- land, and who was Cooksland. And to meet the storm there were only four troopers and cadets in command of Lieutenant Hillyar, the greatest fool in the service. " Oh, if that fellow will only bear himself like a man this one day!" said the Secretary, as he rode swiftly along. "Oh for Wyatt, or Malone, or Maclean, or Dixon, for one short hour ! Oh, to get the thing snuffed out suddenly and sharply, and be able to say, ' That is the way ive manage matters.' " One, two, three — four — five — six, seven, eight shots in the distance, sounding dully through the dense forest. Then silence, then two more shots ; and muttering, half as a prayer, half as an exclamation, "God save us!" he dashed through the crowded timber as fast as his noble horse would carry him. He was cutting off an angle in the road, and, soon after he joined it again, he came on the place where the shots had been fired. There were two men — neither of them police — wounded on .the grass, and at first he hoped they were two of the bush- rangers ; but, unluckily, they turned out to be two of Barker's stockmen. Two lads, who attended to them, told him that the bush-rangers had turned on the party here, and shown fight ; that no one had been wounded but these two ; that in retreating they had separated, three having gone to the right, and two to the left ; that Lieutenant Hillyar had ordered Mr. Barker's men, and three troopers, to go to the right ; while he, attended only by Cadet 86 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. Simpson, had followed the two who were goue to the left, with the expressed intention of riding them down, as they were the best mounted of the five robbers. " I hope," thouglit the Secretary, " that he will not make a fool of himself. The fellow is showing pluck and resolution, though, — a deal of pluck and resolution. He means to make a spoon or spoil a horn to-day." So, armed only with a hunting-whip, he put his horse at a canter, and hurried on to overtake Hillyar. Soon after he heard several shots ahead, and began to think he might as well have had something better in his hand than a hunting-whip. Then he met a riderless horse, going large and wild, neighing and turning •his head from side to side, and carrying, alas ! a government sad- dle. Then he came on poor Simpson, lying by the side of the road, looking very ghastly and wild, evidently severely wounded. Mr. Oxton jumped off, and cried, " Give me your carbine, my poor lad. Where 's Hillyar ? " " Gone after the other two," said Simpson, feebly. " Two to one now, eh ? " said Mr. Oxton. " This gets ex- citino^." So he rode away, with the carbine on his knee ; but he never had occasion to use it. Before he had ridden far he came on the body of one of the convicts, lying in a heap by the road-side ; and, a very short time afterwards, he met a young gentleman, in an undress light-dragoon uniform, who was riding slowly towards him, leading, handcuffed to his saddle, one of the most fiendish- looking ruffians that eye ever beheld. " "Well done, Hillyar ! Bravely done, sir ! " cried Mr. Oxton. " I am under personal obligations to you. The colony is under personal obligations to you, sir. You are a fine fellow, sir ! " " Recommend me to these new American revolvers, Mr. Sec- retary," replied the young man. " These fellows had compara- tively no chance at me with their old pistols, though this fellow has unluckily hit poor Simpson. When we came to close quar- ters I shot one fellow, but this one, preferring hanging (queer taste), surrendered, and here he is." This Lieutenant Hillyar, of whom we have heard so much and seen so little, was certainly a very handsome young fellow. Mr. Oxton was obliged to confess that. He was tall and well-made, and his features were not rendered less attractive by the extreme paleness of his complexion, though one who knew the world as well as the Secretary could see that the deep Unes in his face told of des- perate hard living ; and yet now (whether it was tliat the Secre- tary was anxious to make the best of him, or that George Hillyar was anxious to make the best of himself), his appearance was certainly not that of a dissipated person. He looked high-bred THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 87 and handsome, and lolled on his horse with an air of easy langor, not actually unbecoming in a man who had just done an act of such unequivocal valor. " Revolvers or not, sir," said Mr. Oxton, " there is no doubt about your courage and determination. I wonder if the other party will have fared as well as you." " Undoubtedly," said Ilillyar ; " the other three fellows were utterly outnumbered. I assure you I took great pains about this business. I was determined it should succeed. You see, I have, unfortunately, a rather biting tongue, and have made myself many enemies ; and I have been an ol)jectless man hitherto, and per- haps have lived a little too hard. Now, however, that I have something to live for, I shall change all that. I wish the colony to hear a different sort of report about me ; and more than that, I wish to rise in the esteem of the Honorable James Oxton, Chief Secretary for the Colony of Cooksland, and I have begun already." " You have, sir," said the Secretary, frankly. " Much remains ; however, we will talk more of this another time. See, here lies poor Simpson ; let us attend to him. Poor fellow ! " CHAPTER VIII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : THE IMMEDIATE RESULTS OF THE EXPEDITION TO STANLAKE. I HAD a presentiment that our proposed Sunday expedition to Stanlake would lead to something; and I was anxious. I noticed that my mother had cried at the mention of the place. I saw the look that my father and mother interchanged when Reuben came in ; and I had overheard my flxther's confidential growl about the sins of the fathers being visited on the children, and so on. Therefore I felt very much as if I was doing wrong in yielding to Joe's desire to go there, without telHng my father. But I simply acquiesced, and never mentioned my scruples (after my first feeble protest in bed) even to Joe. And I will confess why. I had a great curiosity to see the place. I was only a poor stupid blacksmith-lad ; but my crippled brother had given me a taste for beautiful things, and, from my father's description, this was the most beautiful place in the world. Then there was the charm of secrecy and romance about this expedition, — but 38 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. why analyze the motives of a boy ? To put it shortly, we de- ceived our good father and mother for the first time when we went there ; and we reaped the consequences. The consequences ! But had the consequences been shown to me in a glass, on that bright Sunday morn when we started to Stanlake, should I have paused ? I have asked myself that question more than once, and I have answered it thus. If I had seen all the consequences which were to follow on that expedi- tion then, I would have thrown myself off Battersea Bridge soon- er than have gone. But I was only a blind, ignorant boy at that time. Now, as a man, I begin, dimly and afar off, to understand why we were let go. I don't see it all yet, but I begin to see it. I think that, if I had been the same man that morning as I am now, I would have said a prayer — and gone. Now, what seems almost like accident, were there such a thing, favored us that Sunday morning. An affair which had been growing to a head for some time came to its crisis that morning. Mr. and Mrs. William Avery had taken our first floor, and Bill himself was not going on at all well. Mrs. Bill had a nasty tongue, and he was much too " handy with his hands." So it came about that Bill was more and more at the " Black Lion," and that my father, who had contrived to sawder up every man- and-wife quarrel in the buildings, was fairly puzzled here. This very Saturday evening the crash came. We had heard him and his wife " at it " all the evening ; and heavy things, such as chairs, had been falling overhead, whereat my mother had said, *' There ! Did you ever ?" But at eight o'clock, Emma, taking Fred up the broad old stairs to bed, in his night-gown, leading him with one hand, holding a lighted candle in the other, and slowly crooning out " The Babes in the Wood" in her own sweet way, was alarmed by the Averys' door being burst open, and by the awful spectacle of Mr. and Mrs. Avery fighting on the land- ing. Instantly after, whether on purpose or by accident I cannot say, the poor woman was thrown headlong down stairs, on to the top of Emma and Fred. The candle behaved like a magnificent French firework ; but Mrs. Bill, Emma, and Fred, came down in a heap on the mat, the dear child, with his usual luck, under- neath. After this, William Avery, holding the landing, and audibly, nay, loudly, expressing his desire to see the master-blaeksraith who would come up stairs and offer to interfere between a man and his wife, it became necessary for Mrs. Avery to be accom- modated below for the night. The next morning, after the liquor had died out of him, William Avery was brought to task by my father ; and durinor the imbroglio of recriminations which ensued, which ended in an appeal to the magistrate, we boys dared to do THE niLLTARS AND THE BURTONS. 39 what wc had never dared to do before, — to escape church, take the steamer to London Bridge, and get on to Croydon by the at- mo.^})heric railway, reaching that place at half-past twelve. It was September, but it was summer still. Those who live in the country, they tell me, can see the difference between a sum- mer-day in September and a summer-day in June ; but we town- folks cannot. The country-folks have got tired of their flowers, and have begun to think of early fires, and shortening days, and turnips, and deep cover, and hollies standing brave and green under showering oak-leaves, which fall on the swift wings of flitting woodcocks ; but to town-folks September is even as June. The same deep shadows on the grass, the same tossing plumage on the elms, the same dull silver on the willows. More silence in the brooks perhaps, and more stillness in the woods ; but the town-bred eye does not recognize the happy doze before the win- ter's sleep.. The country is the country to them, and September is as June. On a bright September day, Joe and I came, well directed, to some park-palings, and after a short consultation we — in for a penny in for a pound, demoralized by the domestic differences of Mr. and Mrs. Bill Avery — climbed over them, and stood, tres- passing flagrantly in the park which they enclosed. We had no business there. We knew we were doing wrong. We knew that we ouo-lit to have o-one to church that moruinor. We were guilty beings for, I really think, the first time in our lives. William Avery's having thrown his wife down stairs on to the top of Emma and Fred had been such a wonderful disturbance of old order and law, that we were in a revolutionary frame of mind. We knew that order would be once more restored, some time or another, but, meanwhile, the barricades were up, and the jails were burning ; so we were determined to taste the full pleas- ure derivable from a violent disturbance of the political balance. First of all we came on a bright broad stream, in which we could see brown spotted fish, scudding about on the shallows, which Joe said must be trout. And, after an unsuccessful at- tempt to increase the measure of our sins by adding poaching to trespass, we passed on towards a dark wood, from which the stream issued. It was a deep dark wood of lofty elms, and, as we passed on into it, the gloom grew deeper. Far aloft the sun gleamed on the highest boughs ; but, beneath, the stream swept on through the shadows, with scarcely a gleam of light upon the surface. At last we came on a waterfall, and, on our climbing the high bank on one side of it, the lake opened on our view. It was about a quarter of a mile long, hemmed in by wood on all sides, with a boat-house, built like a Swiss chalet, half-way along it. 40 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. The silence and solitude were profound ; nothing seemed moving but the great dragon-flies ; it was the most beautiful place we had ever seen ; nothing would have stopped us now short of a policeman. We determined to wait, and go further before we gathered the water-lilies ; then, suddenly, up rose a great red-and-black but- terfly, and Joe cried out to me for heaven's sake to get it for him. Away went the butterfly, and I after it, headlong, not seeing where I went, only intent on the chase. At one time I clam- bered over a sunk fence, and found myself out of the wood ; then I vaulted over an iron hurdle, then barely saved myself from fall- ing into a basin of crystal water, with a fountain in the middle ; then I was on a gravel walk, and at last got my prize under my cap, in the middle of a bed of scarlet geranium and blue lobelia. " Hang it, I thought, I must be out of this pretty quick. This won't do. We shan't get through this Sunday without a blessed row, I hiow" A voice behind me said, with every kind of sarcastic em- phasis : — " Upon my veracity, young gentleman. Upon my word and honor. Now do let me beg and pray of you, my dear creature, to make yourself entirely at home. Trample, and crush, and ut- terly destroy, three or four more of my flower-beds, and then come in and have some lunch. Upon my word and honor ! " I turned, and saw behind me a very handsome gentleman, of about fifty-five or so, in a blue coat, a white waistcoat, and drab trousers, exquisitely neat, who stood and looked at me, with his hands spread abroad interrogatively, and his delicate eyebrows arched into an expression of sarcastic inquiry. " He won't hit me," was my first thought ; and so I brought my elbows down from above my ears, rolled up my cap with the butterfly inside it, and began to think about flight. I could n't take my eyes off" him. He was a strange figure to me. So very much like a perfect piece of waxwork. His coat was so blue, his waistcoat so white, his buttons so golden, his face so smoothly shaven, and his close-cropped gray hair so wonder- fully sleek. His hands too, such a delicate mixture of brown and white, with one blazing diamond on the right one. I saw a grand gentleman for the first time, and this, combined with a slightly guilty conscience, took the edge ofl' my London prentice auda- city, and made me just the least bit in the world afraid. I had refinement enough (thanks to my association with Joe, a gentleman born,) not to be impudent. I said, — "I am very, very sorry, sir. The truth is, sir, I wanted this butterfly, and I followed it into your grounds. I meant no harm, indeed, sir. (As I said it, in those old times, it ran something like this, — "I THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 41 wnntcd tlint c:c butterfly, sir, and I follered of it into your little pl;u'i\ wliich I did n't mean no harm, I do assure you)." '• Well ! well ! well ! " said Sir George Ilillyar, '• I don't say you did. When I was at Eton, I have bee-hunted into all sorts ot" strange places. To the very feet of royalty, on one occasion. Indeed, you are forgiven. See here, Erne : here is a contrast to your lazy style of life ; here is a " " Blacksmith," I said. " Blacksmith," said Sir George, " I beg your pardon ; who will — will — do all kinds of things (he said this with steady severity) in pursuit of a butterfly. An example, my child." Taking my eyes from Sir George Hillyar, for the first time, I saw that a boy, about my own age apparently, (I was nearly six- teen,) had come up and was standing beside him, looking at me, with his arm passed through his father's, and his head leaning against his shoulder. Such a glorious lad. As graceful as a deer. Dark brown hair, that wandered about his forehead like the wild boughs of a neglected vine ; features regular and beautiful ; a complexion well-toned, but glazed over with rich sun-brown ; a most beauti- ful youth, yet whose beauty was extinguished and lost in the blaze of tw^o great blue-black eyes, which forced you to look at them, and which made you smile as you looked. So I saw him first. How well I remember his first words, "Who is this?" I answered promptly for myself. I wanted Joe to see him, for we had never seen anything like him before, and Joe was now visible in the dim distance, uncertain what to do. I said, "I hunted this butterfly, sir, from the corner of the lake into this garden ; and, if you will come to my brother Joe, he will con- firm me. May I go, sir ? " " You may go, my boy," said Sir George ; " and, Erne, you may show him off" the place, if you please. This seems an hon- est lad. Erne. You may walk with him if you will." So he turned and went towards the house, which I now had time to look at. A bald, bare, white place, after all ; with a great expanse of shadeless flower-garden round it. What you would call a very great place, but a very melancholy one, which looked as though it must be very damp in winter. The lake in tlie wood was the part of that estate which pleased me best. Erne and I walked away together, towards the dark, inscru- table future, and never said a word till we joined Joe. Then we three walked on through the wood, Joe very much puzzled by what had happened ; and at last Erne said to me, — " What is your name ? " " Jim." 42 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " I say, Jim, what did you come here for, old fellow ? " " We came after the water-lilies/' 1 said. " We were told there were yellow ones here." " So there were," he said ; " but we have rooted them all up. If you will come here next Sunday, I will get you some." " I am afraid we can't, sir," I said. " If it had n't been for Bill Avery hitting his missis down stairs, we could n't have come here to-day. And we shall catch it now." " Do you go to school ? " said Erne. " No, sir ; I am apprenticed to father. Joe here does." " Do the fellows like you, Joe ? Have you got any friends ? " Joe stopped, and looked at him. He said, — " Yes, sir. Many dear friends, God be praised ! though I am only a poor hunchback. Have you many, sir ? " " Not one single one, God help me, Joe. Not one single one." It came on to rain, but he would not leave us. We walked to the station together ; and, as we walked, Joe, the poet, told us tales, so that the way seemed short. Tales of sudden friendships made in summer gardens, which outlive death. Of long-sought love; of lands far off; lands of peace and wealth, where there was no sorrow, no care ; only an eternal, dull, aching regret for home, never satisfied; and of the great heaving ocean, which thundered and burst everlastingly on the pitiless coast, and sent its echoes booming up the long-drawn corridors of the dark, storm-shaken forest capes. Did Joe tell us all these stories, or has my memory become confused ? I forget, good reader, I forget ; it is so long ago. We had to wait, and Erne would sit and wait with us in the crowded waiting-room, and he sat between Joe and me. He asked me where I lived, and I told him, " Church Place, Church Street, Chelsea." Somehow we were so crowded that his arm got upon my shoulder, just as if he were a school-fellow and an equal. The last words he said were, — " Come back and see me, Jim. I have not got a friend in the world." Joe, in the crush before the train started, heard the station- master say to a friend, — " It 's a queer thing : it runs in families. There 's young Erne Hillyar is going the same way as his brother. I seen him, with my own eyes, sitting in the second-class waiting- room, with his arm on the shoulder of a common young cad. He has took to low company, you see ; and he will go to the devil, like his brother." If the station-master had known what I thought of him after I heard this, he would not have slept the better, I fancy. Low company, forsooth. Could the Honorable James Burton, of the Supreme Council of Cooksland, Colonial Commissioner for the THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 43 Exhibition of 1862, ever have been justly described as "low company ? " Certainly not. I was very angry then. I am furious now. Intolerable ! " This Sunday's expedition, so important as it was, was never inquired into by ray father. "When we got home we found that our guilty looks were not noticed. Tlie affair between 'William Avery and his wife had complicated itself, and gpt to be very serious, and sad indeed. When we got home we found my father sitting and smoking opposite my mother ; and, on inquiry, we heard that Emma had been sent up to bed with the children at seven o'clock. I thought at first that we were going to " catch it." I, who knew every attitude of theirs so well, could see that they were sitting in judgment ; and I thought it was on us. This was the first time we had ever done any great wrong to them ; and I felt that, if we could have it out, there and then, we should be happier. And so I went to my father's side, put my arm on his shoulder, and said, — " Father, I will tell you all about it." " My old Jim," he answered, " what can you tell, any more than we have heard this miserable day ? We know all as you may have heard, my boy. Little Polly Martin, too. Who would have thought it ? " My mother began to cry bitterly. I began to guess that William Avery had quarrelled with his wife on the grounds of jealousy, and, also, that my father and mother had sifted the evidence and pronounced her guilty. I knew all about it at once from those few words, though I was but a lad of sixteen. I knew now, and I had suspected before, that young Mrs. Avery was no longer such a one as my father and mother would allow to sit down in the same room with Emma. She had been, before her marriage, a dark-eyed, pretty little body, apparently quite blameless in every way, and a great favorite of my mother's. But she married William Avery, a smart young waterman, rather to much given to " potting," and she learnt the accursed trick of drinkino; from him. And then everything went wrong. She could sing, worse luck ; and one Saturday night she went marketing, and did not come home. And he went after her, and found her singing in front of the Six Bells in the King's Road, having spent all his money. And then he beat her for the first time ; and then things went on from bad to worse, till the last and worst crash came, on the very week when Joe and I ran away to Stanlake. WiUiam was fined by Mr. Paynter for beating his wife ; and soon after his end came. He took seriously to drinking. One dark night he and his mate were bringing the barge down on the 44 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. tide, — his mate, Sam Agar, with the sweeps, and poor Avery steering, — and she (the barge) would n't behave. Sam knew that poor Avery was drunk, and rectified his bad steering with the sweeps as well as he was able. But, approaching Battersea Bridge, good Sam saw that she was broadside to the tide, and cried ou^, — " Starboard, Bill ! Starboard, old boy, for God's sake ! " but there was no answer. She struck the Middlesex pier of the main arch heavily, and nearly heaved over and went down, but righted and swung through. When Sam Agar found himself in clear water, he ran aft to see after Bill Avery. But the poor fellow had tumbled over long before, and the barge had been steering herself for a mile. His body came ashore oppo- site Smith's distillery, and Mr. Wakley delivered himself of a philippic against drunkenness to the jury who sat upon him. And his wife went utterly to the bad. I thought we had heard the last of her, but it was not so. My mother's face, when she turned up again, after so many years, ought to have been photographed and published. " \Ye\l, now, you know, this really is," was what she said. It was the expression of her face, the look of blank, staring wonder that amused Joe and me so much. CHAPTER IX. SIR GEORGE HILLYAR. One morning in September, Sir George Hillyar sat In his study, before his escritoire, very busy with his papers ; and be- side him was his lawyer, Mr. Compton. Sir George was a singularly handsome, middle-aged gentle- man, with a square ruddy face, very sleek close-cropped gray hair, looking very high-bred and amiable, save in two points. He had a short thick neck, like a bulldog, and a very obstinate- looking and rather large jaw. To give you his character in a few words, he was a just, kind man, of not very high intellect, in spite of his high cultivation ; of intensely strong affections, and (whether it was the fault of his thick neck, or his broad jaw, I cannot say), as obstinate as a mule. " Are you really going to renew this lease. Sir George ? " said Mr. Compton. " Why, yes, I think so. I promised Erne I would." "Will you excuse me, Sir George, if I ask, as your confidential THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 45 friend of many years' standing, what the deuse my young friend Erne has to do with the matter ? " " Nothing in the world," said Sir George ; " but they got hold of him when we were down there, and he got me to promise. Therefore I must, don't you see." " No, I don't. This widow and her sons are ruining the farm ; you projiose to give them seven years longer to complete their work. How often have you laid it down as a rule, never to rg- new a lease to a widow ; and here you are doing it, because that young gaby, Erne, has been practised on, and asks you." "I know all that," said Sir George, "but I am quite deter- mined." " Very well, then," said Mr. Compton, rather nettled, " let 's say no more. I know what that means." " You see, Compton, I ivill not disappoint that boy in anything of this kind. I have kept him here alone with me, and allowed him to see scarce any one. You know why. And the boy has not seen enough of the outside world, and has no sympathies with his fellow-men whatever. And I will not baulk him in this. These are the first people he has shown an interest in, Compton, and he shan't be baulked." " He would have shown an interest in plenty of people, if you M'ould have let him," said the lawyer. " Y^ou have kept him mewed up here till he is fifteen, with no companion but his tutor, and your gray-headed household. The boy has scarcely spoken with a human being under fifty in his lifetime. Why don't you let him see young folks of his own age ? " " Why ! " said Sir George angrily. " Have I two hearts to break that you ask me this ? Y^ou know why, Compton. Y^'ou know how that woman and her child broke my heart once. Do you want it broken again by this, the child of my old age, I may say, — the child of my angel Mary ? " " You will have your heart broken if you don't mind, Hilly ar," said the lav/yer. " I will speak out once and for all. If you keep that boy tied up here in this unnatural way, he will play the deuse some day or another. Upon my word, tlillyar, this fan- tigue of yours approaches lunacy. To keep a noble high-mettled boy like Erne cooped up among gray-headed grooms and foot- men, and never to allow him to see a round young face except in church. It is rank madness." "I have had enough of young servants," said Sir George. " I will bnve no more Samuel Burtons, if you please." " Who the deuse wants you to ? Send the boy among lads in his own rank in life." " I have done it once. They bore him. He don't like 'em." " Because you don't let him choose them for himself." 46 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Let him have the chance of choosmg, in his ignorance, such ruffians as young Mottesfont and young Peters, for instance," said Sir George, scornfully. " No more of that, thank you, either. You are a sage coimsellor, upon my word, Compton. Let us change the subject." " Upon my honor we had better," said the lawyer, " if I am to keep ray temper. You are, without exception, the most wrong-headed man I ever saw. This I will say, that, as soon as Erne is released from this unnatural restraint, as he must be soon, he will make friends with the first young man, and fall in love with the first pretty face, he sees. You have given him no selection ; and, by Jove, you have given him a better chance of going to the dense than ever you did his half-brother." Obstinate men are not always ill-tempered ; Sir George Hill- yar was not an ill-tempered man. His obstinacy arose as much perhaps from self-esteem, caused by his having been from his boyhood master of ten thousand a year, as from his bull-neck and broad jaw. He was perfectly good-tempered over this scolding of his kind old friend ; he only said, — " Now, Compton, you know me. I have thought over the matter more than you have. I am determined. Let us get on to business." " Very well ! " said the lawyer ; " these papers you have signed ; I had better take them to the office." " Yes ; put 'em in your old japanned box, and put it on tlie third shelf from the top, between Viscount Sal tire and the Earl of Ascot ; not much in his box, is there, hey ! " " A deal there should n't be," said the lawyer. " Is there nothing else for me to put in the tin box of Sir George Hillyar, Bart, on the third shelf from the top ? " " No ! hang it, no, Compton. I '11 keep it here. I might alter it. Things might happen ; and, when death looks in between the curtains, a man is apt to change his mind. I '11 keep it here." He pointed to the tall fantastically-carved escritoire at which he was sitting, and, tapping it, said once again, " I '11 keep it here, Compton ; I '11 keep it here, old friend." Sir George Hillyar's history is told in a very few words. His first marriage was a singularly unfortunate one. Lady llillyar sold herself to him for his wealth, and afterwards revenged her- self on him by leading him the life of a dog. She was an evil- tempered woman, and her ill-temper improved by practice. They had one son, the Lieutenant Hillyar we have already seen in Australia, and whose history we have heard ; whose only recol- lections of a mother must have been those of a restless dark woman who wrangled and wept perpetually. Sir George Hill- yar's constitutional obstinacy did him but little good here ; his THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 47 calm inflexibility was more maddening to his fierce wild wife than the loudest objurgation would have been. One night, when little George was lying in his cradle, she kissed hiiu and left the house ; left it for utter ruin and disgrace ; unfaithful more from temper than from ])assion. In two years she died. She wore her fierce heart out at last in ceaseless reproaches on the man with whom she had fled, the man whom she had jilted that she might marry Sir George Ilill- yar. A dark wild story all through ; which left its traces on the obstinate face of Sir George Hillyar, and on the character and life of his poor boy. Dark suspicions arose in his mind about this boy. He never loved him, but he was inexorably just to him. His suspicions about him were utterly groundless ; his common sense told him that, but he could not lo\'e him, for he had nearly learnt to hate his mother. He was more than ordinarily careful over his edu- cation, and his extra care led to the disasters we know of. But there was a brief glimpse of sunshine in store for Sir George Hillyar. He was still a young, and, in spite of all ap- pearances, a warm-hearted man. And he fell in love again. He went down into AViltshire to shoot over an outlying estate of his, which he seldom visited save for sporting purposes, keep- in «■ no establishment there, but lodsfinor with his bailiff. And it so happened that the gamekeeper's daughter came down the long grass ride, between the fallowing hazel copse, under the October sun, to bring them lunch. And she was so divinely beautiful that he shot badly all the afternoon, and in the even- ing went to the keeper's lodge to ask questions about the pheas- ants, and saw her again. And she was so graceful, so good, and so modest, that in four days he asked her to marry him ; and, if ever there was a happy marriage it was this ; for truth is stranger than fiction, as many folks know. They had one boy, whom they christened Erne, after an Irish family ; and, when he was two years old, poor Lady Hillyar stayed out too late one evening on the lake, too soon after her second confinement. She caught cold, and •flied, leaving an in- fant who quickly followed her. And then Sir George transferred all the love of his heart to the boy Erne, who, as he grew, showed that he had inherited not only his mother's beauty, but all the yielding gentleness of her disposition. 48 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER X. ERNE MAKES HIS ESCAPE FROM THE BRAZEN TOWER. After his wife's death, Sir George Hillyar transferred all the love of his heart from the dead mother to the living child. He was just to his eldest son ; but George Hillyar could not but see that he was as naught compared to his younger half-brother, — nay, more, could not but see that there was something more than mere indifference in his father's feeling towards him ; there was dislike. Carefully as Sir George concealed it, as he thought, the child discovered it, and the boy resented it. And so it fell out that George Hillyar never knew what it was to be loved until he met Gertrude Neville. By his father's mistaken policy, with regard to his education, he was thrown among vicious people, and became terribly vicious himself. He went utterly to the dogs. He grew quite abandoned at one time ; and was witliin reach of the law. But, perhaps, the only wise thing his father ever did for him, was to stop his rambles on the Continent, and, partly by persuasion, partly by threats, induce him to go to Aus- tralia. He got a cadetship in the police, partly for the pay, partly for the uniform, partly for the sake of the entree^ — the recognized position it would give him in certain quarters. So he raised himself somewhat. He found, at first, that it faid to be respectable. Then he found that it was pleasant to be in society ; and his old life appeared, at times, to be horrible to him. And, at last, he fell in love with Gerty Neville ; and, what is stranger still, she fell in love with him. At this time there is a chance for him. As we leave him with good Mr. Oxton, looking after his wounded comrade, his fate hangs in the balance. After his terrible fiasco^ Sir George would have no more of schools or young ^rvants. He had been careful enough with his firstborn (as he thought then) ; he would lock Erne up in a brazen tower. He filled his house with grey-headed servants ; he got for the boy, at a vast expense, a gentle, kind old college don as tutor, — a man who had never taken orders, with a taste for natural history, who wished to live peaceably, and mix with good society. The boy Erne was S])lendidly educ-ated and cared for. He was made a little prince, but they never spoiled him. He must liave friends of his own age, of course : Lord Edward Bellamy and the little Marquis of Tullygoram were selected, and induced to come and stay with him, after close inquiries, and THE HILLYARS AND TIIK BURTONS. 49 some dexterous manoeuvring on the part of Sir George. T^iit Krne did not take to them. They were uiec, clever hids, but neitlior of them had been to scliool. Erne objected. lie wanted to know fellows who had been to school ; nay, r('l)elliously wanted to jjo to school himself, — which was not to be thought of. In short, at filteen, Erne was a very noble, sensitive, well-educated and clever lad, without a single friend of his own age ; and, becoming rebellious, he began to cast about to find friends for himself. It was through Providence, and not Sir George's good management, that he did not do worse in that way, than he did, poor lad. Sir George Ilillyar and INIr. Compton met in the dining-room at the second £fonclf to the hiirlic-t rank obtainable in it. "In addition to tliis jiiccc of intelligence, I have to inform you that I have made a most excellent marriage. Any inquiries you may make about the future Lady Ilillyar can only be answered in one way. " Hoping that your heidth is good, I beg to remain, " Your obedient son, " Geokge IIilltar." The answer came in time, as follows : — "My Dear George, — I had heard of your brilliant gal- lantry, and also of your marriage, from another source, before your letter arrived. I highly approve of your conduct in both cases. "In the place of the £300 wdiich you have been receiving hitherto from me, you will in future receive £1000 annually. I hope the end has come at last to the career of vice and selfish dissipation in which you have persisted so long. " I confess that I am very much pleased at what I hear of you this last six months (I am well-informed about every movement you make) : I had utterly given you up. The way to good fame seems to be plainly before you. I wish I could believe that none of this enormous crop of wild oats, wliich you have so diligently sown for the last eighteen years, would come up and bear terrible fruit. I wish I could believe that. " Meanwhile, if your duties call you to England, I will receive you and your wife. But take this j^iece of advice seriously to heart. Make friends and a career where you are. Mind that. " Your affectionate father, " George Hillyar." A cold, cruel, heartless letter. Not one word of tender forgive- ness ; not one word of self-blame for the miserable mistakes that he had made with his son in times gone by : the hatred which he felt for him showing out in the prophecies of unknown horrors in what seemed a brighter future. The devil, which had not lookcil out of George Hillyar's eyes for six months past, looked out now, and he swore aloud. " ' Make friends and a career where you are.' So he is going to disinherit me in favor of that cui'sed young toad Erne." 72 TUE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH THE SNAKE CREEPS OUT OF THE GRASS. The place in wliicli he had received this letter was the post- office at Palmerston, one of the principal public buildings of that thriving capital, — a majestic and imposing pile of galvanized iron, roofed with tin, twenty feet long, surmounted by a pediment, the apex of which rose fifteen feet from the level of Banks Street, and carried a weathercock. The mail was just in, and the place was crowded. Roaring for his orderly was of very little use ; it only raised a few eager eyes impatiently from their letters, or made a few disappointed idlers wonder what the Inspector was hollering after. His order- ly had probably got a letter, and was reading it in some secret corner. He would wait for him. The devil had been in him a few minutes ago; but as he stood and waited there, in the sweltering little den called the post- office, with all the eager readers of letters around him, the devil began to be beat out again. There was an atmosphere in that miserable little hot tin-kettle of a post-office which the devil can't stand at all, — the atmosphere of home. Old loves, old hopes, old friends, old scenes, old scents, old sounds, are threads which, though you draw them finer than the finest silk, are still stronger than iron. Did you ever hear the streams talk to you in May, when you went a-fishing? Did you ever hear what the first rustle of the summer-leaves said to you in June, when you went a-courting? Did you ever hear, as a living voice, the southwest wind among the bare ash-boughs in November, when you were out a-shooting ? If you have imagination enough to put a voice into these senseless sounds of nature, I should like to stand with you in the Melbourne post-office on a mail day, and see what sort of voice would speak to you out of the rustling of a thousand fluttering letters, held by trembling fingers, and gazed on by faces which, however coarse and ugly, let the news be good or bad, grow more soft and gentle as the news is read. Poor George Hillyar. His letter had no hope or comfort in it ; and yet, by watching the readers of the other letters, and see- ing face after face light up, he got more quiet, less inclined to be violent and rash, less inclined to roar for his orderly, and make a fool of himself before Gerty. He leant against an iron pillar, and fixed his attention on a good-natured-looking young man belbre him, who was devouring an ill-written, blotted letter with an THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 78 eajrerness and a deliglit which made liis whole face wreathe it- self into one very large smile. ITe was pleaseil to look at him, and looked at him more ear- nestly, liut. while he looked at him, he foiiiid that he could not concentrate his attention on him. He tried to do so, for this young fellow, by reason of a delicient education, was enjoying his letter amazingly; he was reaping all the pleasures of anticij)a- tion and fruition at one and the same time. When lie began a sentence, following the words with a grimy forefinger, he grinned, because he felt certain that something good was coming; when he had spelt through it he grinned wider still, because it sur- passed his expectations. Once, after finishing one of these hard- spelt sentences, he looked round radiantly on the crowd, and said, confidentially : " I told you so. I know'd she 'd have him ! " At this gushing piece of confidence to an unsympatliizing crowd, poor George Hillyar felt as if he would have liked to meet this young man's eyes and smile at him. But he could not. Somehow, another pair of eyes came between him and everything else, — eyes which he could not identify among the crowd, yet which he could feel, and which produced a sensation of sleepy petulance with which he was very familiar. He had read some account of the fascination of snakes, and because it seemed a bizarre, and rather wicked sort of amusement, he had tried it for himself. He used to go out from the barracks on Sunday after- noon, find a black snake among the stony ridges, engage its atten- tion, and stare at it. The snake would lie motionless, with its beady eyes fixed on him. The fearful stillness of the horrible brute, which carried instant death in its mouth, would engage him deeply ; and the wearying attention of his eye, expecting some sudden motion of the reptile, would begin to tell upon the brain, and make the watcher, as I have said iDefore, petulant and dull. At leiisth the snake, i^atherino; confidence from his still- ness, would gleam and rustle in every coil, stretch out its quiver- ing neck, and attemf)t flight. Then his suppressed anger would break forth, and he would arise and smite it, almost careless, for the moment, whether he died himself or no.* He passed out of the cfowd, and came into the portico ; the people were standing about, still reading their letters, and his own orderly w^as sitting with his feet loose in his stirrups, nearly doublt^d up in his saddle, reading his letter too, while he held the rein of George Hillyar's horse loosely over his arm. The flies * This is my theory about snake-foscination. The above are tlie only results I ever arrived at (except a creeping in the calves of my k'<:«, and an intense desire to run away). Dr. Holmes don't quite agree. But I will publicly retract all I have saifl, if he will promise not to try any further experiments with his dreadful crotuli. The author of "Elsie VenneV " is far too precious a person for tliat sort of thing. 4 74 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. were troublesome, and sometimes the led horse would give such a jerk with his head as would nearly pull the letter out of the orderly's hand ; but he did not notice it. He sat doubled up on his saddle, with a radiant eager smile on his face, and read. Time was when poor Ilillyar would have sworn at him, woidd have said that the force was going to the devil, because a cadet dared to read a letter on duty. But those times were gone by for the present. George Hillyar had been a bully, but was a bully no longer. He waited till his orderly should have finished his letter, and waited the more readily because he felt that those two strange eyes, of which he had been clearly conscious, were plaguing him no more. So he waited until his orderly had done his letter before he approached him. The orderly, a gentle-looking English lad, with a kind, quiet face, looked on his advance with dismay. He had committed a slight breach of discipline in reading his sister's let- ter while on duty in the public streets ; and Bully Hillyar, the man who never spared or forgave, had caught him. It was a week's arrest. Neverthele.-s, he looked bright, pushed the letter into his breast, and wheeled the led horse round ready for the Inspector to mount. He knew, this sagacious creature, that he was going to catch it, and, so to speak, put up a moral umbrella against the storm of profane oaths which he h^eio would follow. Will you conceive his astonishment when the Inspector, instead of blaspheming at him, took his curb down a link, and said over the saddle, preparing to mount, " What sort of news, Dicken- son ? Good news, hey ? " Judging by former specimens of George Hillyar's tender mer- cies, the orderly conceived this to be a kind of diabolical chaff or irony, preparatory to utter verbal demolition and ruin. He feebly said that he was very sorry. " Pish, man ! I am not chaffing. Have you got good news in your letter, hey ? " The astonished and still-distrusting orderly said, " Very good news, sir, thank you." "Hah!" said George Hillyar. "I have n't. What's your news ? Come, tell us." " My mother is coming out, sir." " I suppose you are very fond of your mother, ar'n't you ? And she is fond of you, hey ? " " Yes, sir." " She don't play Tom-fool's tricks, does she ? She would n't cut away with a man, and leave you, would she ? " " No, sir." " If she were to, should you like her all the same, eh ? " THE niLLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. 75 "I cannot tell, sir. You will be pleased to close tlie conversa- tion here, sir. My mother is a lady, and I don't allow any dis- cussion whatever about her possibh^ proceedings." ''I did n't mean to nvdko you angry," said Bully Ilillyar, the inspector, to quiet Dickenson, the cadet ; " I am very sorry. I am afraid my manner must be unfortunate ; for just now, on my honor, I was trying to make a friend of you, and 1 have only succeeded in making you angry." Young Dickenson, not a wise being by any means, remembered this conversation all his life. lie used to say afterwards that Bully Hillyar had had good points in him, and that he knew it. When George Hillyar was condemned, he used to say, "Well, well ! this was bad, and that was bad, but he was a good fellow at bottom." The fact is, that George unbent, and was his better self before this young man. He had been slowly raising himself to a higher level, and was getting hopeful. When he felt those eyes fixed upon him, as he read his letter, — which eyes gave him a deadly chill, though he had not recognized them, — the vague anxiety which possessed him had caused him to be con- fidential with the first man he met. So he rode slowly home to the barracks and sat down in his quarters to business, for he had taken the business off the hands of the Palmerston Inspector, and had so given him a holiday. The office was a very pleasant place, opening on the paddock, — at this time of year a sheet of golden green turf, shaded by low gum-trees, which let sunbeams through their boughs in all direc- tions, to make a yellow pattern on the green ground. The pad- dock sloped down to the river, which gleamed a quarter of a mile off among the tree-stems. It was a perfectly peaceful day in the very early spring. The hum of the distant town was scarcely perceptible, and there was hardly a sound in the barracks. Sometimes a few parrots would come whistliniy throuirh the trees ; sometimes a horse would nci^jh in the paddock ; sometimes a lazily-moved oar would sound from the river; but quiet content and peace were over everything. Even the two prisoners in the yard had ceased to talk, and sat silent in the sun. A trooper going into the stable, and two or three horses neiirhinjr, to him was an event. Georije Hillvar sat and thought in the stillness, and his thoughts were pleasant, and held him long. At length he was aroused by voices in the yard, — one that of a trooper. " I tell you he 's busy. " But I really must see him," said the other voice. " I bnng important information." George listened intently. 76 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. "I tell you," said the trooper, "he is busy Why can't you wait till he comes out?" " If you don't do my message, mate, you '11 repent it." " You 're a queer card to venture within a mile of a police- station at all ; leave alone being cheeky when you are in the lion's jaws." "Never you mind about that," said the other. "You mmd your business half as well as I mind mine, and you '11 be a man before your mother now. What a pretty old lady she must be, if she 's like you. More mustache though, ain't she ? How 's pussy ? I was sorry for the old gal getting nabbed, but — " As it was perfectly evident that there would, in one instant more, be a furious combat of two, and that George would have to give one of his best troopers a week's arrest, he roared out to know what the noise was about. " A Sydney sider, sir, very saucy, insists upon seeing you." " Show him in then. Perhaps he brings information." The man laid George's revolver on the table, put the news- paper carelessly over it, saluted, and withdrew. Directly after- ward the evil face of Samuel Burton was smiling in the door- way, and George Hillyar's heart grew cold within him. CHAPTER XVI. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: ERNE AND EMMA. My dear father's religious convictions were, and are, eminently orthodox. He had been born and bred under the shadow of a great Kentish family, and had in his earlier years, — until the age of manhood, indeed, — contemplated the act of going to cliurch anywhere but at the family church in the park as some- thing little less than treason. So when, moved by ambition, he broke through old routine so far as to come to London and estab- lish himself, he grew fiercer than ever in his orthodoxy ; and, having made such a desperate step as that, he felt that he must draw a line somewhere. He must have some holdfast to his old life ; so his devotion to the Establishment was intense and jealous. The habit he had of attending church in all weathers on Sunday morning, and carefully spelling through the service, got to be so much a part of himself that, when our necessities compelled us to render ourselves to a place where you could n't go to church if you wished it, the craving after the old habit made ray father THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 77 most uneasy and anxious, as far on in the w«n'k as Tuesday afternoon ; about wliicli time tlie regret for the churchless Sun- day just gone by would liave worn itself out. But then the cloud of the equally ehurchlcss Sunday approaching would begin to lower down about Thursday afternoon, and grow darker as the day approached ; so that for the first six months of our residence in our new home, our Saturday evenings were by no means what they used to be. And yet I can hardly say that my father was at this time a devout man. I think it was more a matter of custom. Of political convictions, my father had none of any sort or kind whatever. He sternly refused to qualify himself, or to express any o{)inion on politics, even among his intimates at the Black Lion on Saturday evening. The reason he gave was, that he had a large family, and that custom was custom. Before you con- demn him you must remember that he had never had a chance in his life of informing himself on public affairs, and that he showed a certain sort of dogged wisdom in refusing to be led by the nose by the idle and ignorant chatterboxes against whom he was thrown in the parlor of the public-house. I wish he had shown half as much wisdom with regard to another matter, and I wish I and Joe had been a few years older before he went so far into it. Joe and I believed in him, and egged him on, as two simple, affectionate boys might be expected to do. The fact is, as I have hinted before, that my father had considerable mechanical genius, and was very fond of inventing ; but then he was an utterly ignorant man, could scarcely read and write, and knew nothing of what attempts, and of what failures, had been made before his time. As ill luck would have it, his first attempt in this line was a great success. He invented a centrifugal screw-plate, for cutting very long and large male screws almost instantaneously. He produced the handles of an ordinary screw-plate (carrying a nut two inches diameter), two feet each way, and weighted them heav- ily at the ends. This, being put on a lathe, was made to revolve rapidly, and by means of an endless screw, approached the bar of iron to be operated on when it was spinning at its extreme veloc- ity. It caught the bar and ran up it as though it were wood, cut- ting a splendid screw. A large building firm, who needed these great screws for shores, and centres of arches, and so on, bought the patent from my father for seventy pounds. This was really a pretty and useful invention. jNIy mother went blazing down the street to church in a blue-silk gown and a red bonnet, and the gold and marqueterie in Lord Dacres's great monument paled before her glory. It was all very well, and would have been better had my futlier been content to leave well alone. 78 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. But he wasn't. I never knew a man worth much who was. The very next week he was hard at work on his new treadle- boat. We were saved from that. The evil day was staved off by Erne Ilillyar. Joe, among other benefits he was receiving as head boy at the parochial scliool, was getting a fair knowledge of mechanical draw- ing ; so he had undertaken to make the drawings for this new in- vention. I had undertaken to sit next him and watch, keeping Fred quiet ; my father sat on the o*her side ; Frank lay on his back before the fire, singing softly ; and the rest were grouped round Harry. Emma went silently hither and thither about housework, only coming now and then to look over Joe's shoul- der; while my mother sat still beside the fire, with her arms folded, buried in thought. She had been uneasy in her mind all the evening ; the green-grocer had told her that potatoes would be dear that autumn, and that " Now is your time, Mrs. Burton, and I can't say no fairer than that." She had argued the matter, in a rambling, desultory way, with any one who would let her, the whole evening, and was now arguing it with herself. But all of a sudden she cried out, " Lord a mercy ! " and rose up. It was not any new phase in the potato-question which caused her exclamation ; it was Erne Hillyar. " I knocked, Mrs. Bur- ton," he said, '' and you did not hear me. May I come in ? " We all rose up to welcome him, but he said he would go away again if we did not sit exactly as we were ; so we resumed our positions, and he came and sat down beside me, and leant over me, apparently to look at Joe's drawing. " I say, Jim," he whispered, " I have run away again." I whispered, " Would n't his pa be terrible anxious ? " " Not this time he won't. He will get into a wax this time. I don't want him to know where I come. If I go to the Parker's, they will tell him I don't spend all the time with them. I shall leave it a mystery." I was so glad to see him, that I was determined to make him say something which I liked to hear. I said, " Why do you come here, sir ? " " To see you, gaby," he said ; and I laughed. " And to see Emma also : so don't be conceited. What are you doing ? " My father and Joe explained the matter to him, and his coun- tesjiance grew grave, but he said nothing. Very soon afterwards, Emma and he and I had mana2;ed to i2;et into a corner to^rether by the iire, and were talking together confidentially. Erne told Emma of his having run away, and she was very angry with him. Slie said that, if he came so again, she would not speak one word to him. Erne pleaded with her, and defended himself. He said I was the only friend he had ever made, and TUE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 79 that it was hard if he was never to see me. She said that was true, but that lie should not do it in an underhand way. lie said he must do it so, or not do it at all. She said tliat her brother was not one that need be run away to, or sought in holes and corners. lie said that she knew nothing of the world and its prejudices, and that he should take his own way. She said it was time for Fred to go to bed, and she must wish him good- night ; so they quarrelled, until Fred's artificial shell — pinafore, frock, and all the rest of it — was unbuttoned and unhooked, and nothing remained but to slip him out of it all, and stand him down, with nothing on but his shoes and stockings, to warm his stomach by the fire. When this was done. Erne came round and lioj)ed she was n't angry with him. He said he would always try to do as she told him, but that he must and would come and seo us. And she smiled at him again, and said she was sure that wo three would always love one another, as long as we lived ; and then, having put on Fred's night-gown, she carried him up to bed, singing as she went. When Erne had done looking after her, he turned to me, and said : — " Jim, she is right. I must not come sneaking here. I must have it out with the governor. I have told old Compton about it, and sworn him to secrecy. Now for some good news. Do you remember what you told me about the Thames ? " " Do you mean how it was getting to stink ? " " No, you great Hammersmith. I mean about sailing up it in a boat, as Joe and you and your cousin did ; and all the tulip- trees and churches and tea-gardens.'* I dimly perceived that Erne wished me to take the ajsthctical and picturesque view of the river, rather than the sanitary and practical. By way of showing him I understood him, I threw in : — " Ah ! and the skittle-alleys and fiag-stafFs." " Exactly," he said. " It 's a remarkable fact, that in my ar- gument with my father I dwelt on that very point, — that iden- tical point, I assure you. There 's your skittles again, I said ; there 's a manly game for you. He did n't see it in that light at first, I allow ; because he told me not to be an ass. But I have very little doubt I made an impression on him. At all events, I have gained the main point : you will allow that I triumphed." I said " Yes " ; I am sure I do n't know why. I liked to have him there talking to me, and would have said " Yes " to any- thing. We two might have rambled on for a long while, if Joe, who had come up, and was standing beside me, had not said, — " How, sir, may I ask ? " *' Why, by getting him to take a house at Kew. I am to go to school at Dr. Mayby's, and we are going to keep boats, and 80 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. punts, and things. And I am going to see whether that pleasant cousin of yours, of whom you have told me, can be induced to come up and be our waterman, and teach me to row. Where is your cousin, by the by ? " He was out to-night, we said. He might be in any moment. Erne said, " No matter. Now, Mr. Burton, I want to speak to you, and to Joe." My father was all attention. Erne took the drawings of the treadle-boat from my father, and told him that the thing had been tried fifty times, and had failed utterly as compared with the oar; that, with direct action, you could not gain sufficient velocity of revolution ; and that, if you resorted to multiplying gear, the loss of power sustained by friction was so enormous as to destroy the whole utility of the invention. He proved his case clearly. Joe acquiesced, and so did my flxther. The scheme was abandoned there and then ; and I was left wondering at the strange mixture of sound common sense, knowledge of the sub- ject, and simplicity of language, which Erne had shown. I soon began to see that he had great talents and very great read- ing, but that, from his hermit-like life, his knowledge of his fel- lo\Y-creatures was lower than Harry's. He had got a bed, it appeared, at the Cadogan Hotel in Sloane Street, and I walked home with him. I was surprised, I remember, to find him, the young gentleman who had just put us so clearly right on what was an important question to us, and of which we were in the deepest ignorance, asking the most simple questions about the things in the shop-windows and the people in the streets, — what the things (such common things as bladders of lard and barrels of size) were used for, and what they cost ? The costermongers were a great source of attraction to him, for the King's Road that night was nearly as full of them as the New Cut. " See here, Jim," he said, " here is a man with a barrow full of the common murex ; do they eat them ? " I replied that we ate them with vinegar, and called them whelks. Periwinkles he knew, and recognized as old friends, but tripe was a sealed book to him. I felt such an ox-like content and complacency in hearing his voice and having him near me, that we might have gone on examining this world, so wonderfully new to him, until it was too late to get into his hotel ; but he luckily thought of it in time. I, remembering the remarks of a ribald station-master on a former occasion, did not go within reach of the hotel-lights. We parted affectionately, and so ended his second visit. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 81 CHAPTER XVII. ERNE AND REUBEN. The next morning my father and I were informed that Mr. Compton would be gLid to speak to us ; and, on going indoors, there he was, as comforable and as neat as ever. " "Well, Burton," he said, cheerily, " how does the world use you ? As you deserve, apparently, for you have n't grown older this fifteen years." My father laughed, and said, " Better, he was afeared. His deservings were n't much. And how was Mr. Compton ? " " Well, thankee. Anything in my way ? Any breach of patent, eh.'' Remember me when your fortune 's made. What a hulking great fellow Jim is getting ! What do you give him to eat, hey, to make him grow so .'' " My father was delighted to give any information to his old friend. He began to say that sometimes I had one thing and sometimes another, — may be, one day beef and another mutton. " Jints, you understand," said my father ; " none of your kag- mag and skewer bits — " "And a pretty good lot of both, I'll be bound. Was Erne here last night, Jim ? " You might have knocked me down with a feather. I had not the wildest notion that Mr. Compton, a very old acquaintance of my father, knew anything about the Hillyars. I said "Yes." " I am very glad to hear it," he said. " There 's a devil of a row about him at home. I hope he has gone back." I said that he was gone back. My father said, " Look here, Mr. Compton. I cannot say how glad I am you came to-day, of all men. I and my wife are in great trouble about Master Erne and his visits, and we don't rightly know what to do." " I am in trouble also about the boy," said Mr. Compton ; " but I do know what to do." " So sure am I of that, sir," said my father, " that I was going to look you up, and ask your advice." " And I came down to consult with you ; and so here we are. How much does Jim know about all this ? " " A good deal," said my father ; " and, if you please, I should wish him to know everything." " Very well, then," continued Mr. Compton, " I will speak be- 4* F .62 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. fore him as if he was not here. You know this young gentle- man has not been brought up in an ordinary way, — that he knows nothing of the world ; consequently I was teri-ibly fright- ened as to where he might have run away to. When he told me where he had been, I was easy in my mind, but determined to come and speak to yon, whom I have known from a child. What I ask of you is, Encourage him here, Burton and Jim, but don't let any one else get hold of him. He can get nothing but good in your house, I know. By what strange fatality he selected your family to visit, I cannot conceive. It was a merci- ful accident." I told him about the yellow water-lilies. " Hah," he said, " that removes the wonder of it. Now about his father." " I should think," said my father, " that Sir George would hardly let him come here, after hearing our name ? " " He does not know that you are any connexion with our old friend Samuel. I don't see why we should tell him, — I don't indeed. It is much better to let bygones be bygones." " Do you know that his son lives with us now ? " " Yes. You mean Reuben. How is he going on ? " ." Capital, — as steady and as respectable as possible." " Well, then," said Mr. Compton, " for his sake we should not be too communicative. Sir George knows nothing of you. He only knows your name from my father's having unfortunately recommended Samuel to him. I think, if you will take my ad- vice, we will keep our counsel. Good-bye, old friend." Mr. Compton and my father were playfellows. The two families came from the same village in Kent, and Mr. Compton had, unfortunately, recommended Samuel Burton to Sir George Hillyar. Three days afterwards Erne came in, radiant. " It was all right," he said ; " he was to come whenever he could get away." " We had an awful row though," he continued ; " I got old Compton to come home with me. 'Where have you been, sir?' my father said in an awful voice, and I said I had been seeing my friends, the Burtons, who were blacksmiths, — at least all of them except the women and children, — in Church Place, Chel- sea. He stormed out that, if I must go and herd with black- guards, I might choose some of a less unlucky name, and frequent a less unlucky house. I said I did n't name them, and that there- fore that part of the argument was disposed of; and that, as for being blackguards, they were far superior in every point to any family I had ever seen ; and that their rank in life was as high as that of my mother, and therefore high enough for me. He stood aghast at my audacity, and old Compton came to my as- THE lULLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 83 Bi^jtance. He told me afterwards that I had showed magnificent powers of debute, hut tliat I must be careful not to get a habit of hard-hitting, — Lord knows what he meruit. He told my father that these Burtons were really everything that was desir- able, and went on no end about you. Then I told him that I had his own sanction for my proceedings, for that he himself had given me leave to make your acquaintance. He did not know that it was yoit I had been to see, and was moUificd somewhat. I was ordered to leave the room. When I came back again, I just got the tail of the storm, which was followed by sunshine. To tell you the truth, he came to much easier than I liked. But here we are, at all events." We sat and talked together for a short time ; and, while wo were talking, Reuben came in. Erne was sitting with his back towards the door ; Reuben advanced towards the fire from be- hind him, and, seeing a young gentleman present, took off his cap and smoothed his hair. How^ well I can remember those two faces together. The 'contrast between them impressed me in a vague sort of way even then ; I could not have told you why at that time, though I might now. Men who only get edu- cated somewhat late in life, like myself, receive impressions and recognize facts, for which they find no reason till long after : so those two faces, so close together, puzzled me even then for an instant, for there was a certain similarity of expression, though probably none in feature. There was a look of reckless audacity in both faces, — highly refined in that of Erne, and degenerating into mere devil-may-care, cockney impudence in that of Reuben. Joe, who was with me, remarked that night in bed, that either of them, if tied up too tight, would break bounds and become law- less. That was true enough, but I saw more than that. Among other things, I saw that there was far more determination in. Erne's beautiful set mouth than in the ever-shifting lips of my Cousin Reuben, I also saw another something, to which, at that time, I could give no name. Reuben came and leant against the fireplace, and I introduced him. Erne immediately shook hands and made friends. We had not settled to talk when Emma came in, and, after a kind greeting between Erne and her, sat down and began her work. '' You 're a waterman, are you not, Reuben ? " said Erne. Reuben was proud to say he was a full waterman. " It is too good luck to contemplate," said Erne ; " but we want a waterman, in our new place at Kew, to look after boats and attend me when I bathe, to see I don't drown myself. I suppose you would n't — eh ? " Reuben seemed to think he would rather like it. He looked at Emma. 84 THE niLLYAES AXD TUE BURTONS. " Just what I mean," said Erne. " What do you say, Emma ? " Emma looked steadily at Reuben, and said quietly : " If it suits Reuben, sir, I can answer for him. Answer for liim in every way. Tell me, Reuben. Can I answer for you ? " Reuben set his mouth almost as steadily as Erne's, and said she miglit answer for him. " Then w ill you come ? " said Erne. " That will be capital. Don't you think it will be glorious, Emma ? " " I think it will be very nice, sir. It will be another link be- tween you and my brother." " And between myself and you." " That is true also," said Emma. " And I cannot tell you how glad I am of that, because I like you so very, very much. Next to Jim, and Joe, and Reuben, I think I like you better than any boy I know." CHAPTER XVIII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: REUBEN AND SIR GEORGE HILLYAR. Golden hours, wdiich can never come back any more. Hours as peaceful and happy as the close of a summer Sabbath, among dark whispering elm-woods, or on quiet downs, aloft above the murmuring village. Was it on that evening only, or was it on many similar evenings, that we all sat together, in a twilight which seemed to last for hours, before tlie fire, talking quietly together? Why, when at this distance of time I recall those gatherings before the fire, in the quaint draughty old room, do I always think of such things as these? — of dim, vast cathedrals, when the service is over, and the last echoes of the organ seem still rambling in the roof, trying to break away after their fellows towards heaven, — of quiet bays between lofty chalk headlands, where one lies and basks the long summer day before the gently murmuring surf, — of very quiet old churches, where the monu- ments of the dead are crowded thick together, and the afternoon sun slopes in on the kneeling and lying effigies of men who have done their part in the great English work, and are waiting, with- out care, without anxiety, for their wages ? Why does ray ram- bling fancy, on these occasions, ever come back again to the long series of jDcaceful and quiet images, — to crimson sunsets during a calm in mid ocean, — to high green capes, seen from the sea, the sides of whose long-drawn valleys are ribbed with gray rocks, THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 85 — to curtains of purple dolomite, seen from miles aw;iy across tlie yellow plain, cut in the centre by a silver waterfall, — to great icebergs iloating on the calm blue sea, — to everything, in short, which I have seen in my life which speaks of peace ? And why, again, do I always come at last to the wild dim blue promontory, whose wrinkled downs are half obscured by clouds of wind-driven spray ? How many of these evenings were there ? There must have been a great many, because I remember that Reuben came home for the winter one dead drear November night, and Erne accom- panied him and stayed for an hour. I cannot say how long they lasted. A year or two, first and last. AVhat arose out of them that is noticeable is soon told. In the first place, this period constituted a new era in Joe's life. Erne's books and Erne's knowledo-e and assistance were at his service, and he soon, as Erne told me, began to bid fair to be a distinguished scholar. " He not only had perseverance and memory, but genius also," said Erne. " He sees the meaning of a thing quicker than I do. Joe is far cleverer than I." At first I had been a little anxious about one thing, though I have never named my anxiety to any one. I was afraid lest Reuben should become jealous of Erne, and stay away from us. It was not so. Reuben grew devoted to Erne, and seemed pleased with his admiration of Emma. I began to see that Emma's influence over Reuben, great as it was, arose more from a sincere respect and esteem on his part than anything else. I was therefore glad to find that nothing was likely to interfere with it. As for Erne, he had fallen most deeply in love with her, and I had seen it from the beginning. I, for my part, in my simplicity, could see no harm in that. In xact, it seemed to me an absolutely perfect arrangement that these two should pass their lives in a fool's paradise together. As for my father and mother, they looked on us all as a parcel of chil- dren, and nothing more ; and, besides, they both had the blindest confidence in Emma, child as she was. At all events, I will go bail that no two people ever lived less capable of any design on Erne's rank or property. I insult them by mentioning such a subject. Whether it was that I had represented Sir George Ilillyar to Reuben as a very terrible person, or whether it was that Reuben's London assurance would not stand the test of the chilling atmos- phere of the upper classes, I cannot say ; but Reuben was cowed. AVhen the time came for him to fulfil his engagement to go to Kew and take care of Sir George Hilly ar's boats, he grew anx- ious and fidgetty, and showed a strong tendency to back out of the whole business. 86 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " I say, Emma, old woman," he said, the night before I was to go with him and introduce him, " I wish I was well out of this here." " Well out of what, Reuben dear ? " said Emma. — " And no body but the child and the two angels knew as the crossing sweeper boy was gone to heaven ; but, when they got up there, he was awaiting for 'em, just as the angel in blue had told the angel in pink silk and spangles he would be." (Tliis last was only the tail of some silly story which she had been telling the little ones ; it has nothing to do with the plot). " Why, well out of going up to Kew, to look after these boats. The old CO — gentleman, I should say, is a horrid old painted Mussulman. When he do go on the war-train, which is twenty- four hours a day, — no allowance for meals, — he is everlastingly a-digging up of liis tommyawk. All the servants is prematurely gray; and, if the flowers don't blow on the very day set down in the gardening column of BeWs Life, he 's down on the gardeners, till earthquakes and equinoctials is a fool to him." "' Ain't you talking nonsense, Reuben dear ? " said Emma. " May be," said Reuben, quietly. " But, by all accounts, he is the most exasperating bart as ever was since barts was, which was four years afore the first whycount married the heiress of the gi'eat cod-liver-oil manufacturer at Battersea. It flew to his lower extremities," continued Reuben, looking in a comically defi- ant manner at Emma, and carefully putting the fire together; " and he drank hisself to death with it. He died like a bus-horse, in consequence of the grease getting into his heels. Now ! " " Have you quite done, Reuben ? " asked Emma. Reuben said he had finished for the present. " Then," said Emma, " let me tell you that you are very fool ish in prejudicing yourself against this gentleman from what you have heard at the waterside, since he came to Kew. However, I am not altogether sorry, for you will find him quite different, — quite different, I assure you." It was bedtime, and we all moved up stairs together in a com- pact body, on account of Frank. That tiresome young monkey, Harry, in an idle hour — when, as Dr. AVatts tells us, Satan is ready to find employment — had told Frank that the Guy Fawkeses lived under the stairs, and had produced the most tiresome complications. The first we heard of it was one day when Frank was helping Fred down stairs. Fred was coming carefully down one step at a time, sucking his thumb the while, and holding on by Frank, when Frank suddenly gave a sharp squeal, and down the two came, fifteen stairs, on to the mat at the bottom. To show the extraordinary tricks which our imagi- nations play with us at times, — to show, indeed, that Mind does THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 87 Foraetimes triumph over Matter, — I may mention tliat Frank (the soul of truth and honesty) declared })ositively tliat he liad Been an arm idothed in blue cloth, with brass buttons at the wrist, thrust itself through the banisters, and try to catch hold of his leg. On observing looks of incredulity, he added that the Hand of the Arm was full of brimstone matches, and that he saw the straw coming out at its elbows. After this, a strong escort was necessary every night, when he went to bed. He generally pre- ferred going up i)ick-a-back on Reuben's broad shoulders, feeling probably safer about the legs. How well I remember a little trait of character that night. Fred conceived it more manly to walk up to bed without the assistance even of Emma. When w^e were half-way up the great staircase, Reuben, carrying Frank, raised an alarm of Guy Fawkeses. We all rushed, screaming and laughing, up the stairs, and when we gained the landing, and looked back, we saw that we had left Fred behind, in the midst of all the dreadful peril wliich we had escaped. But the child toiled stead- ily and slowly on after us, with a broad smile on his face, refus- ing to hurry himself for all the Guy Fawkeses in the world. When he got his Victoria Cross at Delhi for staying behind, that he might bring poor Lieutenant Tacks back on his shoul- ders, to die among English faces, I thought of this night on the stairs at Chelsea. He hurried no faster out of that terrible musketry fire in the narrow street than he did from the Guy Fawkeses on the stairs. Among all Peel's heroes, there was no greater hero than 'our big-headed Fred. The post-captain who has got Frederick Burton for his boatswain is an envied and lucky man to this day. Reuben, who had to toil up stairs to his lonely haunted room at the top of the house, asked me to come with him. Of course I went, though, great lubberly lad as I w'as, I remember having an indistinct dread of coming down again by myself. There was a dull fire burning, and the great attic looked horribly ghostly ; and, as I sat before the fire, strange unearthly draughts seemed to come from the deserted and still more ghostly room beyond, which struck, now on this shoulder and now on that, with a chill, as if something was laying its hand on me. Reuben had lit a candle, but that did not make matters better, but a great deal worse ; for, when I looked at his face by the light of it, I saw that he looked wild and wan, and was ashy pale. He took a letter from the pocket of his pea-jacket, and burnt it. Before it wiis quite consumed, he turned to me, and said: — "Jim, Jim, dear old chai), you won't desert me, will you, when it comes, and I can't see or speak to Emma or the kids anymore? You will go between us sometimes, and tell her and them that I 88 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. am only stupid old Reuben, as loves 'em well, by G — ; and that I ain't changed in spite of all ? " I was iuliuitely distressed. The fact is, that I loved my cousin Reuben, — in a selfish way, of course. I had a certain quantity of rough, latent humor, but no power of expression. Reuben, on a mere hint from me of some gross incongruity, would spin out yard after yard of verbose, fantastic nonsense to the text which I had given him. He was necessary to me, and I was fond of him in consequence. " Reuben, old boy," I said, " I '11 go to death with you. I '11 never, never desert you, I tell you. If you have been led away, Reuben, why, you may be led back again." I took his hand, and felt that I was as pale as he. " Is it — is it — anything that will take you for long. Rube ? Shall you go abcoad, Rube ? " And here, like a young fool, I burst out crying. " Lord bless his faithful heart ! " said Reuben, in his old man- ner, " / have n't been doing of nothink. But, Jim, what was it you said just now ? " I said, " What did he mean ? ' that I could follow him to death?'" He said, " Yes ; that is what I meant. And, Jim, old chap, it runs to that. Not for me, but for others. In my belief, Jim, it runs to that. Joe could tell us, but we musn't ask Joe. Joe 's a chap as is rising fa.-;t, and musn't be pulled down by other folk's troubles. Lawyers could tell us, — but. Lord love you, we musn't ask no lawyers. We 'd best know nothing^about it than ask thej^ And you musn't know nothing either ; only don't desert me, old Jim." I said again that I would not. And, if ever I kept my w^ord, I kept that promise. " I know you won't," he said, with that strange mixture of shrewdness, rough honor, and recklessness which one finds among Londoners ; " but then, Jim, if you are true to me, you will have, may be, to know and not to know at one and the same time, to go with a guilty breast among the little ones, and before Emma. Better leave me, Jim ; better leave me while you can." I declared I would not; but that I would stick by him and give him a good word when he wanted it. And then, at his solicita- tion, I stayed with him all niglit. Once he woke, and cried out that the barge had got too far down the river, and was drifting out to sea. Then that the cor[)ses of all tlie i)eople who had com- mitted suicide on the bridges were rising up and looking at us. I slept but little after this, and was glad when morning dawned. But tlie next morning Reuben was as bright, as brisk, and as nonsensical as ever. He defied Emma. She ventured to hope that he would be steady, and not attend to everything he heard THE niLLYARS AND THE BUKTOXS. 89 about people without inquiry. He said he was obliged to hor, and would n't ; that he had left three or four pair of old boots up stairs, and, if she M be good enougli to send 'em to the beadle and get 'em darned, he 'd Uiank her. Tlie passion and earnest- ness of last night was all gone apparently. Nothing was to be got from him, even by Emma, but chaff and nonsense. The tnie Loudon soul revolted from, and was ashamed of, the passion of last night. Even with me he seemed half ashamed and half cajitious. AYe were not very long in getting to Kew. Early as we were, the servants had to inform us that Sir George and Mr. Erne had gone out riding. We waited in the servants' hall, in and out of wliich gray-headed servants came now and then to look, it would seem, at the strange sight of two round young faces like ours. About nine o'clock, the butler came and asked us to come to prayers, and we went up into a great room, where breakfast was laid, and made the end of a long row of servants, sitting with our backs against a great sideboard, while a gray-headed old gentleman read a very long prayer. The moment we were alone together, Reuben, who was in a singularly nervous and insolent mood, objected to this prayer in language of his own, which I shall not repeat. He objected that three-quarters of it was con- sumed in conveying information to the Deity, concerning our own unworthiness and his manifold greatness and goodness ; and that altogether it was as utterly unlike the Lord's Prayer or any of the Church prayers as need be. I was very anxious about him. I dreaded the meeting be- tween him and the terrible old baronet. I was glad when things came to a crisis. We saw Sir George come riding across the park on a beautiful swift-stepping gray cob, accompanied by Erne on a great, nearly thorough-bred chestnut. They were talking merrily together and laughing. They were certainly a splendid couple, though Erne would have looked to better ad- vantage on a smaller horse. They rode into the stable-yard, where we were instructed to wait for them, and dismounted. "That," said Sir George Hillyar, advancing and pointing sternly at me with his riding-whip, " is the boy Burton. I have seen him before." This previous conviction was too damning to be resisted. I pleaded guilty. " And that ? " said he, turning almost fiercely upon Reuben. Erne stood amused, leaving us to fight our own battle. I said it was Rube. " Who ? " said Sir George. " Reuben, my cousin," I said, " that was come to take care of his honor's boats." 90 THE HILLY AES AND THE BURTONS. Sir George looked at Reuben for full a minute without speak- ing, and then he said, " Come here, you young monkey." As Reuben approached, utterly puzzled by this style of recep- tion, I noticed a look of curiosity on Sir George's face. When Reuben stood before him, quick as light Sir George turned and looked at Erne for one second, and then looked at Reuben again. Steadily gazing at him, he pointed the handle of his riding-whip towards him, and said, " Look here, sirrah, do you hear ? You are to have fifteen shilHngs a week, and are to put three half- crowns in the savings'-bank. You are to get up at seven, to say your prayers, to clean the boats, and offer to help the gardener. If he is fool enough to accept your offer, you may tell him that you were n't hired to work in the garden. If Mr. Erne bathes, you are to row round and round him in a boat, and try to prevent his drowning himself. If he does, you are to send a servant to me, informing me of the fact, and go for the drags. If such a casualty should occur, you are to consider your engagement as terminated that day week. I object to skittles, to potting at pub- lic-houses, and to running along the towing-path like a lunatic, bellowing at the idiots who row boat-races. Any conversation with my son Erne on the subjects of pigeon-shooting, pedestrian- ism, bagatelle, all-fours, toy-terriers, or Non-conformist doctrines, will lead to your immediate dismissal. Do you understand ! " I did not ; but Erne and Reuben did. They understood that the old man had taken a fancy to Reuben, and was making fun. They both told me this, and of course I saw they were right at once. Still, I was puzzled at one thing more. Why, after he had turned away, did the old gentleman come back after a few steps, and lay his hands on Reuben's shoulders, looking eagerly into his face ? Could he see any likeness to his father, — to the man who had used him so cruelly, — to Samuel Burton ? I could not think so. It must have been merely an old man's fancy for Reuben's handsome, merry countenance ; for Sir George pushed him away with a smile, and bade him go about his business. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 91 CHAPTER XIX. SAMUEL BURTON GOES INTO THE LICENSED VICTUALLING LINE. As Samuel Burton came, hat in hand, with bent and cringing body, into George Ilillyar's office in the barracks at Balmerston, George Ilillyar turned his chair round towards him ; and when the door was shut behind him, and the trooper's footfall had died away, he still sat looking firmly at him, without speaking. He could not turn pale, for he was always pale ; he could not look anxious, for he had always a worn look about his eyes. He merely sat and stared steadily at the bowing convict, with a look of inquiry in his face. The convict spoke first, — " I have not seen your honor for many years." " Not for many years," said George Hillyar. " I have been in trouble since I had the pleasure of seeing your honor." " So I understand, Samuel," said George. " Thank you. Master George, for that kind expression. You have not forgot me. Thank you, sir." " You and I are not likely to forget one another, are we ? '* said George Hillyar. " I have noticed," said the convict, " in a somewhat chequered career, that the memories of gentlefolks were weak, and wanted io2o:ino; at times — " '" Look here," said George Hillyar, rising coolly, and walking towards the man. " Let me see you try to jog mine. Let me see you only once attempt it. Do you hear ? Just try. Are you going to threaten, hey ? D — n you ; just try it, will you. Do you hear ? " He not only heard, but he minded. As George Hillyar ad- vanced towards him, he retreated, until at last, being able to go no farther, he stood upright against the weather-boards of the wall, and George stood before him, pointing at him with his finger. " Bah ! " said George Hillyar, after a few seconds, going back to his chair. " Why do you irritate me ? You should know my temper by this time, Samuel. I don't want to quarrel with you?" " I am sure you don't, sir," said Burton. " Why are you sure I don't ? " snarled George, looking at him 92 THE HILLYARS AXD THE BURTONS. angrily. " Why, eli ? Why are you sure that I don't want to quarrel with you, and be rid ot you forever ? Hey ? " " Oh dear ! I am sure I don't know, sir. I meant no offence. I am very humble and submissive. I do assure you, Mr. George, that I am very submissive. I did n't expect such a reception, sir. I had no reason to. I have been faithful and true to you, Mr. George, through everything. I am a poor, miserable, used- up-man, all alone in the world. Were I ever such a traitor, Mr. George, I am too old and broken by trouble, though not by years, to be dangerous." The cai-like vitality which showed itself in every movement of his body told another story though. George Hillyar saw it, and he saw also, now that he had nad an instant for reflection, that he had made a sad mistake in his way of receiving the man. The consciousness of his terrible blunder came upon him with a sudden jar. He had shown the man, in his sudden irritation, that be distrusted and hated him ; and he had sense to see that no ca- jolery or flattery would ever undo the mischief which he had made by his loss of temper, and by a few wild words. He saw by the man's last speech that the miserable convict had some sparks of love left for his old master, until he had wilfully tram- pled them out in his folly. He saw, now it was too late, that he might have negotiated successfully on the basis of their old asso- ciation ; and at the same time that he, by a few cruel words, had rendered it impossible. The poor wretch had come to him in humility, believing him to be the last person left in the world who cared for him. George had rudely broken his fancy by his causeless suspicion, and put the matter on a totally different foot- ing. He clumsily tried to patch the matter up. He said, " There, I beg your pardon ; I was irritated and nervous. You must for- get all I have said." " And a good deal else with it, sir, I am afraid," said Burton. " Never mind, sir ; I '11 forget it all. I am worse than I was." " Now don't you get irritated," said George, " because that would be very ridiculous, and do no good to any one. If you can't stand my temper after so many years, we shall never get on." " I am not irritated, sir. I came to you to ask for your assist- ance, and you seem to have taken it into your head that I was going to threaten you with old matters. I had no intention of anything of the sort. I merely thought you might have a warm place left in your heart for one who served you so well, for evil or for good. I am very humble, sir. If I were ungrateful enough to do so, I should never dare to try a game of bowls with an In- spector of Police in this country, sir. I only humbly ask for your assistance." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 93 " Samuel," said George Ilillyar, " we have been mistaking one another." " I think we have, sir," said Burton. And, ahhougli George looked up quickly enough, the sly scorn- ful expression was smoothed out of Burton's face, and he saw nothing of it. " I am sure we have," continued George. " Just be reason- able. Suppose I did think at first that you were going to try to extort money from me : why, then, it all comes to this, that I was mistaken. Surely that is enough of an apology." " I need no ajiologies, Mr. George. As I told you before, I am only submissive. I am your servant still, sir. Only your servant." " What am I to do for you, Samuel ? Anything?" " I came here to-day, sir, to ask a favor. The feet is, sir, I came to ask for some money. After what has passed, I suppose I may go away again. Nevertheless, sir, you need n't be afraid of refusing. I have n't — have n't — Well, never mind ; all these fears to turn Turk at last, with such odds against me, too." " How much do you want, Samuel ? " said George Hillyar. " I 'II tell you, sir, all about it. A man who owes me money, an old mate of mine, is doing well in a public house at Perth, in West Australia. He has written to me to say that, if I will come, I shall come into partnership for the debt. It is a great opening for me ; I shall never have to trouble you again. Thirty pounds would make a gentleman of me just now. I say nothing of your getting rid of me for good — " " You need say nothing more, Samuel," said George. " I will give you the money. What ship shall you go by ? " " The Windsor sails next week, sir, and calls at King George's Sound. That would do for me." " Very well, then," said George ; " here is the money ; go by her. It is better that we separate. You see that these confi- dences, these long tete-a-tetes, between us are not reputable. I mean no unkindness ; you must see it." " You are right, sir, It shall not happen again. I humbly thank you, sir. And I bid you good day." He was moving towards the door, when George Ilillyar turned his chair away from him, as though he was going to look out of window into the paddock, and said, " Stop a moment, Samuel." The convict faced round at once. He could see nothing but the back of George's head, and George seemed to be sitting in profound repose, staring at the green trees, and the parrots which were whistling and chattering among the boughs. Bur- ton's snake-hke eyes gleamed with curiosity. 94 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " You watched me to-day in the Post-office," said George. " Yes, sir ; but I did not think you saw me." " No more I did. I felt you," answered George. " By the by, you got fourteen years for the Stanlake business, did you not?" " Yes, sir ; fourteen weary years," said Burton, looking inquir- ingly at the back of George's head, and madly wishing that he could see his face. " Only just out now, is it? " said George. " I was free in eight, sir. Then I got two. I should have got life over this last bank robbery, but that I turned Queen's evi- dence." " I hope you will mend your ways," said George, repeating, unconsciously, Mr. Oxton's words to the same man on a former occasion. " By George, Samuel, why don't you ? " " I am going to, sir," replied Burton, hurriedly ; and still he stood, without moving a muscle, staring at the back of George Hillj^ar's head so eagerly that he never drew his breath, and his red-brown face lost its redness in his anxiety. At last George spoke, and he smiled as though he knew what was coming. " Samuel," he said, " I believe your wife died ; did she not ? " " Yes, sir, she died." "How did she die?" " Consumption." " I don't mean that. I mean, what was her frame of mind, — there, go away, for God's sake ; there will be some infernal scan- dal or another if we stay much longer. Here ! Guard. See this man out. I tell you I won't act on such information. Go along with you. Unless you can put your information together better than that, you may tell your story to the marines on board the Pelorus. Go away." Samuel Burton put on the expression of face of a man who was humbly assured that his conclusions were right, and only re- quired time to prove it. It was an easy matter for those facile, practised features to twist themselves into any expression in one instant. There is no actor like an old convict. He sneaked across the yard with this expression on his face, until he came to the gate, at which stood five troopers, watching him as he passed. He could n't stand it. The devil was too strong in him. Here were five of these accursed bloodhounds, all in blue and silver lace, standing looking at him contemptuously, and twisting their mustaches : five policemen, — men who had never had the pluck to do a dishonest action in their lives, — standing and sneering at him^ who knew the whole great art and business of crime at his fingers' ends. It was intolerable. He drew himself up, and be- THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. ^5 gan on them. It was as if a little Yankee Monitor, steaming past our Hcct of great irou-elad frigates, should suddenly, s[)ite- fullj, and hopelessly open fire on it. I can see the group now. Tlie five big, burly, honest, young men, standing sihjutly and (•ontem])tuously lookintz; at Samuel in the bright sunlight; and the convict sidling past them, ruljbing his hands, with a look of burlesqued politeness in his face. " And good day, my noble captains," he began, with a sidelong bow, his head on one side like a cockatoo's, and his eye turned up looking nowhere. " Good day, my veterans, my champions. JNIy bonny, pad-clinking,* out-after-eight-o'clock-parade, George Street bucks, good day. Does any one of you know aught of one trooper Evans, lately quartered at Cape Wilberforce ? " " Ah ! " said the youngest of the men, a mere lad ; " why, he s my brother." " No," said Samuel, who was perfectly aware of the fact. " Well, well ! It seems as if I was always to be the bearer of bad news somehow." " "What d' ye mean, old man ? " said the young fellow, turning pale. " There 's nothing the matter with Bill, is there ? " Samuel merely shook his head slowly. His enjoyment of that look of concern, which he had brought upon tlie five honest faces, was more intense than anything we can understand. " Come, cheer up, Tom," said the oldest of the troopers to the youngest. " Speak out, old man ; don't you see our comrade 's in distress ? " '' I should like to have broke it to him by degrees," said Sam- uel ; " but it must all come out. Bear up, I tell you. Take it like a man. Your brother 's been took ; and bail 's refused." " That 's a lie," said Tom, who was no other than George Hill- yar's orderly. " If you tell me that Bill has been up to any- thing, I tell you it 's a lie." " He was caught," said Samuel, steadily, " boning of his lieu- tenant's pomatum to ile his mustachers. Two Blacks and a Chinee seen him a-doing on it, and when he was took his 'ands was greasy. Bail was refused in consequence of a previous con- viction a^ain him, for robbin"^ a blind widder woman of a Bible and a old possum rug while she was attending her husl)and's funeral. The clerk of the Bench has got him a-digging in his potato-garden now at this present moment, waiting for the ses- sions. Good-bye, my beauties. Keep out of the sun, and don't spile your complexions. Good-bye." * Alluding to the clinking of their spurs. 90 THE HILLYAES AXD THE BURTONS. CHAPTER XX. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : REUBEN ENTERTAINS lilYSTERIOUS AND UNSATISFACTORY COMPANY. I AM doubtful, to this very day, whether or no Sir George Hillyar knew or guessed that we were relations of Samuel Bur- ton, the man who had robbed him. I think that he did not know; if he did, it was evident that he generously meant to ignore it. Mr. Compton, who had recommended Samuel, told us to say nothing about it ; and we said nothing. Emma surprised Joe and me one night, when we were alone together, by firing up on the subject, and saying distinctly and decidedly that she thought we were all wrong in not telling him. I was rather in- clined to agree with her ; but what was to be done ? It was not for us to decide. The relations between the two families were becoming very intimate indeed. Sir George Hillyar had taken a most extraor- dinary fancy for Reuben, which he showed by bullying him in a petulant way the whole day long, and by continually giving him boots and clothes as peace-offerings. Reuben would take every- thing said to him with the most unfailing good humor, and would stand quietly and patiently, hat in hand, before Sir George, and rub his cheek, or scratch his head, or chew a piece of stick, while the " jobation " was going on. He took to Sir George Hillyar amazingly. He would follow him about like a dog, and try to anticipate his wishes in every way. He did not seem to be in the least afraid of him, but would even grin in the middle of one of Sir George's most furious tirades. They were a strange couple, so utterly different in character ; Sir George so ferociously ob- stinate, and Reuben so singularly weak and yielding ; and yet they had a singular attraction for one another. " Erne," Sir George would roar out of window, " where the devil is that tiresome monkey of a waterman ? " " I have n't seen him to-day," Erne would reply. " He has been missing since last night. The servants think he has drowned himself, after the rowing you gave him last night. / think that he has merely run away. If you like, I \vill order the drags." " Don't you be a jackanapes. Find him." Rueben would be produced before the window. " May I take the liberty of asking how you have been employ- ing your time, sir ? The boats are not cleaned." . THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 97 " Cleaned 'em by nine this morning, sir." " You have not fetched home tliat punt-pole, sir, as you were expressly ordered." '' Fetched it lioine hist night, sir." "And why was it not fetched home before, sir?" " The old cove as had the mending on it," Reuben would an- swer, going otr at score in his old way, " has fell out with liis missis, and slie hid his shoes in the timber-yard, and went off to Hampton fair in a van, along with Mrs. Scuttle, the master- sweep's lady, and he had to lie in bed till she came bacli, which was n't soon, for she is fond of society and calculated to adorn it ; and, when she come, she could n't remember where the shoes was put to, and so — " '• What do you mean, sir ? " Sir George would interrupt, " l)y raking up all this wretched blackguardism before my son Erne ? " Reuben would say, that he had been asked, and supposed that he did right in answering ; and by degrees the storm would blow over, and Reuben would in some way find himself the better for it. When Erne told me that he had seen his father sit on a bench and watch Reuben at his work for an hour too^ether, I becran to think that Sir Georfje had a shrewd guess as to who Reuben was ; and also to have a fancy that there might be two sides to Samuel Burton's story ; and that it was dimly possible that Sir Geoi-cre mio-lit wish to atone for some wrono; which he had done to our cousin. But I said nothing to any one, and you will see whether or no I was right by and by. However, Reuben's success with Sir George was quite noto- rious in our little circle. My mother said that it was as clear as mud that Sir George intended to underswear his personalities in Reuben's favor. 1 might have wondered what she meant, but I had given up wondering what my mother meant, years ago, as a bad j(jb. I saw Reuben very often during his stay at Stanlake, and he was always the very Reuben of old times, — reckless, merry, saucy, and independent, — ready to do the first thing proposed, without any question or hesitation. The dark cloud which had come over him the night I went up and slept with him in the ghost-room had apparently passed away. Twice I alluded to it, hut was only answered by a mad string of Cockney balderdash, like his answers to Sir George Hillyar, one of which I have given above as a specimen. The third time I alluded to the subject, he was beginning to laugh again, but I stopped him. '• Ruhe," I said, looking into his face, " I don't want yoa to talk about that night. I want you to remember what I said that night. I said. Rube, that, come what would, I would stick bj you. Remember that." 5 Q 98 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " I '11 remember, old Jim," he said, trying to langli it off. But I saw that I had brought the cloud into his face again, and I bided my time. AVheu tlie boating season was over, the Hillyars went back into the great house at Stanlake, and Reuben came home and took up his quarters once more in the ghost's-room, at the top of the house ; and then I saw that the cloud was on his face again, and that it grew darker day by day. I noticed the expression of poor Reuben's face the more, per- haps, because there was something so pitiable in it, — a look of abject, expectant terror. I felt humiliated whenever I looked at Reuben. I wondered to myself whether, under any circum- stances, my face could assume that expression. I hoped not. His weak, handsome face got an expression of eager, terrified listening, most painful to witness. Mr. Faulkner had lent Joe " Tom and Jerry," and among other pictures in it was one of an effeminate, middle-aged forger, just preparing for the gallows, by George Cruikshauk ; and, when I saw that most terrible picture, I was obliged to confess that Reuben might have sat for it. A very few nights after his return, just when I had satisfied myself of all the above-mentioned facts about Reuben, it so happened that Fred, being started for a run in his night-shirt, the last thing before going to bed, had incontinently run into the back-kitchen, climbed on to the sink to see his brothers, Harry and Frank, pumping the kettle full for the next morning, slipped upon the soap, come down on one end, and wetted himself. My mother was in favor of airing a fresh night-gown, but Emma undertook to dry him in less time ; so they all went to bed, leaving Fred standing patiently at Emma's knees, with his back towards the fire, in a cloud of ascending steam. I had caught her eye for one instant, and I saw that it said : " Stay with me." So I came and sat down beside her. " Jim, dear," she said eagerly, " you have noticed Reuben : I have seen you watching him." " What is it, sweetheart ? " I answered. " Can you make anything of it ? " " Nothing, Jim," she said. " I am fairly puzzled. Has he confided to you?" I told her faithfully what had passed between us the night I stayed in his room. " He has done noticing wrong ; that is evident," she said. " I am glad of that. I love Reuben, Jim, dear. I would n't have anything iiappen to Reuben for anything in the world. Let us watch him and save him, Jim ; let us watch him and save him." I promised that I would do so, and I did. I had not long to watch. In three days from that conversation, the look of fright- THE UILLYARS AND TIIK DURTONS. 99 ened expectation in Reuben's face was *]^one, and in its place there was one of surly deliance. I saw that what ho had ex- pected had come to pass. But what was that? I could not con- ceive. I could only remember my promise to him, to stick by him, and wait till he chose to tell me. For there was that in his eyes which told me that I must wait his time ; that I must do anything but ask. lie left off cominix in to see us of an evening, but woidd only look in to say '' Good night," and then we would hear him toil- ing up the big stairs all alone. Two or three times Emma would waylay him and try to tem})t him to talk, but he would turn away. Once she told me he laid his head down on the banisters and covered his face ; she thought he was going to speak, but he raised it again almost directly, and went away hurriedly. The house was very nearly empty just now. The lodgers, who had, so to speak, flocked to my father's standard at first, had found the house dull, and had one by one left us, to go back into the old houses, as buildings which were not so commodious, but not so intolerably melancholy. The house was not so bad in sum- mer ; but, when the November winds began to stalk about the empty rooms, like ghosts, and bang the shutters, in the dead of night, — or when the house was filled from top to bottom with the November fog, so that, when you stood in the middle of the great room at night with a candle, the walls were invisible, and you found yourself, as it were, out of sight of land, — then it became a severe trial to any one's nerves to live above stairs. They dropped off one by one ; even the Agars and the Ilolmeses, our oldest friends. They plainly told us why ; we could not blame them, and we told them so. It used to appear to me so dreadfully desolate for Reuben, sleeping alone up there at the very top of the house, separated from everything human and lifelike by four melancholy stories of empty ghost-haunted rooms. I thought of it in bed, and it prevented my sleeping. I knew that some trouble was hanging over his head, and I thought that there was something infinitely sad and pathetic in the fact of that one weak, affectionate soul lying aloft there, so far away from all of us, brooding in solitude. Alone in the desolate darkness, with trouble, — nay, perhaps with guilt. One night I lay awake so long thinking of this, that I felt that my judgment was getting slightly unhinged, — that, in ^hort, 1 was wandering on the subject. I awoke Joe. He had never been taken into full confidence about Reuben and his troubles. Reuben was a little afraid of him, and had asked me not to speak to him on the subject, but I had long thought that we were foolish, in not having the advice of the soundest head in the house ; so, 100 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. finding my own judgment going, I awoke him and told him every- thing. " I have been watching too," said Joe, " and I saw that he had asked you and Emma to say nothing to me. .Mind you never let him know j^ou have. I '11 tell you what to do, old man. What time is it ? " It was half-past eleven, by my watch. " Get up and j)ut on some clothes ; go up stairs and offer to ileep with him." " So late," I said. " Won't he be angry ? " " Never mind that. He ou£:ht n't to be left alone broodinor there. He'll — he'll — take to drink or something. Go up noW) old man, and see if he will let you sleep with him." It was the cold that made my teeth chatter. I feel quite sure that it was not the terror of facing those endless broad stairs in the middle of a November night, but chatter they did. I had made my determination, however ; I was determined that I would go up to poor Reuben, and so I partly dressed myself. Joe partly dressed himself too, saying that he would wait for me. Oh, that horrible journey aloft, past the long corridors, and the miserable bare empty rooms, up the vast empty staircases, out of which things looked at me, and walked away again with audible footsteps ! Bah ! it makes me shudder to think of it now. But, at last, after innumerable terrors, I reached Reuben's room-door, and knocked. He was snoring very loud indeed, — a new trick of his. After I had knocked twice, he suddenly half- opened the door, and looked out before I had heard him approach it. It was dark, and we could not see one anotlier. Reuben whispered, " Who 's there ?" and I answered, " It 's only me. Rube. I thought you were so lonely, and I came up to sleep with you." He said, " That 's like you. Don't come in, old fellow ; the floor 's damp : let me come f^ jwn and sleep with you instead. Wait." I waited while Reuben found his trousers, and all the while he kept snoring with a vigor and regularity highly creditable. At last, after a few moments indeed, I made the singularly shrewd guess that there was some one else sleeping in Reuben's room, — some one who lay on his back, and the passages of whose nose were very much contracted. Reuben came down stairs with me in the dark. He said it was so kind of me to think of him. He confided to me that he had a " cove" up stairs, a great pigeon-fancier, to whom he, Reu- ben, owed money ; but which pigeon-fancier was in hiding, in consequence of a mistake about some turbits, into which it would THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 101 be tedious to go. I tJioiKjIit it w."s sd the- " Government Reserve, as this beautiful tract was called, you came into tlie magnificent grounds of the Government House. The house itself, a long, white, cas- tellated building, hung aloft on the side of a hill overhead, and was backed by vast sheets of dark green woodland. From the windows the lawn stooped suddenly down, a steep slope into the river, here running in a broad deep reach, hugging the rather lofty hills, on the lower range of which the house was situated. Immediately beyond the Government House, and on the other side of the river, was a house of a very different character. The river, keeping, as I said, close to the hills, left on the other side a great level meadow, which, in consequence of the windings of the stream, was a mere low peninsula, some five hundred acres in extent, round which it swept in a great still, deep, circle. At the isthmus of the peninsula, on a rib of the higher land behind, a ridge of land ran down, and, forming the isthmus itself, was lost at once in the broad river-flat below. There stood the residence of our friend the Hon. James Oxton. It was a typical house, — the house of a wealthy man who had not always been wealthy, but who had never been vulgar and pretentious. It was a perfectly honest house ; it meant some- thing. It meant this : that James Oxton required a bigger house now that he was worth a quarter of a million than he did when he was merely the cadet of an English family, sent here to sink or swim with the only two thousand pounds he w-as ever likely to see without work. And yet that house showed you at a glance that the owner did not consider himself to have risen in the social world one single step. He had always been a gentleman, said the house, and he never can be more or less. Ironmongers from Bar Street might build magnificent Italian villas, as an outward and visible proof that they had made their fortunes, and had be- come gentlemen beyond denial or question. James Oxton still lived comfortably between weather-board, and under shingle, just as in the old times when ninety-nine hundredths of the Colony was a howling wilderness ; he could not rise or fall. Yet his house, in its peculiar way, was a very fine one indeed. Strangers in the Colony used to mistake it for a great barracks, or a great tan-yard, or something of that sort. Fifteen years before he had erected a simple wooden-house of weather-board, with a high-pitched shingle roof. As he had grown, so had his house grown. As he had more visitors, he required more bed- rooms ; as he kept more horses, he required more stables, conse- quently more shingle and weather-boards : and so now his house THE IIILLYARS AND THE BUETOXS. 103 consisted of three large gnivellcd quadrangles, surrounded by one-storied buildings, with higli-pitched roof's and very deep ve- randas. There was hardly a window in the whole building ; nothing but glass doors opening to the ground, which were open for live or six months in the year. An English lady might have objected to this arrangement. She might have said that it was not convenient to come in and find a tame kangaroo, as big as a small donkey, lying on his side on the hearth-rug, pensi\ ely tickling his stomach with his fore- paws ; or for six or eiglit dogs, large and small, to come in from an expedition, and, finding the kangaroo in possession of the best place, dispose themselves, as comfortably as circumstances would allow, on ottomans and sofas, until tliey rose up witli one accord and burst furiously out, barking madly, on the most trivial alarm, or even on none at all. An English lady, I say, might have ob- jected to this sort of thing, but Aggy Oxton never dreamt of it. Mrs. Quickly objected to it, both on the mother's account and on that of the blessed child, not to mention her own ; but Mrs. Oxton never did. It was James's house, and they were James's dogs. It must be right. I mentioned Mrs. Quickly just this moment. I was forced to do so. The fact of the matter is, that at this time — that is to say, on the very day on which George Hillyar had his interview with Samuel Burton in his office — the whole of these vast prem- ises, with their inhabitants, were under her absolute dominion, with the exception of the dogs, who smelt her contemptuously, wondering what she wanted there, and the cockatoo, who had de- livered himself over as a prey to seven screaming devils, and, having bit Mrs. Quickly, had been removed to the stables, rebel- lious and defiant. For there was a baby now. James Oxton had an heir for his honors and his wealth. The shrewd Secretary, the hard-bitten man of the world, the man who rather prided himself at being thoroughly conversant with all the springs of men's actions, had had a new lesson these last few days. There was a sensation under his broad white w^aistcoat now, so very, very different from anything he had ever felt before, and so strangely j^leasant. He tried to think wdiat it was most like. It was nearest akin to anx- iety, he thought. He told his wife that he felt it in the same place, but that it was very different. After all, he did not know, on second thouglits, that it ivas so very like anxiety. He tliought, perhaps, that the yearning regret for some old friend wlio had died in England without bidding him good-bye, was most like this wonderful new sensation of child-love. But, whatever it was most like, there it was. All the inter- lacing circles of politics, ambition, business, and family anxiety. 104 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. had joined their lines into one ; and here, the centre of it all, lay his boy, his first-born, heir to 150,000 acres, on his pale wife's knee. He was an anxious man that day. The party which was after- wards to rise and sweep him away for a time, the party of the farmers and shopkeepers, recruited by a few radical merchants and some squatters, smarting under the provisions of James Ox- ton's Seal Bill, and officered, as the ultra-party in a colony always /s, by Irishmen, — the party represented in the House by Mr. Phelim O'Ryan, and in the press by the Mohawh, — bad shown their strength for the first time that day; and, as a proof of their j^atriotism, had thrown out, on the third reading (not having been able to whip in before), the Government District-Building-Sur- veyor's-Bill, the object of which was to provide that the town should be built with some pretensions to regularity, and that every man should get his fair money's worth out of the brick- layer. It was thrown out, wholesome and honest as it was, as a first taste of the tender mercies and good sense of a party grow- ing stronger day by day. James Oxton had cause to be anxious ; he saw nothing before him but factious opposition, ever growing stronger to every measure he proposed ; no business to be com- fortably done until they, the Mohawks, were strong enough to take office, which would be a long while. And, when they were — Oh heavens! Phelim O'Ryan, Brian O'Donoghue ! It would n't do to think of. And George Hillyar? About this proposition of his of going to England ? Tiie Secretary was strongly of opinion that he ought to go, and to make it up with his father, and to set things right, and to give Gerty her proper iDOsition in the world ; but George would n't go. He was obstinate about it. He said that his father hated him, and tliat it was no use. " He is a short-necked man," argued James Oxton to himself, " and is past sixty. He may go off any moment; and there is nothing to prevent his leaving three- quarters of his property to this cub Erne, — the which thing I have a strong suspicion he has done already. In which case George and Gerty will be left out in the cold, as the Yankees say. TVhich will be the dense and all : for George has strong capabilities of going to the bad left in him still. I wish George would take his pretty little wife over to England, and make his court with the old man while there is time. But lie won't, con- found him ! " The poor Secretary, you see, had cause enough for anxiety. And when he was in one of what his wife chose to call his Saddu- cee humors, he would have told you that anxiety was merely a gnawing sensation behind the third button of your waistcoat, counting from the bottom. When, however, he came into the THE niLLYARS AND TUE BURTONS. 105 drawing-room, and saw his boy on Iiis wife's lap, and Gcrty kneeling before her, the sensation, though still behind the same button, was not that of anxiety, but the other something spoken of above. The baby had been doing prodigies. He was informed of it in a burst of females volubility. It had wimmickcd. Not once or twice, but three times had that child wimmickcd at its aunt as she knelt there on that identical floor under vour feet. ]\Irs. Oxtou was confirmed in this statement by Gcrty, and Gcrty l)y Mrs. Quickly. There was no doubt about it. If the child went on at this pace, it would be taking notice in less than a month ! This was better than politics, — far better. Confound O'Ryan and all the rest of them. He said, there and then, that he had a good mind to throw politics overboard and manage his property. " Will you have the goodness to tell me, Gerty," he said, " what prevents my doing so ? Am I not poorer in office ? Is it not unendurable that I, for merely patriotically giving up my time and talents to the colony, am to be abused by an Irish adventur- er ; have my name coupled with Lord Castlereagh's (the fool meant to be offensive, little dreaming that I admire Lord Castle- reagli profoundly) ; and be unfavorably compared to Judas Iscar- iot ? I '11 pitch the whole thing overboard, and take old George into partnership, and let them ruin the colony their own Avay. Why shouldn't I?" Gerty did n't know. She never knew anything. She thought it would be rather nice. Mrs. Oxton remarked, quietly, that three days before he had been furiously abusing the upper classes in America, as cowardly and unprincipled, for their desertion of politics, and their retirement into private life. " There, you are at it now," said the Secretary. " How often I have told you not to remember my opinions, in that way, and bring them up unexpectedly. You are a disagreeable woman, and I am very sorry I ever married you." " You should have married Lesbia Burke, my love," said IMrs. Oxton. " We always thought you would. Didn't we, Gerty?" " No, dear, I think not," said simple Gerty ; " I think you forget. Don't you remember that poor mamma always used to insist so positively that Mary was to marry Willy Morton ; that you were to marry James ; and that I was to marry either Dean Maberly, or Lord George Staunton, unless some one else turned up ? I am sure I am right, because I remember how cross she was at your walking with Willy Morton at the Nicnicabarler ]nc-nic. She said, if you remember, that you were both wicked and foolish, — wicked, to spoil your elder sister's game, and more foolish than words could say if you attempted to play fast and loose with James. I remember how frightened I was at her. 5* 106 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. ' If you tliink James Oxton is to be played the fool with, you little stupid,' she said — " " The girl is mad," said Mrs. Oxtou, blushing aud laugliing at the same time. " She has gone out of her mind. Her memory is completely gone." " Dear me ! " said Gerty, looking foolishly round ; " I suppose I oughtn't to have told all that before James. I am teri-ibly silly sometimes. But, Lord bless you, it won't make any diiFer- ence to him." Not much, judging from the radiant smile on his face. He was intensely delighted. He snapped his fingers in his wife's face. " So Willy Morton was the other string to her bow, hey ? Oh Lord I " he said, and then burst out into a shout of merry laughter. Mrs. Oxton would not be put down. She said that it was every word of it true, and that, idiot as Willy Morton w^as, he would never have snapped his fingers in his wife's face. Gerty could n't understand the fun. She thought they were in earnest, and that she was the cause of it all. Mrs. Oxton saw this, and jDointed it out to the Secretary. He would have laughed at her anxiety, but he saw she was really distressed ; so he told her in his kind, quiet way, that there was such love and confidence between him and her sister as even the last day of all, when the secrets of all hearts should be known, could not disturb for one instant. She was, possibly, a little frightened by the solemnity with which he said this, for she stood a little without answering ; and Mr. Oxton and his wife, comparing notes that evening, agreed that her beauty grew more wonderful day by day. For a moment, she stood, with every curve in her body seem- ing to droop the one below the other, and her face vacant and puzzled ; but suddenly, with hardly any outward motion, the curves seemed to shift upwards, her figure grew slightly more rigid, her head was turned slightly aside, her lips parted, and her face flushed and became animated. " I hear him," she said ; " I hear his horse's feet brushing through the fern. He is coming, James and Aggy. 1 know what a pity it is I am so silly — " " My darling, — " broke out Blr. Oxton. " I know what I mean, sister dear. He should have had a cleverer wife than me. Do you tliink I am so silly as not to see that? Here he is." She ran out to meet him. " By George, Aggy," said the Secretary, kissing his wife, "if that fellow does turn Turk to her — " He had no time to say more, for George and Gerty were in the room, and the Secretary saw that George's face was hag- gard and anxious, and began to grow anxious too. THE HILLYARS AKD THE BURTONS. 107 *' I am ghul wc arc all here together alone," said George. " I want an important family talk. Mrs. Quickly would you mind going ? " JNIrs. Quickly had, unnoticed, heard all that had passed before, and seemed inclined to hear more. She winced, and ambled, and bridled, and said something about the blessed child, where- upon Mrs. Oxton, like a shrewd body, gave her the bal>y to take away with her, reflecting that if she tried to listen at the key- hole, the baby would probably make them aware of the fact. " I look })ale and anxious, I know," said George. " I am go- ing to tell you why. Has Gerty told you what she told me last week ! " Yes, she had. " I have been thinking over the matter all day, all day," said Georcje, wearilv, " and I have come to the conclusion that that circumstance makes an immense difference. Don't you see how, Oxton ? " " I think I do," said the Secretary. George looked wearily and composedly at him, and said, " I mean this, my dear Oxton ; I steadily refused to pay court to my father before, partly because I thought it useless, and partly be- cause my pride forbade me. This news of Gerty's alters every- thing. For the sake of my child, I must eat my pride, and try to resume my place as the head of the house. Therefore, I think I will accede to your proposal, and go to England." " My good George," said Mrs. Oxton, takincjliim by both hands, " my wise, kind George, we are so sure it will be for the best ? " " My boy," said the Secretary, " you are right. I cannot tell you how delighted I am at your decision. I wish I was going. Oh heavens ! if I could only go. And I will go, and act- ually see old Leecroft, and Gerty shall take a kiss to my mother. Hey, Gerty? She would know you if she met you in the street, from my description. Shall you be in time to get off by the Windsor ? " " Oh Lord, no," said George, losing color for an instant ; " we could n't possibly go by that ship. No ; we could not be ready by then." " I suppose you couldn't," said the Secretary. " I -was think- ing for a moment, George, that you were as impatient as I should be." " Hardly that," said George. " ]\Iy errand home is a different sort of one from yours." So George got leave of absence, and went home ; partly to see whether or no he could, now a family was in prospect, get on some better terms with his father, and partly because, since he had the interview with Samuel Burton, everything seemed to 108 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. have grown duller and blanker to him. His first idea was to put sixteen thousand miles of salt water between him and this man, and his purpose grew stronger every time he remembered the dissraceful tie that bound them to2:ether. So they went. As the ship began to move through the green water of the bay, Gerty stood weeping on the quarter-deck, cling- ing to George's arm. The shore began to fade rapidly ; the happy, happy shore, on which she had spent her sunny, silly life. The last thing she saw through her tears was the Secretary, standing at the end of the pier, waving his hat, and Aggy beside him. When she looked up again, some time after, the old familiar shore was but a dim blue cloud, and, with a sudden chill of terror, she found herself separated from all who knew her and loved her, save one, — alone, on the vast, heaving, pitiless ocean, with George Hillyar. For one instant, she forgot herself. She clutched his arm, and cried out, " George, George ! let us go back. I am fright- ened, George. I want to go back to Aggy and James. Take me back to James ! Oh, for God's sake, take me back ! " " It is too late now, Gerty," said George, coldly, " You and I are launched in the world together alone, to sink or swim. The evening gets chill. Go to your cabin." The Secretary stamped his foot on the pier, and said, " God deal with him as he deals with her ! " But his wife caught his hands in hers, and said, " James, James ! don't say that. Who are we that we should make imprecations ? Say, God help them both." CHAPTER XXII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: VERY LOW COMPANY. Reuben's friend, the pigeon-fancier, never showed in public. I asked Rube, after a day or two, whether he was there still, and Rube answered that he was there still, off and on. I was very sorry to hear it, though I could hardly have told any one why. Reuben never came in of a night now ; at least never came to sit with us. Sometimes he would come in for a few minutes, with his pockets always full of bulhs'-eyes and rock and such things, and would give them to the children, looking steadily at Emma all the while, and then go away again. He would not let me come up to his room. He seemed not at all anxious to con- THE IIILLYARS AND TUE BURTONS. 109 ceal the fact, that there was some one wlio came there who was, to put it elegantly, an ineligible acquaintance. My father became acquainted with the fact, and was seriously angry about it. But Keuben had correctly calculated on my father's good nature and disincHnation to act. Reuben knew that my father would only growl ; he knew he would never turn him out. Very early in my story I hinted that Alsatia was just round the corner from Brown's Row. Such was tlie fact. In Danvers Street and Lawrence Street, west and east of us, might be found some very queer people indeed ; and, as I have an objection to give their names, I shall give them fictitious ones. I have noth- ing w^hatcver to say against Mrs. Quickly, or of the reasons which led to her emigration. She hardly comes into question just now, for she emicjrated to Cooksland not lon<]j after Fred was born. I repeat that I personally have nothing to say against Mrs. Quick- ly ; she was always singularly civil to me. That she was a fool- ish and weak woman, I always thought, but I was surprised at the singular repugnance wdiich Emma showed towards her. And Mrs. C m again. What could have made her fly out at the poor woman in that way, and fairly hunt her out of Sidney ? And will you tell me why, in the end, not only Emma and Mrs. C m, but also my mother, had far more tenderness and com- passion for that terrible unsexed termagant Mrs. Bardol})h {nee Tearsheet), than for the gentle, civil, soft-spoken Mrs. Quickly ? I asked my wife why it was the other day, and she told me that nothing was more difficult to answer than a thoroughly stupid question. At the time of which I am speaking now, Mrs. Quickly had gone to Australia, and the house she had kept in Lawrence Street was kept by Mrs Bardolph and Miss Ophelia Flanagan. Miss Flanagan was a tall raw-boned Irish woman, married to a Mr. Malone. Mrs. Bardolph was a great red-faced coarse Kentish woman, with an upper lip longer than her nose, and a chin as big as both, as strong as a man, and as fierce as a tiger. This winter she had returned from a short incarceration. There had been a fatal accMent in her establishment. Nobody — neither the dozen or fourteen gentlewomen, nor Nym, nor Bardolph, nor Pistol — had any thing to do with it. The man had fallen down stairs and broken his neck accidentally, but neither the Middle- sex Ma";istrates nor the Assistant-Judt»e could conceal from them- selves the fact, that Mrs. Bardolph kept a disorderly house, and so she had to go to IloUoway. She had now returned, louder, redder, and angrier than before. Not many days after the night on which I had gone up into Reuben's room, I had some business in Cheyne Row, and when it was done I came whistling and sauntering homewai*d;3. As I 110 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. came into Lawrence Street, I was thinking how pleasant and fresh the air came up from the river, when I was attracted by the sound of people talking loudly before me, and, looking up, I saw at the corner of the passage which leads by the Dissenting chapel into Church Street, this group — Miss Flanagan and Mrs. Bardolph, leaning against the railings with their arms folded ; Mr. Nym, Mr. Bardolph, and Mr. Pistol (I know who I mean well enough) ; a dozen or fourteen gentle- women, Bill Sykes, Mrs. Gamp, Moll Flanders, and my cousin Reuben. There was a man also, who leant against a post with his back towards me, whose face I could not see. As I came near them, they stopped talking, every one of them, and looked at me. To any lad of nearly eighteen, not born in London or one of the chief towns in Australia, this would have been confusing ; to me it was a matter of profound indifference. I was passing them with a calm stare, by no means expressive of curiosity, when Mrs. Bardolph spoke : " Hallo, young Bellus-and-tongs ! What 's up ? " I replied to her, not in many words. There was a roar of laughter from the whole gang ; she looked a little angry for a moment, but laughed good-naturedly directly afterwards. Then I was sorry for what I had said. But you had to keep your tongue handy in those times, I assure you. " Never you mind the stirabout, you monkey," she said ; " my constitution wanted reducing ; I was making a deal too much flesh. Take your cousin home and mind him, you cheeky gonoff ; don't you see that the devil has come for him ? " There was another laugh at this, and I turned and looked at the gentleman who was leaning against the corner-post, and who was laughing as loud as any one. I was not impressed in this gentleman's favor ; but I was strongly impressed with the idea that this was the gentleman who had snored so loud one night he had slept in Reuben's room. But I only laughed too. I said to Mrs. Bardolph, that Rube knew his home and his friends a good deal better than she could tell him, and so I went on my way, and, as I went, heard Miss Flanagan remark that I was a tonguey young divole, but had something the look of my sisther about the eyee. I was glad that Erne came to see me that night, for I was ter- ribly vexed and ill at ease at. finding Reuben in such company: in company so utterly depraved that I have chosen, as you see, to designate them by Shakespearian names. It was not because I wished to confide in him that I was glad to see him. I had no intention of doing that. If I had, in the first place I should have been betraying Reuben ; in the second, I should have been asham- ed J and in the third, I should have been telling the difficulty to THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. Ill a person as little likely to iiiulcrstand it and assist one out of it as any one I know. Erne's childish simplicity in all worldly mat- ters was a strange thing to see. iS^o. It was lor this reason I was glad to see Erne. I was vexed, and tiie fact of his sitting beside me soothed me and made me forget my vexation. Why ? you ask. Well, there you have me. I have not the very least idea in the world why. I only know that when Erne was sitting with me I had a feeling of con- tentment which I never had at other times. We never spoke much to one another ; hardly ever, unless we were alone, and then only a few words ; nothing in themselves, but showing that we understood one another thoroughly. Erne's powers of con- versation were entirely reserved for Emma and Joe. But tliey told me that, if I was out when he came, he was quite distraught and absent ; that he would never talk his best unless I was pre- sent, — though he would, perhaps, only notice my coming by tak- ing my hand and saying, " How do, old fellow ? " A curious fact these boy-friendships ! A wise schoolmaster told me the other day that he should not know what to do without them, and that he had to utilize them. They are, I think, all very well until Ferdinand meets Miranda. After that, they must take their chance. At this time, it was only child Erne who was in love with child Emma. As yet, I was the centre round which Erne's world revolved. I had not gone to the wall as yet. " Hallo ! " said Erne, when he burst in. " I say, is Jim here ? I say, old fellow, I want to talk to you most particularly. Where 's Emma, old fellow ? Fetch Emma for me ; I want to have a talk about something very particular iiideecl. A regular council of war, Joe. You Hammersmith, you needn't say anything; you listen, and reserve your opinion. Do you hear ? " I remember that he shook hands with me, and I remember smiling to see his white delicate fingers clasped in my own black hand. Then Emma came sweeping in, and her broad noble face shaped itself into one great smile to welcome him ; and he asked her to give him a kiss, and she gave him one, and you must make the best of it you can, or the worst that you dare. And then she passed on to her place by the fire with Frank and Harry, and Fred hanging to her skirts, and sat down to listen. The court was opened by Erne. He said, " My elder brother is come home." There were expressions of surprise from Joe and Emma. " Yes," said Erne. " He is come home. Emma, I want to ask you this : If you had a brother you had never seen, do you tliink you could love him ? " Emma said, " Yes. That she should certainly love him, merely from being her brother," 112 THE HILLY AKS AND THE BURTONS. " But suppose," said Erne, " that you had never heard any- thing but evil about him. Should you love him then ? " " Yes," said Emma ; " I would n't believe the evil. And so I should be able to love him." " But," said Erne, " that is silly nonsense. Suppose that you were forced to believe everj^thing bad against him ? " " I would n't without proof," said resolute Emma. " But suppose you had proof, you very obstinate and wrong- headed girl. Supposing the proofs of his ill behavior were per- fectly conclusive. Suppose that." " Supposing that," said the undaunted Emma, " is supposing a good deal. Suppose that I was to suppose, that you had taken the whole character of your brother from second-hand, and had never taken the trouble or had the opportunity to find out the truth. Suppose that." " Well," said Erne, after a pause, " that is the case, after all. But you need n't be so aggravating and determined ; I only asked your opinion. I wanted you to — " " To hound you on till you formed the faction against your brother, eh ? " said Emma. " Now, you may be offended or not ; you may get up and leave this room to-night ; but you shall hear the truth. Joe and I have talked over this ever since you told us that your brother was expected a fortnight ago, and I am ex- pressing Joe's oj)inion and my own. Every prejudice you take towards that man lowers you in the estimation of those who love you best. You sit there, I see, like a true gentleman, without anger or malice ; you encourage me to go on to the end and risk the loss of your acquaintance by doing so (it is Joe who is speak- ing, not I) ; but I tell you boldly, that your duty, as a gentle- man, is to labor night and day to bring your brother once more into your father's favor. It will ruin you, in a pecuniary point of view, to do so ; but, if you wish to be a man of honor and a gentleman, if you wish to be with us all the same Erne Hillyar that we have learnt to love so dearly, you must do so." " I have two things more to say," continued Emma, whose color, heightened during her speech, was now fading again. " Jim, your dear Hammersmith, knew nothing whatever of this speech I have made you. It was composed by Joe, and I agree with every word, every letter of it ; and that is all I have to say, Erne Hillyar." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 113 CHAPTER XXIII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS AMONG THE TOMBS. My brother Joe had at one time made a distinct request to my father that he should learn the trade, in which he was backed up by my mother, for the rather inscrutable reason that any trade was better than coopering. It was a perfectly undeniable proposition, but was somewhat uncalled for, because the question with Joe was not between smith-work and cooper-work, but be- tween hand-work and head-work, — whether he should become an artisan or a scholar. It was that busybody Emma that persuaded him in the end, of course, by quietly depreciating me, and by flattering Joe's in- tellect. During the time that the matter was in debate, she assumed a pensive air, and used to heave little sighs when she looked at Joe, and was so misguided once as to dust a chair I had been sitting in. After this I was taken with a sudden affection for her, and, having made my face seven times dirtier than usual, had embraced her tenderly. I also put a cinder in her tea, which brought matters to a crisis, for we both burst out laughing ; and I called her a stuck-up humbug, which thing she acknowledged with graceful humility, and before I had time to turn round had made me promise to add my persuasion to hers, and persuade Joe to become a scholar. I did so, and turned the scale. Joe continued at school, first as pupil, and secondly as an underteacher, until he was sixteen, at which time it became apparent to Mr. Faulkner that Joe was giving promise of becoming a very first-rate man indeed. He expressed this opinion to Mr. Compton, who called upon him one day for the purpose of asking him his opinion of Joe. A very few days after he came to my father, and said that wSir George Hillyar begged to take the liberty of advising that Mr. Joseph Burton should remain where he was a short time longer ; after which Sir George " would have great pleasure in under- taking to provide employment for those extraordinary talents which he appeared to be developing." '' Well," said Joe, with a radiant face ; " if this ain't — I mean is not — the most ex-tra-ai^^c?inary, I ever." I said that I never didn't, neither. My father whistled, and looked seriously and inquiringly at IMr. Compton. H 114 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " I don't know why," answered Mr. Compton, just as if my father had spoken. " Erne's , I mean," continued he, with a stammer, at which Miss Emma got as red as fire, " I mean Erne's friend's brother there, Reuben's cousin — Law bless you ! fifty ways of accounting for it. But, as for knowing anything, I don't, and, wliat is more, old Morton tlie keeper don't know, and, when he don't know, why, you know, who is to ? " " Certainly, sir," said my fatlier. " So old Morton he don't know nothink, don't he. Well ! Well ! " However, this was very good news indeed. We should have Joe with us for some time longer, and the expectation of the first loss to the family circle was lying somewhat heavy on our hearts. And then, when he did leave us, it would be with such splendid prospects. My mother said it would not in the least surprise her to see Joe in a draper's shop of his own, — which idea was scornfully scouted by the rest of us, who had already made him Prime Minister. In the mean time I was very anxious to see Erne and thank him, and to know why Miss Emma should have blushed in that way. Erne evidently wanted to see me for some purpose also, for he wrote to me to ask me to meet him at the old place the next Sunday afternoon. The " old place " was a bench which stood in front of Sir Thomas More's monument, close to the altar-rails of the old church. We promised that we would all come and meet him there. It is so long ago since we began to go to the old church, on Sunday afternoon in winter, and in the evening in summer, that I cannot attempt to fix the date. It had grown to be a habit when I was very, very young, for I remember that church with me used at one time to mean the old church, and that I used to consider the attendance on the new St. Luke's, in Robert Street, more as a dissipation, than an act of devotion. My mother tells me that she used first to take me there about so and so, — meaning a period when I was only about fourteen months old. My mother is a little too particular in her dates, and her chronology is mainly based on a system of rapidly re- curring eras : a system which, I notice, is apt to spread confu- sion and dismay among the ladies of the highly-genteel rank to which we have elevated ourselves. However, to leave mere fractions of time, of no real importance, to take care of them- selves, she must have taken me to the old church almost as soon as my retina began to carry images to my brain, for I can re- member Lord and Lady Dacre, with their dogs at their feet, before I can remember being told by Mrs. Quickly, that the doctor had been for a walk round the parsley-bed, and had THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 115 brouglit mc a little brother from among the gooseberry-bushes : which was hor metaphorical way of announcing the fact of my brother Joe's birth. At first, I remember, I used to think that all the statues were of the nature of Guy Fawke?;, and were set up there to atone for sins committed in the tlesh. From this heretical and pagan frame of mind I was rescued by learning to read; and then I found that these images and monuments were not set up for warning, but for example. I began to discover that these people who had died, and had their monuments set up here, were, by very long odds, the best people who ever lived. I was, for a time, puzzled about those wlio had their epitaphs written in Latin, I confess. Starting on the basis, that every word in every epitaph was strictly true, I soon argued myself into the conclusion that the Latin epitaphs' were jtvritten in that lan- guage for the sake of sparing the feelings of the survivors ; and that they were the epitaphs of people about whom there was something queer, or, at all events, something better reserved for the decision of the scholastic few who understood Latin. At a verj"- early age I became possessed with the idea that when Mrs. Quickly died it would become necessary, for the sake of public morality, to write her epitaph in Latin. I can't tell you how I came to think so. I never for a moment doubted that such an excellent and amiable woman would have a very large tomb erected to her by a grateful country ; but I never for a moment doubted that it would become necessary to have a Latin inscrip- tion on it. But conceive how I was astonished by finding, when I was a great fellow, that the Latin inscriptions were quite as compli- mentary as the English. Joe translated a lot of them for me. It was quite evident that such people as the Chelsea people never lived. So far from Latin being used with a view of hid- ing any little faux pas of the eminent deceased from the knowl- edge of the ten-pound householders, it appeared that the older language had been used merely because the miserable bastard patois, which Shakespeare was forced to use, but which John- son very properly rejected witli decision, was utterly unfit to ex- press the various virtues of these wonderful Chelsea peoj^le, of whom, with few exceptions, no one ever heard. It used to strike me, however, that, among the known or the unknown, Sir Thomas More was the most obstinately determined that posterity should hear his own account of himself. My opinion always was, that the monuments which were in the best state were those of the Ilillyars and of the Duchess of Northumberland. There are no inscriptions on these, with the exception of the family names. The members of the family 116 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. are merely represented kneeling one behind the other with their names — in the one case above their heads, in the other, on a brass beneath. The Dacres, with their dogs at their feet, are grand ; but, on the whole, give me the Flillyars, kneeling humbly, with nothing to say for themselves. Let the Dacres carry their pride and their dogs to the grave with them if they see fit ; let them take their braches, and lie down to wait for judgment. Honest John Hillyar will have no dogs, having troubles enough beside. He and his family prefer to kneel, with folded hands, until the last trump sound from the East, or until Chelsea Church crumble into dust. I always loved that monument better than any in Chelsea Old Church. 'T is a good example of a mural monument of that time, they say, but they have never seen it on a wild autumn afternoon, when the. sun streams in on it from the southwest, lights it up for an instant, and then sends one long ray quivering up the wall to the roof, and dies. What do they know about the monument at such a time as that ? Still less do they know of the fancies that a shock-headed, stupid blacksmith's boy — two of whose brothers were poets, and whose rant he used to hear — used to build up in his dull brain about it, as he sat year after year before it, until the kneeling figures became friends to him. For I made friends of them in a way. They were friends of another world. I found out enough to know that they were the images of a gentleman and his family who had lived in our big house in Church Street three hundred years ago ; and, sitting by habit in the same place, Sunday after Sunday, they became to me real and actual persons, who were as familiar to me as our neighbors, and yet who were dead and gone to heaven or hell three hundred years before, — *- people who had twenty years' ex- perience of the next world to show, where I had one to show of this present life ; people who had solved the great difficulty, and who could tell me all about it, if they would only turn their heads and speak. Yes, these Hillyars became real people to me, and T, in a sort of way, loved them. I gave them names in my own head. I loved two of them. On the female side I loved the little wee child, for whom there was very small room, and who was crowded against the pillar, kneelino; on the skirts of the last of her binr sisters. And I loved the big lad who knelt directly behind his father, between the knight himself, and the two little brothers, dressed so very like blue-coat boys, such quaint little fellows as they were. I do not think that either Joe or Emma ever cared much about this tomb or its effigies. Though we three sat there together so very often for several winters, I do not think it ever took their attention very much ; and I, being a silent lad, never gave loose THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 117 to my fancies about that family monument even to tliem. I used to find, in the burst of convorsntion wliich always follows the re- lease of young folks from church, that we all three, like most young people, had not attended to the sermon at all ; but that our idle fancies, on those wild winter afternoons, had rambled away in strangely dillerent directions. I always used to sit between the two others, upright, with my head nearly against the little shield which carries the date, " Anno, 1539." Soon after the ser- mon had begun I used to find that Joe's great head was heavy on one shoulder, while Emma had laid her cheek quietly against the other, and had stolen her hand into mine. And so we three would sit, in a pyramidal group, of which I was the centre, dreaming. I used to find that Joe would be building fancies of the dead who lay around us, of what they had done, and of what they might have done, had God allowed them t.o foresee the conse- quences of their actions ; but that Emma had been listening to the rush of the winter-wind among the tombs outside, and the lapping of the winter-tide upon the shore, — thinking of those who were tossed far away upon stormy seas, only less pitiless than the iron coast on which they burst in their cruel fury. I cannot tell how often, or how long, we three sat there. But I know that the monument had a new interest to me after I made Erne Hillyar's acquaintance, and began to realize that the kneel- ing; fio-ures there were his ancestors. I tried then to make Erne the living take his place, in my fancy, among the images of his dead forefathers and uncles ; but it was a failure. He would not come in it all. So then I began trying to make out which of them he w^as most like ; but he was n't a bit like any one of them. They none of them would look round at you with their heads a little on one side, and their great blue-black eyes wide open, and their lips half-parted as though to w^ait for what you were going to say. These ancestors of his were but brass after all, and knelt one behind the other looking at the backs of one another's heads. Erne would not fit in among them by any means. But one day, one autumn afternoon, as I sat with Emma on one side, and Joe on the other, with my back to Sir Thomas More's tomb and my face to Sir John Hillyar's, thinking of these things, I got a chance of comparing the living with the dead. For, when the sermon was half-way through, I heard the little door, which opens straight from the windy wdiarf into the quiet chancel, opened stealthily ; and, looking round, I saw that Erne had come in, and was sending those big eyes of his ranging all over the church to look for something which was close by all the time. I saw him stand close to me, for a minute, moving his no- ble head from side to side as he peered about him, like an emu who has wandered into a stockyard ; but as soon as he had swept 118 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. the horizon, and had brought his eyes to range nearer home, he saw rae. And then he smiled, and I knew that he had come to find us. And after service we walked out together. And the sexton let us into that quiet piece of the church-yard which overlooks the river, and we stood there long into the twilight, talking together as we leant against the low wall. Erne stood upon the grave of the poor Hillyar girl who had died in our house, as his habit was, talking to me and looking at Emma. The time went so quick that it was dark before we got home ; but we all discovered that it was a very capital way of having a talk together, and so, with- out any arrangement at all, we found ourselves there again very often. Once Emma and I went along with Frank ; but Frank, having eaten a dinner for six, went to sleep, and not only went to sleep, but had the nightmare, in a manner scandalously audi- ble to the whole congregation, in the first lesson. Emma had to take him out, and when I came out at the end of the service, I found that Erne and Emma were together by the river-wall, and no one else but Frank. He had seen her coming out, and had stayed with her for company. It was very kind of him, and I told him so. He called me an old fool. The Sunday afternoon on which we were to meet Erne was a wild and gusty one, the wind sweeping drearily along the shore, and booming and rushing among the railings around the tombs. My sister and I went alone, and sat on the old bench : but no Erne made his appearance, and soon I had ceased to think much of him. For there came in and sat opposite to me, — directly under the Hillyar monument, — the most beautiful lady I had ever seen. She was very young, with a wonderfully delicate com- plexion, and looked so very fragile, that I found myself wonder- ing what she did abroad in such wild weather. She was dressed in light gray silk, which gave her a somewhat ghostly air ; and she looked slightly worn and anxious, though not enough to in- terfere with her almost preternatural beauty. AVhen I say tliat I had never seen such a beautiful woman as she was, I at once find that I can go farther, and say, that I have never since seen any one as beautiful as she by a long interval. My wife was singularly handsome at one time.* Mrs. Oxton, when I first saw her, was certainly beautiful. Lady Hainault, my namesake, as I reminded her once, was, and is, glorious ; but they none of them could ever have compared, for an instant, with tliat young lady in gray silk, who came and sat on the bench, under the * The Hon. Mrs. Burton presents her compHments to the Editor, and begs to inform him that this is the first she ever heard of it. THE HTLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 119 ITillyar monument, opposite my sister and me, on that wild autunni afternoon. She came in by the little side door which opens from the chan- cel on to the river. She sat down on the bench opposite me, beside a poor cracked old sempstress, whose devotions were dis- turbed every five minutes by her having to put down her prayer- book and hunt spiders, and old Smith the blind man, who used to say his responses in a surly, defiant tone of voice, as if every response was another item in a bill against heaven, which had already run too long, and ought to have been paid long ago. But she sat down in this fantastic company, and seemed glad to rest. Mrs. Smith, the pew-opener, the blind man's wife, caught sight of a strange sail in the offing, bore down, and would have brouglii her into a pew. But the strange lady said that she M'as tired, and would sit where she was. There was a gentleman with her, by the by. A tall gentle- man, very pale, rather anxious-looking, without any hair on his face. He asked her, was n't she afraid of the draught ? And she said, " No. Please, please dear, let me sit here. I want rest, dear. Do let me sit here." And when she said this two ideas came into my head. The first was that the beautiful lady was, for some reason, afraid of the pale, anxious gentleman ; and the second was that they were Americans, because, — although they both spoke perfectly good English, yet they seemed to have .no hesitation about speaking out loud in church ; which tliey most decidedly did, and which, as I am informed now, the Ameri- cans, as a general rule, do not. No Erne made his appearance. Emma and I sat on our ac- customed bench, with the beautiful, weary lady opposite. The wind rattled at the old casements, and when the sermon began a storm of sleet came driving along from the westward, and made the atmosphere freezing cold. The strange beautiful lady seemed to cower under it, to draw herself together and to draw her shawl closer and closer around her, with a look almost of terror on her face. The poor lunatic woman, who sat beside her, put up her umbrella. The pew-opener saw her, and came up and fought her for it, with a view to making her put it down again. The cracked woman was very resolute, and Mrs. Smith was (as I think) unnecessarily violent, and between them they drove one of the points of the umbrella into Smith's eye ; which, as Smith was blind already did n't matter much, but which caused him a deal of pain, and ended in shovings and recriminations between Mrs. Smith and the cracked woman. And the beautiful lady, in the middle of it all, finding no rest anywhere, came across wearily and feebly and sat beside Emma. She did not faint or make any scene ; but when I looked round soon after I saw her 120 THE HILI-YAPvS AND THE BURTONS. head on Emma's shoulder, and Emma's arm round her waist. She was very poorly, but the pale gentleman did not see it. After service she took his arm, and while the people were crowding out of church I kept near them. I heard her say, — " I cannot stay to look at the monument to-day, dear ; I am very tired." " Well," said the gentleman, " the carriage won't be long. I told them to meet us here." She stood actually cowering in the cold blast which swept off the river round the corner of the church. She crouched shudder- ing close to the pale man and said, — " What a dreadful country, love. Is it always like this in England ? I shall die here I am afraid, and never see Aggy any more, and poor James will be so sorry. But I am, quite brave and resolute, George. I would not change my lot with any woman," she continued rather more hastily; "only there is no sun here, and it is so very dark and ugly." I was glad to hear him speak kindly to her and soothe her, for I could not help fancying that she would have been glad of a gentler companion. But I had little time to think of this, for Erne, coming quickly out the open gate of the church-yard, came up to them and said, — " Mr. George Hillyar?" I think. George Hillyar bowed politely, and said, " Yes." •' We ought to know one another," said Erne, laughing ; " in fact, I am your brother Erne." I did not like the look of George Hillyar's face at all ; he had an ugly scowl handy for any one who might require it, I could see. But Erne was attracted suddenly by his sister-in-law's beauty, and so he never saw it ; by the time he looked into his brother's face again the scowl had passed away, and there was a look of pleased admiration instead. Poor Mrs. Hillyar seemed to brighten up at the sight of Erne. They stood talking together affectionately for a few minutes, and then the George Hillyars drove away, and left Erne and me standing together in the church-yard. " What a handsome disti?igue-\o6kmg^ fellow," said Erne. " I know I shall like him." I hoped their liking might be mutual, but had strong doubts on tlie point. TIIK IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 121 CHAPTER XXIV. HOMEWARD BOUND. Skcrktary Oxtox was a wise and clever fellow, but he was liable to err, like the rest of us. Secretary Oxton was an atfectionate, good-hearted, honorable man, a gentleman at all points, save one. He was clever and ambitious, and in the grand fight he had fought against the world, in the steady pluckily- fought battle, the object of which was to place him, a younger son, in a position equal to that of his elder brother, to found a new and wealthy branch of the Oxton family, he had contracted a certain fault, from which his elder brother, probably from the absence of temptation, was free. He had seen that wealth was the key to the position. He had seen, early in the struggle, that a fool with wealth was often of more influence than a wise man without it. And so he had won wealth as a means to the end of power. But the gold had left a little of its dross upon him, and now he was apt to overvalue it. Acting on this error, he had put before him, as a great end, with regard to George and Gerty Hillyar, that George should go to England and win back his father's favor. His wife, good and clever as she was, was only, after all, a mirror to reflect her hu>band's stronger will ; consequently there was no one to warn him of the folly he was committing, when he urged George so strono-lv to sro to Eno-land, — no one to tell him of the danscer of allowing such a wild fierce hawk as Georire to net out of the range of his own influence ; of the terrible peril he incurred on behalf of his beloved Gerty, by sending him far away from the gentle home atmosphere, which had begun to do its work upon him so very well, and throwing him headlong among his old temptations, with no better guide than a silly little fairy of a Avife. He could not see all this in his blindness. He did not calcu- late on the amount of good which had been wrought in George's character by his wife's gentle influence and his own manly coun- sel. He was blinded by the money question. He did not see that it would be better for Gerty's sake, and for all their sakes, to keep Sir George Hillyer near him with two thousand a year, a busy, happy man, than to have him living in England without control, amongst all his old temptations. He could not bear the idea of that odd eight or nine thousand a year going out of the family. He had worked at money-getting so long that that con- sideration outweiiihed, nay, obscured every other. 6 122 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. And so he encouraged George to go to England. And, when the last grand forest cape was passed, and they were rushing on towards Cape Horn before the we.-t wind, and the dear peaceful old land had died away on the horizon, and was as something which had never been ; and when Gerty got penitent, and sea- sick, and tearful, and frightened, and yellow in the face, and everything but cross, — then all the good influences of James and Agnes Oxton were needed, but were not at hand ; and such mischief was done as would have made the Secretary curse his own folly if he could have seen it. And there was no one tc> stay the course of this mischief, but tearful silly sea-sick Gerty Poor little child of the sun ! Poor little bush princess ! brought up without a thought or a care on the warm hillside at Neville's Gap, in the quiet house which stood half-way up the mountain, with a thousand feet of feathering woodland behind, and fifty miles of forest and plain before and below. Brought up in a quiet luxurious home, among birds and flowers and pet dogs ; a poor little body, the cares in whose life were the arrivals of the pianoforte-tuner on his broken-kneed gray, supposed to be five hundred years old ; who had never met with but two adventures in her life before marriage, the first of which she could barely remember, and the second when James and Aggy carried her off in a steamer to Sydney, and Aggy chaperoned her to the great ball at Government House, and she had wondered why the peo- ple stared at her so when she walked up the room following in Aggy's wake, as she sailed stately on before towards the pres- ence, until she was told next morning that James had won £ 500 on her beauty, for that Lady Gipps had pronounced her to be more beautiful than young Mrs. Buckley nee Brentwood, of Ga- roopna, in Gippsland. But here was a change. This low sweeping gray sky, and the wild heaving cold gray sea, and then the horrible cliffs of bitter floating ice, at whose base the hungry sea leaped and slid up, gnawing caverns and crannies, yet pitifully smoothing away, with their ceaseless wash, a glacis, to which the linger of no drown- ing man might hope to clutch that he might prolong his misery. The sun seemed gone forever, and as they made each degree of southing, Gerty got more shivering and more tearful, and seemed to shrink more and more into her wrappers and cloaks. But all this had a very different effect on Mrs. Nalder. On that magnificent American woman it had a bracing effect ; it put new roses into her face, and made her stand firmer on her marine continuations, — had I been speaking about an English duchess I should have said her sea-legs. vShe was n't sick, not she ; but Nalder was, and so it fell to George's lot to squire Mrs. Nalder, an employment he found to be so charming that he devoted him- THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 123 self to it. Mrs. Nulder got very fond of George, and told her husband so; whereuj)Oii Mr. Nalder replied that he was uncom- mon glad she had found some on«' to gallivant her round, for that he was darned if he rose out of that under forty south. And, when forty south came, and Gerty made her appearance on deck with Mrs. Nalder, she found that dreadful Yankee woman call- ing George about here and there, as if he belonged to her. Gerty got instantly jealous, although Mrs. Nalder was kind and gentle to her, and would have been a sister to her. Gerty re- pulsed her. Mrs. Nalder wondered why. The idea of anybody being sufficiently insane to be jealous of her never entered into her honest head. She asked her husband, who did n't know, but said that Ostrellyan gells were, as a jennle rule, whimsical young cusses. No. Gerty would have nothing to do with the kind-hearted American woman, for she was bitterly jealous of her. And Mr. Nalder Ji'ightened her, that honest tradesman, with his way of prefacing half his remarks by saying " Je-hoshaphat," which frightened her out of her wits for what was coming. His way of thwackinc; down his rio^ht or left bower at eucre, his callini]r the trump-card the deck-head, his way of eating with his knife, and his reckless noisy bonhommie, were all alike, I am sorry to say, disgusting to her ; nothing he could do was right ; and, after all, Nalder was a good fellow. George got angry with her about her treatment of these people, and scolded her ; and he could not scold by halves ; he terrified her so that he saw he must never do it again. He put a strong restraint on himself; to do the man justice, he did that ; and was as tender and gentle with her as he could be for a time. But his features had been too much accustomed to reflect violent passion to make it possible for him to act his part at all times. Her dull, fearful submission irritated him, and there came times w^hen that irritation, unexpressed in words and actions, would show itself too faithfully in his face ; and so that look of pitiable terror which had come into Gerty's great eyes the first time he had sworn at her, that i-estless shift- ing of the pupil from side to side, accompanied by a spasmodic quivering of the eyelids, never, never wholly passed away any more. /'That he could have cursed her, that he could have snarled at her, and cursed her. It was too horrible. Could James have been right ? And Neville's Gap so many thousand miles away, and getting further with every bound of the sliip ! " George saw all this, and it made him mad. He tbund out now that he had ":ot a ureat deal fonder of beautiful Mrs, Nalder than he had any right to be, and after a week's penitential atten- tion to Gerty he went over to Mrs. Naldei, and begim the petits soins business with her once more. But, unluckily for him, Mrs 124 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. Nalder had found him out. George, poor fool, thought that the American woman's coohie>s towards him arose from jealousy at his having returned to his wife. He found his mistake. The brave Illinois woman met him with a storm of indignation, and rated him about his treatment of his wnfe. She had no tact, or she would not have done so, for she only made matters worse. Of all the foolish things which James Oxton ever did, this was the worst : sending these two out of the range of his own and his wife's influence. Gerty revived a little in the tropics. The sun warmed her into something like her old self. But all Mrs. Nalder's kindness failed to win her over. She suspected her and was jealous of her ; and, besides, the great handsome woman of the Western prairies was offensive to the poor little robin of a creature. She was coarse and loud, and her hands were large, and she was so strong. She could n't even make Gerty comfortable on a bench without hurting her. And, besides, Gerty could see through all this affected attention which she showed her. Gerty, like most silly women, thought herself vastly clever. Mrs. Nalder was a most arttul and dangerous woman. All this assumed affection might blind her poor husband, but could never blind her. But the good ship rolled and blundered on, until it grew to be forty north, instead of forty south, and the sunny belt was passed once more, and Gerty began to pine and droop again. George would land at Dover ; and he landed in a steamer which came alongside. And the last of the old ship was this, — that all the crew and the passengers stood round looking at her. And Mrs. Nalder came up and kissed her, and said, very quietly, "My dear, we may never meet again, but when we do, you will know me better than you do now. Then Gerty broke into tears, and asked Mrs. Nalder to forgive her, and Mrs. Nalder, that coarse and vulgar person, called her a darling little sunbeam, and wept too, after the Chicago style (and when they do things at Chicago, mind you, they do 'em with a will). Then Gerty was on the deck of the little steamer, and, while she was w^ondering through her tears why the sides of the ship looked so very high, there came from the deck a sound like a number of dass bells rinfjinsf together and ceasing at once ; then the sound came again, louder and clearer ; and as it came the third time, George raised her arm, and said — " Wave your handkerchief, Gerty ; quick, don't you hear them cheering you ? " And, directly afterwards, tliey stood on the slippery, slimy boards of the pier at Dover, on the dull English winter day ; and she looked round at the chalk cliffs, whose crests were shrouded in mist, and at the muddy street, and the dark colored houses, and she said, " Oh, dear, dear me. Is this, this England, George ? What a nasty, cold, ugly, dirty place it is." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS, CHAPTER XXV. GERTY'S FIRST INNINGS. A VERT few days before Sir George Hillyar received the note which told him of his son's arrival in England, he happened to be out shooting alone, and his keeper saw that he was very anx- ious and absent, and shot very badly indeed. He conceived tliat it was Sir George's anxiety about his son's arrival, and thought little about it ; but, as the day went on, it became evident that Sir George wanted to broach some subject, and had a hesitation in doing so. At last he said, — " What state are the boats in, Morton ? " " They are in very good repair. Sir George." " I think I shall have them painted." " They were painted last week. Sir George." " I shall get new oars for them, I fancy." " The new oars, which you ordered while staying at Kew, came home last Thursday, Sir Georo;e." " H'm. Hey. Then there is no work for a waterman about the lake, is there ? " " None whatever, Sir George." " Morton, you are a fool. If I had not more tact than you I would hang myself before I went to bed." " Yes, Sir George." " Send for the young waterman that we had at Kew, and find him some work about the boats for a few days." '* Yes, Sir George." " You know whom I mean ? " " No, Sir George." " Then why the devil did you say you did ? " " I did not, Sir George." " Then you contradict me ? " "I hope I know my place better. Sir George. But I never did say I knew who you mean, for I don't ; in consequence I could n't have said I did. Maark ! caawk ! Awd drat this jaw- ing in cover. Sir George ! Do hold your tongue till we 're out on the heth agin. How often am I to tell you on it ? " So he did. At the next pause in the sport old Morton said, " Now, Sir George, what do you want done ? " " I want that young man, Reuben Burton, whom we had at Kew, fetched over. I want you to make an excuse for his corn- ins to mend the boats. That 's what 1 want." 126 THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Then wlij could n't you have said so at once ? " said old Mor- ton to his face. " Because I did n't choose. If you get so impudent, Morton, I shall be seriously an2;ry with 3'ou." "Ah! I'll chance all that," said Morton to himself; "you're easy enough managed by those as knows you. I wonder why he has taken such a fancy to this young scamp. I wonder if he knows he is Sam Burton's son. I suspect he do." But old Morton said nothing more, and Reuben was sent for to Stanlake. Sir George was going out shooting again when Reuben came. The old butler told him that the young waterman was come, and Sir George told him that he must wait ; but, when Sir George came out, he had got a smile on his face ready to meet the merry young rascal who had amused him so much. " Hallo ! you fellow," he began, laughing ; but he stopped sud- denly, for the moment he looked at Reuben Burton he saw that there was a great change in him. Reuben had lost all his old vivacity, and had a painfully worn, eager look on his face. " Why, how the lad is changed ! " said Sir George. " You have been falling in love, you young monkey. Go and see to those boats, and put them in order." Reuben went wearily to work ; there was really nothing to do. Sir George merely had him over to gratify a fancy for seeing him again. It may have been that he was disappointed in find- ing the merry slangy lad he had got to like looking so old and anxious, or it may have been that his nervous anxiety for the approaching interview with his son put Reuben out of his head ; but, however it was, Sir George never went near Reuben after the first time he had looked at him, and had seen the change in him. No one will ever know now what was working in Sir George's heart towards Reuben Burton. The absence of all in- quiries on his part as to who Reuben was decidedly favors James Burton the elder's notion, that Sir George guessed he was the son of Samuel Burton, and that he did not, having conceived a strange affection for the lad, wish to push his inquiries too far. It may have been this, or it may have been merely an old man's fancy ; but even now, when he seemed to have passed the lad by himself, he made Erne go and see him every morning. " Erne," he said, " that boy is in trouble. In secret trouble. Find his secret out, my child, and let us help him." But kind and gentle Erne couldn't do that. Reuben went as far as telling him that he was in trouble ; but also told him that he could say nothing more, for the sake of others. " I say, old Rube," said Erne, as he sat lolling against the side of a boat which Reuben was mending, " I have found out the whole of the business from beginning to end." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 127 " Have you, sir ? " said Reuben, with a gliost of a smile. " I am glad of it." " You have been getting into bad company," said Erne. « Very bad," said Reuben. "And you are innocent yourself?" " Yes," said Reuben. " Come. I could n't say as much to every one, IMaster Erne ; but I know, when I say a thing to you, that it won't go any further. Therefore I confide this to your honor, for if you betray me I am lost. I am innocent." Erne laughed. '' Tliat is something like your old familiar non- sense, Reuben. Tell me all about it." " It would be awkward for you if I did, sir." " Well ! well ! " said Erne. " I believe in you^ anyway. I say, does Emma know about it ? " " God bless you, no," said Reuben. " Don't tell her nothing, for God's sake, Master Erne." '* You haven't told me anything, Reuben ; so how could I teUher?" " I mean, don't let her know that Sir George noticed how I was altered. I should like her to think the best of me to the last. If trouble comes, the bitterest part of it will be the being disgraced before her. Don't say anything to her." " Why should I be likely to ? " said Erne. " Why," said Reuben, " I mean, when you and she was sitting together all alone, courting, that you might say this and that, and not put me in the best light. Lo7-d love you, master, / know all about that courting business. When the arm is round the waist the tongue won't keep between the teeth." " But I am not courting Emma," said Erne. "At least — " " At least or at most, master, you love the ground she walks on. Never mind what your opinion about your own state of mind is. Only be honorable to her. And, when the great smash comes, keep them in mind of me." " Keep who in mind .^ " said Erne. " Jim and Emma. Help 'em to remember me. I should be glad to think that you three thought of me while I was there." " While you are where ? " said Erne, in a very low voice. " In Coldbath Fields, master," said Reuben. " Now you 've got it." One need not say that Erne was distressed by the way in which Reuben spoke of himself. He was very sorry for Reuben, and was prepared to die for him; but — He was seventeen, and Reuben had accused him of his first love. Poor Reuben, by a few wild words, had let a flood of light in on to his boy's heart. Reuben was the first who had told him that he was in love. One hai>, in chemistry, seen a glass-jar full 128 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. of crystal clear liquid, clear as water, yet so saturated with some salt that the touch of any clumsy hand will send the spicula? quiv- ering^ through it in every direction, and prove to the sense of sight that the salt, but half-beheved in before, is there in overpowering quantities. So Reuben's words crystallized Erne's love ; and he denied it to himself no longer. And in this great gush of un- ntterable happiness poor Reuben's trouble and disgrace were only a more incident, — a tragical incident, wliich would be a new bond in their love. So Enie, leaving poor Reuben tinkering at the boats, walked on air. He had determined, as he walked through the wood, tliat the first thing he would do would be to go off to Chelsea, — to get Jim Burton, the blacksmith's eldest son (with Avhom you have already some acquaintance), and to tell him all about it ; when, walking through the wood, he met his father. " Have you been to see that young waterman, Erne ? " said his father. " I have," said Erne. " We ought to be kind to that fellow, dad. He is in trouble, and is innocent." " I think he is," said Sir George. " I have a great fancy for that fellow. I know what is the matter with him." " Do you ? " said Erne. " I don't." " Why, it 's about this Eliza Burton," said Sir George, looking straight at him ; " that's what is tlie matter." " You don't happen to mean Emma Burton, do you ? " said Erne. " Emma or Eliza, or something of that sort," said Sir George. *' He is in love with her, and she is playing the fool with some one else." " He is not in love with her, and she has been playing the fool with nobody," said Erne. " So you think," said Sir George ; " I, however, happen to know the world, and from the familiarities which you have confessed to me as passing between this girl and yourself, I am of a different opinion. I have allowed you to choose what comjDany you wished for above a year ; I have been rewarded by your full confidence, and, from what you told me about this girl, I believe her to be an artful and dangerous young minx." " Don't talk in that light way about your future daughter-in- law ; I am going to marry that girl. 1 am seventeen, and in three years I shall marry her." " How dare you talk such nonsense ? Suppose, sir, that I was to alter I mean, to stop your allowance, sir, hey ? " " Then the most gentlemanly plan would be to give me notice. Her father will teach me his trade." "You are impertinent, undutiful, and, what is worse, a fool THE UILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 129 "And all that sort of thing," said Erne. " Having fired your broadside of live-and-forty sixty-eight pounders, perhaps you will let off your big swivel-gun on deck. I tell you I am going to marry Emma Burton." " You know, you undutiful and wicked boy, all the consequen- ces of a mesalliance " "That's the big gun, hey?" said Erne. ""Why, yes; your mesalliance with my mother having been dinned into my ears ever since I was five, as the happiest match ever made, I do know ; you have put your foot in it there. A blacksmith's daugh- ter is as good as a gamekeeper's, any day." " Her relations, sir ! Her relations !" " My Uncle Bob, sir ! My Uncle Bob ! " Old Compton the lawyer had warned Erne, on one previous occasion, against what he called " hard hitting." But Erne, as Reuben would have said, could never keep his tongue between his teeth. His Uncle Bob was a very sore subject. His Uncle Bob had not borne the rise in circumstances consequent on. his sister becoming Lady Hillyar with that equanimity which is the characteristic of great minds. The instant he heard of the honor in store for him, he got drmik, and had remained so, with slight lucid intervals ever since, — a period of eighteen years. Having the constitution of a horse, and the temper of his sister, he had survived hitherto, and was quoted from one doctor to another as tiie most remarkable instance ever known of the habitual use of stimulants. They used to give clinical lectures on him, and at last made liim uncommonly proud of his performances. Such, combined with a facility for incurring personal liabilities, which was by no means impaired by his intemperate habits, were some of the characteristics of Uncle Bob, now triumphantly throw^n in Sir George's face by Erne. He was very angry. He said that such an allusion as that, on Erne's part, revealed to him such an abyss of moral squalor be- neath the surface as he was not prepared for in the case of one 60 young. " Now, mark me, sir. Once for all. I do not oppose your fancy for this girl. I encourage it. You distinctly understand that once for all. Your brother dines here to-day." " So I hear," said Erne, seeing it would not do to go on with any more nonsense. "•' I hope sincerely that you and your brother will remain friends. I do not ])urpose your seeing much of him. His wife has, I hear, some claims to beauty." " She is the sweetest little rosebud you ever saw in your life.'* " Where have you seen her? I know you did n't go to seek them, because you promised me you would not." 6* I 130 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. " I did not, indeed. I guessed who they were from a few words, they said in church, and, as I came out, I introduced my- self." *' Where were you ? At what church ? " " At the old church, Chelsea." " What a singular thing. Is Compton come ? " It was with intense eagerness that Mr. Com^Dton, knowing what he knew, watched the face of father and son, when they met after 60 many years estrangement. He knew perfectly how much, how very much, each of them had to forgive the other ; and he knew, moreover, that neither of them had the least intention of forgive- ness. He guessed that George had come over to try to win back his father's good graces with the assistance of his wife ; but he knew far too much to hope much from her assistance. One thing he knew, which others only guessed, that Sir George Hillyar had made a will, leaving Erne eight thousand a year. This was the paper, which (if your memory will carry you back so many months) he had exhibited such an anxiety to take to his office, but which Sir George insisted on keeping in his old escritoire. He was in the library, and Sir George was out when he heard them drive up. He knew that there was no one to receive them, and saw from that that their reception was to be formal. He did not hurry at his dressing, for he was in some small hopes that George and his wife might have a short time, were it only a min- ute, together alone with Sir George, and that either of them might show some gleam of affection towards the other, which might bring on a better state of things than the cold, cruel course of formality which Sir George had evidently planned. " It will be a bad job for Erne, possibly," said the old man. " But my young friend must take his chance. I won't stand be- tween father and son, even for him." When he came into the drawing-room he found Erne and his father dressed and waiting. They were standing together at the very end of the third drawing-room, before the fire, and Sir George was talking to Erne about one of the horses. When he joined them, a question was put to him on the subject ; and they went on discussing it. There was not the smallest sign of anx- iety or haste about Sir George's manner. He had not been talking with Erne many minutes, when the door by which he had entered, which was at the very farthest end of the three rooms, was opened again ; and Mr. and Mrs. George Hillyar came in, and began making their way through the vast arcliipelago of grand furniture which lay between the opposing parties. Sir George took out his watch, cUcked it open, and told Erne to ring tlie bell and order dinner. The three rooms were well lighted up, and, great as the dis- THE IIILLYARS AND Till-: DUKTONS. 135 sociate with people so far below liiiii in rank. T don't know wliy tliat young gentleman's father has sliown sueli bhnd trust in liiui. It may be bi'eiiuse he has sueh full and perfeet confidence in him, or it may be that his great love for him ha^ made him foohsli. AVhichever way it is, for that young gentleman to abuse his father's confidence so utterly as to go masquerading in a dress which he has no right to wear, in the lowest parts of the town, with two common lads, is a degree of meanness which I don't expect at all." As she said this I saw Joe's magnificent, Byron-like head turned in anger upon her, and I saw a wild, indignant flush rise upon his face, and go reddening up to the roots of his close, curl- ling hair ; I saw it rise, and then I saw it die away, as Joe limped towards her, and kissed her. Whether she had seen it, or not, it was hard to say, but she had guessed it would be there : she put her arm round his neck, and then drew his face against hers, saying, " Ask my brother Joe, here, what he thinks." " He thinks as you do, and so do I," said Erne, quietly. " If you were always by me I should never do wrong." "Ask Jim what he thinks about it," said Emma, la^ughing. '• Ask that great stupid, dear old Jim, how he would like to see his noble hero, w^ith a greasy old cap on, sucking oranges in the gallery of the theatre in the New Cut. Look how he stands there, like a stupid old ox. But I know who is the best of us four, nevertheless." The "stupid old ox — " that is to say, the Honorable James Burton, who is now addressing you, — had thrown his leather apron over his left shoulder, and was scratching his head. I am afraid that I did look very like a stupid ox. But think that, if you had taken the cobwebs out of my brain, and wound them off on a card, you would have found that I was making a feeble effort to try to think that my brother and sister were two rather heroic and noble persons. After all, I only fancy that I remem- ber that I was trying to think that I thought so. I am no fool, but that fierce flush on Joe's face had confused and frightened me. I saw very great danger. I had not seen that look there for a long time. Erne gave up his project, and soon went away in the best of humors ; Joe went to his school ; and I was left alone with Emma. Though I still had my apron over my shoulder, and might, for all I ci\n remember, have still been scratching my head, yet still all the cobwebs in my brain were drawn out into one strong thread, stronger than silk, and I knew what to say and what to do. I turned on Emma. 136 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. "You were perfectly right," I said, "in stopping him going. You were right in every word you said to him ; but you had no right to speak of Joe and myself as you did." She folded her hands, sweet saint, as if in prayer, and took it all so quietly. " It was not good to speak of your brother so," I went on, with heightened voice and an angry face. " You may speak as you please of me but, if you speak in that way of Joe, before his face, you will raise the devil in him, and there will be mischief. You should measure your words. Let me never hear that sort of thing again." I was right in every word I said to her. And yet I would give all my great wealth, my title, everything I have, except my wife and children, to unsay those words again. O, you who use hard words, however true they may be, when will you be per- suaded that every hard, cold word you use is one stone on a great pyramid of useless remorse ? How did she answer me ? She ran to me and nestled her noble head against my bosom, and called me her own sweet brother, and begged me not to scold her, for that she loved him, loved him, loved him. That Erne's name was written on her heart ; but thjtt he should never, never know it on this side of the grave ; for she would devote herself to Joe, and be his sister and friend to death ; and that she was so sorry for what she had said. What could I do ? Wliat I did, I suppose. Soothe her, quiet her, and tell her I had been in the wrong (which was not alto- gt'ther true). That is what I did, however; and so I had said the first and last harsh word to her. It cannot be recalled, but there is some comfort in thinking that it was the first and the last. CHAPTER XXVII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: THE GHOST SHOWS A LIGHT FOR THE FIRST TIME. The night we went to the play, it was arranged that Joe, be- cause of his lameness, should start first ; and I was to stay behind, to finish some work. It therefore happened that I found myself hurrying through the small streets beyond Westminster Bridge, alone. I am going to relate a distressing accident, very shortly, for the simple reason that, if I had not witnessed it, I should have missed THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 137 making a singular discovery and meeting with a few singular ad- ventures. I noticed a young man, of my own rank and age, rTcling a cart- horse just in front of me, and took but little notice of him ; not dreaming how very important his every look would be, in a very ibw minutes. I remembered after, that he seemed a merry, gootl- humored fellow, and was whistling. The night was frosty, and tlie road was slippery ; his horse blundered and stumbled, and threw him, whistling as he was, under the wheels of a passing wagon. The next moment I was carrying him on to a door-step, quite dead ; shattered beyond recognition. I cannot tell you what a lamentable affair it was. I did what I could, — I helped others, and was beginning to congratulate myself upon my self-possession, when I found that a very singu lar effect was produced on myself. I was giving my name and address to a policeman, when I felt something coming too quickly to be stopped, and burst into a wild tempest of tears, — such a tempest that I could not stay the course of it for a time, but had to give it way, gust after gust, until they grew fainter, and died away into an occasional stormy sob. Then I went on to the theatre, thinking, poor fool as I was, that I might forget the real terrible tragedy I had just witnessed by throwing myself head- long into a sea of fantastic balderdash. I found Joe, and, when the door was opened, we fought our way into a good place. The instant we got settled, Joe asked me what was the matter, and I told him that I had seen a fellow run over. He said, " Poor chap ! " but, not having seen it hap- pen, thought no more about it, but settled himself down to enjoy his evening. I suppose there are some play-goers still alive who remember the " Harvest Home." It belongs to the Eocene, or at latest to the early JMiocene, formation of plays, — probably, to be correct, it is half-way between the " Stranger " and the " Colleen Bawn." There was a dawning of the " sensation " style in it, but nothing very tremendous. O. Smith shot the first comedy gentleman stone-dead (as you were supposed to suppose, if you had n't known better all the time) from behind a stone wall, with an air-gun ; and the first lady threw herself on the corpse, and was dragged off screaming, in a snow-storm, by 3Ir. O. Smitli, her putative papa. Whereupon, Mr. Wright came on, as a Cockney sportsman dressed like a Highlander, having lost his way, and, as far as I can remember, found the body. In the end, Mr. O. Smith was hung, or, on the principle, says Joe, of "• Nee coram populo," was led off cursing and kicking ; and Mr. AVright was married (or was going to be) to the second lady. That was the sort of stuflf that Joe and I used to laugh and 138 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. cry over in those days. We had seen the play acted at the Adelphi, and were most anxious to compare the magnificent Milesian Ifish pronunciation of our own Miss Brady, with the broken English of Madame Celeste. It all fell dead on me that night. Even poor old Wright, with his bare legs and his im- pudent chatter, could not make me laugh. The image of what I had carried up and set on the door-step, an hour before, would not leave me. That a merry, harmless lad like that should be struck down in an instant, seemed to me so lamentable and cruel. I could think of nothing else. The details would come before me so persistently, — the head that would hang ; the two low, fallen women, who kept saying, " Poor dear ! poor dear lad ! " and all the rest of it. The play seemed such a hideous silly mockery after what had happened that I could bear no more of it. I made some excuse to Joe, and I went out. The squalor and noise of the street suited my mood better than the gaudy brightness of the play-house : and the bustling reality of the crowd soothed me for a time, and made me forget the tragedy of the evening. This crowd of noisy, swarming, ill-fed, ill-taught, ill-housed poor folks was, after all, composed of my own people, — of men, women, and lads of my own rank in life ; of people whose language was my own, whose every want and care I was acquainted with ; of the peojDle among whom I had been bred up, and whom I had learnt to love. 1 was at home among them. The other day, after spending years in a higher and purer at- mosphere, I went among them again, just to see whether they were the same to me as in old times. I found that I was quite unchanged. They did not disgust me in the least. I felt, when I got among them again, that I was at home once more. I was pleased to find that I had not developed into a snob ; but I was sorry to find that they distrusted me, in my good clothes, and would have none of me. Knowing them as I did, and knowing how they talked among themselves, I could see that they talked in a different language in the presence of my fine clothes and watch- chain. It is very hard for a gentleman to know them ; very nearly impossible. They never speak to him quite naturally. I went into a public-house, where I heard music, and got my- self some porter, and sat down on a bench among some young men, who made room for me. The musicians played some dance- music, — a waltz, which I now know to be one of Strauss's ; but it sounded to me like the lapping of the tide upon the mud-banks, and the moaning of tlie wind from the river among the grave- stones in the old church-yard. So, thought-driven, with a despondency on me for which it was difficult to account, I was compelled homewards. From street to street, all low and dull, to the bridge, where the chill, frosty wind THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 139 rustled amonrr the scafToldinir of the new Houses of Parliament with gliostly siuhs. And so I parsed westward, througli another labyriiUli of sciuulid streets ; some bright with Hamiiig gas and swarming with noisy crowds ; some dark and dull, with only a few iigures here and there, some of which lurked away before the heavy tramp of the poHceman. As I passed the vast dark fa9ade of Chelsea Hospital the clock struck ten, and a few minutes afterwards I came on tlie broad deso- late river, at the east end of Cheyne "Walk. The frosty wind was moaning among the trees, and the desolate wild river was lapping and swirhng against the heads of the barges and among the guard- piles, which stood like sentries far out, stemming the ebbing tide. Of all scenes of desolation which I ever witnessed, give me the Thames at uijiht. I hurried on again, with the strange terrified humor on me stron2;er than ever. There was a ball at a large bow-windowed house, close to Don Saltero's, and I stopped to listen to the music. There were some fiddles and a piano, played evidently by skilled professional hands. Good heavens ! could they play nothing but that wild waltz of Strauss's, which I had heard the Germans playing in the public- house ? TVhy should handsome young gentlemen and beautiful girls dance to a tune which sweeps in such strange, melauchol}^ eddies of sound, that even now it sets me thinking of the winds which wander over solitary moonless seas, which break with a far-heard moan, against distant capes, in an unknown land at midnight ? A couple came from the rest and stood in the window together, behind the half-drawn curtains : and I could see them, for their heads were against the light. He was a gallant youth, with a square head ; and she seemed beautiful too. He spoke eagerly to her, but she never looked towards him ; he seemed to speak more eagerly yet, and tried to take her hand ; but she withdrew it, and he slowly le<"t her and went back into the room ; but she remained, and 1 saw her pulling the flowers from her nosegay and petulantly throwing them on the carpet, while she looked out steadily across the wild sweeping river, hurrying to the sea. So on I went again, passing swiftly through the church-yard. In a few moments after, I had turned out of Church Street into our own row. It was quite quiet. Our great house rose like a black wall in front of me ; I cast my eye up it until it rested on the great dormer-window of Reuben's room, — the ghost's room, — and, good heavens I there was a liijht there. It was gone while I looked at it; but there was no doubt about it. Either Reuben had come home, or else it was the ghost. I went in at once. My father was sitting alone in the kitchen, with his head in his hands ; I looked up at a certain hook over 140 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. the dresser. The key of Eeuben's room was hanging there still. My father looked up. " Jim, my old chap," he said, " I 'm so glad you 're come. Get my pipe, and come and sit alongside. How did you like the theayter, old man ? " As I looked at my ftuher, I saw something was the matter. I had never seen the dear, noble face in sorrow before ; but my love told me at once that sorrow had come. I waited for him to tell me what it was, I had perfect confidence in him. I said (in the old style, for though I had been trying hard to talk like Joe and Erne, I had hitherto made a njpss of it, and always resorted to the vernacular in emergencies, or for business purposes), " I didn't care about the play to-night. I saw a young chap run over, and that upset me for the evening. I was n't going to spoil Joe's fun ; so I came home " ("took and hooked it" in the origi- nal). " Reuben is not come back, is he ? " " No," said my father ; '' he ain't come back. "Wliat should he be come back for ? There 's his key a-hanging over the dresser. I say, old man, Mr. Compton 's been here ? " "Has anything gone wrong about the patent?" I asked, aghast. " Not gone^ old man, but very likely to go, I 'm afeard." " How is that ? " I asked. " The invention was anticipated, Mr. Compton is afraid. There was a patent taken out for it before, and Mr. Compton is afraid that Marks and Cohen have bought the patentee's interest in it ; in which case, my chance ain't worth a brass farden." " And what then ? " I asked. " Why, I 'm ruined, old boy, body and bones. The savings of twenty happy years gone in a day. And worse than that, — nigh a couple of hundred more, as far as I can make out. I would n't have cared — I would n't have cared," said my father, hurling his ])ipe fiercely into the fireplace ; " I tell you, Jim, I wouldn't have cared — " he said, once more, with a heave of his great chest and a sob. That was all he said, but I understood him. I rose to the situation. One of the proudest recollections of my most prosperous and lucky career is the way I rose to the situation that unhappy night. I put my arm on his shoulder, and drew his grizzled head to me, and said : — " Would n't have cared — if it had n't been for what, father ? " " I would n't have cared," said my father, " if the disgrace had fallen on me alone." " Has any one been a-talking about disgrace ? " I asked. " Not yet," said my father. " They 'd better not," I answered. " Let 'em come to me and talk about disgrace. I '11 disgrace 'em. And ruin, — who talks of ruin? How can the best smith in England be ruined; they THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 141 can't take his trade from him, can they? Let's up with every- thinj:!:, and fjo to Australey." " What?" said my father, hjoking up. " Go to Australey," I said, as bohl as brass ; " tlie country as INIaster Erne's brother came from. Why, a smith is a gentleman there. He 's — " " Go to bed, old chap," said my father. " Bed or no bed," I said, " is neither the one thing nor the other. According as a chap thinks, so will he speak ; that is, if he acts according, which is reason. My sentiments being asked, I gives 'em free ; and there you are, and welcome, with many more, and thank you kindly ; and may the Lord forgive us all our transgressions." (All this was said with defiant assertion ; for I saw that, by the mere mention of the word Australia, I had brought a light in my father's face which was not there before. In my nervous eagerness to drive the nail home, I made the above little speech, which might have been intended to mean something tlien, but the key to which is missing now.) " Take and go to bed, I tell you," said my father again ; " you and your Australeys ! I 'm ashamed on you." " Shame took and whispered in his ear," I answered, seeing I was somehow doing the right thing, " and Old Adam and Little Faith tried to stop his going on, too, whereas I speaks out, and ain't for stopping nobody." My father, possibly concluding that the more I spoke the more I should involve myself, reiterated : — " Go to bed, I tell you, old chap ; who knows but what you 're talking sense ? I don't say neither the one thing nor the other ; all I say is, go to bed." And so I went : to bed, and to sleep. And, after some un- known time of unconsciousness, I awoke with a ghastly horror upon me. Joe was by my side, but I did not wake him. I was very care- ful not to do that, and there were one or two reasons for it. First of all, I saw the poor lad run over again — that pale face, those teeth, and those spasmodically winking eyelids ; and, while he was still in my arms, I came round the corner once more, into the buildings, and saw the ghost's light gleam out of Reuben's window. And then Reuben was come home, and in trouble up there. And then it was Reuben who had been run over, and then Reuben had to sit up there all alone, poor lad, watching the body; but, however the phantasmagories shifted themselves, the crowning horror c^ all was in the room up stairs, where I had seen the liglit. And in the sheer desperation of ter- ror I rose to go there, refusing to awaken Joe, because I even then, light-headed as I was, remembered that Reuben would not have him know anything. 142 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. And so, in a state of cowardly horror at I knew not what — a state of mind which was nearly allied to the most desperate cour- age — I arose silently, and, in my trousers and shirt only, passed out of our room on to the great empty staircase, determined to go up all through the desolate empty house, until I found out the mystery which I knew was hid aloft in the ghostly attic. I would penetrate into the mystery of that strange light, even though I died of terror. The old staircase creaked under my weight, and the web- winged things which flutter about the ceilings of these sort of places dashed round aloft in silent wheeling flight. The ghosts all i^assed on before me in a body ; and I was glad of it, for I w^as afraid that some of them might stand politely aside in a cor- ner to let me pass, and I don't think I could have stood that. Yet all the ghosts passed on, except a solitary one, who followed stealthily. This following ghost was the most terrible ghost of all, for I could n't see what it was going to be at. I thought at one time that I would stop and see whether it would stop too ; but then again, I reflected, what a terrible thing it would be if it didn't, but came right on. Once in my terror I thought of crying for help, and raising the neighborhood, but while I was thinking of it I passed a staircase- window, and saw that I was already high above the neighbors' highest chimneys, and that I might shout long enough. There was no retreat now without passing by the ghost, which was fol- lowing ; and every step I took I felt a growing dislike to do tliat — without the kitchen poker. For it was a clumsy ghost, and knew its business but imper- fectly. No properly educated ghost would knock a hard metal He substance against the banisters and then use a most low and vul- gar expletive immediately afterwards. I was getting wonder- fully uneasy about this ghost. The poker was such a handy little poker ; but here was I, and there was the poker, and so there was nothing to do but to go on. At last I reached Reuben's room-door, and got hold of the handle. The door was unlocked ; and I threw it open, to see nothing but blank darkness. I held my breath, and felt that some one was there. Dread- ing the man who was behind me, I desperately sprang forward towards the well-known fireplace to get hold of Beuhen^s poker, if I should have the luck. Then a lanthorn was turned full blaze on my face. I sprang towards it, with the intention of getting hold of the man who held it, putting it out, getting possession of it, and pounding everything human I met with black and blue, on the old cockney rule that " a solitary man is worth a dozen in THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. U3 the (lark, becnuse lie can hit everybody, and everybody else is afraid of hittinc^ one another " ; but, before I could reach him, I liad a cloth thrown over my head, an arm round my throat, tigiit- ening every moment, and in less than a minute was completely overpowered, with my arms tied behind me, blindfolded, with a handkerchief passed through my mouth, and tied behind, having seen no one. I felt that I was in the light, and that people were looking at me ; at last some one spoke, in a very gentlemanly, refined voice I thought, and said, " Who the deuse is it ? " " It 's the young smith ; it 's that gallows young Burton," said another voice I knew too terribly well. It was the voice of the man I have called Bill Sykes. Another voice said, " Let us beat the dog's brains out, and cut his body into small pieces and burn it. Curse him ; prying into three gentlemen's private affairs like this. Let me have his blood, Bill. Let me have hold of him." I knew this voice well enough. It was Mr. Pistol's. I was n't much afraid of him. It was Sykes I was afraid of, the man Avho had me by the collar ; the more so, because I saw, by poor Pis- tol's asking to get hold of me, that he w\^nted to get me out of Sykes's hands ; and the more so still, because I knew that Pistol, in his terror of Sykes, would let anything happen. Therefore, when Sykes said to Pistol, " Stand back and lock the door," and when I felt his hand tighten on my collar, I began to say the Lord's Prayer as fast as ever I could. Pistol only said, " Bill, hold hard " ; but his feeble protest was drowned in the strangest sound I ever heard. The unknown man with the gentlemanly voice broke out with a fierce, snapping, snarling objurgation, which took myself and another listener ut- terly by surprise. " Sykes, you blood-thirsty, clumsy hound, drop that life-pre- server or you are a dead man. It is only by the cowardly idiocy of that fellow Pistol there that you are in this thing at all, you low brute, — the best thing you were ever in in your life, worth five hundred of your stupid burglaries. Leave that boy alone, you worthless dog." I felt Sykes's hand relax, but the bully did not yield. " You showing fight, you sneaking, long-nosed cur ! Shut up, or I '11 pound you into a jelly." " Will you ? " said the gentlemanly man, almost in a scream of rage. " Me ! you dog. Me ! with this knife in my hand. You ignorant idiot, with your clumsy cudgels. Learn the use of this, and then you '11 be my equal ; just as sure as I 'm your mas- ter. You 'd better go and tickle a black snake on the nose in December than come near me with this in my hand. Leave that lad alone. I won't have a hair of his head touched." 1-it THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. The bully knew the fearful advantage which the use of the knife frives, too well ; he came down a little. He said only : " What for ? " " Because I choose it. How could such as you understand if I told you why ? " said the gentlemanly man, with a fiercer snarl than ever. " I am a roijue of Ions: standino;, but I have seen bet- ter things, you Sykes. I hate you and your class. Hell has be- gun with me in this world, with all its torment and its loathing ; and the most terrible part of my torment is, that those I loved faithfully have cast me off, and that I have to herd with such hounds as you. But I will be revenged on one, until I bring him to reason ; and while I carry a knife, I will express my loathing and scorn for such curs as you. Come hither, lad. Do you care for your cousin Reuben ? " As he said this he moved the handkerchief from my mouth, and I answered, " Yes, I cared very much for my cousin." " We are a parcel of thieves and worse, my lad, who have got possession of the room he rents. He knows us, my boy, and has been seen in our company. If you say one word about to-night's work, your cousin Reuben will be transported as an accomplice of ours. So you see how fatal the consequences of your speak- ing would be. We shall be gone to-morrow, may be. You 'd best say nothing, for your cousin's sake." I said that I would not say one word. " If you do," said Pistol, " I '11 have your bingy ; strike me as blind as a morepork if I don 't have your bingy ! " (by which speech I know, through the light of later experience, that Mr. Pistol had been transported). " Shut up, fool," said the gentlemanly man. " Sykes, I am going to let this young 'un go." " I '11 cut his throat if he blows," said blustering Bill. " He knows me. He knows he '11 never be safe if he does. Swear him. Do you wish you may die if you peach, you cursed young toad?" "You clumsy fool," said the gentlemanly man; "put him on his honor, I tell you. You '11 have his monkey up directly. You 're not going to say a word, for your cousin's sake ; are you, Jim ? " I repeated that I would not say one single word. "Then come outside here," said the gentlemanly man. And so he led me to the door, ])ulled the cloth from my eyes, shut me out on the landing, and locked the door after. When I found myself free on the landing, I am pleased to remember that the first thing I did was to offer up a short thanksgiving : that it was only the grace after meat which J repeated in my haste is no matter, — the intention was the same. THE HILLYAKS AND TIIK BURTONS. 145 Now tlie steed was stolen T sliut tlie stable-door, and went down stiiirs with the most elaborate caution, in anticipation of another ambuscade. I was a long time in reaching my bedroom. At last I reached it. One of the pleasantest moments in my life was when I slipped into bed, and heard my father and mother snoring in the next room, produchig between them such a perfect imitation of a rusty mine-pump, as would have made their fortunes on the '• boards." One comfort was that Joe had not missed me. lie was lying just as I left him. He had evidently been fast asleep all the time. Had he ? The moment I was comfortably settled he spoke. He said, " It was touch and go for that devil Sykes, old Jim." " What do you mean, Joe ? " I asked, in my astonishment. " Mean ! " said Joe, laughing ; " why, that I was standing in the dark behind him with our bedroom poker, and if he had raised his hand six inches higher, I 'd have had him down like a dead dog, and Pistol after him. He 'd have gone down at once, if I had n't seen the knife in the other one's hand. When he turned up trumps, I let things be." "Then it was you who followed me up stairs?" " So it was, Jim. I 've had my suspicions about that room ; and, when you began to cry out in your sleep about Reuben watcliing corp-es up there, and when you got out and went up, I followed you. I thought you w^ere sleep-walking, and so did n't dare to wake you. I 've followed you into many tights, my old boy, and I was n't going to let you go up there alone." '' I think you would follow me to death, Joe." " I think I would." he said. " They had nothing but one dai-k- lanthorn, or T should have had to play the dickens. I wonder what they are doing there ? I think they are only hiding. AVe must speak to Rube, poor lad. It is very hard on him. Poor, faithful, aiFectionate fellow ! I wish he had more determination ; I wish he could say No. But what can he do "i " " I '11 tell you what," I said. " I have a suspicion. I believe that the man who came to my assistance with his knife was the same man I saw in Lawrence Street, that I told you of, when Rube was among the whole gang." Joe rose up in bed, and said, in accents of profound astonish- ment, " Why, do you mean to say you don't see how things stand ! " I said, " No ; but that long-nosed fellow seemed to have some kind of influence with Rube." " Do you mean to say," said Joe, " that you have n't made out this mucli : That hook-nosed man is Reuben's father, our cousin, Samuel Burton, come home from his transportation, having fol- 7 J 146 THE HILLYARS AND TUE BURTONS. lowed, as I strongly suspect, Mr. George Ilillyar ? Did n't you make that out ? " I was too much dumb-foundered to speak. " You old stupid, you old hammersmith. / thought you had made it all out, and would speak even to me, Reuben having dis- trusted me. I have watched the man days and days, till I made it out. Don't you see how doubly it tongue-ties you and me, the only two who know it ? " 1 did see that, certainly. But at this moment my father dreamt of the devil, and had to be punched awake by my moth- er, lest he should pass into that fourth and dangerous state of mesmeric coma, as did the young lady spoken of by that acute scientific reasoner, Dr. G . In which case, as every one ought to know, it would have become necessary to mesmerise some one else, nineteen to the dozen, to fetch him back again, before he got into the fifth state, which is the dense and all. At all events, my father awoke, and accused my mother on the spot of having had the nightmare, in consequence of having taken too much vinegar with her trotters at supper : which was all she got for her pains. But, he being awake, Joe and I talked no more. CHAPTER XXVIII. AFFAIRS AT STANLAKE. Gertt did n't like England ; she could n't possibly conceive why the people in England did n't all go and live in Australia. James wanted to get as many of them as would come, over to Cooksland free of expense, and when they came they always liked it, — in the end, you would understand her to mean ; for at first they felt strange, and were. Lord bless you, more particular over their rations than any corn-stalk cockatoo who might have treed his section on the burst, and come back to the shed : or than any real stringy back hand ever thought of being. She did n't see why they should not all move over together. It would n't do to leave the Queen behind ; but she might get to think better of it as soon as she saw how much superior Australia was to England. And so she used to twitter on to old Sir George Hillyar, never allowing for the fact that, when most con- fidential and affectionate with him, she was apt (as above) to ramble off into fields of utterly incomprehensible slang, and to THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 147 leave his close-cropped gray luiir standing on end witli amaze- ment. Gerty didn't like Stanlake. "Not very much, papa," slie would say to Sir George, taking his liand in hers ; " you ain't oflended, are you ? because I must n't offend you, or else James will be angry with me wlien I go back home, and say it is all my fault. I love you, but I don't like Stanlake. George knows you are going to leave it to him, because Mr. Compton advised him to cut down tlie east belt. But I don't like it. It 's so cold to your bones." " What do you like, my dear little white rosebud?" Sir George said one day, laughing. " Why," she answered, " let me see. I like you (very much indeed, — you don't know how much) ; and I like George more than you ; and I like Erne more than you, but not so much as George. And I like Reuben the waterman, and his cousin the blacksmith, Jim, — I mean, you know, Erne's friend, — the tall lad with the large brown eyes, who sat under the tomb that first Sunday when the pew-opener poked the umbrella into her hus- band's eye, because the mad woman caught spiders in her prayers (you did n't hear of that, though). I like him, and I like his great big sister ; for, although her hands are very red, she has a gentle face, and her voice is like James's when he is playing with baby. I like all these; so I can't be so hard to please as you want to make out, you cruel tyrant." " I don't mean what people do you like," said Sir George, gently, " for I believe you love every one you come near, just as every one loves you. I mean, what do you like to do best ? What can I do to amuse you, to make the time go less slowly ? " " I like the fire best," said Gerty. " I like to sit before the fire, and look at the coals." " Why ? " " It warms my poor bones," said Gerty. " And I see things there." ''Tell me what Gerty, — tell me what. Do you ever see a a little white sea-swallow that has winged its way, such a weary way, over the heaving sea to sing to an old man and soften his heart ? " "No," said Gerty, simply, "I don't ever remember to have seen that. I see black fellows, and ships, and balls, and things of that kind. I saw the quartz range beyond Neville's-Gap once yesterday, wdiere we go to get flowers. My word, what a rage poor mamma was in ! " "About what?" asked Sir George, much amused. "About the ships, or the black fellows?" "About my book-muslin frock, you foolish thing, and my com- 148 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. plexion ; there was n't a bit of it as big as your hand that was n't torn. And there were bhick fellows in this story, too, — for, when I found I was buslied, I had to go and look after them to take me home ; and I followed the cattle-tracks till I came to the great Billeboiig where they were fisliihg, and I made them up stick and take me home. Lord ! you should have seen me coming in state over the paddock with my hair down, and five- and-forty black fellows, lobros, picanninies and all, at my heels. You would have laughed." " I think I should," said Sir Georixe. " Mamma did 'nt," said Gerty. " I was as brown as you ; and that book-muslin cost a deal of money. She made such a fu.^s about it before the black fellows, that they went back and tracked me to the Grevillea Scrub, to get the shreds of it which were left on the thorns, thinking they were some priceless tissue. They kept bringing pieces of it as long as your little finger, or smaller, to my mother ever so long, and wanting her to give them brandy and tobacco for them. She was angry." " She must have had good cause, with six daughters like you to take care of." " Yes. You see she had staked her reputation that we should marry better than the seven Brown girls. And what with poor papa going off at the Prince of Wales, with the gout getting into his stomach, and tallow down to three-pence, and all the hands on the burst at once, it was enough to make her anxious, was n't it ? " " / should think so," Sir George would reply. And then she would go chirrupping on again ; and George would sit watching them from behind his book. There was no doubt whatever that silly Gerty was making extraordinary way with the old man. Her amazing beauty, her gentleness, and her simplicity won the old man completely ; while her j^iquant conversation as above (it was piquant enough from her mouth, though it may be dull from this pen), amused him immensely. AVlienever she was utterly, unintelligibly, colonial in her language, Sir George would make her explain herself, and this would cause her to use other colonialisms worse than the first, to his intense delight. She was winning on the old man day by day, and George saw it with hope. Ulie old man would sit hours with her now. They neither bored the other. Gerty loved talking, and he loved listening to her strange prattle. Sir George grew sensibly more free with and kind to his son ; and the odd eight thousand a year, — which Secretary Oxtou had encouraged him to go to London and seek, — seemed nearer to realization day by day. Old Compton, the lawyer, used to come often, as his wont was ; and, as he saw Sir George and Gerty together so much, he took the trouble to watch THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 149 them, and as he watched them he said, " A new will ! — a new will ! My young friend Erne will not be so rich as I thought." George watched them too, with hope, — hoj)e sometimes alter- nated with despair. Sir George would be sitting beside Gerty absorbed in a kind of pitying admiration of her for an hour or more, when in would come Krne, who loved his sister-in-law, and loved to hear her talk in her strange naive way, and wordd stand against his father's chair on the other side. And then George would see the old man's right hand withdrawn from the arm of Gerty's chair, and his left go wandering up to smooth down the clustering brown curls, which hung on Erne's head like a gar- land. Then George would set his teeth and curse Erne silently in his heart, for his hatred of him grew stronger day by day. lie knew that Erne was utterly simple and undesigning; that he loved Gerty, — nay, that he loved him, George himself; but he would not know it. He fed his heart in secret denunciations of his brother. He let the devil in ; and, to himself and in private, he cursed his brother for a designing young villain, know- ing that he was lying all the time. The story of Cain and Abel is a very old one. AVhere were James and Aggy now ? People called on Gerty. The Naldei-s called ; but Gerty was looking out of window, and saw them as they drove up, and was n't at home. She would die sooner than be at home when that artful bold Yankee woman had the audacity to call and hunt up her husband, — much sooner die, for then they would be sorry for her, and would not despise her. She had sorne spirit left, she thanked Heaven, though the cold had got into her bones. Nevertheless, she looked from behind the curtain as they drove away, and saw that Mrs. Nalder had been dressed by a French- woman, and looked horridly handsome and amiable ; and that Nalder had mounted a tall white hat on to his honest head, and wore what he would have called a white vest and black pants, although it was only half-past two in the afternoon. Then, another time, some other horrid people called. She could n't see who they were, but was sure they were horrid and she was n't at home. But she heard a loud voice in the hall say, " Sure, then, Phayley, we '11 wait in the parlor till she come " ; and then, with a little cry of joy, she ran out of the drawing- room, and the next moment had buried her lovely head in the capacious bosom of Miss Le-bia Burke. The good Irishwoman half laughed and half cried over her ; at one time holding her at arm's length to get a good look at her, and the next hugging her again, like a dear old lunatic as she was ; while Mr. rhelim O'Brien (the leader of the Opposition, James Oxton's deadly enemy) stood looking on, with a smile of 150 THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. infinite contentment on his handsome face. It appeared that he and liis cousin, Miss Burke, were to be in London for some time on " bhisnuss," and they could meet again often. Lesbia brought all kinds of tender loves from half the colony ; and, more, it was this battered old Irishwoman who had gone out of lier way to Neville's Gap, that she might visit the quartz ranges, and bring Gei'ty a great nosegay of wild flowers ; and here they were in a bandbox, triumphantly. They were all withered and dead, — no more like their former selves, than was Lesbia Burke to the beauty of thirty years before : but some of tlie aromatic ones kept their scent still, — the dear old bush scent, — speaking of })eaceful sunny summer days among the hot silent forests : and Lesbia's heart was as true and as loving now as it was when she learnt her first prayer at her mother's knee. Gerty did not chirrup much to Sir George that night, but sat back in her easy-chair, with the faded flowers on her lap, tying them u^j into various bunches like a child, and sometimes untying them and altering them. Once she looked up and asked him whether he did not wonder why she was doing this, and he said « Yes." " I am calling up the different holidays I have had, and am making up a boquet for each one, of the flowers I remember best on those days, in order that you and George may put them in my coffin. I should like this bunch of silver wattle to lie on my heart, because they grow thick in the paddocks at Barker's Sta- tion, where George came and made love to me." " You must not talk about coffins, my love," said Sir George. " Try cradles, hey ? that is more to the purpose." " It may be either," said Gerty, rising wearily. " I think I will go to bed. I think you had better send for Aggy ; she is at the Bend. She will be here in an hour. I wish you could send for her." Then the poor little woman looked wildly round the room and saw where she was ; and, as she realized the fact that her sister was sixteen thousand miles away, she gave a weary little moan, which went to Sir George's heart. " She is too far to send for, my love," he said, kindly. " I wish she were liere." " Stay," said Gerty. " Tell me, dear old papa, was Lesbia Burke here to-day, or am I dreaming again ? I know she was. These are tlie flowers she brought me. George ! George ! send for old Lesbia ! " Lesbia Burke was sent for, and we need not insult your judg- ment by telling you that she came raging off instantly to the as- sistance of the sweet little bush flower. She was naturally a loud woman, and was rather louder than usual on her journey in THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 151 consequence of her impatience. But the moment she entered Stanlake doors, she, with the wonderful adaptive power of her nation, became transformed into a cahu, dexterous, matronly lady, with a commanding power expressed in every word and attitude. She took possession of the house and ruled it. Sir George Hillyar had an eye for female beauty, but he told George that he had never seen anything like Lesbia Burke's poses be- fore. When she swept into the library, at two o'clock in the morning, with the lighted candle close against her stern-marked face, and announced the event to them, both of them started. " The Siddons, as Lady Macbeth, would have hidden her head," said Sir George. She certainly was a terribly beautiful woman. It was she who put the baby into bed with Gerty when the doctor gave leave, and who, when she heard Gerty's strange little croon of delighted wonder, fell on the astonished doctor and baronet's neck, and called him an " ould darlin'." '' Good heavens ! " said the precise old gentleman ; " I hope no one saw her. What would Lady Savine say ? You never know what these Irish people will be at next." CHAPTER XXIX. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: THE BEGINNING OF THE BAD TIMES. " The Simultaneity of certain Crises in Human Thought, more especially relating to the Results of Investigation into Mechanical Agents," would form a capital title for a book, as yet to be writ- ten. As good a title as could be found (if you don't mind a little American, and follow Sir Walter Scott's doctrine about the title of books), because no one could by any possibiHty gather from it what the dense the book was about, until they had read it. The writer of this book would have to take notice that, for the last hundred years (say), intelligence has been so rapidly circu- lated, that the foremost thinkers in all civilized countries are at v/ork for the same end at one and the same time. He would have to point out as examples (I merely sketch his work out for him) the simultaneous invention of steamboats on the Clyde and in New York ; the nearly simultaneous invention of the Electric Telegraph in P^ngland and in America (though Cook and Wheatstone were clicking messages to Camden Town three months before the Yankees got to work). Again, for instance, the discovery of the planet Neptune, by Adams and Leverrier ; 152 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. and last, not least, the synchronic invention of the centrifugal bucket-lifter for emptying cesspool?, — claims for which were sent in at the same time by Ebenezer Armstrong, of Salford, and by James Burton, of Church Place, Chelsea. What actually. ruined us was, that none of us would go near the machine after it was made, and that it had to be worked by third parties. In his enthusiasm for science, I believe that my flither would have gone and superintended, but his proposition was met by fiat rebellion of the whole family. My father de- manded Avhether or no he was master in his own house ; wliereto Emma, who had a vast deal of spirit at times, replied promptly, " No, don't let him think so. Nothing of the kind." Emma's having turned Turk, startled my father, and caused him to recon- sider the matter of his being master in his own house in another, and, let us hope, a better spirit; for he only sat down and troubled me for his pipe. When he had nearly smoked it, he caught my eye, and said, " There was three or four keys wanted driving home, old chap ; and a washer or two on the upper spindle would have broke no one's bones. Nevertheless, let be ; she is right in general. It '11 all be the same one day." That night in the dark, Joe, who was at home, turned to- wards me and said, — " Jim, Erne Hillyar is making fine gentlemen and ladies of us. We ought n't to have stopped his going to see the machine at work. I ought to have gone, and you ought to have gone also. We are getting too fine, Jim ; it won't do." I ^uite agreed, now I had time to think, and we determined to go the very next night. But the very next day came Erne, looking so wonderfully handsome and so exquisitely clean, that going to Augusta Court to superintend the emptying of a cesspool became absolutely im- possible. Certainly, what Joe said was true ; Erne was making fine gentlemen of us. That night the gentlemen who had charge of the machine came home and reported it broken. It had to be repaired. To satisfy curiosity, it was what gold-miners call a California pump (which is an old Chinese invention), but with hol- low paddles, nearly like buckets. We had not repaired it for three weeks, and, by the time we had got it to work again, Arm- strong had sent in his claim, and we had the satisfaction of knowing that the delay was entirely our own fault. Strange to say, the invention had been registered some years, though, from want of practical knowledge, the machine had never been used. The former patentee instituted legal proceed- ings against my father and Armstrong. Cohen and Marks, the solicitors, bought up Armstrong, and we were nearly ruined. THE IIILLYARS AND TIIH BURTONS. 153 So ends; the liistory of my fatlier's inventions, Tlie other day my mother asked him whether lie conhl n't contrive a sprin;^ to prevent tlie front door shinmiinui;. He declined pointedly, say- ing tliat he liad liad enongli of tliat in liis life, and that she ou^ht to be ashamed of herself for talking about such things. Nearly ruined. All my father's savings, all Joe's little earn- ings, and most of the furniture, just saved us. We could keep the house over our heads, for we had taken it by the year, and my father and I had our trade and our strength between us and ruin still. And, as is very often the case, troubles did not come singly. There was anotlu'r forge established at the bottom of Church Street, and our business grew a little slack (for new brooms sweep clean). We knew that a reaction in our favor would set in soon ; but, meanwhile, our capital was gone, and we had to depend on our ready-money receipts for the men's wages. Those men's wages were a terrible trouble. I have had a peaceful, prosperous life, and have been far better used than I deserve ; for the trouble about these men's wages is the worst trouble, save the great disaster of my life, which I have ever known. I had always been a great favorite with them, and used to skylark and chaff with them ; but that soon was altered when the curse of poverty came upon us. I was so terribly afraid of offending them. Their wages must be paid on Saturday, or they would go to the other forge. We had often to give trust, but we could never take trust from them. They had each eighteen shillings a week — two pounds fourteen ; and one week we only took took three pounds seven in cash. There was not a stick of furniture, or a watch, or a spoon left which could go. Then began the time of short meals. There were no more " jints " now. The " kag-mag and skewer-pieces," &c., contempt- uously mentioned by my father to Mr. Compton, were now luxu- ries, — luxuries which were not indulged in every day by any means. The first necessity was bread and butter for the " kids," as our merry Reuben, absent through all of it, used to call them ; the supply of that article and of milk-and-water was kept up to the last. If the contemplation of a family who triumphantly come out strong, in the middle of a complication of troubles and difficulties, is pleasing to any of my readers, I should like him to have seen the Burton family in their troubles. It would have done his hon- est heart good to have seen the way in which we came out, when we had n't really, for three weeks, enough, or near enough, to eat. My mother took to singing about her work. She could n't sing a bit. vShe never could and never will ; but she took to it for all that. Some people take to playing the flute who can't play it at all, and therefore there is no reason why my mother should n't 7* 154 THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. take to singing. At all events, she did, with an ostentatious liglit- heartedness which we could all see through. It would have been better if she had known any tune ; but she did n't, and so we had to do without. Her singing, however, was better than some very- fine singing indeed, for it produced the effect intended ; it show^ed us all that she was determined to act as pitch-pipe in the family clioir. And we took up the harmony with a will, I warrant you. We had always been an easy-going, gentle sort of family ; but now our benevolence began to take an active form to one another, which was painful then, and is painful now when I look back on it. Our love for one another had before this run on in a gentle, even stream ; now it had got on the rapids and become passion- ate ; for the same unwhispered terror was in all our hearts, — the terror lest, in the troubles and evils which were coming thick upon us, we might break up the old family bond and learn to care for one another less, — the ghastly doubt as to whether or no our love would stand the test of poverty. Would it have outlived a year's disgraceful weary want, or would it not ? That is a terrible question. Our troubles came so hard and fast, that that test was never applied to us. The only effect our troubles had on us vvas to knit us the closer to- gether ; to turn what had been mere ox-like contentment in one another's society into a heroic devotion, — a devotion which would have defied death. And the one person who led us through our troubles, — the one person who gave the key-note to our family symphony, and prevented one jarring note from being heard, — the person who turned out to be most cheerful, most patient, most gentle, most shifty, and most wise of all us, — was no other than my awkward, tall, hard-featured, square-headed, stupid old mother. Fools would liave called her a fool. I think that, in the times of our prosperity, we older children had got a dim notion into our heads that mother was not quite so wise as we were. Three weeks of misfortune cured us of that opinion, for ever and ever. That she was the most affectionate and big-hearted of women we had always known, but we never knew what a wonderful head she had till this time. When that great and somewhat sluggish brain got roused into activity by misfortune, we were almost awed by her calm, gentle wisdom. When better times came again, that brain grew sluggish once more ; my mother's eyes assumed their old calm, dreamy look, and she again became capable of rambling in her line of argument, and of being puzzled on such subjects as potatoes. But we never forgot, as a revelation, the shrewd, calm woman who had appeared to us in our time of trouble, had ad- vised, and managed, and suggested, and softened affairs, till one was ashamed of being discontented. We never forgot what my mother could be, when she was wanted. THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 155 Yesterday I was sitting at lier feet, watching the sun blaze him- self to death behind the crags of Nicnicabarlah. My youngest boy had phiyed himself to sleep uj)on her kne«, and the light of the dying day smote upon her magnificent face as I turned and looked up into it. And then I saw the old, old look there, — the look of perfect, peaceful, Iiappy goodness, — and I blessed God that there were such people in the woj*ld; and then in my mem- ory I carried that dear calm face back through all the turbulent old times at Chelsea, and pondered there at her knee, until the darkness of the summer night had settled down on the peaceful Australian forest. I have often spoken of my gentle sister Emma hitherto. I have represented her to you as a kind, sensible, handsome girl, with an opinion of her own, which opinion was generally correct, and which also was pretty sure to be given, — in short, an intense- ly loving and lovealiDle, but rather uninteresting person, — a girl, I should have said, with every good quality except energy. I should have said, up to this time, that it would have been difficult to make Emma take a sudden resolution, and act on it with per- sistency and courage. She was, as /should have said, too yield- ing, and too easily persuaded, ever to have made a heroine, in spite of her energetically-given opinions on all subjects. Whether I was right or not, I cannot say; for she may have lacked energy hitherto, but she did not now. When my mother showed that remarkable temporary development of character which followed on her being thoroughly aroused to the change in our position, Emma looked on her once or twice with aflfection- ate awe, and then took up the burden of my mother's song and sung it busily and clearly through the live-long day. She sang the same old song as my mother did, though in clearer tones, — a son2 of ten thousand words set to a hundred tunes. She sans of cheerful devoted love, the notes of which, though vibrating in a Chelsea fog, make the air clearer than the sky of Naples. I saw the change in her quickly. There was no abrupt state- ment of opinions now. She set herself to follow my mother's ex- ample quietly and humbly. Once, after looking at my mother, she came and kissed me, and said, " Who would ha^-e thought her so noble ? " From that time she became my heroine. Erne came to see us just as usual, and until long after it was all over, he never found out that anything was wrong. Our in- tense pride made us cunning. We were always exactly as we were in old times, whenever he called. My mother and Emma never sang in that ostentatious way when he was there, and all violent demonstrations of affection towards one another were dropped. He was perfectly unacquainted with our terrible strait all through. We knew that one word to him would 156 THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. have ended our troubles at once. TVe knew that fifty pounds would have tided us over the evil time, and that fifty pounds was to be had by asking; but we couldn't ask from him. More, we must not let him guess that we were in difficulties, lest he should offer, and we should have peremptorily, and without the help of ordinary tact (for we were low-bred people), to refuse his offer. If you ask. Were there any further motives which caused us to be so cautious in keeping our difficulties from Erne ? I answer, They were simply these : — My father and mother, who did not know of Erne's love for Emma, were too proud and high-minded to take advantage of him. Joe and I, who had become aware of that attachment, would have thought that we were selling our sister ; and as for Emma — why, I should not have liked to be the man who would have proposed such a thing to her. I would sooner have gone alone into Augusta Court or Danvers Street after dark, fifty times over, than have faced the tornado of passion- ate scorn which would have broken over any one's head who pro- posed to her to trade on Erne's love for her. And, moreover, although I had never seen Emma in a moment of terrible emer- gency, yet I knew, by a kind of instinct, that Emma's dove-like head, which we had only seen as yet turned from side to side in gentle complacency, or at most raised calmly in remonstrance, was, nevertheless, capable of towering up into an attitude of scornful defiance ; and that that gentle loving voice, in which we had heard no shrill note as yet, was capable of other tones, — of tones as clear, as fierce, and as decided, as those of any scolding Peregrine. This bitter trial of ours — (for three weeks, we elders were more than half starved, if you will excuse my mentioning it ; and we pawned, to use my mother's forcible English, every stick of furniture and every rag of clothes that could be spared) — had a great effect on Emma. She never was dictatorial after this. Be- fore this, she was as perfect as need be, but unluckily she thought so, and required sometimes what I, in my low vulgar way, would have called " shutting up." But, after my mother utterly as- tounded us all, by behaving as she did — taking the helm, play- ing first fiddle in the family choir, and drawing the family coach clear off the lee shore of despair (Harry says that there is a con- fusion of metaphor here, but Harry is a fool), — after those times, she was not only humbler in her suggestions, but developed a busy energy quite unlike the steady, peaceful diligence of the old easy-going times. When, shortly after this, in an emergency, she displayed courage and determination of the highest order, I was not in the least surprised. How my father and I worked all this time ! Real work was, alas ! very slack, but we made work, — made things on specu- THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 157 lation, — tliini^s wliich never were asked for, and wliicli never were worth tlie coals they cost. My father, a perfect Quciitiri Matsys, set to work on a small wrought-iron gate, from designs furnished by Joe, which, if completed, was to make his fortune. It was never finished ; but I have it now, and a beautiful piece of work it is. Erne brought us news from Reuben. He was going on just tlie same, and seemed as great a favorite as ever with Sir George, aiul, what seemed still stranger, with young Mr. George. Erne always lowered his voice now when he spoke of his brother. There was no doubt, he said, that George regarded him with deep jealousy and dislike. " He is afraid," said Erne, " of my coming between my father and him. I never do that. When he and my lather are together I am seldom there, and when present silent. The only time I get with my father is when he and my brother's wife are together. I always join these two, and we three are very happy together." And during all this time, in the midst of short commons, anxiety, and hard work, I had on my mind the terrible guilty secret of that dreadful room up stairs, and of what I had seen tliere. I was as silent as death on the subject. I had had no opportunity of communicating wdth Keuben since the night of my adventure ; and the one small piece of comfort in the whole matter was, that Reuben was still away at Stanlake, and would, in all probability, follow the family in the summer. Therefore, whatever happened, he must be held to be innocent. Meanwhile, I had not even Joe to consult with ; for, a few days alter our adventure in Reuben's room, he met with a singular piece of good fortune, which seemed likely to affect materially his prospects in life. 158 THE niLLYAES AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER XXX. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : IN WHICH TWO GREAT PIECES OF GOOD FORTUNE BEFALL US, — ONE VISIBLE, THE OTHER IN- VISIBLE. Sir George Hillyar, I found out afterwards, had sat in Parliament twice in his Hfe, on the Tory interest. If there had been any interest more re-actionary than the Tory interest, he would have connected himself with it instantly. He had utterly outnewcastled Newcastle ever since he married his keeper's daughter : since he had brought a plebeian Lady Hillyar into the house, it became necessary for the family respectability to assert itself in some other direction, and it asserted itself in the direction of Toryism. Sir George, with the assistance of a few others, got up a little Tory revival ; and they had so edified and improved one another, — so encouraged one another to tread in newer and higher fields of Toryism, — as to be looked on with respectful admiration by the rest of the party. And among this small knot of men who claimed, as it were, a superior sanctity. Sir George Hillyar had the first place conceded to him, as the most shining light of them all. At this time, — at the time of our troubles, — a general elec- tion was approaching, and Sir George Hillyar, at the solicitation of a powerful body of men, determined to enter public life for the third time, and contest, when the time should come, the borough of Malton. We heard this news from Mr. Compton, and were wondering why he had come to tell us about it, when he struck us all of a heap by announcing a most remarkable piece of good fortune. Sir George had offered Joe the post of private secretary, with a salary of two hundred a-year. " And what do you think of that ? " said Mr. Compton, trium- phantly, to Joe. Joe was trying to express his astonishment and delight, when he fairly burst into tears ; and I do n't think any of us were very far behind him. We had always known that Sir George meant to provide for Joe, but we never expected such an offer as this to come at such a time. " And what do you think of that ? Is the salary enough ? " " Lord bless you, sir," said Joe ; " never mind the salary. I 'd THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 159 go barefoot in such a place as that. There is no telling how I may end." " Indeed, you are right," said Mr. Compton ; " and you thoroughly deserve your good fortune. Sir George has em- ployed me for a long time to make inquiries about your capa- city and steadiness, and you have enabled me to make such a report of you as has secured you this offer. I wish you every success." So Joe departed, dressed Hke a gentleman, " burning high with hope." The family troubles were to come to an end in no time now. All tlie morning before he went he was restlessly and eagerly, with flushed face, laying out his plans for our future benefit ; and Emma either was, or pretended to be, as enthusias- tic and hopeful as he was, and encouraged, nay, even surpassed, liis boldest flights of fancy, until, by her arts, she had got Joe to believe that all which had to be done, was already done, and to forget, for a time at least, that he was leaving us behind in pov- erty and wearing anxiety. Delighted as we were with his good fortune, we sadly felt the loss of one familiar face at such a time as that. But soon we had other things to think of, for our troubles came faster and faster. On the Saturday night after Joe had gone, I noticed that our three men were unusually boisterous. George Martin, the head man, struck me as meaning mischief of some kind, and I watched him carefully. He hurried his work in a somewhat offensive manner, struck with unnecessary vigor, upset the tools and swore at them, — did everything in fact that he ought not to do, except lame any of the horses ; with them he was still the splendid workman that my father had made him. But in whatever he did, all the fore part of the afternoon, the other two followed suit, though with smaller cards. They did not speak to my father or me, but they told one another stories, which were re- ceived with ostentatious lau,u:hter ; and Martin seemed inclined to bully my fellow-apprentice, Tom AVilliams. My father and I knew what they were going to do ; they were going to strike, and make it easier by quarrelling with us. They had not much chance of doing that. I was very angry, but I imitated my father as well as I could ; and he, that after- noon, was more courteous, more patient, and more gentle than ever. About three o'clock my father was called out on business^ and they, to my gi-eat delight, began quarrelling among them- selves. How little I thought what that quarrel would lead to ! The moment my father's back was turned Jack Martin began on Tom Williams, the apprentice, again. At first he confined himself to impertinences, and kept addressing him as Werk'us 160 THE PIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. (he was a parish boy, which made mj father very jealous about having him ill-used or insulted, as Jack Martin well knew) ; but after a time, finding that Tom was as gentle and as patient as ever, he began to take further hberties, and dropped two or three things on his toes, and once threw a shoe at him. Meanwhile I would have died sooner than interfere on behalf of Tom, though I could have stopped Jack Martin at once. Now the third and youngest of our men, who had been with us about a year, was a young Comishman, Trevittick by name, a very taciturn, ahnost sulky fellow, who had resisted all our efforts to be intimate with him, but who had in his silent, sulky way conceived a great regard, certainly never exhibited in pub- lic, for Tom Williams, the apprentice. After he had been with us about a month he had obtained my father's consent to Tom's sharing his lodgings, at his, Trevittick's, expense. Shortly after- wards I made the surprising discovery that he and Tom used to sit up half the night reading mechanics and geology, and that Tom was bound to the very strictest secrecy on the subject. To this man Trevittick, therefore, whose personal appearance was that of a very strong Jew prize-fighter, with frizzly purple hair, I, on this occasion, left the defence of Tom Williams, with the most perfect confidence. Trevittick was the most absolutely silent man I ever met in my life. Consequently, when Jack Martin had, for a pretended fault, taken Tom Williams by the hair of his head and shaken him, and Trevittick had said, in a short, sharp growl, " Leave that boy alone, you coward," Jack Martin stood aghast, and asked him what he said. " You heerd what I said well enough. Do it." Martin was very much surprised, and made no answer for an instant : but the word " yield " (or more correctly the expression " shut up ") and Jack Martin were utter strangers ; so he walked up to Tom Williams, collered him, and shook him again. " Drop that boy now, Jack, or I '11 make 'ee," growled Trevit- tick once more, in a rather deeper tone. After this, according to the laws of London honor, there re- mained nothing but for Jack Martin to call on Trevittick to come outside ; which corresponds to the " after school " or " the old place" of your early days, my dear sir. But Jack had not time to say the words, when my father — who had been waiting out- side, talking to a man on business — thought fit to come in, and to say in a very gentle, polite voice, " Mates ! mates ! if you '11 be so good as to work in my time, and to quarrel arterwards in your own, I shall be obliged." So they set to work again, I all the time, like a low-lifed boy as I was, thinking what a splendid fight there would be in Bat- THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. IGl tersea fields the next morning; for tliere were certainly not a dozen men in tlie })rize-rinjT wlio could have stood long, before either Jack Martin or Trevittick. But at six o'clock, althou^li tliere was still work enough to keep my father and Tom Williams and me hard at it till two o'clock on Sunday morning, my father said it Avas time to knock off, and took out the men's money. Jack Martin was paid first, and he, I knew, would be spokesman. When he got his money he spit on it, and then jingled it in his closed hands. " Come, Mr. Burton," he said, in a tone of injured innocence. "Why they're a-giving of a pound down at Jumston's. That's what Jumston 's a-doing on. A-giving of a pound." " And I think. Jack, as Mr. Jumston 's giving two shillings too much. Why, that six shillings as you men are asking for, is six shillinijs off the kids' victuals. Six bob's worth of bread and butter, as I 'm a true man." Jack Martin began to talk himself into a passion, while my father raised himself on to the forge, and sat comfortably on the edge of the cinders. " Well, then, I '11 tell you where it is," said Jack Martin, " me and my mates must look to ourselves. White men, leave alone Druids and Foresters, is not slaves nor negro bones. Nor are they going to be, Mr. Burton ; thank you for your kind inten- tions all the same. Come, sack us, will you ? Take and give the sack to the whole three on us. Come." " I don't want to give you the sack. Jack Martin," said my father. " I 'm a ruined man, as you know. But I won't rob the kids." " Then this is where it is," said the other, who had now got himself into as towering a passion as he could have wished ; " the master as won't give the pound when asked, nor the sack when challenged, is no master for me or my mates." " Well, you need n't get in a wax over it, old chap," said my father. " If you like to stay for eighteen bob, stay. / don't want you to go." ^ " Not if we know it, thank you," said Jack, louder than ever. " We must look to ourselves. If you won't give us the sack, why, then we take it. Now ! " " I 've been a good and kind master to you. Jack. I 've teached you your trade. And now, when things look a little black, you want to leave me. And you 're not contented with leaving, but you are so ashamed of your meanness that you puts yourself into a passion, and irritates and insults me. Now it runs to this. Jack. You 're a younger man than me : but if you hol- lers like that, in this here shop, I '11 be blowed if I dont see whether I can't put you out of it. You 'd better go." K 162 THE HILLY AES AND THE BURTONS. Jack was so astonished at such a speech as this coming from the pacific James Burton, that he departed wondering and rather ashamed. INIy father paid the other man, and he went, and then he turned to Trevittick, who was sitting on the anvil, and offered him his money. '' Never mind me, master," growled Trevittick, speaking now for the first time ; "/ ain't a-going to leave you. I was going this morning, but I 've thought better of it. Never mind thikky money neithc^r. I 've a-got to fight to Jack Martin to-morrow morning, and I should be knocking that down, and a deal more too. You'm best owe me my wages a few weeks. I 've saved lots, ain't I, Tom ?" But Tom had disaj)peared. And looking at my father I saw that he had colored scarlet up to the roots of his hair, but was quite silent. After a time he managed to say to Trevittick, " Thank ye, lad, — thank 'ee, kindly." That was all he said, and all that Trevittick wanted him to say. Trevittick went out without another word ; but in about half an hour he came back with Tom Williams, and silently set to work. When my father got behind him he began telegraphing to Tom Williams, and Tom replied by nodding his head nearly off, and smiling. Then the next time my father got near Tom he patted him on the back ; by which things I knew that Tom had contrived to stop the fight, and that we should never know whether the Cornishman or the Londoner was the best man. Was I a little disappointed ? Well, I am afraid I was a little disappointed. It was so very long ago, you must remember, and I did not write " Honorable " before my name at that time. But strict truth compels me to state that I was a little disappointed ; I was indeed. Meanwhile we three set to work, and worked far into the night : none of us any more conscious of the astounding piece of good fortune which had befallen us than was Fred, asleep on Emma's shoulder, with his balmy breath upon her cheek. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 163 CHAPTER XXXI. GEORGE BEGINS TO TAKE A NEW INTEREST IN REUBEN. There was no doubt at all that what Erne had said was true. So anxious was he not to come between his brother and his father, that he never interrupted them in a tete-a-tete ; nay more, seldom saw much of his father except in the presence of George's wife, Gerty. These three, however, were very much together, and en- joyed one another's company immensely. George was furious at this arrangement ; he had set Gerty on his father expressly to see what she could do. She was making immense progress with the old man, when Erne stepped in, as it seemed to him, and interfered. He attributed Erne's eager pleas- ure in the society of his sister-in-law to the very deepest finesse. In his generous conduct he chose to see nothing but the lowest and meanest cunning. " Look at him," he would growl to himself behind his book ; " look at the artful cub, with his great eyes, and his gentle voice. Who would think he was such a young sneak ? practising off his arts against those of my — Oh ! my trebly-dyed fool of a wife. If she had had an ounce of brains, we might have had that will al- tered long ago. If I could only get her to quarrel with Erne ! But she won't, and I dare n't scold her, for fear she should show signs of it before him. Oh ! if she only knew what I was saying to her under my breath sometimes ! — if she only knew that ! " George could hate pretty well, and now he got to hate Erne most decidedly. Poor fellow ! he still loved his wife, but she made him terribly mad with her silliness sometimes. It was well for Gerty that she was under the protection of Sir George Hill- yar. James Oxton would have trembled had he seen the ex- pression of George's face now at times. The long-continued anxiety about his succession in his father's will was wearing him into a state of nervous excitement. He, at this time, took up with one of his old habits again. He used to go to Loudon and play heavily. Reuben had stayed about vStanlake so long that it was just as well, said Sir George, that he should stay on until they went to the Tliames in the summer. Altliough he was only hired by the month, yet every one about the place would have been univer- sally surprised if anything had occurred to terminate his engage- ment. He was considered now to be a sort of servant to Erne, 164 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. who seemed much attached to him ; but every one knew that it was by the wish of Sir George himself tliat Reulicn was retained tliere. Also it is singular ; but the well trained servants found out that Reuben was to be called Reuben, and that the name of Burton was not to be used at all ; and when Joe made his appear- ance as secretary, they were instructed to address him as Mr. Jo- seph. Some of the older servants, who remembered Samuel, knew well enough why ; and wondered to themselves whether or no he knew who Reuben was. It was not very long after the arrival of the George Hillyars, that George, walking through the grounds, by the edge of the lake, near the boat-house, came across Reuben ; who, with his boat-mending instinct, acting under the impression that he must do something, was scraping a fir sapling with a spoke-shave, try- ing to make a punt-pole of it ; which is what no one, who cares for a ducking, ever did yet. He was also singing to himself a song very popular at that time among the London youth, which may be advantageously sung to the tune of " Sitch a getting up stairs " : if you can only get the words, which I fear are lost for- ever. Reuben had his back to George, and George heard him sing, with the most determined cockney accent, — " The very next morning he was seen, In a jacket and breeches of velveteen. To Bagnigge Wells then in a bran New gownd she went with this 'ere dog's-meat man. She had shrimps and ale with the dog's-meat man, And she walked arm in arm with the dog's-meat man, And the coves all said, what around did stan', That he were a werry nobby dog's-meat man. Oh he were such a handsome dog's-meat man, Such a sinivating titivating dog's-meat man." George Hillyar called out, " Hallo, you fellow ! " And Reuben, not seeing who it was, replied, " Hallo, you fel- low ! it is." And then he turned round, and, seeing who it was, was shent, and thought he was going to catch it. " I ask your pardon, sir," he said ; " I thought you was the turncock come for the income-tax. There," he added, with one of his irresistible laughs, " don't be angry, your honor. I can't help talking nonsense at times, if I was hung for it." "• Are you the young waterman that my father has taken such a fancy to ? " Reuben sheepishly said he supposed he was. " I should n't advise you to treat him to many such songs as you were singing just now. You should try to drop all this blackguardism if you mean to get on with him." " Lord bless you, sir," said Reuben, " you 'd never make nothink of me. I 've been among the coal barges too long, I have." " I 've seen many a swell made out of rougher stuff than you ; THE iriLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 165 you might make rather a line bird in other feathers. IIow old are you ? " '" Twenty, sir," " Has he given you any education ? " "Has who, sir?" " Sir George, of course." " No, sir," said Reuben, in wonder. " What a shame," thought George to himself. " I wonder wliat he is going to do for him. There is one thing," he went on think- ing, and looking at Reuben with a smile ; " there is no mistake about the likeness : I shall make friends with the son of the Ijond- woraan. I wonder Avho the dickens she was. I like this fellow's looks, much." " Who is your friend ? " he asked aloud, pointing to a young man who had just come up, and was waiting respectfully a little way off. " That is my cousin James, sir." James Burton, wdio has told some three quarters of the story hitherto, here approached. He was a tall, good-looking lad of about eighteen, with a very amiable face, and yet one which gave you the idea that he was deficient neither in brains nor determi- nation. He approached George with confidence, though with great respect, and waited for him to speak. " So you are Erne's friend, the blacksmith, hey ? " said George. James said " Yes." " And how does your pretty sister do, eh, lad ? I am very anxious to see this pretty flame of Erne's. If she is as pretty as Erne says she is, the young rogue must have an eye for beauty." Jim blushed very much, and looked very awkward, at this free and easy way of implying an engagement between Erne and Emma. ' He said nothing, however, and immediately George turned away from him and began talking once more to Reuben. This was their first interview, and very soon Reuben had won over George Hillyar as he had won his father. Another noticea- ble fact is that the old man perceived George's growing liking for Reuben, and seemed pleased at it. George had nothing to com- plain of in his father's treatment of him. So George was very kind indeed. If Erne could have been got out of the way, George thought, everything must go right. He had been home about six months, when one morning he would go rabbit-shooting, and so he sent for old Morton, the head- keeper, and they went out alone together. It was a glorious May day, a day on w^hich existence was a pleasure, and they left the moist valley and the thick dark woods far bRhind them, and climbed up the steep slope of the chalk 166 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. down, to. shoot among the flowering broom, which feathered the very loftiest summit. Tliey stood up there, with the county at their feet like a map, and the happy May wind singing among the grass and the junipei's around them. Poor George felt quieter up here with his old friend. He had been to London the night before, playing, and losing heavily, and he had been more than usually irritated with Erne that morning. Instead of setting to work shooting, he sat down beside old Mor- ton on the grass, and, taking off his hat, let the fresh wind blow his hair about. " Morton, old fellow," he began, " I wish I had n't got such a cursed temper. You may n't think it, but I very often wish I was a better fellow." " You are good enough for me. Master George," said the old man. " You were always my favorite." " I know it," said George. " That is very queer. Did you think of me all the time I was away ? " " I always thought of my own plucky lad that I taught to shoot. I thought of you constant through all that weary time. But it 's come to an end now. You sowed your wild oats, it 's true." " But I have n't reaped them," said George, with his head on his hands. The old man took no notice of this ; he went on : " And here you are home again, with the most beautiful of all the Lady Ilill- yars, since there were a Lady Hillyar. And Sir George coming round so beautiful, and all — " " But I am disinherited," said George ; " disinherited in favor of Erne." " Not disinherited, sir. I know more than that." " Next thing to it," said poor George. " I know as much as that." " There 's time enough to alter all that ; and, mark my word, Master George, I know Sir George better than any man living, and I can take liberties with him that you durst n't — bah ! that Master Erne durst n't. And I tell you that sweet little lady of yourn has wound herself round his heart, in a way you little think. I held you on my knee when you were a little one, and I dare say anything to you. I hearn you cursing on her to your- self for a fool the other day. Now you leave her alone. Fool she may be, but she will do the work if it is to be done. I hearn 'em together. Sir George and her, the other day, and I says to myself, ' Either you are the silliest little hare of a thing as ever ran, or else you are the artfuUest little — .' There, I forget. You let her alone. If it is to be done, she '11 do it." " No, she won't, old fellow," said George. " There 's Erne in the way. There 's Erue, I tell you, man. He never leaves them THE UILLYARS AND TUE BURTONS. 167 alone together. lie is always thrusting his cursed beautiful head in between them, and ruining everything. (Here ho gave way, and used language about Erne wiiifh I decline to write, though there was not a single oath, or a single improi)er expression in it). Why, I tell you, Morton, that fellow's beauty, and amia- bility, and affectionate gentleness, and all that sort of thing, as nearly won me as jwssible. At one time I was saying to myself, ' If my father denies me justice, I shall be able to get it from him ' ; and so I thought, until I saw that all this amiability anhits before Chimher spannels worth twenty guineas a-piece. Hold hard, sir. Now, do hold hard." '* I 'm shooting better than ever I shot in my life," said George. " Too beautiful by half. But leave off a minute. That last shot was too risky ; it were indeed." " All right," said George, going on with his loading. " Have you seen this girl Emma that Erne ?'affoles about?" " Yes, sir. She is daughter of Jim Burton, the Chelsea black- smith. Here, Beauty ; here. Frolic. There, put down your gun a bit, Master George. There." "Is her name Burton, too?" said George. "Why, the air seems darkened with Burtons. I thought somehow that she was cousin to Joseph, the Secretary. Or did I dream it ? " " Why, his name is Burton, too, and she is his own favorite sister," said the old man. " He is Reuben's cousin. But you mus'n't say the name of Burton in that house. It 's a word mus'n't be said at Stanlake." " Why not ? " " I don't know, and nobody don't know ; and very probably, with an obstinate man like the governor, there ain't very much to know. We were children together, and I know him better than any man alive, and may be like him better than any man alive, except one. But I tell you that, in the matter of obsti- nacy, Balaam's ass is a black-and-tan-terrier to him. For in- stance, / don't know to this day whether or no he knows that Reuben is Sam, the steward-room boy's son. Mr. Compton don't know either. Mr. Compton says he has never forgiven Sam. We soon found out that we were to call Reuben by his Christian name. And he makes Joe Burton call hisself Joseph." " But this Emma " ; asked George, " is there any chance of Erne's putting his foot in it with her ? " " He swears he will marry her," said Morton. " The gov- ernor did the same thing himself, and so, may be, won't find much fault." " Do you know anything about the girl ? Wliat is she like ? " " She is a fine-made, handsome girl. But she is better than that. I want to tell you a story about her. I have known her father, Jim Burton, Lord love you, Master George, why as long as I 've known Mr. Compton ; and they was two boys together, 8 170 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. was Mr. Compton and him. You ain't got a cigar to give away, sir? " I have known James Burton, sir," continued the old man, "ever since I was a boy, and I have always kept up an occa- sional acquaintance with him : and one day, just before you came home, I was over there, and he said to me, Laughing, ' What a game it is to hear they young folks a-talking, good Lord ! ' I asked him what he meant, and he said, ' Why, my girl Emma has been pitching it into Master Erne like one o'clock. Such airs with it, too, — pointing her finger at him, and raising her voice quite loud, calling him by his Christian name, and he answering of her as fierce — ' And I asked what he and the girl fell out about, and he said that Master Erne had been going on against you, — that you were n't no good ; and that she 'd up, and given it to him to his face." " She must be rather a noble person ; I '11 remember }dm for this," said George. " Come, Morton, let us go home." So he walked rapidly homeward in deep thought, and Morton guessed what he was thinking about, — Reuben. Reuben, George saw, was his own son. There was a slight confusion about the date of his birth, and the poor woman had lied to Morton ; but there was no doubt about his features. That square honest face could belong to no son of the thin-faced, hook-nosed Burton. No, there was the real Hillyar face there. That unset mouth was not Hillyar either, certainly, but he knew where that came from. Yes ; now he knew what it was that attracted him so strangely to Reuben from the first. Reu- ben had looked on him with the gentle eyes of his dead mother. The old keeper once, and once only, ventured to look into his face. He hardly knew him, he was so changed since they had gone that road two hours before. His face was raised, and his eyes seemed set on something afar off. His mouth was fixed as though he had a purpose before him, and his whole expression was softened and intensely mournful. The old man had seen him look so when he was a boy ; but that was very, very long ago. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 171 CHAPTER XXXII. GERTY'S HYBERNATION TERMINATES. The sun was so warm on the south side of the house, that Gerty had come out on tlie terrace, and was drinking in the floods of warmth and li^-ht into her beino;. The first tiling she had done, her very first instinct after a few minutes of what was dreadfully like sun-worship, was to dash at the flowers with a childish cry of delight, — anemones, ranunculuses, tulips, narcis- suses, all new to her. George found her with her hands full of them, and held out his arms. She gave a laugh of joy and sprang into them, covering his head with her flowers. Her George had come back to her arms with the warm weather. The ugly cold winter had passed. It was that which had made George cross to her ; every one was splenetic during an English winter. The French laughed at us about it. If they could only get back to the land of sunshine and flowers, he would never be unkind to her. If she and he and baby could only get back again to the dear old majestic forests, among the orchises and lobelias and Grevilleas, with the delicious aromatic scent of the bush to fill their nostrils, they would be happy for evermore. How faint and sickly these narcissuses smelt after all, beautiful as they were. One little purple vanilla flower was worth them alL Bah ! these flowers smelt like hair-oil, after the dear little yellow oxalis of the plains. She covered his face with kisses, and said only, — " Take me back, dear, — take me back to the old forest again. "We shall never be happy here, dear. The flowers all smell like pomatum ; there is no real warmth in the sun. And it is all so close and confined : there is no room to ride ; I should like to ride again now, but there is no place to ride in. Take me back. We were happier even at Palmerston than here. But I want to go back to the bush, and feel the sun in my bones. This sun will never get into your bones. Take me back to the Gap, dear." " And leave my father here ? " said George, laughing. " For shame." " Why should n't he come too ? " said Gerty. " You had better propose it to him," said George, kissing her again. " I will this very night," said the silly little woman. And, 172 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. what is more, she did. And, what is still more than that, Sir George, after sitting silent a few minutes, said, " I '11 be hanged if I don'ty And after Gerty had twittered on for ten minutes more in praise of the country of the Eucalypti, he looked up and said to the ambient air, " Why the dense should n't I have a spree ? " And when she had gone on another quarter of an hour on the same subject, he looked up again, and then and there wished he might be wicked-worded if he did n't. I believe he would have run over, if circumstances which have made the history of these two families w'orth writing had never occurred. But, — to save the reader any unnecessary anxiety, — he never did. Poor little Gerty ! How she revelled in this newly-restored love of her husband's. How she got drunk upon it. How the deep W' ell-springs of her love overflowed, and not only drowned George and the baby, but floated every object it came near : horses, butlers, dogs, tulips, ladies'-maids, ranunculuses, and grooms. It was well she was a fool. She was so glad to see George take such notice of the young w^aterman. What a kind heart he had ! Poor little thing ; who w^ould have dared to tell her the truth about him and Reuben ? If she could have been made to understand it, which I doubt, I think it would have gone far to kill her. Sir George Hillyar marked George's increased attention to Reuben with evident satisfaction. One day, overtaking George in the shrubbery, he took George's arm with a greater show of affection than he had ever done before, and walked up and down, talking very kindly to him. They spoke about no family mat- ters, but it was easy to see that George was gaining in his Oth- er's favor. As they were talking earnestly together thus, Mr. Compton and Erne came round the corner on them. Mr. Comp- ton w^as very much surprised, but noticed that the arm which Sir George took from his elder son's, to shake hands with his old friend, was transferred to Erne, and that George was left to walk alone. TUE HILLY AES AND THE BURTONS. 173 CHAPTER XXXIII. J. BURTON'S STORY: THE GHOST SHOWS A LIGHT FOR THE SECOND TIME. It was about three days after our men had struck and left us, that something took place which altered the whole course of our lives in the most singular manner. It was a dark and very wet night. The King's Road, as I turned out of it into Church Street, at about half past eleven, was very nearly deserted ; and Church Street itself was as silent as the grave. I had reached as far as the end of the Rectory wall, when, from the narrow passage at the end of the lime-trees, there suddenly came upon me a policeman, our own night-policeman, a man I knew as well as my own fellow-apprentice. At this I, being in a humorous mood, made a feint of being overcome with fear, and staggered back, leaning against the wall for support. " Stow larks, Jimmy," said the constable, in a low, eager voice. " Something 's going wrong at home. I have orders to stop you, and take you to the Inspector." " So it had come then," I thought to myself, with a sickening feeling at my heart. I could 'nt find words to say anything for a moment. " I had no orders to take you into custody, Jimmy," the con- stable whispered ; " only to tell you to come to the Inspector. There 's nothing again your hooking on it, if you 're so minded." I answered, returning as I did — and, heaven help me ! some- times do still — on occasions of emergency — to my vernacular, "I ain't got no call for hooking on it, old chap. Come on." (•' Cub awd," is more like the way I said it than anything else). And so we came on: my old friend the constable continuing to force home the moral that I were n't in custody, and that there were n't nothink again hooking on it, until, at the corner of the place I have chosen, for fear of an action for libel, to call Brown's Row, we came against the man whom, also for iear of an action ■for libel, I call Detective Joyce. He was alone, under the lamp of the Black Lion. When he saw us, he took us over to the other side of the street, and said, quite in a low voice, " Is this the young man Burton ! " I, with that self-assertion, with that instinct of anticipating ad- verse criticism, — that strange, half cewardiy feeliiig, that there 174 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. is some unknown advantage in having an innings before the other eleven get in, — which is a characteristic of the true Lon- doner, — replied that it was, and that any cove who said that I had been up to anytliink, was a speaker of falsehoods. " Well, we all guess that," said the Inspector. '' What we want to find out is; how much do you know about your precious flash cousin Reuben's goings on ? I don't suppose you '11 tell us till you are under cross-examination, as you will be pretty soon. You 're in custody, lad. And silence^ mind. There ; I 've seen a deal that 's bad, and that 's wrong, but I never saw any- thing that shook my faith in folks like this. Why, if any man had told me, six weeks ago, that old Jim Burton, the blacksmith, would have harbored Bardolph's gang and Sydney Sam, I 'd have knocked him down, I think." " He never knew nothing of it, sir," I said eagerly. " Me and Joe " At this point my old friend, the night-policeman, garotted me with singular dexterity. As he held his hand over my mouth, and I struggled, he said to the Detective Inspector, — " Come, sir. Fair play is a jewel. Jimmy, — I should say, the boy, — is in custody. Take and caution him, sir. I asks you in fairness, take and caution on him." The Inspector laughed. " Everything you say will be put in evidence against you. I mean, you d — d young fool, hold your tongue." This took place against the railings of a milk-shop, on the left- hand side as you go down towards the river, opposite a short street which leads into Paul ton Square (which, at the time I speak of, was " Shepherd's Nursery," or, to old Chelsea folk, " Dove-house Close "). This narrow street, which is now widened, was in my time Brown's Row, a mere court of six- roomed houses, from among which rose majestically the vast old palace which was in the occupation of my father. As I stood there, with the horror and disgrace on me of being in custody for the first time in my life, with the terror of I know not what upon me ; I could make out, in spite of the darkness and the rain, the vast dark mass of our house towering into the sky to the west. I could make out the tall, overhanging, high- pitched roof, and the great dormer-window, which projected from it, towards us, to the east ; the windows of the Ghost's room, — of Reuben's room, — of the room where I had stood helpless, waiting for my death. I knew that the present complication was connected with that room : and with a sick heart I watched the window of it. I was right. How long did we stand in the rain, — the Inspector, constable, and I? A hundred years, say. Yet I looked more at that THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. 175 window than anywhere else ; and at last I saw it illuminated, — dimly at first, then more brinjhtly ; then the li^i^ht moved : and ia a moment the window was dark again. And, while I saw all this, with tlirobbing eyes, the Inspector's hand closed on my arm with such a grip as made me glad I was a blacksmith, and he whispered in my ear : — " You young rascal ! You see that light ? Take me to the room whoTe that light is, or you 'd better never have been born ! And tell me this, you young scoundrel : Are there two stair- cases, or only one ? " Now that I saw clearly and entirely, for the first time, what was the matter, I wished to gain a moment or two for thought. And with that end, I (as we used to say in those times) " cheeked " the detective. " Tell you! Not if I know it! And everything to be took down in evidence ! Find out for yourself. I 'm in custody, am I ? Then take me to the station and lock me up. I ain't going to be kept out in the rain here any longer. Who the dense are you, cross-questioning and Paul-Pry-ing ? What 's your charge against me ? " " You '11 know that soon enough, you young fool," said the Inspector. " But I '11 hear it now. I want to be took to Milman's Row and the charge made ; that 's what I want. And I '11 have it done, too, and not be kep' busnacking here in the rain. I '11 make work for fifty of you in two minutes, if you don't do one thing or the other." And, so saying, I put my two forefingers in my mouth. What I meant to do, or what I pretended I meant do, is no business of any one now ; all that concerns us now is that I never did it and never meant to. I have mentioned before that Alsatia was only just round the corner. Our policeman caught my hands, and said, pathetically, " Jim- my, Jimmy, you would n't do such a thing as that ! " And the Inspector said, " You young devil, I '11 remember you ! " " Am I in custody, sir ? " I asked. " No, you ain't," said the Inspector. " You may go to the devil if you like." " Thank you," I said. " Common sense and courtesy are not bad things in their way, don't you think ? I shall (now I have bullied you into time for thinking) be delighted to inform you that there is only one staircase ; that I shall be glad to guide you to that room ; that I sincerely hope you may be successful ; and that I only hope you will do the thing as quietly as possible." My thoughts were these. Reuben, thank heaven, was safely away : and really, when I came to think of the annoyance and 176 THE HILL YAKS AND THE BURTONS. disgrace that Mr. Samuel Burton had caused us, I looked for- ward to his capture and re-transportation with considerable in- difference, — not to say complacency. Consequently I went willingly with them. As we came to our door we came upon four other constables, and one by one we passed silently into the old hall. As I passed our sitting-room door, I could see that my mother and Emma were sitting up and waiting for me, and immediately went on, considering what effect the disturbance, so soon to begin, would have on them. And then, going as silently as was possible up the broad staircase, we stood all together in the dark, outside Reuben's room. What should we find there ? At first, it appeared nothing ; for the door being opened, the room seemed empty. But in another moment that magnificent ruffian I have called Bill Sykes, had sprung into sight from somewhere, and cast himself headlong at the constables, who were blocking up the door. For one instant I thought he would have got through and escaped ; but only for one. I saw him locked in the deadly grip of a young Irish constable, by name Murphy, and then I saw them hurling one another about the room for a few seconds till they fell together, crashing over a table. They were down and up, and down again, so very quick- ly, that no one had time to interfere. Sykes had his life-pre- server hanging at his wrist, but could not get it shifted into his hand to use it, and the constable had dropped his staff, so that the two men were struggling with no more assistance than Nature had given them. Before or since I have never seen a contest so terrible as between this Englishman and this Irishman. And after the first few seconds no one saw it but me. The sound of the table falling was the signal for a rush of four men from the inner room, who had, to use a vulgar expression, " funked " following the valiant scoundrel Sykes, but who now tried to make their escape, and found themselves hand to hand with the policemen. So that Sykes and the noble young Irish- man had it all to themselves for I should think nearly a minute. For in their deadly grip, these two did so whirl, and tumble down, and roll over, and get up, and fall again, that I could not, for full that time, do what I wanted. It was clearly a breach of the Queen's peace, and I had a right to interfere on those grounds even ; and, moreover, this dog Sykes, in this very room, had coolly proposed the murder of my own humble self. It was for these reasons that I wished, if possible, to assist this young Irishman ; but I could get no opportunity for what seemed to me a long while. At last they were both on their feet again, locked to- gether, and I saw that the Irishman's right hand was clear, and heard it come crashing in with a sickening rattle among Sykes's THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 177 teeth. Tlien T got my arm round Sykes's neck, and in spite of his furious efforts manniied to hold him fust all the while that IMurphy — bah! — it is too terrible — until, while I was crying out shame, and threatening to let him go, the burglar and I fell together to the ground, and ]Mur})hy came down on Sykes heav- ily, breaking three of his ribs. Yet, in spite of his terrible in- juries, in spite of his broken jaw, and such internal injuries as prevented his being tried with the rest, this dog, whom I would not save from hanging to-morrow, never, in spite of his agony, gave one whine of pain from first to last. When we thought we had secured him, and a constable was preparing his handcuffs, he raised his horribly battered face, and burst out again, striking Murphy a blow behind the ear, w'hich made the poor fellow tot-' ter and reel, and come headlons; down wnth his nose bleedinjr, snoring heavily, quite insensible. It took the whole force of us even then to secure this man, though he was so desperately in- jured. But at last there came a time when Sykes lay on his stomach on the floor, conquered and silent, but unyielding; when Murphy, the young Irish constable, had left off snoring so loud, and had made three or four feeble efforts to spit ; when Bardolph and Pis- tol, "Avith three other scoundrels, — for whom I have not time to find imaginary names, and whose real names, after a long series of convictions and aliases, were unknown to the police, and possi- bly forgotten by themselves (for there are limits to the human memory), — were walked off ironed down the stairs; when the constables had lit candles and the room was light ; when there ■was no one left in it after the struggle, but the Inspector, and Sykes, with the one man who watched him, and Murphy, with the one man who raised his head and wiped his mouth, and my- self, who cast furtive glances at the door of the inner room, and my father, who stood in the door-way in his shirt and trousers, pale and fierce, and who said : — " This is some more of Samuel Burton's work. This has come from harboring his boy, — his bastard boy, — that I treated like one of my own. I knew that I was utterly ruined three days ago. But I thought I mii2;ht have been left to die without dis- grace. May God's curse light on Samuel Burton night and day till his death ! Have you got him ? " " We have n't got him, Burton," said the Inspector. " But I am afraid that, in spite of your rather clever denunciation of the man you have shielded so long under the wing of your respecta- bility, we must have you. You are in custody, please." This was the last and worst blow for my father. He spoke nothing for an instant, and then said hoarsely, pointing to me, " Are you going to take him ? " 8* L 178 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. The Inspector said no ; that he did not want me, but told me to be very cautious, and mind what I was about, which I fully in- tended to do without his caution. In fact, I was doing so now. Where was my cousin Samuel ? When would the Inspector notice the door into the other room ? And would my father ask me to get his coat? I was very anxious about this last matter. Either I must have gone for it, or have excited the Inspector's suspicions ; and I wanted to stay where I was. In a few moments he saw the door. My father and I followed him towards it, intending to give him our assistance should there be any one there. He flung open the door, and, to my surprise, the room was empty. The bed, the old box, the lumber, were all gone. And, moreover, the hole that I had made in the floor three years before was there no longer. I saw at once that the scoun- drels had by means of that hole discovered the va.e he had a fancy that in some desperate extremity he might wish to put in a codicil in a hurry. We shall find it in this morocco box. God above us ! Wliat is this ? Let me sit down : I am a very old man and can't stand these shocks. There is no will at all here ! " " No will ? " said both of the brothers together. " Not a vestige of one," replied Compton, looking suddenly up at George. George laughed. " I have n't stolen it, old fox. If I had known where it was, I would have. In an instant. In a minute." " I don't think you have taken it, Sir George," said Compton. " Your behavior would have been different, I think. But the will was here the day before Sir George died, I hnow^ and it is not here now." " Look ! Search ! Hunt everywhere, confound you ! " " I will do so. But I have a terrible fancy that your father destroyed this will, and was struck down before he had time to make another. I have a strong suspicion of it. This will has been here for ten years, and never moved. My opinion is that there is no will." He made some sort of a search, — a search he knew to be hope- less, — while George stood and looked on with ghastly terror in his face. Erne had grown deadly pale, and was trembling. At last the search was over, and Compton, sitting down, burst into a violent fit of sobbing. George spoke first. " Then," said he, in a voice which rattled ill his throat, " everything is entirely and unreservedly mine ? " " I fear so." " Every stick of timber, every head of game, every acre of land, every farthing of money, — all mine without dispute ? " " If we can find no will. And that we shall never do." " You hav^e heard what he has said," said George to Erne, wiping his mangled lips, "and you heard what I said just now. This house is mine. Go. I will never forget and never forgive. Go." Erne turned on his heel, and went w^ithout a word. The last he remembers was seeinsj his brother stand lookino; at him with his face all bloody, scowling. And then he was out of the house into the sunshine, and all the past was a cloud to him. God had punished him suddenly and swiftly. He very often does so with those He loves best. i> THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 193 CHAPTER XXXVII, JAMES BURTON'S STORY: ERNE'S NURSE. " Will God ever forgive me, Jim ? I wish ray right hand had been withered before I did it. I shall never forget that bleed- ing face any more. Oh, my brother ! my brother ! I would have loved you ; and it has come to this ! " And so he stood moaning in the rain before me, in the blank, squalid street; and I sat on the step before hira, stunned and stupid. '' I shall never be forgiven. Cain went out from the presence of the Lord. Look, his blood is on my right hand now ! How could I? How could I?" What could I say ? I do not know even now what I ought to have said. I certainly did not then. I was very sorry at his having struck his brother, certainly ; but seeing him stand home- less and wet in the rain was more terrible to me. I did not for one instant doubt that what he said was perfectly true, as indeed it was ; and even then I began to ask of myself, What will become of him ? " Oh, father ! father ! I wish I was with you ! I shall never join you now. He used to say that he would teach me to love my mother when we met her in heaven : but we can never meet now, — never — never This last reflection seemed to my boy-mind so very terrible that I saw it was time to do or say something ; and so I took his arm and said, — " Come home, master, and sleep." " Home ! my old Jim ? / have no home." " As long as I have one you have one. Master Erne," I an- swered, and he let me take him away with me. It was a weary walk. I had to tell him of our misfortunes, of our ruin, of Reuben's ruin, of Joe's terrible disappointment, and of the sad state of mind into which he had fallen, — of the cold forge, of the failing food. I had to tell him that the home I was askinij him to share with me had nothinf; left to adorn it now but love ; but that we could give him that still. It eased his heart to hear of this. Once or twice he said, " If I had only known ! " or '' Poor Reuben ! " And, when I saw that he was quieter, I told him about our plans ; and as I did so, I saw that he listened with a startled interest. 9 M 194 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. I told him that Mr. Compton had advanced money to take us all to Cooksland, and that we went in a month, or less ; and so I went on, thinking: that I had interested him into fonrettin!X his brother for a time. But, just as we turned into Church Street, he said : — " She mu>t never know it. I shall die if she knows it. I shall go mad if she knows it." "What?" "Emma must never know that I struck my brother; remember that." I most willingly agreed, and we went in. The dear comfortable old place was nearly dismantled, but there was the same old hearth, still warm. Our extreme pov- erty was, so to speak, over, but it had left its traces behind still. My father looked sadly grave ; and as for my mother, though sit- ting still, — as her wont was on Sunday, — I saw her eye ram- bling round the room sometimes, in sad speculation over lost furniture. As I came in I detected her in missing the walnut secretary, at which my father used to sit and make up his ac- counts. She apologized to me also silently, with only her eyes, and I went and kissed her. A great deal may pass between two j)eople, who understand one another, without speaking. Emma was sitting in the centre of the children, telling them a story ; and she came smiling towards Erne, holding out her hand. And when he saw her he loved so truly, he forgot us all ; and, keeping his head away from her, he said : " No ! no ! not that hand. That one is — I have hurt it. You must never take that hand again, Emma. It 's bloody." I, foreseeing that he would say too much, came up, took his hand, and put it into hers. But when she saw his face, — saw his pale scared look, — she grew pale herself, and dropped his hand suddenly. And then, putting together his wild appearance, and the words he had just used, she grew frightened, and went back with a terrified look in her face, without one word, and gath- ered all the children around her as if for protection. " You see even she flies from me. Let me go out and hide my shame elsewhere. I am not fit for the company of these innocent children. I had better go." This was said in a low tone apart to me. My affection for him showed me that the events of the morning had been too heavy a blow for him, and that, to all intents and purposes, poor Erne was mad. There was an ugly resolute stare in the great steel-blue eyes which I had never seen before, and which I hope never to see again. I was terrified at the idea of his going out in his pres- ent state. He would only madden himself further ; he was wet and shivering now, and the rain still came down steadily. I could see no end to it. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 195 " Come up to sleep, IMaster Erne." ** Sleep ! and dream of George's bloody face ? Not I. Let me go, old boy." " Please don't go out, .''ir," said I louder, casting a hurried look of entreaty to Emma, who could hear nothing, but was wonderin!? what was the matter, " It will be your death." " Yes, that is what I want. Let me go." "Won't Freddy go and kiss his pretty Master Erne?" said Emma's soft voice, suddenly and hurriedly. " Won't Freddy go and look at his pretty watch ? Run then, Fred, and kiss him." Thus enjoined, Fred launched himself upon Erne, and clasped his knee. It was with an anxious heart that I raised him up, and put him into Erne's arms. It was an experiment. But it was successful. The child got his arm round his neck, and his little fingers twined in his hair ; and, as I watched Erne, I saw the stare go out of his eyes, and his face grow quieter and quieter until the tears began to fall; and then, thinking very properly that I could not mend matters, I left Erne alone with the child and with God. I went and thanked Emma for her timely tact, and put her in possession of the whole case ; and then, finding Erne quiet, I made Fred lead him up to bed. It was high time, for he was very ill, and before night was delirious. My mother gave herself up to a kind of calm despair when she saw what had happened, and that Erne would be an inmate of the house for some time, and that of necessity Emma must help to nurse him. She spoke to me about it, and said that she supposed God knew best, and that was the only comfort she had in the matter. In his delirium he was never quiet unless either she or I were at his side. For five days he was thus. The cold he had caught, and the shock of excitement he had sustained, had gone near to kill him ; but it was his first illness, and he fought through it, and began to mend. My mother never said one word of caution to Emma. She knew it would be useless. The constant proximity to Erne must have been too much for any efforts which Emma might have made against her passion. / was glad of it. Mj father merely went gravely about his work ; was as respectful and attentive to Erne as ever ; while my mother had, as I said before, resigned herself to despair, and left the whole matter in the hands of God. Poor Joe ! His was a bitter disappointment. Secretary to a member of Parliament : and now, — Joe Burton, the hump- backed son of the Chelsea blacksmith ; all his fine ambition scat- tered to the winds. He sat silently brooding now for hours ; for 196 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. a week I think he scarcely spoke. Sometimes he would rouse himself, and help at what there was to do, as a matter of duty ; but as soon as he could he sat down again, and began eating his heart once more. I need not say that we were all very gentle and careful with him. We had somehow got the notion that all our sufferings were as nothing to poor Joe's. I wonder who put that notion afloat. I wonder whether Joe unconsciously did so himself, by his tacit assumption that such was the case. I think it very likely. But Joe was never for an instant selfish or morose ; un- less his want of cheerfulness was selfish. He certainly might have assisted at that family harmony I spoke of; but then he was at Stanlake while we were learning the tune at home. CHAPTER XXXVIII. SIR GEORGE HILLYAR IS WITNESS FOR CHARACTER. And dark over head all the while hung the approaching cloud. Reuben, Sykes, and the rest of them had been remanded, and the day drew nigh when Reuben would be committed for trial. The question was, How far was he really complicated with Sykes and the gang? That he took his father in, and lodged him, and hid him, could not go very far against him : nay, would even stand in his favor. Then his character was undeniably good until quite lately. And, thirdly and lastly, he had been absent at Stanlake for a long while. These were the strong points in his favor. Nevertheless, since his father had made his most unfortunate appearance, there was very little doubt that Reuben had been seen very often in the most lamentably bad company. It was hard to say how it would go. At last the day came on. I was the only one of the family who went, and I left laughing, promising to bring Reuben home to dinner ; but still I was very anxious, and had tried to make up my mind for the very worst. There was a considerable crowd in the police-court ; and, as I was trying to elbow my way as far forward as I could, to hear what case was on, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking round, saw Sir George Hillyar. " Come out of court with me," he said ; " I wish to speak with you. The case will not be on this half-hour." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 197 I wondered why he should care so much about it; but I obeyed, and we went out together, and walked to a quiet spot. "What is your opinion about this matter? AVIuit do his as- sociates say, — these thieves and prostitutes among wliom he has been brought up ? What do they say about his chance ?" lie said this with such fierce eagerness that I swallowed the implied insult and answered, — " Six and half-a-dozen, sir. I know him to be innocent, but who is to prove him so ? " " Why did not your father prevent this ? " he went on. in a milder tone. " Why did not you prevent it ? Your father is a man of high character. Why did he not take care of this poor de- serted orphan ? Christian charity should have made him do so." " Nobody could have gone on better than Reuben, sir," I an- swered, " until his father came back three months ago." I was looking at him as I said this, and I saw that he grew from his natural pallor to a ghastly white. " Say that again." " Until his father came back some three months ago, — his father, Samuel Burton, who, I have heard say, was valet to your honor." " Treacherous dog ! " I heard him say to himself. And then aloud, " I suppose you do not know where this man Burton is, do you?" " That is not very likely, sir, seeing that he was the leader in that very business for which poor Reuben has been took." " Come," he said ; " let us go back. Bring Reuben to me after it is all over." When we got in again the case was on. It seemed so very sad and strange to me, I remember, to see poor Reuben in the dock ; the moment I saw him there, I gave him up for lost. It appeared that a grand system of robbery had been going on for some time by a gang of men, some of whom were in the dock at present, — that their head-quarters had been at a house in Lawrence Street, kept by an Irish woman, Flanagan, now in custody, and a woman Bardolph, alias Tearsheet, alias Hobart Town Sail, still at large, and in a garret at the top of the house known as Church Place, which was occupied by the prisoner Burton. The leader of the gang had been one Samuel Burton, alias Sydney Sam, not in custody ; the father of the prisoner Burton. The principal depot for the stolen goods appeared to have been in Lawrence Street (I thought of the loose boards, and trembled), for none had been found at Church Place, which seemed more to have been used as a lurking-place, — the char- acter of James Burton, the blacksmith, the occupier of the house, standing high enough to disarm suspicion. The prisoner Sykes, 198 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. a desperate and notorious burglar and ruffian, had been convicted X times ; the prisoners Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol y times. There was no previous conviction against the prisoner Burton. The other prisoners re.-erved their defence ; but Mr. Compton had procured for Reuben a small Jew gentleman, who now politely requested that Reuben might be immediately discharged from custody. On what grounds the worthy magistrate would be glad to know. " On the grounds," burst out the little Jew gentleman, with blazing eyes and writhing lips, " that his sole and only indiscre- tion was to give shelter, and house-room, and food, and hiding, to his own father ; when that father came back, at the risk of his life, sixteen thousand miles, to set eyes on his handsome lad again once more before he died, — came back to him a miserable, broken, ruined, desperate old convict. He ought not to have receired him, you say. I allow it. It was grossly indiscreet for him to have shared his bed and his board with his poor old father. But it was not criminal. I defy you to twist the law of the land to such an extent as to make it criminal. I defy you to keep my client in that dock another ten minutes." The people in the court tried a cheer, but I was afraid of irri- tating the magistrate, and turned round saying, " Hush ! Hush ! " and then I saw that Sir George Hillyar was gone from beside me. " Tlie old fault, Mr. Marks," said the quiet, good-natured mag- istrate to Reuben's frantic little Jew gentleman. " Starting well and then going too far. If I had any temper left after twenty years on this bench, I should have answered your defence by sending your client for trial. However, I have no temper ; and, therefore, if you can call a respectable witness to character, I think that your client may be discharged." The little Jew gentleman was evidently puzzled here. His witnesses — I was one — were all to prove that Reuben had not been at home for the last two months. As for witnesses to charac- ter, I imagine that he thought the less that was said about that the better. However, a Jew is never nonplussed (unless one Jew bowls down another's wicket, as in the case of Jacob and Esau) ; and so the little Jew lawyer erected himself on his tip-toes, and, to my immense admiration, and to the magistrate's infinite amuse- ment, called out promptly, with a degree of impudence I never saw equalled, one of the greatest names in Chelsea. There was subdued lauGjhter all through the court. " The grav- ity of the bench was visibly disturbed," said the gentlemen of the flying pencils. But, before the rustle of laughter was subdued, our brave little Jew was on tip-toe again, with a scrap of paper in his hand, shouting out another name. " Sir George Hillyar." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 199 Sir George ITillyar, at the invitation of the worthy magistrate, walked quietly up and took lii:^ seat on the bench. He was un- derstood to say, " I am a magistrate in the colony of Cooksland, and still hold my ajipointment as Inspector of Police for the Bum- bleoora district. The wretched man, Samuel Burton, whose name has been mentioned as leader of this gang of thieves, was once my valet. He robbed my late father, and was transported. The young man, Burton, the prisoner, his son, is a most blameless and excellent young man, whose character is, in my opinion, beyond all suspicion. He was a great favorite with my late father ; and I am much interested in his welfare myself. Beyond the crim- inal indiscretion of saving the man he calls his father from star- vation, I doubt if there is anything which can be brought against him." This clenched the business. Reuben was discharged, while the others were sent for trial. I was mad with joy, and fought my way out through the crowd to the little door by which I thought Keuben would come. I waited some time. First came out the little Jew gentleman, in a state of complacency, working his eye- brows up and down, and sucking his teeth. After him, by a long interval. Sir George Hillyar ; whom I took the liberty to thank. But no Reuben. Sir George stayed with me, and said he would wait till the young man came out. "We waited some time, and during that time we talked. " I suppose," said Sir George, " that Mr. Erne Hillyar has been to see you." I told him that Erne had come to us on the evening next after the funeral, — that he had been seized with a fever, had been at death's door, and was now getting slowly better. " I suppose you know," he said, " that he is a penniless beg- gar?" " We know that he has no money, Sir George ; and we know that he will never ask you for any," said I, like a fool, in my pride for Erne. " Well, then, I don't know that we need talk much about him. If you are nursing him and taking care of him on the specula- tion of my ever relenting towards him, you are doing a very silly thing. If you are, as I suspect, doing it for love, I admire you for it ; but I swear to God, that, as far as I am concerned, you shall have no reward, further than the consciousness of doing a good action. He is quite unworthy of you. Is he going to die ? " " No." " Then he will marry your sister. And a devilish bad bargain she will make of it. I wonder where Reuben is." " He must come soon, sir." 200 THE HILLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. " I suppose so. I wish he would make haste. Minrl you, you young blacksmith, I am not a good person myself, but I know there are such things ; and Compton says that you Burtons are good. I have no objection. But I warn you not to be taken in by Mr. Erne Hillyar, for of all the specious, handsome young dogs who ever walked the earth he is the worst. I wonder where Reuben can be." It was time to see. I was getting anxious to fight Erne's bat- tle with his brother ; but what can a blacksmith do with a baro- net, without preparation ? I gave it up on this occasion, and went in to ask about Reuben. I soon got my answer ; Reuben had gone, twenty minutes be- fore, by another door ; we had missed him. " He has gone home, sir, to our place," I said to Sir George ; and so I parted from him. And, if you were to put me on the rack, I could not tell you whether I loved him or hated him. You will hate him, because I have only been able to give his words. But his manner very nearly counterbalanced his words. Every sentence was spoken with a weary, worn effort ; sometimes his voice would grow into a wrathful snarl, and it would then subside once more into the low, dreamy, distinct tone, in which he almost always spoke. I began to understand how he won his beautiful wife. A little attentive animation thrown into that cy- nically quiet manner of his — coming, too, from a man who, by his calm, contemptuous bearing, gave one, in spite of one's com- mon sense, the notion that he was socially and intellectually miles above one — would be one of the highest compliments that any woman could receive. But when I got home, no Reuben was there. He did not come home that night, nor next day, nor for many days. Sir George Hillyar sent for me, and I had to tell him the fact. " He is asham- ed to see my father after what has happened," I said. And Sir George said it was very vexing, but he supposed it must be so. Still, days went on, and we heard nothing of him whatever. THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 201 CHAPTER XXXIX. UNCLE BOB SURPRISES ERNE. W There is very little doubt that Emma would have done her duty better had she kept away from Erne altogether. It would have been fairer to him. She had prayed hard to my mother to be allowed a little, only a little more, of him, and my mother had, very wisely, refused it. Now Providence had given him back to her, — had put the cup to her hps, as it were ; and she, knowing her own strength, — knowing by instinct that she had power to stop when she pleased, and knowing also that, even if her own strength fliiled, the cup would be taken from her in a very few days, — had drunk deeply. She had utterly given herself up to the pleasure of his presence, to the delight of to-day, refusing to see that the morrow of her own making must dawn sooner or later. My mother and I thought that it was all over and done, and that there was no good in trying to stop matters in any way ; and we were so far right. My mother would gladly have stopped it ; but what could she do ? — circumstances were so much against her. Busy as she was, morning and night, she must either have left Erne, during his recovery, to take care of himself, or leave him and Emma alone a great deal together. She, as I said before, abandoned the whole business in despair. I was intensely anxious for tlie whole thing to go on ; I saw no trouble in the way. I thought that Emma's often-expressed determination of devoting her whole life to poor Joe was merely a hastily-formed resolution, a rather absurd resolution, which a week in Erne's company would send to the winds. I encour- aged their being together in every way. I knew they loved one another : therefore, I argued, they ought to make a match of it. That is all / had to say on the subject. '' God send us well out of it," said my mother to me one night. '• Why ? " I answered. " It 's all right." " All right ? " she retorted. '• Sitting in the window together all the afternoon, with their hair touching; — all right! Lord forgive you for a booby, Jim ! " " ^yell ! " I said, " what of that ? — Martha and me sat so an hour yesterday, and you sat and see us. Now, then ! " " You and Martha ain't Erne and Emma," said my mother oracularly. .0 * 202 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " You don't look me in the face, mother, and say that you dis- trust Erne ? " " Bless his handsome face, — no !" said my mother, with sud- den animation. " He is as true as steel, — a sunbeam in the house. But, nevertheless, what I say is, Lord send us well out of it ! " I acquiesced in that prayer, though possibly in a different sense. " You have power over her," resumed my mother. " You are the only one that has any power over her. Why don't you get her away from him ? " This I most positively refused to do. " You 'd better," said my mother, " unless you want her heart broke." And so she left me. " Plammersmith, I want you," called out Erne, now almost convalescent, a short time afterwards ; " I want you to come out with me. I want you to give me your arm, and help me as far as Kensington." I agreed after a time, for he was hardly well enough yet. But he insisted that the business was important and urgent, and so we w^ent. And, as we walked, he talked to me about his future prospects. " You see, old boy, I have n't got a brass farthing in the world. I have nothing but the clothes and books you brought from Stanlake. And, — I am not wicked : I forgive anything there may be to forgive, as I hope to be forgiven, — but I could n't take money from him." 1 thought it my duty, now he was so much stronger, honestly to repeat the conversation Sir George had held with me, on the day when Reuben was discharged from custody. " That is his temper, is it ? " said Erne. " Well, God forgive him ! To resume : do you see, I am hopelessly penniless." I was forced to see that. I had my own plan, though I could not broach it. " In the middle of which," said Erne, " comes this letter. Read it." " My dear Nephew, Mr. Erne : — From a generous com- munication received from the new and highly-respected bart., in which my present munificent allowance is continued, I gather that differences, to which I will not further allude, have arisen between yourself and a worthy bart. whom it is unnecessary to mention by name. Unless I am misinformed this temporary estrangement is combined with, if not in a great degree the cause of, pecuniary embarrassments. Under these circum- stances, I beg to call your attention to the fact that I have now THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 203 been living for many years on the bounty of your late fatbor, and have saveil a considerable sum of money. In case £500 Avould be of any use to you, I should rejoice in your acceptance thereof. I oive your late father more than that, as a mere mat- ter of business. If agreeable to the feelings of all parties, a personal interview is requested. " Your affectionate uncle, "Robert Hawkins." « Well, what do you think of that ? " " I tliink very well of your uncle, and I should take the money." " I must. But think of my disreputable old uncle turning up at such a time as this. Do you know my father was always fond of him ? I wonder what he is like ! I have never seen him." " Did n't you tell me he drank, sir ? " I asked. " Drink ! " said Erne. " He has been drunk nineteen years." I was lost in the contemplation of such a gigantic spree, and was mentally comparing the case of Erne's Uncle Bob with that of a young lady in Cambridgeshire, who had at that time, ac- cording to the Sunday papers, an ugly trick of sleeping for six or seven months at a stretch, and thinking what a pity it was that two such remarkable characters did n't make a match of it and live in a caravan ; moreover, supposing them to have any family, what the propensities of that family would be, — whether they would take to the drinking or to the sleeping, or to both, — concluding, that whichever they did, they would be most valu- able properties ; in short, rambling on like my mother's own son : wdien we came to the house in Kensington, and were im- mediately admitted into the presence. This mysterious Uncle Bob was a vast, square-shouldered, deep-chested giant of a man, who was even now, sodden with liquor as he was, really handsome. Erne had often told me that his mother had been very beautiful. Looking at this poor, lost, deboshed dog of a fellow, I could readily understand it. Erne said he had been drunk nineteen years ; if he had n't told me that, I should have guessed five-and-twenty. Never having had any wits, he had not destroyed them by drinking; and having, I suppose, wound himself up for the inters'iew by brandy or something else, he certainly acted as sensibly as could have been expected of him twenty years be- fore. Besides, God had given this poor drunkard a kind heart ; and certainly, with all his libations, he had not managed to wash that away. In our Father's house there are many mansions ; I wonder if there is one for him ! 204 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. At the time of his sister's marriage, he had just been raised to the dignity of underkeeper. Life had ceased with the poor fel- low then. He was of an old family, and the old rule, that the women of a family last two generations longer than the men, was proved true here. He had shown signs of the fiimily decadence while his sister showed none. She was vigorous, beautiful, and vivacious. He was also handsome, but unenergetic, with a ten- dency to bad legs, and a dislike for female society and public worship. Drink had come as a sort of revelation to him. He had got drunk, so to speak, on the spot, and had stayed so. His life had ceased just as he was raised to the dignity of cleaning Sir George Hillyar's first season guns, nineteen years before ; and we found him sitting before the fire, rubbing one of those very guns with a leather on this very afternoon. He rose when we went in, and made a low bow to Erne, and then stood looking at him a few seconds. " You are very like your mother, sir," he said gently ; " very like." " My dear Uncle Bob," said Erne, " I am come according to appointment to speak to you about the noble and generous offer of yours." " Do you accept it, sir ? " " I do most thankfully, my dear uncle. I would speak of it as a loan, but how can I dare do so ? I have been brought up in useless luxury. I know nothing." " You '11 get on, sir. You '11 get on fast enough," said the poor fellow, cheerfully. " Please come and see me sometimes, sir. You 're like my sister, sir. It does me good to hear your voice. Hers was a very pleasant one. We had a happy home of it in the old lodge, sir, before Sir George came and took her away. / saw what had happened the night he came into our lodge, after eight o'clock, and stood there asking questions, and staring at her with his lip a-trembling. / saw. I did n't think, — let 's see : I was talking about . Ah ! Sam Burton know- ing what he knew and not trading on it, — no, not that, — I mean I hope you '11 come and see me sometimes. If my head was to get clear, as it does at times, I could tell you all sorts of things." " My dear uncle, there is but small chance of our meeting for years. I am going to Australia." " To Australia ! " I bounced out, speaking for the first time. " Certainly," said Erne ; " I can do nothing here. And, be- sides," he added, turning his radiant face on mine, " I found something out last night." Poor Uncle Bob gave Erne a pocket-book, and, after many affectionate farewells, we departed. I was very thoughtful all the way home. " Found something out last night ! " Could it be all as I wished ? THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 205 CHAPTER XL. THE LAST OF THE CHURCH-YARD. "And so it is really true that the ship sails this day week, Emma?" said Erne Ilillyar to Emma Burton, laughing. "Mat- tel's are coming to a crisis now, hey ? " " Yes, they are coming to a crisis," said Emma, quietly. " Only one week more." '- Only one week more of old England," said Erne, " and then four months of wandering waves." " It wnll soon be over," said Emma. " Oh, very soon," said Erne. " They tell me' that the voyage passes like a peaceful dream. There are some who sail and sail on the sea for very sailing's sake, and would sail on forever. The old Greeks feared and wearied of the sea. We English love it as our mother. Yes, I think there are some of us who would love to live at sea." " They leave their cares on shore," said Emma. " They are like you and me, Emma. They have no cares." " Have we none ? " " I have none. I leave everything humbly in the hands of God. I have been a great sinner, but He has forgiven me. He has been very merciful, Emma." " 1 hope He will have mercy. I hope He will lay no burden on any of us greater than we can bear. But, at all events, they say that duty and diligence will carry one through all." " You are disturbed and anxious, Emma, at this breaking up of old associations. Come with me. Let us walk together down to the old church-yard : it will be the last time for many years, — possibly forever." " Yes, I will come with you. It will be for the last time for- ever. Let us come." So they two went down together to the old church-yard, and stood in the old place together, looking over the low wall on to the river. The summer evening was gathering glory before it slept and became night. And beyond the bridge, westward, the water and the air above were one indistiui^uishable blaze of crim- son splendor. At their feet the tide was rushing and swii-ling down to the sea. They were quite alone, — in perfect solitude among the tombs. Erne was standing, as of old, on the grave of the Hillyar girl, 206 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. SO often mentioned before ; and Emma was beside him, touching him, but looking ftway across the sweeping river. And so they stood silent for a long while. How long ? Who measures lovers' time ? Who can say ? But the sun was dead, and only a few golden spangles of cloud were blazing high aloft m the west, when Emma felt that Erne had turned, and was look- ing at her. And then her heart beat fast, and she wished she was dead, and it was all over. And she heard him say, with his breath on her cheek, — " What beautiful hair you have ! " " Yes." " Here is a long tress fallen down over your shoulder. May I loop it up ? " " Yes." " May I kiss you ? " " Yes ; it will soon be over." " My darling, — my own beautiful bird ! " There was no answer to this, but a short sob, which was fol- lowed by silence. Then Erne drew her closer to him, and spoke in that low, murmuring whisper which Adam invented one morn- ing in Eden. " Why have we deferred this happy hour so long, Emma ? How long have we loved one another? From the very be- ginning ? " " Yes, I think it was from the very beginning." " Are you happy ? " " Quite happy. Are you happy, dear ? " " Surely, my own," said Erne. " Why should I not be ? " " Then let us be happy this one week, Erne. It is not long. God surely will not begrudge us one week ; life is very long." So they stood and talked till dusk grew into darkness upon the poor cripple-girl's grave. And she lay peacefully asleep, nor turned upon her bed, nor rose up in her grave-clothes, to scare her kinsman from his danorer. The next day was dark and wild, and he was up and away early, to take the last headlong step. His friend, James Burton, went with him, and Erne took passage in the same ship by which the Burtons were going. It was a busy, hapi)y day. There were many things for Erne to buy, of which he knew nothing, and his humble friend had to assist him in fifty ways. At intervals of business Erne found time to tell Jim everything, and that worthy lad was made thor- oughly happy by the news. They were together all day in the driving rain, scarcely noticing that it blew hard till they got on board ship, and then they heard it moaning melancholy aloft among the spars and cordage, telling of wild weather on the dis- tant sea. THE niLLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. 207 At evening it held up ; and Erne, coming home, missed Emma, and followed lier down to the church-yard. It was a very ditrcr- ent evening from tlie last; low clouds were hurrying swiftly along overhead, and far in the westward a golden bar, scarcely above the horizon, showed where the sun was setting ; and, as they looked at it, grew dark once more. " Emma, my love, it is done." '• What is done ? " " I have taken passage in the same ship with you." Was it a moan or a cry that she gave ? Did it mean joy, or sorrow^, or terror ? He soon knew, although it was too dark to see her face. " Don't kill me, Erne, by saying that ! Don't tell me that you 've been such a madman ! " " ]My darling, what do you mean ? " '' Keep your hand from me. Erne. Do not kiss me. Do not come near me." " Emma, what is the matter ? " " It is not too late, Erne," she said, kneeling down on the "wet tombstone. " If you ever loved me, — if you have any mercy on me, or on yourself, — don't carry out this intention." " In Heaven's name why, my love ? " " If I had not thought that we were to part for ever and ever, inexorably, at the end of this week, I could have stopped you in a thousand ways. But I thought that surely I might have one single week of happiness with you, before we parted never to meet again." " Why are we to part ? " " I have devoted my whole life to one single object, and noth- ing must ever interfere with it. I have made a solemn vow be- fore heaven that nothing ever shall. I allowed myself to love you before I knew the full importance of that object. Even in the old times I saw that I must give you up for duty ; and lately that duty has become ten times more imperative than ever. Judge what hope there is for us." Erne stood silent a moment. " Speak to me ! Curse me ! Don't stand silent ! I know well how wicked I have been, but think of my punishment " '' Hush ! my darling. You are only dearer to me than ever. Hush ! and come here, once more — for the last time if you will, but come." " Only for one moment. Will you do as I ask you ? You will not come with us ? " '' I will see. I want to ask you something. Did you think that I was going to part from you at the week's end as ii" notliing had parsed ? Could you think so of me ? Were you mad, my own ? " 208 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Yes, I was mad, — wicked and mad. I did not know, I did not think. I would not think." " And do you think I can give you up so lightly now ? I will not. I swear it, — will not." He felt her tremble on his arm, but she said quietly, " You must let me go. We must never talk to one another like this ao-ain. It is all my fault, I know, I have no one to blame but my wicked self. Good-bye, Erne." " If you choose to carry out your resolution, you shall do so ; but I will be by your side. I will never leave you. I will fol- low you everywhere. I will wait as long as you will, but I will never give you up." " God's will be done," she said. " If you will make my trial harder, I can only say that I have deserved it. "We must come home, Mr. Hillyar." " Emma ! " "I have called you Erne for the last time," she said, and walked on. That night the poor girl lay sobbing wildly in bed, hour after hour, — not the less wildly because she tried to subdue her sobs for fear of awakening her sleeping little bedfellow, Fred. Shame at the license she had allowed Erne, meaning as she did to part with him ; remorse for the pain she had inflicted on him ; blind terror for the future ; and, above all, an obstinate adherence to her resolution, which her own heart told her nothing could ever shake, — these four passions — sometimes separately, some- times combined — tore her poor little heart so terribly, that she hoped it was going to burst, and leave her at rest. In the middle of the night, in one of the lulls between her gusts of passion, — lulls which, by God's mercy, were becoming more and more frequent ; when the wild wind outside had died into stillness, and the whole house was quiet ; when there was no sound except the gentle breathing of the child by her side, and no movement except its breath upon her cheek, — at such time the door was opened, and some one came in with a light. She looked round and said, — " Mother ! " The big, hard-featured blacksmith's wife came to the bedside, and sat upon it, drawing her daughter to her bosom. She said, " Emma dear, tell mother all about it." " Kiss me then, mother, and tell me I am forgiven." " You know you are forgiven, my daughter." " I never meant to have him, mother. I always loved him ; you know that ; but I had vowed my life to poor Joe, before ever I saw him. You know you told me to give him up, and I did. I only asked for one more day of him ; you remember that." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 209 « And I forbade it," " You were rii^ht and wise, dear. But tlien lie came here in his trouble ; and then, dear," she continued, turning her innocent, beautiful face up to her mother's, "I loved him dearer than ever." " I know that, of course. I don't know what I could have done. Go on, and tell me what has happened now." " Why, knowing that we were to part forever at the end of the week " — here her voice sank to a whisper — "I let him tell me he loved me ; and I told him I loved him. Oh, my God ! I only wanted one week of him, — one week out of all the weary, long eternity. Was that so very wicked ? " " You have been wrong, my darling ; you have been very, very wrong. You must go on to the end ; you must tell me what happened to-night." " To-night ? To-night ? In the church-yard ? Yes, I can tell you what happened there well enough. I am not likely to forget that. He told me that, so far from our being separated forever, he had taken passage in the same ship with us, and was going to follow me to the world's end." " And what did you do ? " " I knelt and asked his forgiveness, and then cast him off for- ever." Poor Mrs. Burton sank on her knees on the floor, and looked up into her daughter's face. " Emma ! Emma ! Can you forgive your wicked old mother ? " " Forgive you ! I, who have dragged our good name through the dust ! I, who have let a man I never meant to marry kiss my cheek ! /forgive you ? " " Yes, my poor innocent angel, — for so you are, — your poor old mother asks your forgiveness on her knees. I might have prevented all this. I broke it off once, as you remember ; but when he came back, I let it all go on, just as if I was n't responsi- ble. I thought it was Providence had sent him back. I thought I saw God's hand in it." " God's hand is in it," said Emma. " And Jim was so fierce about it ; and I am so afraid of Jim. He wants you to marry Erne ; and I thought it might be for the best ; but I see other things now. Are you afraid of Jim ? " " Yes ; what will he say about this ? " said Emma. " He will be very angry. He must never know." " Erne will tell him." " Is there no chance of your relenting about Erne Hillyar ? ' said Mrs. Burton, in a whisper. " You know me, mother, and you know there is none ; I should drag him down." N 210 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Then you must go on with your duty, my child. If you die, dear, — if God takes you to his bosom, and lets you rest there, — you must go on with your duty. Emma, I will give you strength. He would never be happy with you for long, unless he lowered himself to our level ; and would you wish him to do that ? He is one to rise in the world, and we, with our coarse manners and our poverty, would only be a clog round his neck. I love him for loving you ; but remember what he is, and think what a partner he should have. You see your duty to him and to Joe. If the waves of the great, cruel sea we are going to cross rise up and whelm us, let your last thought before your death be that you had been true to duty." CHAPTER XLI. EMMA'S WORK BEGINS TO BE CUT OUT FOR HER. It was the next night after her parting with Erne in the church-yard that poor Emma's ministrations began. It had been a weary day for her. She had tried hard to lose thought in work, but she had succeeded but poorly even in the midst of the bustle of preparation ; and now, when she was sitting alone in the silent room, with Joe moping and brooding, with his head on his hands, before her, — refusing to speak, refusing to go to bed, — her trouble came on her stronger than ever ; and, with a feeling nearly like despair, she recalled the happy happy hour she had passed with Erne in the church-yard only two days ago, and saw before her, in the person of poor Joe, brooding sullenly over the dying fire, her life's work, — the hideous fate to which she had condemned herself in her fanaticism. Erne and Jim had come in twice that day. They both looked very sad, and only spoke commonplaces to her. She saw that Erne had told Jim everything, and she trembled. But, Jim and she being left alone for one moment, Jim had come solemnly up and kissed her ; and then she had suddenly cast her arms round his neck, and blessed him, in God's name, for not being angry with her. He had kissed her again sadly, and left her. And now the work was all done, and the children were in bed ; and she would gladly have been in bed too, with Fred's balmy child's breath fanning her to sleep. But there was poor Joe brooding with his head in his hands. THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 211 At last he looked up. " Emma, my love," he said gently, " go to bed, dear. You are tired." " To bed," she said, " my old Joe ; why, it 's only half past nine. Here 's ever so much to do to these old shirts of Jim's ; burnt all into holes in the arms with the forge sparks, just like flithcr's. And Martha, she 's put the eliildrcu to bed. I don't think I shall go to bed for another hour, bless you. Let 's sit and talk." " I wish I was in my grave," said Joe. " I wish I had killed myself when I fell otl" that ladder." " Why, dear ? " said Emma, looking at him earnestly. " Because I am shipwrecked and lost. God has only allowed me to exist hitherto because I developed the beautiful unselfish love of my brothers and sisters. Why, you all love me as well as if I was not the loathsome object I am." " Joe, how dare you ! I will not have it ! You know you are not loathsome ; and who knows better than yourself that your abilities are first-rate ? " " Ay ! ay ! " said Joe. " But a man with my hideous affliction don't get two such chances. / know. People like looking on handsome and beautiful things, if they can. No man would have such an unhappy monster as I am near him, if he could have something in the shape of a human being. I don't blame them. I don't rebel against God. I only know that my career is over." " Joe ! Joe ! what are you talking of ? Why, Joe, you have a head like Lord Byron's. Who knows better than Erne Ilillyar ? You are the handsomest of the family, in spite of your poor dear back." " I love you and Jim the better for flattering me ; but my eyes are opened." " Have you fallen in love with any one ? Come, tell your own sister. Let her share your trouble, Joe." " No, it 's not that I was thinking of. I don't care for any woman but you. That Mrs. George Hillyar, Lady Hillyar, I should say — " " Have you fallen in love with her^ dear? " said Emma eagerly. " Curse her ! I hate her, the frivolous idiot. She gave me the bitterest insult I have ever had. Wlien I first went there, I came suddenly on her in the library, and she ran away scream- ing, and locked herself in the nursery with the baby." '• I should like to knock her silly little head off her impudent little shoulders," said Emma with a bounce, stitching away at Jim's shirt, as if each click of the needle was a dig into poor Gerty's eyes. " But come, Joe, that ain't what 's the matter. What 's the matter is this. You thought you were going to be a great public man, and so on ; and you 've had a temporary disap- pointment. Only don't go and look me in the face, and tell me 212 THE HILL YAKS AND THE BURTONS. that your personal appearance is going to begin to trouble you at this time of day ; because, if you do, I shan't believe you. And, as for Lady Hillyar, she may be a very good judge of blacks (among whom she has been brought up, and has apparently cop- ied her manners) ; but she is none of white, or she would n't have married that most ill-looking gentleman, Sir George. I say, Joe, dear." " Well, Em," said Joe, with something like a laugh. •' Is there any parliament in Cooksland now," said Emma. " Yes," said Joe, getting interested at once. " Yes, two Houses. Council, sixteen members, nominated by the Crown for life ; Lower House or Assembly, thirty members, elected by universal suffrage of tax-payers. Property qualification, 300 acres under cultiva- tion, or £2,000." " Then there you are. What is to hinder you from a career ? Lord bless me ! why, it seems to me that you have made a change for the better. Career indeed ! " And so she went on for half an hour, getting from him the political statistics of the colony, and shaping out his political conduct, until she suddenly turned on him, and insisted on his talking no more, but going to bed ; and she had her reward, for he kissed her, and went up stairs with a brighter look on his handsome face than had been there for weeks. She had hardly seen him out of the room, and had come back with the intention of folding up Jim's shirt and going to bed, when she started, for there was a low knock at the door. She listened. She heard Joe lumbering up to bed, and, while she held her breath, the knocking came again a little louder. It was at the house door. She crossed the wide dark hall which lay between the sitting-room and that door, and laid her ear against it. As she did so the knocking was repeated more impatiently. She said in a low voice, very eagerly, " Reuben ? " A shrill whisper from the other side said, " Blow Reuben. I wish Reuben had six months in a cook's shop with a muzzle on, for this here night's work. Keeping a cove hanging about a crib as has been blow'd on, with the traps a lurking about in all directions. Is that Emma ? " " Yes," she said. " I knowed it were," said the other party, in a triumphant tone. " Young woman, young woman, open that there door. I won't hurt you. I won't even so much as kiss you, without consent freely given, and all parties agreeable." Emma, who had a pretty good notion of taking care of herself, and was as well able to do it as any lady of our editorial acquaint- ance, opened the door and looked out. Looking out was no good ; but, hearing something make a click with its tongue about the level of her knees, she looked down, and saw below her a very THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. 213 Braall boy of the Jewish persuasion, with a curly head, apparently about nine years old, and certainly under four feet high. Iler first idea was that he was the son and heir of the little Jew gentleman described to her by Jim as having defended Reu- ben, who had been sent with the bill. She was quite mistaken ; there was no connexion between the two, save a common relation- ship with Abraham. Considering it necessary to say something, and feeling it safer to confine herself to polite commonplaces, she said that she was very sorry indeed to say that her father was gone to bed ; but that, if he would be so good as to look round iu the morninor, she would feel obliged to him. The little Jew, who, if it had not been for his beautiful eyes, hair, and complexion, would have reminded you most forcibly of a baby pike, about two ounces in weight, turned his handsome little head on one side, and smiled on Emma amorously. Then he winked ; then he took a letter from beliind his back, and held it before his mouth while he coughed mysteriously ; then he put the letter behind him once more, and waltzed, with amazing grace and activity, for full ten bars. " You 're a funny boy," said Emma. " If that letter is for me, you 'd better take and hand it over. If it ain't, you 'd best take and hook it ; and so I don't deceive you ; because I ain't going to be kept here all night with your acting. If I want to see mon- keys I go to the Zellogical. There is some pretty ones there." The small Israelite was not in the least offended. " I 'm an admirer of yourn," he said. " I 've gone and fallen in love with you at first sight ; that 's about what I 've took and done. I am enamored of your person, I tell you. You 're a fine-built girl. You 're crumby ; I don't go to deny that ; but there 's not too much on it yet. Confine yourself to a vegetable diet, and take horse exercise regular, and you '11 never be what any man of taste would call fat. Come, it 's no use beating about the bush ; I want a kiss for this 'ere letter." " You little ape," said Emma. "Who do you think is going to kiss you ? " " Why, you are, unless I mistake," replied the boy. " Just one. Come on ; you can't help yourself. I always were partial to your style of beauty ever since I growed up. Come, give it to us, unless I 'm to come and take it." At this point of the conference, Emma, with a rapid dexterity, which not only took the Jew child utterly by surprise, but which ever after was a source of astonishment and admiration to Emma herself and all her friends, made a dive at him, knocked his cap off, got her fingers in his hair, and took the letter from him be- fore he had time to get his breath. She turned on the threshold flushed with victory, and said, " /'// kiss you, you little Judas ! With pepper-my-Barney ! Oh yes, with capsicumg ! " 214 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. She slammed the door in the pretty little rogue's face, and tore the letter open. She had guessed, as has possibly the reader, that it was from Reuben. It was this which made her so eager to get it. It was this which made her lose her temper at his nonsensi- cal delay, and use for a minute or two language which, though most familiar to her ear, was utterly unfamiliar to her mouth. The letter, given below, took about two minutes to read. Id about two more she had caught down her bonnet and shawl, had blown out the candle, had silently opened the front door, had looked around, had slipped out and shut it after her, and then, keeping on the south side of Brown's Row, had crossed Church Street, and set herself to watch the Black Lion. Meanwhile there is just time to read the letter. " Dearest Emma, — Although I have gone to the dogs utter- ly, and without any hope at all of getting away from them any more, I should like to tell you, and for you to tell Jim, and for him to tell Master Erne and the kids, as they were all the same to me as ever, although I must never see nor speak to any of them never any more. " I 'm lost, old girl. Tell your father that I humbly pray his forgiveness for the sorrow I have brought on him. I know how wild he must be with me. He was a kind and good friend to me, and I wish I had been struck dead before I brought this trou- ble upon him. " I 've gone regularly to the devil now, old girl. Nothing can't save me now. I haint done nothing yet; — that's coming, to- night may be, — or I should n't have the cheek to write to you. Kiss the kids all round for me, and tell 'em as poor Reuben 's dead and gone, and wdll never see 'em any more. You 'd better say, old girl, that he was drownded last Tuesday, opposite the Vice- Chancellor's, a-training, and lies buried in Putney Church- yard. Something of that sort wall look ship-shape. " Good-bye, old girl, forever. Don't forget that there ivere such a chap ; and that he was very fond of you all, though he was a nuisance. " Reuben." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 215 CHAPTER XLII. EMMA ASTONISHES A GOOD MANY PEOPLE : THE MEMBERS OF HER FAMILY IN PARTICULAR. Emma saw the Jew-boy go into the public house, and saw what went on there. He had no business in there ; he did not call for anything ; he merely went in as a polite attention to the com- pany. There was a water-filter on the bar, the tap of which he set running on to the floor, and then stood and laughed at it. Upon this the bar-maid ran out of the bar to box his ears, and he dodged her and ran into the bar, shutting the gate behind him, and contrived to finish a pint of ale before she could get at him ; and, when she did, he lay down in a corner and refused to move, or to do anything but to use language calculated to provoke a breach of the peace. She slapped him and she kicked him ; but there he lay, all the company laughing at her, till at la-t the po- liceman made his appearance, and all he could do was to get hold of him by one leg, and drag him out on his back, with all his curls trailing in the sawdust, showing about as much care or life as a dead dog. There was nothing to do but to drag him out- side, and let him lie on the pavement. When the policeman let go his leg, he managed to drop the heel of his boot with amazing force on to the policeman's toe ; after which he lay for dead again. " Whatever shall I do ? " thought poor Emma. " If they lock him up, whatever shall I do ? " The landlord and the policeman stood looking at him. " Did you ever see such a little devil ? " said the landlord. " Never such a one as he. Shall I lock him up ? " " Lord bless you, no," said the landlord ; '' let the poor little monkey be. Good-night." And so the policeman departed round the corner. • Emma was very much relieved by this. They left the boy alone ; and then, like a fox who has been shamming dead, he moved his head slightly. Then he raised it cautiously, and, see- ing he was really alone, suddenly started up, gave a wild yell, an.d darted off like lightning up Church Street, at one minute in the road, in another on the pavement ; and away started poor Emma after him, with as much chance of catching him as she would have had with a hare. Fortunately for her quest, as she came into the King's Road 216 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. she ran straight against the policeman, who said, with alarm and astonishment, " Miss Burton ! " " Yes. Don't dehi}^ me, for God's sake. Have you seen a little Jew boy running ? " " Lord, yes, miss," he answered laughing. " He came flying round here like a mad dog ; and, when he see me, he gave a screech that went right through your head, and cut in behind they Oakley Square railings ; and there he is now." " Is he mad ? " said Emma. " No," said the policeman. " He 's skylarking ; that 's what he 's up to, after the manner of his nation." " It 's a very extraordinary and lunatic way of skylarking," said Emma. " I have got to follow him. Go home and wake Jim, and tell him where and how you saw me." " Take care, miss, for God's sake." "Yes, yes; see, there he comes creeping out. Go and tell Jim. I hope he won't run. Good-night." The little Jew did not run. He began thinking what he would do next. He came to the conclusion that he would waltz, and he put his resolution into immediate execution, and waltzed up the King's Parade. But he did even this like some one pos- sessed with evil spirits, who took every opportunity of getting the upper hand. Faster and more furious grew the boy's dancing each moment, more like the spin of a whirling Dervish, or the horrible dance in Vathek. The wildest Carmagnole dancer on the second of September would have confessed himself outdone in barbaric fury ; and the few belated passengers turned and looked on with something like awe ; and Emma began to fancy that she was being lured to her destruction by some fantastic devil. The poor little man had been mewed up for weeks, and all the intense vivacity of his race was breaking out, and taking the form of these strange weird tricks, — tricks which in, say a Teutonic child, would have been clear evidence of madness, but which were simply natural in a child of that wondrous, inde- structible, unalterable race to which he belonged. A French girl would have been merely amused with them ; but Emma, a thorough English girl, with the peculiarly English habit of judg- ing ^11 things in heaven and earth by the English standard, was frightened ; and her fright took the thoroughly English form of obstinate anger, and nerved her to her task. " The little wretch ; I will be even with him." So she went on, eager and determined, with her eyes and her mind so concentrated on the strange little figure, that she never exactly knew where she went. The cliild lurked, and dodged, and ran, and dawdled, and shouted, and sang, till nothing which he could have done would have surprised her; and she found THE IIILLYAirS AND THE BURTONS. 217 liei-self getting into a chronic state of expectation as to what he would do next. Once again everytliing was nearly going wrong. Tlie boy set ofl" on one of liis runs, and ran swiftly round a corner, and she ran round too, for fear of losing sight ol" him ; and at the corner she met him coming back again, walking slowly, with his hands in his pockets, whistling. But he did not recognize her. He asked her how her uncle Benjamin was to-night, and told her that Bill had waited there for her till ten, but had gone off in the sulks, and was going to take her sister Sally to Hampton Court in a van, to feed the gold fish with pej)|)('rmint lozenges; but he did not recognize her, and she was tliankful tor it. At last, when and where she cannot tell, they came into more crowded streets ; and here the young gentleman displayed a new form of vivacity, and began to jjlay at a new game, infinitely more disconcerting tlian any of his other escapades. This game was trying to get run over. He would suddenly dart out into the street under the very hoofs of the fastest going cab-horse that he could see. If he could get the cabman to pull up, he would stand in the street and enter into a personal altercation with him, in which, — he being a Jew, and the cabman, nominally at least, being a Christian, — he always got the best of it. If the , cab did not pull up, he dodged out of the way and tried another. This being an amusement which consumed a great deal of time, and the collection of no less than two crowds, from the second and largest of which he was walked out by a policeman in strict custody, poor Emma's heart failed her, and she began to weep bitterly. But her " pluck " (a good word, though a vulgar one) never gave way. She determined to follow him to the station, see him in safe custody, and then confide the whole truth to the Inspector, be the consequences what they might. It w^as lucky that there was no necessity for such a ruinous course of proceeding. She was following close on the heels of the boy and the police- man, when she heard this dialogue: — " I 'm very sorry, sir. I was running after a young man as has owed me a joey ever since the last blessed Greenwich fair as ever dawned on this wicked world." '• Don't tell me : did n't I see you playing your antics all up the Cut. bobbing in and out among the horses, you young luna- tic? 77/ shake you." And he did; and the boy wept the wild, heart-rending tears of remorse, rather more naturally than nature. " Look here. If I let you go, will you go home ? " " Strike me blind if I don't, sir. Come, I really will, you know. Honor. I 've had my spree, and I want to get home. 10 218 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. Do let me go. I shall catch it so owdacious if I ain't homo soon. Come." " There yon are, then. Stow yonr games now. There, cut away, yon monkey." The boy played no more antics after this ; he seemed to have been sobered by his last escape. He held so steadily homewards, that Emma, without any notion where she was, or where she was going, found herself opposite a low public-house, before which the boy paused. He did not go in, but went to a door adjoining, and knocked with his knuckles. After a few minutes, the door was opened as far as the chain would allow it, and some one inside said, " Now then?" " Nicnicabarlah," was what the boy answered. Emma, listening eagerly, caught the word correctly, and re- peated it two or three times to herself, after the boy had slipped in, and the door was shut behind him. AVliat a strange, wicked- sounding word ! Could there be any unknown, nameless sin in repeating it? There were strange tales about these Jews, and this particular one was undoubtedly possessed by one devil at least, if not a dozen. A weird word, indeed ! So she thought about it now. But afterwards, in the Sabbath of Tier life, the word became very familiar and very dear to her, and represented a far different train of ideas. Now it was the name, the formula, of some unknown iniquity : hereafter, when she understood everything, she smiled to know that the wicked word was only the native name for a soaring, solitary, flame- worn crag, — the last left turret in the ruin of a great volcano, — in the far-off land of hope to which they were bound. One of the first and greatest wonders in the new land was to see Nicnicabarlah catch the sun, and blaze like a new and more beautiful star in the bosom of the morning. That strange word, had she known all slie did afterwards, would have told her that Somebody was in those parts ; but now she knocked at the door in ignorance, and it being demanded of her "what the office was," she pronounced the horrid word in her desperation, at imminent risk, as she half believed, of raising the devil. The only present effect of it was that she was admitted into a pitch-dark passage, by something which Emma, using the only sense then available, concluded to be a young woman of untidy habits ; as, indeed, it was. " I want Reuben Burton, if you please," said Emma, in the dark, with the coolest self-possession. " You 're his young woman, ain't you ? " said the untidy one. Emma said, " Yes." " Who give you the office ? " said the untidy one. THE IIILLYARS AND TIIK BURTONS. 219 " Who could it liave been but one ? " " Of ooiirso, it was B(mi," said tli«^ untidy one. " But don't tell on him, young woman. He'll be torn to pieces, if you do. And he ain't a bad 'un, ain't r)en." Emma promised she would n't, and once more asked to see Reuben. The untidy one led her through a very, very long passage, in pitch darkness, at the end of which she by no means reassured "Euuna by telling her that there were nine steps to go down, and that slie had better mind her head ! However, she went down in safety, and was shown into a rather comfortable, cellar-like room, with a brick floor, in which there were lights and a good fire, be- fore which sat Master Ben, the insane young Jew child possessed of the seven devils, warming himself. He turned and recognized lier at once. For one instant there was a sudden ^asA, — I mean an instantaneous expression (I can explain myself no better), — of angry astonishment on his hand- some little face. Though it was gone directly, it was wonder- fully visible, as passion is apt to be on Jewish faces. The mo- ment after it had passed, he looked at her lazily, winked, and said : — ''Don't make love to me before /zer," — jerking his thumb at the untidy one, who in the liglit was more untidy than Emma had even anticipated from what she gathered in the dark, — " she 's enamored of me, she is. It aiu't reciprocal though it may be flattering. I never give her no encouragement ; so you can't blame me. It 's one of those sort of things that a man of my personal appearance must put up with. I regret it, for the young woman's sake, but wash my hands of the consequences." The "■ young woman," who was old enough to be his mother, and looked old enough to be his jTrandmother, lauorhed and de- parted, and Emma heard her bawling to some one, to know if Chelsea Bob was in the w^ay. The moment she was gone, the child Ben jumped on his feet, and looking eagerly at Emma, said, '' In God's name, how did you get here ? " '' I followed you all the way," said Emma, with calm com- posure. " I heard the word you gave, and. Lord forgive me ! said it myself at the door. And here I am." " Young woman, you 're mad ! You don't know where you are. I can't tell you. Quick ! they '11 be here in a moment. I will let you out. Quick ! — it will be too late in one minute." " I '11 never leave this house alive, without Reuben," was Emma's quiet answer. And as she gave it, she was conscious that the bawling after " Chelsea Bob " had ceased almost as soon as it had begun, and there was a dead silence. 220 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Lord of Moses ! " said little Ben, clutching wildly at his hair, — " she '11 drive me mad ! Emma ! — girl ! — young woman ! — will you be sane ? I '11 let you out, if you 'II go. If you don't go this instant, you '11 never go alive, I tell you. I like you. I like your face and your way, and I like Reuben, and came down all the way to Chelsea to-night for good- will towards him. I '11 get him out of this for you. I '11 do anything for you, if you '11 only clear. I shall be half-murdered for it, but I '11 do it. You 're among Levison's lot, I tell you. Coiners ; you understand that. No one leaves here alive. You under- stand that. It will be too late directly." It was too late already, it appeared. Two men were in the room, and three women, including the untidy one, who might now, in comparison with the two others, have made good her claim to a rather exceptional neatness of attire and cleanliness of person. The battle began by one of the men striking poor little Ben with his whole strength on the side of his head, and sending him against the bars of the fireplace, from which he fell stunned and motionless. The girl who had let Emma in, went and picked him up, and kissed him, and held him in her arms like a child, scowling all the time savagely at Emma. " You cowardly brute," cried Emma, in full defiance, draw- ing herself up until she looked as big as her mother, — " strik- ing a child like that ! I want my cousin Reuben. Reuben ! Reuben!" She said this so loud, that the man who had struck the child said quickly, " Collar her ! " But she was on one side of the table and they on the other; and before they had time to get round, she stopped them by saying, "• 1 '11 put a knife in the heart of any one that comes near me. Mind that ! Reuben, — Reuben ! Help ! " The pause was only instantaneous. They saw that she had no knife, and rushed on her. But her cries had not been in vain. One of the men had just seized her, and was holding his hand over her mouth, when he received a staggering blow on liis ear, which he remembered for a long while, about ten times harder than the one he had given to poor plucky little Ben ; and a hoarse voice, belonging to the person who had given the blow, said, with perfect equanimity : — " What 's up here ? what 's up ? what 's up ? 'Hands off is manners. I won't have no girls fisted in this house." One of the untidy young ladies was beginning to remark that she liked that, and that it was pleasing to find that they was to be overrode in their own crib by Chelsea roughs as was kept dark out of charity, when she was interrupted by Emma casting herself at the feet of the woman who had struck the blow, and crying out, — TUE HILLYARS AND TIIK BURTONS. 221 "Mrs. Bardolpli ! — help me ! Dear Mrs. Burdolph, when I read the good words to you iu your fever, you said you would never forget me. Help me now ! " And then that terrible woman, so hideous, so fierce, so reek- less, — the woman who had been steeped in infamy from her girlhood ; the woman whose past was a catalogue of crimes, whose future seemed a hopeless hell; the woman who had never forgotten God, because she had never known Him ; who had never repented, because evil had been her good from childhood ; this savage, unsexed termagant now bent down over poor Emma, and said, in a voice of terror, — "My God! it's Miss Burton! Emma Burton, I would sooner have been dead than see you here. Oh, I would sooner have been dead than seen this. Oh, Miss Burton ! Miss Burton ! what has brought you to this evil den ? " " I have come after my cousin Reuben. I have come to save him. He is innocent, for he told me so, and he never deceived me. Mrs. Bardolpli, you must die some day ; don't die with this sin on your mind. Don't lend your help to ruin an innocent young man, who never harmed you. Let me see him, and I will persuade him to come away with me, and we will bless your name as Ion 2; as we live." Mrs. Bardolph, nee Tearsheet, turned to one who stood beside her, and said, '' Come, you know what I told you. Decide. Let him go." And Emma turned, too, and for the first time saw her cousin Samuel. She did not know him. She did not even guess wdio this strange, long-nosed man, with the Satanic eyebrows, and his mouth close up under his nose, could be. She only saw that he was the most remarkable-looking person present, and, though he looked like a great scoundrel, yet still there was a certain air of refinement about him ; so she turned to him : — " Come, sir. You are an old man. Your account will soon be rendered. You have power here ; you will not use it against this poor young man's soul. I see you are yielding, by your eyes," she went on, taking his hand. " Dear sir, you must have had a son of your own once ; for his sake help me to save my cousin." " If you take away your cousin, Emma, you take away my son, and leave me all alone." She knew who he was now. " Cousin ! Cousin Samuel, come with him. It is never too late. Cousin, there is time yet to lead a good life in a new coun- try, with Reuben by your side. Let us three leave here to-niglit together, cousin, and set our backs forever to all this evil and tliis forgetfulncss of God. Come, cousin." 222 THE HILLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. " / can never go, my poor cliilcl," said the convict. " And, even if I let Reuben go, (for he 'd stay by me through every- thing,) I lose my only son forever." " Not forever. Why forever? Raise yourself to his level, and don't seek to drag him down to yours. There is good in your heart yet, cou>in ; for your hand trembles as I speak. Hah ! I have conquered. Oh, thank God ! I have conquered ! " So she had. Samuel Burton drew her arm through his, and led her away, while the others stood silent. Emma saw she had been right in appealing to him. He was evidently a man of authority. There was little doubt, from the deference which was shown him by the others, that he was by far the greatest rogue in the house. He led her up stairs, through a different way from that by which she had come in, and she found herself in a parlor, one side of which was of glass, beyond which was evidently the bar, for she heard the drinkers talking ; and in this parlor there was no one but Reuben, fast asleep on a settle. " Go up and speak to him," said Samuel, in a whisper. Emma went up and shook him by the shoulder. " Reuben, dear," she said, "get up and come home. Jim and Joe 's a sitting up waiting for you ; and father, he wants to see you before he goes to bed. Look sharp." Reuben rose up, and looked at her sleepily. " Why, Emma, old girl," he said, " I thought I was at the Cross Keys ! So I am, by gad ! How did you come here ? " " I came after you. Look sharp." Reuben looked again in wonder, and saw Samuel Burton. " Father," he said, " am I to go back there ? " "Yes, Reuben. Go back with her, — go back, and don't come here any more." " Are you coming ? " said Reuben. " Not I, my boy. We must part for the present. Go with her. Say good-bye to me, and go." " Why ? I don't want to desert you, iiither. Emma ain't the girl to advise a man to pitch his own father overboard ; more particularly, as in the present case, on the top of a strong ebb tide, with the wind west, and a deal more land-water coming down after the late rains, or else I 'm no waterman. Emma ain't here to-night to tell me to cut the only rope that holds my own father to the hope of better things : not if she 's the young wo- man I take her for, she ain't." And so well did poor Reuben put his case, that Emma, for a moment, thought she was n't. But Samuel Burton came in on the right side, with one of those facile lies which had grown from long practice to be far more easy to him than the truth. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 223 " I tell you, boy, that you must go with her. Your presence here endaiigors both of us. vShe has tracked you here to-night, and tlie traps are not far oi\\ as your sense will tell you. There are not two safe minutes left to say good-bye " Here Emma, with an instinct of good-breeding which would have done honor to any lady in the land, went outside the door, and left them alone together. And outside the door, she found the Bardolph, nee Tearsheet, who said, " Well, Miss Burton, I have served you well to-night." And Emma said, " God bless you for it, — nobly." " I supj)08e you would n't make no amends for it ? I suppose you would n't do nothing in return as I asked you ? " " I will do anything. God, who has saved one who is very dear to me, from ruin, to-night, is my witness, Mrs. Bardolph." " Well, when you 're a saying of your prayers, which you says them constant, as you give me to understand when I had the fever, and wanted me to do it also, — when you says 'em, take and say one for me. ' Lord ! ' says you, ' I don't uphold her in nothink as she 's done, but it was n't all her fault,' — There, there 's your sweetheart. You 'd best go. Let me send out that little devil, Ben, to see if the traps is clear. Ben ! Ben ! " Ben, although he had been, a very short time before, brutally knocked on to the top of the kitchen fire, and had lain stunned for some time, was up to the mark, and appeared, with the in- domitable pluck of his nation, ready for action. He was very pale and ill, but he winked at Emma, and hoped, in a weak voice, that her young man w^as n't jealous, for the girls was always a running after him. Having done his patrol, he came back and reported an entire absence of the executive arm, whether in the uniform of their country, or disguised in the habiliments of private citizens. Arrd then, Emma liavmg caught him up and kissed him a dozen times, the two cousins departed. 224 THE HILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER XLIII. EMMA GIVES THE KEY TO THE LANDLORD. " My dear Gerty," said Sir George, looking up from his din- ner at his wife, "I expect an old acquaintance of yours here this evening." " And who is that, my dear ? — an Australian ? " " No ; it is only young Burton, the waterman. I think you used to like him." " Indeed, I like him very much." " I am very glad to hear that, Gerty, my love ; for I was thinking of providing for him, as an under-keeper at Stanlake, if you did n't object." " I object, George ! I am very fond of him, indeed. He puts me in mind of a merry young man (a hand, I regret to say) that my father had, — Billy Dargan." " Do you mean Dargan who was hung for piracy ? " " The very same. How clever of you to know that, for he was hung before your time ! " " Good heavens, Gerty ! Do you mean to say that poor Reu- ben puts you in mind of that fellow ? " " To a most extraordinary degree," said Gerty, looking up ; and then, seeing she was somehow making a terrible mistake, adding, " I mean in his way of tying his handkerchief. And there is also an indescribable style about his legs, a kind of horn- pipy expression about them, Which forcibly recalls poor Dargan's legs to my mind at this moment." " I was afraid you meant that they were alike in expression of face." " Oh, good gracious, how ridiculous ! " said Gerty, who had meant it, nevertheless. " The idea ! Fancy poor Reuben cut- ting a skipper's throat, and throwing the crew overboard, and practising at them with a rifle ! What can make you think of such wicked things, you ridiculous old stupid?" " You '11 be kind to him then, Gerty, old girl ? " " Indeed, I will, Georgy. I '11 be kind to anything or any- body that you like. I '11 be most affectionate to him, I assure you. Lor ! My word ! I wonder what Aggy is at now ? " " Fast asleep in bed, dear. Nine hours difference in time, you know." " Yes ; that 's very curious. It quite reminds me of Joshua THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 225 putting back the dial of Ahaz, — I mean Ahasuerus. "What a goose I must be ! though I don't believe you know the differ- ence, you dear old heathen. I say, George," « Yes, Gerty." " When are we going back to Cooksland, dear ? " "To Cooksland?" " Yes, dear. Lesbia and Phelim O'Ryan are going back next month. It would be rather nice to go with them, would n't it ? " George, the baronet, with ten thousand a year, had not much notion of going back there at all, as you may suppose. But he did not wish to break the fact to Gerty suddenly. Gerty, in good humor, was a very pleasant companion ; but a lachrymose and low-spirited Gerty was, as he knew by experience, enough to drive far less irritable men than he out of their senses. Her infinite silliness sat most prettily on her when she was cheerful and happy ; but her silliness, wdien superadded to chronic, whimpering, low spirits, was unendurable. And, moreover, he had acquired a certain sort of respect for Gerty. Silly as she was, she had played her cards well enough to make his father destroy the obnoxious will. He could not deny, he thought, that all their present prosperity was owing to her. Luck had prevented his father making a new will, but Gerty's beauty and childishness had most undoubtedly been the cause of his destroy- ing the old one. He gave that sort of respect to Gerty which is generally accorded to fortunate legatees, — the respect and ad- miration, in short, which we are most of us prepared to pay to luck. So he temporized. " My love," he said, " you know that the colony is not healthy for very young children. You must know that." She was obliged to confess that it was very notorious. " We must wait until baby is stronger, — we must, indeed. Just think of poor Professor Brown's children, — not one left in two years." She acquiesced with a sigh. "You know best, dear. But, oh ! George, this dreadful winter ! Think of the cold ! " " We will go to Italy, dear. You will never regret Australia there. Halloa, here comes Reuben. Let us have him in." And so poor Reuben was had in. He looked a good deal older and more sobered than when we first knew him at Stanlake, but not in other respects altered, — changed in degree, but not in C[uality, — a little low-spirited under recent events, but not at all disinclined to be as slangy and merry as ever as soon as the sua should shine. " Jim told me you wanted to speak to me, sir." " Quite right. I want to know what you are thinking of do- ing. I wish to help you." 10* O 226 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. "I'm a-going to Australia, sir, with ray cousins. They have been very kind, sir. Whether it was their natural kindness, or whether it was my cousin Emma who influenced them, or partly both, I don't know ; but after all the sorrow, and trouble, and dis- grace I have caused them, they took me back again, as if nothing had happened. Any one would have thought that I had always been an honor to them, and that I had just done 'em some great kindness. The old man, he says — 'Reuben, my boy, I'm glad to see you home again. It 's a poor place and will be a poorer, my old chap,' he says ; ' but, such as it is, you 're welcome to it.' And so I am sroino^ to Australia with them." " But have you got any money to go with ? " " No, sir," said Reuben. " They are going to take me, and I am to make it TOod afterwards." " But you would not go if you were offered a good situation in England ? " " I 'd rather not go," said Reuben. " But I am doubtful how they would take it." " George," said Gerty, suddenly and eagerly, " order the car- riage for me, and let me go to these people and represent the matter to them. I will make it all right for you. Let me go." George felt sincerely obliged to his wife for her readiness to antici{)ate his wishes ; but it was not that which made Gerty so eager about the matter. No ; these people, these Burtons, had suddenly become sacred and important people in her eyes. For were they not going to that sunny happy land where she was born ; would they not soon see, with the actual eyes of the Hesh, and not in dreams, as she did, that dear old home of hers, which, she began to feel, she herself would never, nev^er, see again ? She drove hurriedly to Chelsea, and the coachman soon found the place for her. She was nearly too late. The great house was empty and the rooms all desolate : but the door was not yet shut, the neighbors told her, and there was some one in the house still ; so Gerty, not a bit frightened, after knocking once or twice, at the door, went in, and entered the great room on the lower Hoor, where the family were accustomed to live. All deserted, melancholy, cold, and dead, the room was no more a room now than is the corpse you put into the coffin your friend. Life, motion, and sound were gone from it, and there was no expression in it, save the blank stare of death. The old walls •which, when partly covered with furniture, used to laugh and wink from fifty projections in the firelight, now stared down, four cold, bare, white expanses, on little Gerty standing in the middle of the room, all in black. She had never happened to see a dis- mantled home before, and her gentle little soul was saddened by it ; and she yearned to be with those that were gone, in the happy land far awaj. THE HILLYARS AND THE RURTONS. 227 She noticed the empty open cuphoards ; nails upon tlie wall ; the marks where a few j>ictures had hiiiig; and tlie few things which were left lying about. They were very few, only such things as were deemed unworthy of removal, — a scrap of carpet ■with holes in it, or more correctly, some holes, with a little car|)(;t round them ; a hearth-broom, whicli reminded her, she said after- wards, of Lieutenant Tomkins of the Black Police, for it had shaved off its beard and whiskers, and only wore a slight mus- tache ; a bandbox, which had been fighting, and got its head broken ; and a dog of Fred's with his bellows broken off. The foolish little woman felt sorry for these things. She thought they must feel very lonely at being left behind, and went so far as to take pity on Fred's dog, and hire it for the service of Baby. And when she had done this, knowing that there were people in the house somewhere, she, as adventurous a little body, in warm weather, as you would easily find, determined to go up stairs, — and up she went ; and in course of time she came to the vast room on the first floor, so often described by the young blacksmith in these pages, and peeped in. It was all bare, empty, and dismantled. There was nothing in it. But two peoj^le stood together in one of the many windows which looked westward ; and they stood so still and silent, and looked so strange and small in the midst of the majestic desola- tion, that Gerty stood still too, and was afraid to speak. They were a young man and a young woman, and the young woman said, " You hardly did right in coming back this afternoon, when you knew I was all alone. Did you now ? " "I don't know, and I don't care, Emma. I knew that yours was to be the last footstep which crossed the threshold and left the dear old house to darkness and solitude, and I determined to be with you. Loving you so madly as I do, every board in these rooms which you have walked on is sacred to me by the mere tread of your footstep. So I determined to see the last of the house with you, who are the cause of my loving it, and who get dearer to me day by day and hour by hour." " Erne ! Elrne ! don't drive me mad. You have no rio^ht to talk to me like this." " I have. You gave it once. Do you think you can recall it ? Never ! I have the right to talk to you like this until you can look me in the face and tell me that you do not love me. And when will that be, hey ? " " Never," she answered, " as you well know. Are you deter- mined, cruelly, to make me undergo my lull punishment tor two days' indiscretion ? " " Yes ; there is no escape but one. I am determined." " And so am I," said Emma, wearily. " It is time to go, is it 228 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. not ? Are you going to persist in your mad refusal of your share of the pro})erty ? " " Let hiin give it me then. I will never ask him for it," re- plied Erne. " What insanity ! " she repeated. " When Mr. Compton tells you that your share of the personal property would be nearly enough to keep you in England." '' I will never ask for it." " You mean that you will follow me, and bring yourself to my level." By this time Gerty had fully satisfied herself that she was eavesdropping, and, hearing her husband's name mentioned, felt it high time to say, " Ahem ! " Whereupon the couple in the window turned ; and Erne and she recognized one another, and, Erne running to her, she fairly threw her arms round his neck, and hugged him. " My dear Erne, to find you here ! You never did, you know. And your pretty sweetheart, too ; you must give me a kiss, dear Emma ! do you remember the day I nearly fainted in church, and you put your arm round me ? My dear, you are the very person I wanted. Sir George sent me here to say that he is willing to provide handsomely for Reuben, if you won't be offended at his staying behind. Reuben wants your father to have it explained to him that he is not ungrateful, but the contrary. You '11 un- dertake to square matters, won't you ? What were you and Erne quarrelling about just now ? I want you to tell me ; be- cause, in return for your making the peace between Reuben and your father, I will set matters all right between Erne and you. Come, now, tell me ? " Erne said that it was only an outbreak of violence on Emma's part. " Oh ! that is nothino;. George is like that sometimes. Are you two married ? " Erne said " No. Not yet." " If I was in your place, I should send down to the township for the parson, and get tied up right away. That will be the real peppermint, you '11 find ; because, you see, dear, now that your father and all your brothers and sisters are gone, you '11 find it lonely." " I am going with them, ma'am," said poor Emma. " Oh dear ! I hope you have not broken with Erne. My sweetest girl, he loves the ground you walk on. Oh my good gracious goodness me ! why, he never used to talk to one about anything else. I never was so sorry ; I 'd sooner that the gar- den was a-firc ; I 'd sooner that all the sheep were adrift in the Mallee ; I 'd sooner that the Honeysuckle dam was mopped up as dry as Sturt Street ; I 'd sooner — " THE HTLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 229 " Gerty, dear," said Erne, arresting her in lier Homeric cata- logue of the evils which come on those who have fallen under the anger of the gods (in Australia), and taking her aside, '"•Nothing is broken off. I am going to Cooksland too." Gcrty, having been suddenly shunted off one line of rails, while at full speed, and being very much astonished, put on all her breaks and stopped ; which gave Erne time to go on. '• ]\[y dearest sister, you can be of most inestimable service to us. I could not get at you (you know why, dear), and it seems a f;i)e('ial Providence, my having met you here. What I want done is this : go home and write letters to your sister and broth- er-in-law, introducing me and the Burtons. Say all that you can about us. Do the best you can, and send these letters, to this address. Above all, dear Gerty, do this. Now, I am very much in enruest, dear, and I am sure you will do as I ask you. Tell George every particular about this interview, and what I have asked you to do, before you put pen to paper. "Will you promise me this ? " Yes, she would promise it, if need were ; but, did n't Erne think, that under the circumstances, eh ? And James could do so much for them, too. And if George ivere to forbid her to write? Erne said, " He will give you leave, Gerty. I '11 bet you a pair of gloves he does. George is justly and righteously angry with me just now, but he '11 forgive me some day : when I am worthy of his forgiveness. When I have made my fortune, Gerty, I will come and kneel at his feet. He would suspect me now I am poor. Now, good-bye." Tlio-e three came out of the old house into the summer sun- shine, and Emma came last, and then turned and locked the door. Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, son of the blacksmith at Putney, first opened that hospitable old door, and now Emma Burton, daughter of the blacksmith at Chelsea, locked it up forever. When mighty America was only a small irregular line on the chart of the world, that pile of brick and stone was built up ; and we, poor worms of a day, have seen it stand there, and have weaved a child's fancies about it. I, who write, remember well that, on my return home, after a long residence in the most fire- new of all sucking empires, constructed with the highest im- provements, — gas, universal suffrage, telegraphs, religious toler- ation, and all, — it was a great wonder to me, living in a house which had actually been built nearly sixty years. I remember that, at lirst, the date of every building I saw, and the reflections as to what had happened since that building was put up, had au intense interest for me. A Londoner passes Westminster Abbey 230 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. every clay in the week, and it is Westminster Abbey to him, and there is a cab-stand at the corner: but, if you want to know what veneration for antiquity means, you must go to an American or to an Australian to find out : you must follow Mr. and Mrs. Nalder, through Westminster Abbey, — taking care they don't see you, or they will immediately vilipend the whole affair, for the honor of old Chicago. So Emma, preparing for her flight from the country of im- pertinent sparrows, to the country of still more impertinent par- rakeets, locked the door, and ended the history of Church Place as a home. Hereafter, during the short space that the old house stood, no lover lingered about the door in the summer twilight, for the chance of one more sweet whisper ; no children played about the door-step, or sent the echoes of their voices ringing through the lofty rooms ; no blushing, fluttering bride passed in to her happiness j and no coffin was ever carried forth, save one. CHAPTER XLIV. JAMES BURTON'S STORY: OUR VOYAGE, WITH A LONG DE- SCRIPTION OF SOME QUEER FISH THAT WE SAW. I KNOW that my love for Erne Hillyar was, at first, only one of those boy-friendships which I suppose all boys have had ; which after a time fade away, and then flow strong again for another object ; or, if there be no new object, simply wear out into a kind of half-jealous regret. " He don't care for me as he used,'* you say mournfully ; no, but how much do you care for him, my good friend? Would you go into the next street to meet him, if it would prevent your going ten miles to get ten minutes with Mary ? I think not. These boy passions die out to a certain limit, and to a certain limit only ; for there is always a tender- ness left for the old boy after all. Tom must always have re- served for him the inestimable and delicious privilege of being bored to death with the catalogue of Mary's perfections, until he mentally howls at the mention of that dear creature's name ; and Tom must be your best man at the wedding, if procurable, be- cause the renewal of the old tendresse on that particular occasion is something sentimentally good and graceful, even if it is the finish and end of the whole business, — for which result there is no possible reason. But my friendship for Erne was not of this kind altogether, THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 231 for It grew and developed. IMartlia never came between liirii and me for a moment. I feU in love with Martha, — well, principally, I believe, because I fell in love with her. Come, sir, wliat made you fall in love with your wife ? Don't know. No more do I know why I fell in love with my wife, unless it was her spraining her ankle on the slide by Clerken- well Prison, and having no one to take her home. But, hav- ing once fallen in love with her, I began to find out, by degrees, what a noble, excellent little body slie was ; and so my«love for her grew and grew, and I would not like to swear (though I shouhl not like her to know it) that it has reached its full de- velopment yet. And yet, the more I loved Martha, the more my friendship for Erne became part of myself For, having in- herited from my mother the trick of living, save on special emer- gencies, in the future, or in the past, or anywhere but in the present, I had gradually built up for myself a palace of fancy, quite as beautiful as you could expect from a mere blacksmith's lad, in which palace Martha and I were to live forever in com- fort by the products of my trade, and in which also Erne and Emma were to take up their abode with us, and live on, — say manna or quails : details are contemptible. I fancy, if my recol- lection serves me, that part of the scheme was that Martha and I were to have four children, two boys and two girls, exceedingly beautiful and good ; and that, when we had arrived at this point, we were to stop, — which we haven't. I think also, at one time, after having seen a certain picture, that I intended to have another and a fifth child, who was to die beautifully in infancy, and to do something absolutely tremendous, in a sentimental point of view, on its death-bed. I don't know how long this last fancy, — thank God, only a fancy, — endured ; but I do know that this dear martyr was the only one of my five children for whom I sketched out any future whatever. The other four were to remain children, ranging in age from two years to seven, until Martha and I, gray-headed in the character of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, were borne together (having died the same day, — a matter of detail easily arranged on a future opportunity) into the church-yard of the late ingenious Mr. Gray's " Elegy," followed by a sorrowing population. Erne and Emma had become so necessary a part of this day- dream, and this day-dream moreover had become such a very necessary part of myself, that I was more distressed than you can well conceive at tlie estrangement between them. The more so, because I did not for one moment share Erne's hope of any alter- ation taking place in Emma's resolution. Whether I judged on this matter from reason or from instinct I hardly know ; which- ever it was, my conclusion was the same. I had a profound 232 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. faith in a certain quiet determination which I saw now in Em- ma's face, and which in my moments of irritation, — an irritation, however, which I never outwardly showed, — I called obstinacy. I had my sanguine moods, however. There was a gentle, ten- der, and yet unobtrusive assiduity about Erne's attentions to her, which gave me great hopes. No woman, I thought, could resist that sort of thing long, particularly a woman who loved him as she loved him. Alas ! though I knew it not, it was her very love for Jiim which gave her the strength to resist him. When my mother told me what she had said, " He must rise, and I should only drag him down," I lost hope again. That motive, superadded to her devotion to poor Joe, made my day-dream fade away once more. Now, being in a certain line of business myself, I made the remarkable discovery, which has been confirmed by later experi- ence on my own part, and by comparison of notes with eminent travellers from all quarters of the globe, that there is no such a place for courting as aboard ship. Even suppose that the ship completed her voyage on a perfectly even keel, without any mo- tion whatever, — even in that extreme case you would have the great advantage of constant intercourse. But then she don't j but, on the contrary, rolls, dives, and leaps like a mad thing, tliree quarters of her time, and by this means actually, as well as metaphorically, so throws young people together, — gives rise to such a necessity for small attentions, — that it 's wonder to me sometimes, — when in one of my mother's moods, why, on the arrival of the ship into port, all the unmarried couples on board don't pair off, and go straight off to church to get mar- ried.* One day of one long voyage comes before me particularly clearly. And yet, as I write, I cannot say that all the little cir- cumstances which I tell took place on that day or on several ; for at sea Time is naught, but his mechanical and earthly eidola, latitude and longitude, take his place. I can't tell you in what month this day (or these days, it may be) fell ; but it was in the trades, though whether N. E. or S. E. I cannot at this period un- dertake to remember. Yes, it was in the trades. For all space was filled with a divine gray-blue effulgence, which has, to my wandering fancy, always seemed to be the trade-wind itself, — the only visible wind I know of. It was not too hot nor too cold, nor too bright nor too dull ; and the ship was going fast, and heeling over enough to make everything you leant against more pleasant than a rocking-chair, — going with a gentle heaving motion, for which it would be absurd to hunt up * I beg to call the Hon. J. Burton's attention to the fact that they almost al- ways do. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 233 a simile, becaiii^e there is nothing so wonderfully delightful where- with to compare it. There were clouds, slow sailing clouds, but they were of frosted silver ; and there was open sky, but of the \(.'v\ faintest blue, save inimcdiately overhead, where the delicate needle of a top-gallant mast swept across it in a shortened arc, and where it was a faint purple. There were sounds, — one a gentle universal rush, that of the wind itself, fdling space ; and others, supplementary voices, the low gentle lapping of the waves upon the ship's side, and the sleepy gurgling and hissing of many eddies around her. All tilings seemed going one way with some settled kindly purpose. The clouds seemed to be leading the wind, and the wind to be steadily following the clouds, while the jturple waves, a joyous busy crowd, seemed to be hurrying on after both of them, to some unknown trysting-place. Yes, I know we were in the trades."* Martha was sitting on the top of some spare spars under the lee bulwark, and I was sitting beside her, but on a lower level, and a little more forward, so that I had to lean backwards when- ever I w^anted to look in her face. And this was a very nice arrangement, because I generally found that she was looking at me, and I caught the soft, quiet gaze of her deep calm love, be- fore it broke into the gentle smile that, — Hallo here, hallo ! this will never do. I mean that it was a very good place to sit in, because it was in the shade under one of the boats, and we could quietly watch every one else, and make our comments upon them. No one ever took the trouble to watch us. Every one knew that we were keeping company. We were rather favorites in the ship from being a quiet pair of bodies, but were otherwise uninteresting. By the mainmast was my father, in close confabulation with *' Damper." Now, although " Damper " is only a nickname, and a rather low one, yet you are not to suppose that the gentleman who owns it is at all a low person. He, as he stands there against the mainmast, with his square brown face and grizzled hair, against my ftither's square brown fiice and grizzled hair, is a most resplendent and magnificent gentleman. His clothes are the richest and best-made that London can give him ; the watch and chain he wears in and over his white waistcoat cost more than a hundred guineas ; he has been five-and-twenty years in Australia, and is worth very nearly half a million of money ; his style and titles before the world are the Honorable Elijah Daw- son. ]\I. L. C, of no less than seven places, colonial estates of his, with names apparently made up by a committee of all the luua- * Mr. Henry Burton begs to state that the whole of tlie above paragraph is copied verb'itim from his log-book. The passage as it stands may be found at p. bb of his '* Miscellanies in Verse aud Prose." Bleet. Palinerston: 1858. 234 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. tics in Bedlam at full moon. Yet this man is disrespectfully called " Damper," (which is a low colonialism, a common name for a working bullock,) behind his back, by the whole ship's com- pany ; and I, — I, the blacksmith's lad, — have that man under my thumb and in my power to that extent that, whenever I take the liberty of being in company with him, he addresses the prin- cipal part of the conversation deferentially to me. I don't know that I ever should have the heart to denounce the low-lived vil- lain ; but it IS pleasant to hold a man who wears a hundred- guinea watch, as it were, in the hollow of your hand. The truth is that I found this low fellow out quite accidentally. One day, going on board the ship when she was in the docks, I, who had already heard what a great man he was, was struck not only with his magnificent appearance, but also with the practical knowledge he showed, connected with some rather delicate ma- chinery, a small case of which had been broken open by careless men. I was surprised to hear him tell his servant carefully to lubricate the articles with Rangoon oil before they were repacked, to keep the salt air from them ; and there was something grand and strange in finding that so splendid a person could be up in such details as these, or should take the trouble to attend to them. But, half an hour after, I found the low-lived impostor out. Going into a blacksmith's forge in the Commercial Road, there I found him. His coat and waistcoat were oiF; his hun- dred-guinea watch was laid on the bench among the tools ; his head was bare ; his shirt-sleeves were turned up to his elbows ; and he was engaged in welding two pieces of iron together, one of the smiths assisting him, with a rapidity and dexterity in the use of his hammer which proved at once the disgraceful fact. This legislator, this responsible adviser of his sovereign's repre- sentative, this millionnaire aristocrat, this fellow who only the week before had disported himself in the presence of royalty at St. James's with breeches and silk stockings on his impostor's legs and silver buckles in his low-lived shoes, — this man was not only a blacksmith, but an uncommon good one. I don't think I ever felt so proud of the old British empire be- fore. I wished the Queen could have seen him, and I dare say she would have been as pleased as I was. But the Honorable Elijah Dawson did not see it in this light at all. Every one who had ever heard his name, from her Majesty downwards, knew that this great Australian millionnaire had been a blacksmith, and he knew they knew it ; it was the crowning point of his honor ; and yet the honest fellow was most amusingly ashamed of it. When I found him in the shop, he put on his coat and waistcoat, and took me by the arm, pushing me before him into a neighbor- ing public-house. He then made me swallow a glass of strong waters before he said anything. THE IIILLYAES AND THE BURTONS. 235 " I see you aboard the sliip to-day." " Yes, sir." " You 're a smith yourself, ar'n't you ? " " Yes, sir." " Don't say notliinn^ about ^^llat you see me doing on. I 'm a friend of yours. Don't say nothing of it aboard ship. Tiicre 's PoUifex and Morton aboard, and I should never hear the last on it. It was that Morton as christened me 'Damper'; and see how that 's stuck. Hold your tongue, my boy, and I 'm a friend of yours, remember." And so he was, a most generous and kind one. "We had hardly got to sea before he found my father out. The two men, so much of an age, and so much alike, conceived a strong liking for one another, which, as you may guess, was of immense benefit to us, AVhom else do Martha and I see, from our lair under the boat? "Why, PoUifex and Morton, of whom our friend, Elijah Dawson, stands so much in dread. They have come down into the waist to smoke their cigars, and are leaning against the capstan. Let us, with the assistance of my brothers Joe and Henry, have a look at these two typical men ; it is really worth the time. The Honorable Abiram PoUifex, — "Accommodation PoUi- fex," '- Footrot PoUifex," " Chimpausee PoUifex," as he is indif- ferently called by his friends and enemies, — is only a new comer in Cooksland, having migrated thither from the older and better- known Australian colony of Endractsland, where, for a consider- able number of years, he filled the post (Harry says that is not good English, but I am head of the family, and will use what English I choose) of Colonial Secretary. His great political ob- ject, consistently, and somewhat skilfully pursued through sixteen years, precisely corresponded with that of Sir Robert Walpole, as described by Mr. Carlyle, " To keep things going, and to keep himself, Robert Walpole, on the top of them." I am not sure that the historical parallel between these two great statesmen need stop at the mere statement of their political motives. There is a certain similarity in the means they used to attain their end. They both bribed as hard as they could, and both did as little as possible in the way of legislation. With re- gard to bribery, Wali)ole was decidedly the greatest man, save in intention ; but, with regard to " laissez aller,'' Pollifex beat him hollow. PoUifex, — a long, lean, lanthorn-jawed Devonshire squireen, known through all the old West country for his bonhotmnie, his amazing powers of dry humor, and wonderfully remarkable per- sonal appearance, — assumed the place of prime minister in En- dractsland, somewhere in the dark and prehistoric ages (say as long ago as 1820), because there didn't happen to be any one 236 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. else. lie was one of the best secretaries they ever had. To say- that he governed the colony wisely and well would be to talk nonsense, because he never governed it at all, but showed his great shrewdness in letting it develoj) itself. When he took the reins, the landscape was still lit up with the lurid glare of the convict hell, from the dark night of which the little community had barely emerged. When he dropped them, the tide of free emi- gration had set strongly in ; and he himself saw that the dawn had begun, and that the time of free institutions was at hand, — that, with some restrictions, a rather liberal suffrage could be conceded to the new non-convict emigrants who had poured in in such num- bers, and to such of the convicts as had so far practically shown their reformation as to have homesteads of 180 acres. Then the old Tory took himself quietly out of the gap, and let the waters run in. He had no objection to looking on, and seeing it done, but he would have no hand in it. He^ at all events was no Tory who would bid for power by bringing in a measure of Reform. I have said that he did nothing ; and in a legislative point of view he had done nothing ; and yet he had done that same noth- ing in such a wonderfully shrewd and dexterous way that in the end it amounted to a very great something. No less than five governors, — all of them good gentlemen, but each and all of them absolutely ignorant of the temper of the colonists and the wants of the colony, — had been sent over to him ; and he, by his tact, had prevented every one of these new brooms from sweeping too clean, until they saw where to sweep : nay, very often succeeded in persuading them not to sweep at all, but to let the dust be blown away by the free winds of heaven ; and this was something. Again, his own wealth had grown enormously, as wealth will grow in Australia ; his sheep and cattle multiplied under his superintendents ; and so his interests got identified with the squatters. Thus he had the power, as one of the greatest of them, to stand between them and the doctrinaires and retired military officers who were in those times sent out as governors. He bribed shamefully in the creation of places for the sons of turbulent colonists; but he always kept a clear balance-sheet; and, as for as his own hands, they w^ere as clean as snow ; he was a poorer man by many thousands from his long retention of office. A man of higher aspirations, and less practical shrewdness, would not have done the work half so well. On the emergence of the colony from the Sodom-and-Gomorrah state of things incidental on a convict community, into such a noble kingdom as Endracts- land now is, there is a certain amount of dirty work which some one must do. James Oxton found a virgin soil, and brought over a free population. His work was as clean as his own shirt-front, and he did it well. Abiram Pollifex found Bedlam and Newgate boiling THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 237 up together, and had to watch tlic pot. All honor to him that he did the dirty work as cleanly as he did. Now let us take a glance at the handsome brown-fliced, gentle- manly looking dandy, with a carefully trimmed mustaclie, who stands beside him. lie is a very different sort of person ; infi- nitely more of a '" representative " man than Chimpansee Polli- fex, from the simple fact that he is by no means an uncommon article, — nay, more, is one of the commonest articles going, — though developed, as far as he is capable of development, by ex- ceptional circumstances ; a young English gentleman of good family, Avitli a pul)Hc-school education. When we were over in England for the Exhibition of 18G2, we hired a carriage and went for a drive in the park ; and there, if we saw one Charles Morton, we saw five hundred. Charles Mortons were standing against the rails in long rows like penguins, — each one most wonderfully like the other ; all cast nearly in the same mould by Nature, and, if not, every trifling peculiarity of outward look polished away by inexorable custom ; all dressed alike, with their beards and mustaches so exactly in the same pattern that it be- came ludicrous ; men whom those who don't know them sneer at as mere flaneurs, but whose suppressed volcanic energy shows it- self, to those who care to observe, in that singularly insane and dangerous amusement, fox-hunting, — all men with whom false- hood, cowardice and dishonor, are simply nameless impossibili- ties. We know them better than we did, since the darkening hours of Sebastopol and Delhi, and it was only their own faults that such as I did not know them better before. The halo of glory which was thrown round the heads of these dandies, by their magnificent valor from 1854 to 1859, has done the body of them an infinite deal of harm. We can trust you, and will follow you in war, gentlemen ; but in peace, cannot you manage to amal- gamate a little more with the middle and lower classes ? Are the old class-distinctions to go on forever, and leave you dandies, the very men we are ready to take by the hand and make friends of, in a minority, as regards the whole nation, of 99 to 1 ? Can't we see a little more of you, gentlemen, just at this time, when there is no great political difficulty between your class and ours ; if it were only for the reason tliat no one out of Bedlam supposes that things are always to go on with the same oily smoothness as they are doing just now. I think we understand you, gentle- men. I wish you would take your gloves off sometimes. You have been more courteous to us since the Reform Bill ; but cer- tain ill-conditioned blackguards among us say that it is only the courtesy which is engendered of fear, and but ill replaces the old condescending honhommie which we shared with your pointers and your grooms. Douglas Jerrold is dead, and buried at Ken- 238 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. sal Green ; and there liappens to be no one alive at present who is able or cares to overstate the case of the poor against the rich with quite so much cleverness as he. But at any dark hour anoth- er man of similar abilities might come forth and make terrible mis- chief between us again. You can be earnest and hearty enough about anything of which you see the necessity. Can no one per- suade you that the most necessary thing just now is an amalga- mation of classes ? You could never get together a Jeunesse Doree without our assistance, and yet you treat us like sans-culottes. Charles Morton was at Eton, and, while there, I do not doubt displayed the qualities hereditary in his family, — truth, honor, and manliness. Another quality, also hereditary in his family, he got but scant opportunity of displaying at Eton, — I allude to the accomplishment of horsemanship ; but, when he got to St. Paul's College, Oxford, he made up for lost time. From this time forward he seemed to forget that he had any legs. Boat- ing, cricket, football, evei'ything was neglected utterly. He got on horseback and stayed there ; and henceforth the history of the man's life is the history of his horses. Hunting at Oxford, as I gather from the highest attainable authority, costs just five pounds a day if you send on ; and you can hunt live days a week. By a rough calculation, then, Charley must have spent near five hundred pounds in the hunt- ing season. Besides this, he liked to be dressed like a gentle- man. Besides this, again, he was fond of seeing his friends, and his friends were rather a fast and noisy lot, as Greatbatch's bill clearly proved. " Why, Charley, my boy," said his father, " you seem not only to have drunk the punch, but to have swallowed the bowls afterwards." All of which would certainly cost four hundred a year more. Thus we have brought Charley up to nine hundred a year, without mentioning any other items of ex- travagance ; whereas his allowance was sti'ictly limited to 350/. It became necessary for Master Charley to leave the University. The governor had just had in a few little bills from Charley's elder brother Jim, in the 140th Dragoons ; and so he had heard enough of the army just then. Law and physic were denied to Charley from incapacity and idleness ; and, as there did not seem to be any reasonable hope of fitting Charley, with his habits, for a cure of souls at a le-s expense than some five thousand pounds, it was considered that, taking risks into consideration, the Church would barely pay the interest on the money. Therefore there was nothing to do but for him to go to Australia. The discovery of that vast continent which we call Australia is an important era in the history of the world. For it opened, in the first place, a career for young gentlemen possessed of every virtue, save those of continence, sobriety, and industry, THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 239 who did n*t choose to walk and could n't afford to ride ; and, viewed from this jmint, its discovery ranks next in irn[)ortance after the invention of s^oda-water, — a sort of way of escaping cheaply from the consequences of dehauchery for a time. But not only did the new country turn out to be the most wonder- fully scentless cesspool for a vast quantity of nameless rubbish, convicted and unconvicted ; but it gave an opening also for really honest, u})right fellows like Charles Morton, with no more faults than the best of us, excei)t the very great one of being educated in such a way that no possible career is open to them. What is a fellow to do if his father chooses to play his game of whist with fourteen cards, and if he happens to be the fourteenth ? The very qualities which made Charles a most expensive and useless, though highly ornamental, piece of furniture at home, caused him to be a most useful and valuable commercial partner among the Bucolic, almost in those times Nomadic, aristocracy of the new land. The same spirit that took Charley's Norman ancestors to Jerusalem took Charley to the Conamine. Charles Morton is our very greatest pioneer. Neither Gil Maclean (brother of Colonel Maclean, — " Red " Maclean, as he is gen- erally called) nor Corny Kelly, the most popular man in the colony with men and women, can compare with Charley as a pioneer. The two Celts are as brave as he, but they both fail in the point of temper. Both the Highlander and the Irish- man are too hot with the blacks, and embroil themselves with them. Charles Morton has Charles Sturt's beautiful patient temper. Like him, he can walk quietly among the wretched savages, and, with fifty spears aimed quivering at his heart, and ready to fly at any moment, can sit quietly down and begin to laugh, and laugh on until they begin to laugh too. His two noble friends, Maclean and Kelly, can't do this. Their Celt blood is too pure : in convivial moments they chaff Charley with having a cross of Saxon in him ; and, if they knew the truth, they would hug themselves on their sagacity. The.^e qualities of Charles Morton have been so highly appre- ciated that he is at this moment the most important partner in the '' Northwest Company " ; of which company, consisting of eight wealthy men, James Oxton is the most active manager. Charles Morton, married, as we know from former passages of this book, Lady Ilillyar's elder sister, and so is James Oxton's brother-in-law. I suppose that, as this thriftless horse-riding dandy stands there on the deck, talking to Abiram Pollifex, he is worth from fifty to sixty thousand pounds. There sits my mother on the deck, too, with the children lying about on her skirts, or propping themselves up against her, as if she were a piece of furniture. My mother's mind has returned 2-iO THE UILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. to its old peaceful lethargic state once more. On the occasion of Fred's casting himself down the skyliglit on 'to the top of the second-ciiltin dinner-t:il)le, she remarked that it was cheering to know that all the houses in Australia were of one story, and that the great trouble of lier life would soon be over. And, taking care of poor Joe, who is very ailing and weak, low in mind and body, and needs all her care (and will need more ol' it yet, I see, with a falling countenance), there sits Emma in the sunshine working, and Erne has just come and leant over her, and is speaking to her. I wonder what he is saying. Some commonplace ; for she only smiles, and then goes wearily on with her work. Such were the new acquaintances with whom we began our uew life in the new land. How long we have gossiped about them, these odd people and their histories ! so long, that we have been four months on the restless sea, and now there is a different scent in the air. Ha ! here is the first messenger from the shore. A fly, — a blue-bottle fly; for he buzzes, and is difficult to catch, and bangs his idiotic head against the glass; in all respects a blue- bottle, save, oh wonderful fact ! that he is brown. Yes, he is the first instance of those parallel types, reproduced in different col- ors, and with trifling differences, — so small as to barely consti- tute a fresh species, — and the origin of which is such a deep deep wonder and mystery to me to this day. Tell me, O Dar- win, shall we know on this side of the grave why or how the Adiancum Nigrum and Asplenium capillis Veneris, have repro- duced themselves, or, to be more correct, have produced ghosts and fetches of themselves at the antipodes ? I have seen icebergs and cyclones, and many things ; but I never was so lost in puzzled wonder as I was that afternoon when I found Asplenium viride growing in abundance on the volcanic boulders, at the foot of Mirugish. It was Sunday afternoon, and I went home and thought about it, and I am thinking about it still.* But see ; a new morn arises, and flushes a crimson and purple lisfht, in loner streamers, aloft to the zenith ; and we are sailing slowly along under high-piled forest capes, more strange, more majestic, and more infinitely melancholy than anything w^e have seen in our strangest dreams. What is this awful, dim, mysteri- ous land, so solemn and so desolate ? This is Australia. * Australian Asplenium Viride cannot be distinguished; no more can Austra- lian Woodsia Hyperborea. THE HILLYARS AND TUE BURTONS. 241 CHAPTER XLV. GERTY IN SOCIETY. Those wliom one has asked say that it is easy enough for any cue with either brains, or money, or manners, to see a great deal of society in London, — to be, in fact, in the room with the very greatest people in tlie land, to be presented to them, and speak to them, — and yet not to be in society at all, in one sense of the word. If this is so, as there is no disputing, we should say that, if ever people were in this predicament, those two people were George and Gerty. The season after his father's death, George went to London, refurnished the house in Grosvenor Square, filled the balconies with flowers, had new carriages, horses, and servants, made every preparation for spending double his income, and then sat down to wait for society to come and be hos})itably entertained with the best of everything which money could buy. Society had quite enough to eat and drink elsewhere. It wanted to know first who this Sir George Hillyar was, — wliich \vas easily found out from the Tory whip, and from Burke. Next it wanted to know who his wife was ; and it discovered that she was a mulatto woman (alas, poor Gerty!), or something of that kind. And, lastly, there was a most general and persistent in- quiry whether you did not remember some very queer story about this Sir George Hillyar ; and the answer to this was, among the oldsters, that there was something deused queer, and that no one seemed to remember the fact. But, of course, they were by no means without acquaintances. Old Sir George had been too highly respected for that, though he had utterly withdrawn himself from the world. So by degrees they began to creep into society. The world found that George was a gentleman, with a scornful, silent, proud, and somewhat pirate-like air about him, which was decidedly attractive. As for Gerty, the world stood and gazed on her with speechless wonder. After Easter, to hear this wonderful Lady Hillyar talk was one of the things one must do. Her wonderful incomprehensible bab- ble was so utterly puzzling that the very boldest wits were afraid to draw her out for the amusement of any company, however se- lect. No one knew whether she was in earnest or not, and her slang was such a very strange one. Besides, what she would say next was a thing which no one dared to predict, and was too great a risk to be rashly ventured on, even by the very boldest. A few 11 P 242 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. women made her out and began to like her ; and her wonderfui beauty could not have failed to win many in the long-run ; still, during their fir^t and last season in London, this was the sort of thing which used to be heard in doorways, and on the landings of stairs : — " That 's a devihsh pretty little woman in white." ''What, Lady Georgina Rumbold?" " Lord, no. The little woman in white calico, next but one to her. The woman who is all over Cape jessamine. Is she going to dance with the sweeps ? Who is she ? " "That? That is Lady Hillyar," says No. 2. " What, the little woman who swears ? " " She don't swear," says No. 2. " I wish she would ; there would be some chance of fiudinsj out what she was talking about." " I heard that she was a mulatto woman," says No. 1, " and swore Hke a trooper." " jShe is not a mulatto woman," says No. 3. " She is a French Creole heiress from New Orleans. Her husband is the original of Roland Cashel, in Lever's last novel. He married her out there, while he was in the slave-trade ; and now his governor 's dead, and he has come into twenty thousand a year." " You are not quite right, any of you," says No. 4, who has just come up. " Li the first place. Sir George Hillyar's income is not, to my certain knowledge, more than three thousand, — the bulk of the property having been left to his brother Erne, who is living at Susa with Polly Burton, the rope-dancer from Vauxhall. And, in the next place, when he had to fly the country, he went to Botany Bay, and there married the pretty little doll of a thing sitting there at this moment, the daughter of a convict, who had been transported for — " For ratting before his master, I suppose, my lord," said Sir George Hillyar, just looking over his shoulder at the unhappy Peelite, and then passing quietly on into the crowd. But, in spite of George's almost insolent insouciance, and Ger- ty's amazing volubility in describing her equally amazing expe- riences, this couple, queer though they were pronounced, were getting on. Kind old Lady Ascot fell in love with Gerty, and asked her and her husband to Ranford. The Dowager Lady Hainault, seeing that her old enemy had taken up this little idiot, came across to see if she could get a " rise " out of Gerty. Gerty rewarded Lady Ascot's kindness by telling old Lady Hainault, before a select audience, that she did n't care a hang tor a hand's going on the burst for a spell, provided he war n't saucy in his drink. Her hopeless silliness, now that she was removed from the influence of those two thoroughbred ladies, Mrs. Oxton and JNlrs. Morton, was certainly very aggravating. It was foolish in Mrs. Oxton to trust her out of her sight. THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 243 Things went on tlius for no less tlian two years. Gerty, hav- ing no idea but that she was as much sought after as any one else, and that she was so on account of her social ((ualities actively, was perfectly contented and happy. She found out, of course, that certain houses were more dillicult to ijet into than others ; so, if she was asked to a party at Cheshire House, she would be rav- ished, and write a long account of it to James and Aggy, and would read this, with the greatest delight, in the Pahncrston Sentinel, six months after it was sent to her by her sister : — "We understand that our late reigning beauty, Lady Ilillyar, who, as Miss Gertrude Neville, astonished our colony by show- ing us that there was one being in the world more beautiful than Mrs. Buckley of Garoopna, has fluttered the dovecotes of the British aristocracy most considerably, by her debut at Cheshire House. It is possible that, if anything can bring the present Government to its senses about their hellish design of continuing transportation to these unhappy islands, that purpose may be ac- complished by the contemplation of, &c., &c., &c." On the other hand, if she was not asked, she would console herself by telling Baby that the Duchess was a nasty odious old thing, and that her wig was the color of tussac grass in January. Sometimes she would have a yearning for her old Australian home, which would hold her for a day or two, — during which time she would be very low and tearful, and would keep out of George's way. But, after having poured all her sorrows and vain regrets into Baby's ear, she would become cheerful once more, and the fit would pass ofT. What she would have done without this precious baby to talk to I dread to think. Her mind would have gone, I suspect. She is not the first woman who has been saved from madness by a baby. By the time that Baby, just now called Kittlekins, short for its real name, George (George, — Georgy-porgy, — Porgy, — Poggy, — Pug, — Pussy ; Kitty Kittles, — Kittlekins ; by what process of derivation his later and more permanent name of Bumbles was evolved, I confess myself at a loss to explain), just when Bumbles Was getting^ old enoucvc to- wards her, the noise he made iniglit enable her to open tlie door without being heard. If he saw her, why then slie had merely come to coax him up stairs. She opened the door stealthily and passed in, quite unnoticed. George was sitting before the escri- toire, — the same one in which his father's will had been kept. He had a revolver beside him, and was reading a letter, — a very long letter of many sheets, — the letter of that morning, — and every now and then uttering a fierce oath or exclamation. She slid behind a curtain and watched. She wanted to know where he would put the letter. She was undetermined how to act, and was beginning to think whether it would not be better to open the door suddenly and come laughing in, as if by acci- dent, when, as she stood barefooted and breathless behind her cur- tain watching her husband reading the letter which she believed to be from Mrs. Xalder, her cunning little eye made a discovery. There was one drawer of the secretary open, — one of the secret drawers, which she had seen open frequently, and knew the trick of perfectly, as did probably every one who had once looked at it for an instant. It seemed so evident to her that George had taken Mrs. Nalder's letter from that drawer, and so certain that he would put it back there again, that she was quite satisfied to wait no longer, and so stole silently and successfully out of the room once more ; and, when George came up to bed soon after, she api>eared to awake with a sweet smile. " Good heavens ! " she said to herself, " he looks like death." And he looked like death in the morning. He was so abso- lutely silent that he seemed to be possessed of a dumb devil, and he looked utterly scared and terrified. She heard him give or- ders to the pad groom, which showed that he was going out, but would be home to lunch. She asked him where he was going, and he simply answered, " To Croydon." His horse's feet were barely silent in the yard, when she was at the old secretary. The drawer was opened, and the letter was in her hand before George was out of the park. At the first glance at it, she saw that it was not from Mrs. Nalder, or from any woman, but was written in a man's hand. When she saw this, her conscience pricked her for one moment. It was not a secret in her department. She had a right to open a woman's letter to her husband, but she had no right here. Curiosity pre- vailed, and she sat down and read the letter we give in the next chapter. It is hard to say how much she understood of it, but quite enough to make her hastily rejjlace it in the drawer ; to stand for an instant stupefied with horror, and then to rush wildly up stairs, seize baby to her bosom, and turn round, her eyes gleaming with the ferocity of sheer terror, at bay against tho enemy. 216 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. CHAPTER XLVI. THE LETTER, WHICH WAS NOT FROM MRS. NALDER. *' Sir, — I am about to write to you the longest letter which I have ever written in my life, and, I make bold to say, one of the strangest letters ever written by one man to another. " Sir George, you will find me, in this letter, assuming an in- dignant and injured tone ; and at first you will laugh at such an idea, — at the idea of a man so deeply steeped in crime as I am having any right to feel injury or injustice ; but you will not laugh at the end, Sir George. If your better feelings don't pre- vent you doing that, what I have to tell you will put you into no laughing mood. '^ Who ruined me, sir ? Who brought me, a silly and impres- sible young man, into that hell of infamy, which was called a private tutor's ? Was I ever a greater scoundrel than Mottes- font, who forged his own father's name ; was I ever so great a blackg'uard as Parkins? No. I should have been cobbed in the hulks if I had been. Why, the only honest man in that miserable house when we first went there (save our two selves) was the poor old idiot of a tutor, who knew no more of the ante- cedents of his two pupils than your father did. " And then did not I see you, the handsome merry young gen- tleman whom I followed for good-will and admiration, laughing at them, seeming to admire them, and thinking them fast fellows, and teaching me to do the same ? Was not I made minister of your vice ? And, lastly, Sir George Hillyar, — I am going to speak out, — when I saw you, the young gentleman I admired and looked up to, when I saw you, — I can say it to-day after what I know now, — Forge, can you be the man to cast a rob- bery in my teeth ? Am I worse than you ? " (Sir George had lit a cigar when he had read so far. " Is that the little game .'' " he said. " The man's brain is softening. Why, old Morton, the keeper, knows all about that. But there is a lot more in reserve ; three or four pages. Now I do wonder how he is going to try and raise the wind out of me. He is a fool for mentioning that old business, because it will only make me angry, and he can't appear without being packed off to the colony in irons for life. Oh, here is more sentimentality, hey ? ") " Knowing all I have known, Sir George, have I ever at- THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 247 tempted to trade on it ? Never. Have n't T, rogne, wretch, and dog, as I am, witli hell begun in this world for me, — luiven't I been faitiiful and true to you ? What did I ever have from you before that thirty pounds you gave me in Palmerston hist year ? You surely owed me as much as that ; you surely owed Julia's husband as much as that. You received me then like a villain and a thief. I came to you humbly, and was glad to see your face again, for your face was dear to me till last night, Sir George. And you broke out on me, and bullied me, assuming that I was going to swindle you. " If it had n't been for the reception you gave mc then I would never have deceived you, and come to England. I would have stopped at Perth ; for the tale I told you was true ; but the wind was fair, and I was angry with you, and old England was before me, and so I did not go on shore. What have I done which warrants you in doing what you have done to me ? Sir George Hillyar, sir, a master scoundrel like me knows as much or more than a leading detective. You know that. Last night. Sir George, it came to my knowledge that you had offered two hun- dred guineas for my apprehension." (" Confound the fellow, I wonder how he found that out," said Sir George. " How very singular it is his trying to take me in with these protestations of affection. I thought him shrewder. I must have him though. I am sorry to a certain extent for the poor devil, but he must stand in the dock. All that he chooses to say about the past there will go for nothing ; he will be only rebuked by the court. But if he goes at large he may take to anonymous letter-writing, or something of that kind. And he really does know too much. That 's what Morton, the keeper, so sensibly said, when he advised me to do it. Yes, let him say what he has got to say in the dock, in the character of a returned convict.") " That is to say, Sir George, in sheer unthinking cowardice, or else because you wished to stamp all I had to say as the in- sane charges of a desperate man, you deliberately condemned me, who had never harmed you, to a fate infinitely more horrible than death, — to the iron gang for life ; calculating, as I have very little doubt, — for you as a police inspector know the con- vict world somewhat; — on my suicide. Now Sir George, who is the greatest villain of us two ? Now, have I not got a case againsL you ? " (Sir George's face darkened, and he looked uneasy. " This fellow is getting dangerous. But I shall have him to-night ? ") "Now, Sir George, please attend to me, and I will toll you a story, — a story which will interest you very deeply. I wish first of all, my dear sir, — in order to quicken your curiosity, — 248 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. to allude to the set of sapphires valued at some eiglit hundred pounds, and the set of cameos valued at nearly two thousand pounds, which, to Mr. Compton's great surprise, were not found among your late father's eifects at his most lamented demise. Do you remember discovering, while Mr. Compton and you were arranging papers, in the very front of the old black secretary, a bundle of pink and highly-scented love-letters, written in an elegant lady's hand, addressed to your father, and signed * Mary ? ' The one, unless I forget, which contained the tress of auburn hair, was the one in which Mary thanked her dearest old Georgy Poggy for the heautifal, beautiful set of blue stones ; and the one in which was the sprig of Cape jessamine was full of warm expressions of gratitude for the noble, the princely present of the cameos. I admii-e the respect which you and Mr. Compton showed for the memory of your late father, in saying nothing about the love-letters, and in letting the sapphires and cameos go quietly to the devil. A scandalous liaison in a man of your late father's age is best kept quiet. It is not re- spectable." (" How the dense did he find this out ? " said George.) " Now, my dear sir, I beg to inform you that your dear father was utterly innocent of this ' affair.' He always was a very clean liver, was Sir George. I '11 speak up for him, because he seems bitterly to have felt that he had n't done his duty by me, and was in some sort answerable for my misdemeanors, in sending me to that den of iniquity in your company. But about these love-letters ; they were written, under my direction, by a young female of good education, but who, unhappily, knows pretty near as much of the inside of Newgate as she does of the out- side ; they were put in that escritoire by my own hand, ready for you to find tliem. And, as for the sapphires and cameos, why I stole them, sold them, have got the money, and am going into business with it in Palmerston." ('•' The dense you are," said George. " Is he mad ? or is there something coming? I must have some brandy. I am fright- ened." He drank half a tumbler of brandy, and then went on with the letter.) " If you ask me how, I will tell you. Lay down this letter a moment, take a table-knife, go outside of the pantry window (a latticed one, as you will remember), and raise the latch with the knife ; that will explain a great deal to you. I resume. " I came on to Eugland, as you know, and we had to beat up for Rio, leaky. From thence 1 wrote by tlie Tay steamer to my son Reuben, telling him to look out for me. That noble lad, sir, was as true as steel. He was living at the top of my cousin's house at Chelsea, and he took me in at every risk, and was most THE IIILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 249 faithful and dutiful. Use that boy well, Sir George, and it shall be well with you. " You know what I got involved in there. I began to see that there were some in that business far too clumsy for me^ and I tried to get out of it. I thought of Stanlake. I had robbed the house once, and I meant to do it again. I knew what a terrible lot of property there was loose in that house. I began getting into that house through the pantry window; I got in, iirst and last, eight times. "I knew enough to know that the black escritoire was my mark, and I worked at that. I found out your father's trick of sitting up, and dozing off uneasily, and it was the cause of much danger to me. I have been in the room with him several times when he was snoring; and dozinsf in his chair, before I could get a chance at the lock, and then I failed the first time. The next night I came with other skeleton keys and got it open. That night I got the sapphires and the cameos, which I have seen your mother wear often. Sir George ; and the next morn- ing, Reuben being safe at Stanlake, I wrote to the police, and laid them on to the crib at Church Place, Chelsea." C' Are there two devils," said George, aghast, " or is this the true and only one.") " Sir, you may have thought that near three thousand pounds was enough to content me, but it was not. I wanted the dia- monds; the whole affair (I will not use thieves' Latin to you, sir) was so safe, and there was such an absolute certainty of impunity about it, that I felt a kind of triumph, not unmixed with amusement. I came back after the diamonds ; and the night I came back after the diamonds was the very night your poor dear pa died." (George was so sick and faint now that the brandy had but little effect on him, but after a time he went on.) " That night, sir, I got in as usual with my boots in my pocket. Old Simpson was fast asleep in a chair in the little drawing- room as usual. I waited a long while outside the library door, longer than usual, until I heard Sir George snore ; and then, at the very first sound of it, I passed quickly and safely in. " He was sleeping very uneasily that night, sometimes snoring, and sometimes talking. I heard him mention Mr. Erne's name very often, and once or twice Mr. Erne's mother's name. Then he mentioned your name, sir, and he said more than once, ' Poor George ! Poor dear George ! ' to my great surprise, as you may su|>pose. '• Then I looked at the secretaiy, and it w\as oi)en ; and on the desk of it was lying a deed. I stepped up, and saw it was his will. I opened it, and read it, for it was very short. Eight 11* 250 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. thousand a year to Mr. Erne, and Stanlake to you. I had just heard him say, ' Poor dear George ! ' in his sleep ; and I thought of you sir, — before God I did, unkind as you liad been to me. I said, If I put this in my pocket, he must make a new one, and then it may be better for ' Poor dear George.' And, as T thought that, I heard a noise and looked up, and saw tliat he had silently awaked, had caught up a sword from the rack o\er the fire-place, and was close on me. " He was very unsteady, and looked very ghastly, but he recognized me in an instant, and called me by my name. 1 easily eluded him, and made swiftly for the door, — he catching up the candle and following me down the passage, calling out in the most awful voice for Reuben to come and help him. " I made for the kitchen, and he after me, quicker than I reckoned on. The kitchen was so dark that I got confused among the furniture, and began to get frightened, and think that I had gone too far in my rashness. Before I could clear out of it, he came reeling in, and saw me again. He threw his sword at me, and fell heavily down, putting out the light. " I was in the pantry, and at the window in one moment. As I got it open, I knocked down some glasses, and at the same moment heard Simpson in the kitchen shouting for help. " I w^as deeply grieved on hearing next day that your poor pa was found dead. It is very dreadful to be took off like that in a moment of anger ; called to your last account suddenly in an un- charitable frame of mind, without one moment given for repent- ance or prayer. I thank Heaven that I can lay my hand on my heart at this moment, and say that I am in peace and charity with all men, and can await my summons hence calmly, and without anxiety. My spiritual affairs are in perfect order. Sir George. Oh, that you too would take warning before it is too late! " And now, with regard to my worldly affairs. Sir George. I am sorry to trouble you, but I must have those traps took off my trail immediate, if you please. You will, of course, lose no time about that^ seeing that, should anything happen to me, of course Mr. Erne would immediately come into four-fifths of your income, with a claim for a year's rents. In short, Sir George, I have it in my power to ruin you utterly and irretrievably ; and, when it came to my knowledge last night that you, having heard of my return from France, had set the traps upon me, I got in such a fury that I teas haJf-way to Compton's office with it before I could think what I was about. If it had been half-a-mile nearer, you would have been lost. You know what my temper is at times, and you must be very careful. " This is all I have to trouble you with at present. I am not THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 2-31 in waut of any pecuniary assistance. My affairs are, on the whole, prosperous. I shall, by retainin^jj possession of your father's will, render our interests identical. Meanwhile, sir, I thank you for your kindness to my son Reuben. You will never have a hard bargain to drive with me as long as you are kind to him." CHAPTER XLVII SIR GEORGE HILLYAR STARTS ON HIS AD\T:NTURE. One scarcely likes to look too closely into the volcano of ter- ror and fury which began to heave and gleam in Sir Georore Hillyar's mind when he read this. The biscuit-like walls of old craters stand up for centuries, heaving beautiful, scornful pin- nacles aloft into the blue of heaven ; and the grass grows on the old flame-eaten, vitrified rocks, in the holes of whicli the native cats and copper lizards live and squabble, and say things behind one another's backs ; and people have pic-nics there ; and lost sheep feed there, and waken strange startling echoes in the dead silence of the summer noon by their solitary bleat ; and the eagle comes sometimes and throws his swift passing shadow across the short grass ; and all goes on peacefully, until folks notice that a white, round-topped cloud hangs high aloft over the hill, and stays there ; and then some one says that the cloud is red at night on the lower edge ; and then some fine morning down slides the lip of the old crater, crash, in unutterable ruin, and away comes the great lava stream hissing through the vine- yards, and hell is broken loose once more. So now the bank of loose scorice, — now, alas ! a thing of the past, — which had been built up by time, by want of temptation, by his love of his wife, by the company of such people as the Oxtons, by desire for the applause of society, round tiie seetliing fire which existed in George liillyar, and which some say — and who is he bold enough to deny it? — is in all of us, had broken down utterly. Suddenly, when at the height of prosperity, a prosperous gen- tleman, just winning his way into thorough recognition from the world, after all he had gone through ; at this very moment hew. But she went to the window, for she knew that she could see him ride across a certain piece of glade in the park a long distance 2o6 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. off. She had often watched for him here. It reminded her of the first time she had ever seen him, at the Barkers'. They had made him out a long distance off by his careless, graceful seat, and had said, " That is Hillyar." So she had seen him the first time four years before, when he had come riding to woo ; so she saw him now for the last time forever. She saw the familiar old figure ride slowly across the open space in the distance and disappear ; and she felt that she loved him still, and burst out wildly weeping, and cried out vainly, " George ! George ! come back to me, darling ! and I will love you all the same ! " A vain, vain cry. He passed out of her sight and was gone forever. CHAPTER XLVIII. JAMES BURTON'S STORY : THE FORGE IS LIT UP ONCE MORE. I HAVE no doubt that I should have been very much aston- ished by everything I saw, when I first found solid ground under my feet, and looked round to take my first view of Australia. I was prepared for any amount of astonishment : I will go further, I was determined to be astonished. But it was no good. The very first thing I saw, on the wharf, was Mrs. Bill Avery, in a blue cloth habit, with a low-crowned hat and feather, riding a three-quarters bred horse, and accompanied by a new, but de- voted husband, in breeches, butcher's boots, a white coat, and a cabbage-tree hat ! That cured me of wondering. I pointed her out to my moth- er, and she gave utterance to the remarkable expressions which I have described her as using, when I mentioned this wonderful rencontre almost at the beginning of my narrative : in addition to which, as I now remember, she said that you might knock her down with a feather, — which must be considered as a trope, or figure of speech, because I never saw a woman of any size or age stronger on her legs than my mother. Yes, the sight of Mrs. Bill Avery, thai was " a cockhorse," as Fred expressed it in his vigorous English, took all the wondering faculty out of me for a long time, or 1 should have wondered at many things ; such as, why I should have begun thinking of a liberal and elegant caricature I had in my possession, of the Pope of Rome being fried in a frying-pan, and the Devil peppering THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 257 liiin out of a pepper-box ; but this was not very wonderful, con- s'ulering that tlie tliermometer stood 120° in tlie shade, that it was bh)\viiig half a gale from the northward, and that the flying dust was as big as peas. I might have wondered why INIr. Secretary Oxton, tliat great and awful personage, sat upon the shafts of an empty dray, ju>t as you or I miglit have done ; and why, since he was so very glad to see Messrs. Dawson, Pollifex, and Morton, he did n't get up and come forward to shake hands with them, but contented himself by bellowing out welcomes to them from a distance from under his white umbrella ; and why tliose three gentlemen, the moment they had shaken hands with him, and with Erne the moment they were introduced to him, sat down instantly, as though it were a breach of etiquette to stand on your feet. Why, once more, I felt exactly as though I had been doing a hard day's work on a hot day in August, whereas I had only stepped out of a boat, and given a hand, among ten more, to moving our things into a pile on the wharf. Why did I feel contented and stupid and idle, although the sand was filling my eyes and ears? Moreover, although I am now accustomed to the effects of a northerly wind, I wonder to this day why I was n't surprised at this. There approached us rapidly along the wharf a very tall and very handsome lady, dressed most beautifully, who bore down on us, followed by two laboring men, whom I knew, in an instant, by their faces, to be Irishmen. This lady pointed out us and our baggage to the Irishmen, who immediately began taking it away piece by piece on a truck, without one single word, while the lady stood and looked at us complacently. We did not interfere. It was probably all right. It might be, or might not be ; but, after Mi-s. Bill Avery in a hat and feathers, on a high-stepping horse, the laws of right and wrong, hitherto supposed to be fixed and immutable principles, had become of more than questionable validity. Here, in this country, with this hot wind, it might be tlie duty of these Irishmen to steal our luggage, and we might be culpably neglecting ours by not aiding and abetting thera. If you think I am talking nonsense, tiy the utter bodily and moral prostration which is induced by a heat of 125° in the shade, and the spectacle of. a convict driving by in a carriage and pair. The lady stood and looked at Emma, my mother, and myself, sole guardians of the luggage, except the children and Martha, with infinite contentment. Once she turned to one of the Irisli- men, and said, " Tim, ye'd best tell Mrs. Dempsey that she 'd better hurry and get their tay ready for um," but then she re- sumed her gaze, and I noticed that Emma seemed to meet her views amazingly. At last she spoke. 258 THE HILLY AKS AND THE BURTONS. " Your brother Joe would like to see the prorogun, may be, my dear. I'll get um an order from James Oxtoii or some of 'em, if he 's on shore in time. It 's lucky I got Gerty's letter overland, or I 'd not have expected you, and ye'd have had to go to the barx." I soon understood the state of affairs. Lady Hillyar had writ- ten to the lady before us, "' Miss Burke " ; and she had taken a house for us, and had taken as much pains to make everything comfortable for our reception as if we were her own relations. When Joe's abilities were appreciated, and the battle royal was fought, our intimate relations with the Irish party, to most of whom we were bound by ties of gratitude for many kindnesses, — kindnesses we should never have received but for the affectionate devotion of this good woman towards the friends of all those whom she had ever loved, — enabled both Joe and myself to take a political position which would otherwise have been impossible. But we are still on the wharf. I waited until every chattel had been carried off by the Irishmen, and saw my mother, Em- ma, and the children carried off in triumph by Miss Burke, who insisted on leading Fred and carrying his horse (or rather what remained of it, for the head and neck, tail, and one leg had been lost overboard at various times, and the stand and wheels were now used for a cart) ; and I prepared to wait in the dust and sun until my father, Joe, Treve thick, and Tom Williams should come ashore in the next boat. But, the moment I was alone, Erne came and led me up to the empty wool-dray, in which the leading Conservative talent of the colony had seated itself under um- brellas. " Don't tell me," the Honorable Mr. Dawson was saying en- ergetically, " I tell you, Oxton, that this is the stuff we want. / don't hold with assisted emigration. Look at that lad before you, and talk to me of labor, /say, breed it. Take and breed your labor for yourself. That 's his sweetheart going along the wharf now with old Lesbia Burke, carrying a bundle of shawls and an umbrella. Take and breed your labor for yourself." This was reassuring and pleasant for a modest youth of nine- teen standing alone before four grand gentlemen. I was reliev- ed to find that the discussion was so warm that I was only noticed by a kindly nod. Mr. Oxton said, in a voice I now heard for the first time, — a clear sharp voice, yet not wanting in what the singers call, I believe, " timbre " by any means : '' I tell you, Dawson, that I will not yield to this factious Irish cry. Every farthing of the land money which I can spare from public works shall go to the development of the resources of the colony by an artificial importation of labor. Dixi." "Very good," said Dawson, "I did hope to find you more THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 259 reasonable. Hang the resources of the colony ! "Wool is the proper resource of the colouy. I want skilled labor kep up and unskilled labor kep down. A nice thing for the squatters if mines were found here, — and mines there are, as sure as you're born. Why, I tell you, — for we 're all squatters here together, — that I 've got a piece of copper under my bed — down south — I won't mention names — as big as a quart bottle. If that was to get wind among any Cornish roughs, you 'd have shepherd's wages up to fifty pounds in a year. I don't want development ; I want " " What suits your pocket, old fellow," said Mr. Oxton, laugh- ing. *' Man, I made this colony, and I '11 stick by it. These clever Irishmen are merely raising this cry for high-priced labor and cheap land to get me out, and themselves and their friends in. I will not interfere in the price of labor by legislation -" " Riglit toorul loorul," sang the light-hearted Mr. Morton, speaking for the first time ; " and so my sweet brother-in-law spends the capital of the colony by flooding the labor market with all the uncriminal offscourings of Old England. I thank heaven / never laid claims to consistency." " Jack, you 're a fool," said Mr. Oxton. " Capital invested in importing labor pays a higher interest than that invested in any other way, even if one leaves out the question of human hap- piness ^" '' Oh ! " said the Honorable Mr. Dawson, " if you 're drove to human happiness, you 'd best make a coalition of it with Phelim O'Ryan, and have done. I 'm not a-going to rat. I '11 stick by you faithful, James Oxton. But I did not expect to have my stomach turned with that.'^ '' Well," said the Secretary, " there 's one more session ended, and I am not out yet. Come, it is full time to get towards the house. Is this the young man that Lady Hillyar speaks of, Mr. Ilillyar?" '' Oh dear no," said Erne ; " this is my friend Jim. It is his brother Joe she means." " Then perhaps you will take charge of this for your brother, Burton. If you are in by half-past four it will do. Good morninjj." And so the four statesmen rose by degrees, and walked away very slowly, under their umbrellas, along the wharf; never one of them venturing to make a remark without stopping and lean- ing against the wall fur support. If it became necessary to re- ply, the other three would also at once support themselves against the wall until the argument was finished. After which they would go slowly forward again. I found that the paper I held in my hand was an order for two 260 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. persons to be admitted into the Gallery of the House of Assem- bly, to witness the ceremony which Miss Burke had called the " prorogun." It appeared, as Erne afterwards told me, that that most good-natured little lady, Lady Hillyar, liad written to Mr. Oxton about Joe especially, telling him of his fancy for political life, and his disappointment owing to Sir George Hillyar s sud- den death. She begged her dear James to make them elect him into the Assembly immediately, as he was as much fit to be there as that dear, kind old stupid Dawson (by whom she meant my friend, the Hon. Mr. D.) was to be in the Council. Mr. Oxton could not quite do all she asked ; but, for his dear Gerty's sake, he did all he could at present, — gave Joe and myself a ticket for the prorogation of the Houses. The instant that the rest of our party got on shore with the remainder of our things, I pounced on Joe, and showed him the order. The weary, patient look which had been in his face ever since his disappointment, — and which, I had seen with regret, had only deepened through the coniinement and inertness of the voyage, — gave way at once to a brighter and more eager look, as I explained to him what kind Mr. Oxton had done for him. " Jim, dear," he said, taking my arm, " I like this as well as if any one had given me ten pounds. I want to see these colonial parliaments at work. I would sooner it had been a debate ; but I can see the class of men they have got, at all events. Let us come on at once, and get a good place." So we packed off together along the wharf; and I, not being so profoundly impressed with anticipation of the majestic spec- tacle of representative government which we were about to wit- ness as was Joe, had time to look about me and observe. And I could observe the better, because the fierce hot north wind, which all the morning had made the town like a dusty brickfield, had given place to an icy blast from the south, off the sea, which made one shiver again, but which was not strong enough to move tlie heaps of dust which lay piled, like yellow snow-wreaths at each street corner, ready for another devil's dance, to begin punc- tually at nine the next morning. The town was of magnificent proportions, as any one who has been at Palmerston within the last six years will readily allow ; but, at the time I am speaking of, the houses did not happen (with trifling exceptions) to be built. Nevertheless, the streets were wide and commodious, calculated for an immense amount of trafiic had the stumps of the old gum-trees been moved, which they wern't. There was a row of fine warehouses, built solidly with free- stone, along the wharf; but, after one had got back from the THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. 261 wharf, up the gentle rise on which the town stands, Palmerston might at that time be pronounced a patchy metropolis. At every street-corner there was a handsome buildijig ; but there were long gaps between each one and the next, occupied by half- acre lots, on which stood tenements of wood, galvanized iron, and tin, at all possible distances and at all possible angles from the main thoroughfare. As an instance, on the half-acre lot next to the branch of the Bank of New South Wales, a handsome Doric building, the proprietor had erected a slab hut, barkroofed, lying at an angle of say 35° to the street. At the further end of this, and connected with it, was a dirty old tent, standing at an angle of 35° to the slab hut. In the corner formed by these two buildings was a big dog, who lived in a tin packing case, and mortified himself by bringing blood against the sharp edges of it every time he went in and out ; and who now, after the manner of the P^ast- erns, had gone up on to the flat roof of his house in the cool of the evening, and was surveying the world. All the place was strewed with sheepskins ; and in front of all, close to the road, was an umbrella-tent, lined with green baize, in which sat the proprietor's wife, with her shoes off, casting up accounts in an old vellum book. From the general look of the place, I concluded that its owner was a fellmonger, and habitually addicted to the use of strong waters. Being thrown against him in the way of business a sliort time after, I was delighted to find that I was riglit in both particulars. I don't know that this was the queerest establishment which I noticed that day. I think not ; but I give it as a specimen, be- cause the Bank of New South Wales stands near the top of the hill ; and, when you top that hill, you are among the noble group of Government buildings, and from among them you look down over the police paddock on to the Sturt river again, which has made a sudden bend and come round to your feet. You see Government House, nobly situated on the opposite hill, and be- low you observe " The Bend," lion. J. Oxton's place, and many other buildings. But, more than all, looking westward, you see Australia, — Australia as it is, strange to say, from Cape Otway to Port Essington, more or less, — endless rolling wolds of yel- low grass, alternated with long, dark, melancholy bands of color- less forest. " Joe ! " I said, catching his arm, " Joe ! look at that." " At what ? " " Why, at that. That 's itJ' " Tliat 's what ? old man," said Joe. " Wiiy, it. The country. Australey. Lord A'mighty, ain't it awful to look at ? " " Only plains and woods, Jim," said Joe, wondering. " It is not beautiful, and I don't see anything awful in it." 262 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " But it 's so lonely," I urged. " Does any one ever go out yonder, over those plains ? Does any one live over there ? " " Yes, I suppose so," said Joe, carelessly. '' Oh yes, and miles beyond that. Come, let us get our places." The House of Assembly, — the Commons of the Colony, — was the prettiest among all the pretty group of Government buildings, and most commodiously arranged inside also, with an excellent gallery. As soon as we were seated, having about half an hour to wait, I began thinking of that desolate, wild-looking landscape I had just seen, — thinking by what wonderful acci- dent it came about that all the crime of the old country should have been sent for so many years to run riot in such a country as that. I could understand now, how any mind, brooding too long in solitude, miles away from company, among dark forests or still more dreary plains, like those, might madden itself; and also beoan to understand how the convict mind under those cir- cumstances sometimes burst forth with sudden volcanic fury, and devoured everything. " Fancy a man," I said to myself, " taking the knowledge of some intolerable wrono; into those woods with him, to nurse it until " And I began to see what had led my thoughts this way almost unconsciously, for beside me was sitting the man I had seen with Mrs. Avery. I confess that I felt a most eager curiosity to know something about this man. He was a good-looking fellow, about thirty or thereabout, with a very brown complexion, very bold eyes, and a somewhat reckless look about him. Now and afterwards I found out that he was a native of the colony, a very great stock- rider, and was principal overseer to Mr. Charles Morton. He was easily accessible, for he began the conversation. He talked for a considerable time, and of course he began to talk about horses. This was what I wanted. 1 said, I thought I saw him riding that morning on the wharf. He fell into my trap, and said Yes, he had been riding there with his wife. I was very much shocked indeed ; but I had not much time to think about it, for two ushers, coming in, announced his Excel- lency and the members of the Council. And enter his Excellency at the upper end of the room, resplendent in full uniform, ac- companied by the commandant of the forces, and Mr. Midship- man Jacks, — which latter young gentleman had, I regret to say, mischievously lent himself to an intrigue of the Opposition, and smuggled himself in at his Excellency's coat-tails, to spoil the effect. Close behind the Governor, however, came no less than sixteen of the members of the Council, headed by Mr. Secretary Oxton. And a nobler-looking set of fellows I have seldom seen together. My friend, the Hon. Mr. Dawson, was not quite so much at his ease as I could have wished him to be. THE UILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 2G3 lie turned round whenever he couglied, and did it humbly ])e- liind his hiind. He also opened the ceremony by droppini^ bis Imt, — a tall, white, hairy one, like a Frenchman's, — wliicli iiuule a hollow sound wbeu it dropped, and rolled ofT the dais into the body of the ball, and was politely restored to him by the leader of the Opposition. The members of the Assembly rose as the Governor and the Council came in. The Government members were below me ; so I could not see them ; but I had a good look at the Oppo- sition, who were directly in front of me. The man who sat nearest the Speaker's chair was evidently the leader, — the ter- rible ]Mr. Phelim O'Ryan, James Oxton's bitter enemy, of w.honi we had heard so much on the voyage. I was prepared to hate this unprincipled demagogue, and probably should have done so, if I had n't looked at him. No man could look at Phely O'Hyan, that noble, handsome, Galway giant, and not begin to like him ; and, if he got ten minutes' talk with you, — there. That is what makes the villain so dangerous. Phelim O'Ryan is talented, well read, brave, witty, eloquent, and also one of the kindest and most generous of men. But, — well, I wish sometimes he would tell you what he was going to do beforehand. It might be convenient. Lad as I was, when I looked at him that day, I still had some dim consciousness that that handsome gentleman was capable of saying a little more than he meant. But I did not look at him long; for my eyes were sud- denly riveted on the man who stood next, partly behind him, and, as I looked, whispered in his ear. A pale man, with a vastly tall, narrow forehead, great, eager eyes, and a gentle sweet face, — a face which would have won one at once, had it not been for a turn or twitch at the corner of his mouth, suggestive of vanity. A most singular-looking man, though you could hardly say why ; for the simple reason that his singularity was caused by a combination of circumstances, possibly assisted by slight affectation in dress. I had just concentrated my attention on him, when Joe, who had been talking to his neighbor, caught my arm, and said, — '• Jim, do you see the man who is whispering to O'Ryan ? " I said, '• I 'm looking at him." " Do you know who he is ? " " I want to, most extra particular," I answered, " for a queerer card I never saw turned." " 3Iau ! " said Joe, squeezing my arm, " that 's Dempsey. Dempsey, the great Irish rebel." I said, " O, ho ! " and had no eyes for any one else after this, but sat staring at the rebel with eager curiosity, or I might have wasted a glance on the man who stood next hiin, — Dr. Too- 2G4 THE HILLY ARS AND THE BURTONS. good, a bi, who cut Fred and Harry dead ; but in spite of their incivility, their mas- ters were very good-humored and kind, kee[)ing their cattle away from us with their terrible great stockwhips. The head stockman would always stay behind and talk to us, — sometimes for a long while, — generally asking us questions about England, — questions which seemed almost trivial to us. I remember that one wild handsome fellow, who told Emma in pure chivalrous ad- miration, that looking at her was as good as gathering cowslips ; was very anxious, when he heard we were from Chelsea, to find out if we had ever met his mother, whose name was Brown, and who lived at Putney. He was afraid something was wrong with the old lady, he said, for he had n't heard from her this ten years, and then she was seventy-five. He would go home some of these days, he added, and knock the old girl up. After a few of these expeditions, ahead of the drays, we began to take Trevittick the sulky with us. For Trevittick, thirsting madly after knowledge, in the manner of his blue-haired fellow- Phoenicians, had spent more than he could very" well afford in buying a book on the colonial flora. He now began to identify the flowers as fast as we got them ; and, as the whole of us went at the novel amusement with a will, and talked immensely about it afterwards, we attracted poor Joe's attention, and, to my great delight, he began to join us, and to enter somewhat into the pleas- ure with us. The forest continued nearly level ; the only irregularities were the banks of the creeks which we crossed at intervals of about ten miles, — chains of still ponds walled by dark shrubs, shut in on all sides by the hot forest, so that no breath of air troubled their gleaming surface. But, when a hundred miles were gone, the land began to rise and roll into sharp ascents and descents ; and one forenoon we came to a steep and dangerous hill. And, while we were going cautiously down through the thick hanging trees, we heard the voice of a great river lushing through the wood below us. As we stru^ijled through it, with the cattle belly-deep in the tuibiil green water, we had a glimpse riglit and left of a glorious glen, high piled with gray rocks, with trees hanging in every cranny and crag, and solemn pines which shot their slender shafts aloft, in confused interlacing groups, beautiful beyond expression. Only for a minute did we see this divine glen ; instantly after, we were struggling up the opposite cliff', in the darksome forest once more. 278 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. " Why," I asked one of tlie bullock drivers, who volunteered that evening to show me a place to bathe, " why is the water so ghastly cold ? I can scarcely swim." " Snow, mate, snow. This water was brought down from Mount Poniatowski by yesterday's sun." The next morning the scene changed strangely, and Trevittick walked like one in a dream. As we went up a hill we saw the light between the tree stems at the top, and the wind began to come more freshly to our cheeks. When we reached the sum- mit the forest had come to an end, and we were looking over into Flinders Land. A glorious country indeed ; sheets of high rolling down, and vast stretches of table-land, bounded by belts of forest, and cut into by deep glens everywhere, — channels for the snow-water from the mountains. Two o-reat lakes gleamed among: dark o O o woodlands at different elevations, and far to the left was a glimpse of distant sea. A fair, beautiful, smiling land, and yet one of the most awful the eye ever rested on : for there was one feature in it which absorbed all the others, and made waving wood, gleaming lake, and flashing torrent but secondary objects for the eye to rest on, — just as the ribbed cliffs of stone which form the nave of Winchester, make the chantries of Wykeham and Edyngton appear like children's toys. Far to the right, towering horrible and dark, rose, thousands of feet in the air, high above everything, a scarped rampart of dolomite, as level as a wall ; of a lurid gray color with deep brown shadows. It dominated the lower country so entirely that the snow mountains beyond were invisible for it, and noth- ing gave notice of their presence but a lighter gleam in the air, above the dark wall. It stretched away, this wall, into the fur- thest distance the eye could penetrate. It had bays in it, and sometimes horrid rents, which seemed to lead up into the heart of the mountains, — rents steep and abrupt, ending soon and suddenly, — glens bounded with steep lawns of gleaming green. Sometimes it bent its level outline down, and then from the low- est point of the dip streamed eternally a silver waterfall, which, snow-fed, waxed and waned as the sun rose or fell. But there hung the great rock wall, frowning over the lovely country be- low ; like Pitt's face at the last ; reflecting in some sort of way smiles of sunshine and froAvns of cloud, yet bearing the ghastly look of Austerlitz through it all. So for twelve days this dark rampart haunted us, and led our eyes to it at all times, never allowing us to forget its presence. In the still cool night it was black, in the morning it was purple, at noon it was heavy pearly gray, and at sunset gleaming copper- color. Sometimes, when we were down in a deep glen, or cross- THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 279 ing some rushing river, we could only catch a glimpse of the level wall cutting the bright blue sky ; sometimes, again, when we were aloft on a breezy down, the whole of the great ram- part would be in sight at once, stretching north and south as far as the eye could reach ; but for twelve days it bent its ghastly frown upon us, until wo grew tired of it, and wished it would end. At last it ended. Gradually, for three days, a peaked moun- tain grew upon our sight, until we reached it, and began passing over the smooth short turf which formed its glacis; a mountain which rose out of the lower land in advance of, and separate from, the great wall which I have been describing ; a mountain which heaved a smooth sharp cone aloft out of the beautiful slate country through which we had been travelling, and whose apex pierced the heavens with one solitary needle-like crag. It was the last remnant of the walls of the old lava crater, of a volcano which had been in action long after the great cliff, which we had watched so long, had been scorched and ruined into its present form. The men called the peak Nicnicabarlah ; and, when we had rounded the shoulder of it, we saw tliat our journey's end was near ; for a beautiful fantastic mountain range hurled itself abruptly into the sea across our path, and barred our further pro- gre-^s, and as soon as we sighted it the men called out at once, '* There you are, mates ; there is Cape Wilberforce ! " " Cape Trap," growded Trevittick. " I 'm blowed if I ever see such a game as tins here. There should be something or another hereabout. — Tom Williams, don't be a fool, showing off with that horse. He ain't your 'n, and you can't ride him ; so don't rattle his legs to bits." Trevittick was always surly when he was excited, and, to lead away his temper from Tom, I began asking questions of the men. " Where is the town of Romilly ? " " Down to the left, between the timber and the plain, along- side of the Erskine river ; the little river Brougham joins it just above the town. The Brougham rises in the mountains, and comes down through Barker's Gap. This is Barker's Gap we are passing now, the valley between Nicnicabarlah and the Cape Wilberforce mountain. There was a great fight with bush-rang- ers hereabouts a year or two back, when young Inspector Plill- yar finished three on 'em single-handed. He was a sulky, ill-conditioned beast, but a good-plucked 'un. He married IVIiss Neville ; he used to come courting after her to Barker's. That 's Baiker's down yonder." He pointed to a cluster of gray roofs in a break in the forest down below, and very soon after our whole caravan began to 280 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. descend one of the steep, rocky gullies which led from the shoul- der of the volcano towards the sea, and very shortly came into beautiful open forest-country, with a light sandy soil, the grass thin, but not wanting in abundance, and the ground intersected by innumerable dry watercourses. There was a new mountain just in this place which attracted pur notice, — a little mountain, but wonderfully abrupt and pic- turesque, with high castellated crags. It was such a very lovely little mountain that Trevittick, Tom Williams, Joe, and I, started off to go a little way up it. A beautiful little mountain ; tumbled boulders round the base, and steep escarpments of gray stone above, feathered with those trees which the colonists call cherries, but which we will in future call cypresses, for the sake of English readers.* Trevittick got on the hill first, and, having taken up a bit of rock, said, " Well, I 'm blowed," and seemed inclined to hurl it at Tom Williams, who was helping Joe to hunt a grasshopper about four inches long. To save an explosion I went up to him, and he unbur- dened his heart to me. " AYhy," he said, " it 's granite'' I said I was very glad to hear it, but he turned on me so sharply that I was almost afraid I had made a mistake, and that I ought to have said that I had dreaded as much from the first. But after a somewhat contemptuous glance at me, he w^ent on, — " Yes, it 's granite, or the substitute for it used in these 'ere parts. But it ain't felspathic-looking enough to suit 77iy stomach, so I don't deceive you nor no other man. Tom Williams, why be you hunting locusts instead of noticing how the granite has boiled up over the clay slates? Perhaps you'd like to see a plague of 'em ; though, for that matter, nine out of the ten plagues all at once would n't astonish the cheek out of a Cock- ney, and the effect of the plague of darkness would be only tem- porary, and even that would n't only make them talk the faster." Trevittick's ill-humor showed me that he was excited, although I did not in the least know w^hy, or really care. I am afraid that at times I thought Trevittick, with all his knowledge, little better than a queer-tempered oddity. Perhaps what confirmed me in this belief, just at this time, was his way of expounding the Scriptures, which he did every Sunday morning, as I hon- estly confess, to my extreme annoyance. The moment that man got on the subject of" religion, all his shrewdness and his clever- ness seemed to desert him, and he would pour forth, for a whole hour, in a sing-song voice, a mass of ill-considered platitudes on the most solemn subjects ; in the which every sentence, almost * Exocarpus cupressiformis. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 281 every word, was twisted round to meet the lialf-dozen dogmas wliicli formed his creed. After his exposition of the fifty-second chapter of Isaiah, Joe and I declined furtlier attendance. A pleasant road, winding for miles among gently inclined for- est gullies, led us to our new home, and, while the sun was still alive in the topmost branches of the majestic trees, we came upon the inn where we were to stay for the present. There were this one inn and a few other huts and inclosed paddocks scat- tered in the half-cleared forest around, but the sounds of nature, gentle and subdued as they were upon this quiet evening, far overpowered the faint noises of human occupancy. When the drays had gone on and left us, and the cracking of the last whip had died away in the wood, and the last dog had done barking from some little shanty far among the trees ; then the air was tilled with the whistling of birds, and the gentle rush of the evening breeze among the topmost boughs ; for the little river Brougham, which falls into the larger Erskine here, had ceased to babble in the drought, — was sleeping till the summer should end. CHAPTER LI. CHANGES IN THE ROMILLY HOME. Very quiet was Romilly in those old days, — so old, yet in re- ality so recent. Ah me, what a turn my world has taken since I stood in the dusty road that evening, with Emma leaning on my arm and saying, — " What a happy place, Jim. What a peaceful place. See there, there is the burial-ground through the trees. I would sooner be buried there than at Chelsea, — but — it don't much matter where, does it ? What was it Joe was reading to us out of the new book ? Something, — and there came ' And hands so often clasped with mine Should toss with tangle and with shells.' I cannot remember any more, but it was about hearing the feet of those who loved you pass over your grave." ]My father and mother were two people who carried home about with them. Those two people, sitting together, would have made it home, even on an iceberg. Their inner life was so perfectly, placidly good ; the flame of their lives burnt so clearly and so steadily that its soft light was reflected on the faces of all those 282 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. who came within its influence ; and such virtues as there were among those who were familiar with them were brought into strong relief, while their vices retired into deep shadow. In a few words, thej were good people, and, like all good people, to some extent made others good. Not only did we of the family- fall into our quiet grooves at once, but this township of Romilly began to rally round my father and mother before we had been established a week. Began to call at all hours and waste our time, to borrow and lend pots and kettles ; to give, to ask, but sel- dom or never to follow advice ; to go on, in fact, much the same as the Chelsea people had done, on the other side of the water. After the first week of the establishment of our new shop, the men came and leant in at the window, and sat on the anvil, and toyed with the hammers, just in the old style ; and, before my mother had been a week in the hastily-erected slab-house, the women began to come in, to flump down into a seat, and to tell her all about it. People in some ranks of life would be surprised at the facility with which the lower classes recognize thoroughly trustworthy and good people. My father and mother not only submitted to these levees, but felt flattered by them. Every woman in the township had declined to know much of Mrs. Fod- der, — who was known to have travelled for her sins, — until they "met" her at Mrs. Burton's, standing against the fire-place, with her bare arms folded on her bosom, smoking a short black pipe. Mrs. Burton had " took her up," and that was enough. Mrs. Burton was so big, so gentle, and so good, that even the lit- tle weasel-faced Mrs. Ranee, with the vinegar temper, had noth- ing more to say. Again, my father made no difierence between Jim Reilly and the best of them. Jim Reilly was free to come and go, and get a kind word at the forge ; and the forge was neu- tral ground, and Jim was undeniably good company ; and so Jim was spoken to at the forge, and if you spoke to him at the forge you could not cut him elsewhere. And so it came about that Jim found himself in respectable company again, and mended his ways (which wanted mending sadly), for very shame's sake. And in time the stories about Jim's " horse-planting " propensities got for- gotten, and. Jim rode his own horses only, and grew respectable. So time began to run smoothly on once more, and a month be- gan to slip by more rapidly than a week had used to do in more unquiet seasons. The week was spent in those hapj^y alterna- tions of labor and rest which are only known to the prosperous mechanic, — alternate periods of labor, in which the intellect is half-deadened, because instinctive manual dexterity has, through long practice, rendered thought unnecessary, and of rest, when that intellect begins to unfold itself like some polypus, or sea anemone, and cast its greedy arms abroad in all directions to THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 283 seize and tuck headlong into its unsatisfied stomach everything not actually inorganic. '' Oh dura niessorum ilia ! " Oh delicious unsatisfied hunger ! Oh blessed intellectual digestion ! Did you ever read ''Zimmerman on Solitude" and somebody's (goodness knows who's now) " History of the United States" through in one week? I did. And Jim Williams lay in the bed opposite, maddened and sulky with the few scraps I threw him about Sara- to"-a and the Macedonian, Bunker's llill and the Shannon and Chesapeake. Joe got horribly angry with Tom Williams and me on the sub- ject of discursive reading. lie (in the heat of the moment, I hope,) said one day that he should like to see me wrecked on a desert island, with a year's provisions, and nothing to read but Gilibon and Mosheim. That, he said, was the only thing which could happen to me that would make a man of me. After dexter- ously recalling a few compliments he had paid to Mosheim a week ])ast that very day, in answer, I begged to be allow^ed his favorite copy of Rabelais. But he said that Rabelais would rise from his grave if he attempted any such profane act. " Jim," he went on, " I am only chaffing ; you are a better scholar than I am. You know men, and I only know^ works. Now see how much in earnest I am ; I am come to you to ask you to decide a most important affair for me, and I bind myself in honor to abide by your decision. Tom Williams, old fellow, would you mind leaving Jim and me alone a little ? I know you won't be offended, Tom." Tom departed, smiling, and then I said, " Martha, my love, per- haps you had better go and help Emma " ; but Joe rose in his stately way, and, having taken her hand, kissed it, and led her to her seat again. The blacksmith's hunchbacked son had gradually refined and developed himself into a very good imitation of a high- bred gentleman ; and his courtesy somehow reflected itself on the pretty ex-maid-of-all-work, for she merely smiled a pleasant natu- ral smile on him, and sat down again. What could a duchess have done more ? But then courtesy comes so naturally to a woman. " I cannot go on with the business in hand, my sweet sister," continued Joe, " unless you stay here to protect me. You know my brother's temper ; unless I had your sweet face between me and his anger, I should not dare to announce a resolution I have taken." " Pray," I said, " keep alive the great family fiction, — tliat, be- cause I splutter and make a little noise when I am vexed, there- fore I have a worse temper than others ; pray, don't let that fiction die. I should be sorry if it did, for I reap great advan- tage from it ; I always get my own way, — if, indeed, that is any 284 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. advantage. However, go on, Joe ; if your resolution was not an infinitely foolish one, we should not have had all these words of preparation." " Why," said Joe, " that is hardly the state of the case. In the first place, you are not going to have your own way this time, be- cause I am going to have mine ; and, my will being stronger than yours, you will have the goodness to go to the wall with as little noise as possible. In the next place, my resolution is not an infi- nitely foolish one, but an infinitely wise one. The only question about it is. Shall I be able to argue your fool's head into a suffi- cient state of clearness to see the wisdom of it ? " Whenever Joe and I came to what I vulgarly called " hammer and tongs," I always yielded. I yielded now with perfect good humor, I think, and laughed ; though Joe was really ruffled for a minute. " The fact of the matter is," he said, " that I have an offer of a place as second-master in the Government School in Palmerston ; and I have accepted it. In three years I shall be inspector." * I was really delighted at the news. I had seen a long time that Joe had been getting very discontented and impatient in consequence of the commonplace life which we were forced to lead. He was " chafing under inaction " (a phrase which ex- presses nothing save in its second intention, but is good enough, nevertheless). I was pleased with his news, but I was very much puzzled at the hesitation with which he communicated it. I said, " Joe, I am sincerely glad to hear what you tell me. We shall miss you, my dear old fellow, but you will never be happy here. There is no doubt that if you once get the thin edge of the wedge in you will make a career for yourself. And, as far as I can see, you will have a good chance of getting the thin edge of the wedge in now. I don't like to tell you how glad I am, for fear you should think that I shall bear our separa- tion too lightly ; but I am very glad, and so I don't deceive you." " So you should be, my faithful old brother. I should soon become a plague to you here. But have you no other remark to make about this resolution ? " *' No. In particular, no. In a general way of speaking, I am glad of it. With regard to details, — now, have you broke it to father?" "No," said Joe, plumply ; "you must do that." I did n't see any great difficulty about that. I was beginning to say that he would require a regular fit-out of new clothes, and that we could manage that nicely now, when who, of all people in the world, should put in her oar but Martha. * The educfitional arrangements in Cooksland are different from those in any of the other colonies. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 285 " I suppose you have told Einraa," slie said. " There ! " said Joe. " A woman against the world. That is the very point I have been driving at, and have been afraid to broach." " Do you want me to break it to her ? " I asked. " Break it to her ! Why, my dear brother, it is all her doing from beginning to end. She gave me the first intimation that the offer would be made me, and then quietly told that she had been in communication witli Miss Burke about it for some months. She began on INIiss Burke. I honestly confess that / should never have thought of debauching the leader of the Op- position before I put in my claim to Ministers, but she did. She began on Miss Burke for the mere sake of inducing her to keep the Irish party quiet about my appointment ; in the which phase of her proceedings Miss Burke's love for Lady Hillyar was her trump card, with which card she seems to have taken several tricks. Meanwhile, only three weeks ago, finding that Miss Burke was staying down here at the Barkers, she contrived an interview with her ; and not only did she completely stop any opposition on the part of Mr. O'Ryan, but she actually per- suaded, induced, bamboozled, — I know not what word to use, — Miss Burke into making the matter in some sort a party question. As I stand here, Miss Burke has made Mr. O'Ryan go to Mr. Oxton and say that, in case of my appointment to the inspectorship, not a word, on their sacred word of honor, either next session or any future session, should pass the lips of any son of Erin on the subject of the appointment of Billy Morton to the harbor-mastership. And that 's your Emma ! " I thought it was my Lesbia Burke, too, but I did n't say so. And, indeed, I was too much engaged in wondering at what Joe told me about Emma to think much about Lesbia Burke just now. I confess that I was a little amazed at this last exhibition of cunning and courage in Emma. If I had not repelled her by a little coarseness of speech and a little roughness of temper, she would have confided in me more, and I should have noticed the sudden development of character which took place in her after our troubles, — that sudden passage from girlhood into womanhood. But, indeed, it was only fault of manner on my part. And she loved rne : she loved me better than all of them put together. Indeed she did. " How do you want me to act in the matter, then ? " I said. " I want you to undertake father and mother. I want you not only to tell them of my appointment, but also to tell them this, — that Emma has determined, under tlieir approval, of course, to come to Palmerston, and keep house for me." I started as he said this. I was unprepared for it ; and, as I 286 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. did so, I felt a baud on my shoulder, and, turning round, T saw that Emma was standing behind me. " Emma," I said, " are you really going to leave us ? " She motioned me to come out with her, and we went out together and walked among the trees. " You are not going to dissuade me from going, are you, ray brother ? " she said. I was quite silent. She clasped her two hands together over my arm, and hurriedly asked me if T was angry. " There is never any confidence given to me until all the world knows the matter," I said ; " then, when it is impossible to alter matters, the affair is broken to me. Can you wonder that I am ruffled sometimes ? I will not be angry now, but I will not allow that I have no reason." " Only because I did not confide in you ; not because you dis- aj^prove of our resolution ? " " Well, yes. I approve on the whole of your resolution ; it is natural that you should be by his side for the present ; though the time will soon come when he will not want you. You will be hardly ornamental enough to sit at a statesman's table, my poor, fat old thing." Poor Emma was so glad to hear me speak in my natural tone that she threw her arms round my neck. I laughed and said, — " There is some one who don't think you a fat old thing, ain't there ? When will you go ? " " Next week." " So soon ? Does Joe say it is necessary ? " " No," she answered with some decision ; " he does not say it is necessary. But I urged him to go, and pointed out the reason, and he quite approves of my resolution." " Erne will think it very unkind. It will be so marked, to go only a day or two before his first visit." " Let him think it unkind. I know which is the kindest line of action. I shall go, Jim. This is a matter in which I must decide for myself. Why did you start? Have you seen any- thing ? " We had wandered awa;^ along a track in the forest till we had nearly come to a dense clump of the low tree called lightwood (sufficiently like an English bay tree), through which the road passed. The night was gathering fast, and, when we were within fifty yards of the dark place, my cousin Samuel emerged from the gloom and came towards us. I walked straight on, with Emma on my arm, intending to pass him without speaking. I had never spoken to him in Palmerston, and she had never seen him there ; so this was her THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 287 first meeting with him since that dreadful night wlien slie had rescued Reuben from that den of thieves into which he had drawn him. I was made anxious and angry by his sudden ap- pearance here in Roniilly, and I very much wished to avoid having anything to do with him. Emma, however, woukl not pass him without a kind word, and so she stopped as he stood aside to let us pass him, and said, — " It is a long while since we met, cousin. I hope you have been well since I saw you." "I have been very well," he answered, with a false smile wreathing on his thin lips. " T am very much obliged to you for speaking to me, for I was anxious to see you, and ask you a question." " I shall be glad to answer it," she replied. " I am your debtor, you know." " You are pleased to say so. I will go on, with your leave. I am exceedingly anxious and unhappy about my boy Reuben." " On what grounds ? " said Emma. " He is well, and is doing very well. I heard from him last mail." " He preserves a dead silence towards me. I never hear a word from him. I have no answer to my letters. What is the meaning of this ? " By this time his voice had risen to a shrill treble, and he was waving his arm up and down threateningly ; his pinched features, his long nose, and his high sloping eyebrows began to form an ensemble which looked uncommonly vicious. He went on, — " He has been tampered with, his affections have been alien- ated from me, and his mind has been poisoned against me, by that scoundrel. How dares he ? Is he mad ? " I said that none of us had ever been so wicked as to stand be- tween Reuben and his father. " I am not talking of you, my lad," he said in a quieter voice. " You and yours have always been what is kind and good. I am speaking of a scoundrel, a wretch, without decency, without grat- itude, — a monstrous mass of utter seltishness. But let him take care ! Let him take care ! " And so he walked swiftly away under the darkening shadows, with his hand raised menacinc]^ over his head, mutterinfr, " Let him take care." And it came into my head that if I were the gentleman referred to I most certainly would take uncommon good care. " It 's Morton, the keeper, he is so wild against," I remarked. " I am glad that there is fourteen or fifteen thousand miles be- tween them." '' It must be Morton," said Emma ; " otherwise I might think 288 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. it was Sir Georire. What a strange thing this is, his never com- ing near Stanlake ! I wonder why ? " " I cannot think," I said, as we turned homewards, " that Reu- ben is right in not writing to his father. I cannot understand it ; it is unHke Reuben." " I do not understand it either," said Emma. " I will certainly mention it to him the next time I write. Poor old Reuben ! how I should like to see him again ! How time goes on, don't it, eh ? Jim, I want to walk farther with you in the dark, just one more turn." " Come," I said, cheerfully. " I could walk forever in this de- licious owl's-light, with you beside me." " I went on with her gently, whistling and waiting for her to begin. I was very anxious. "I am going to ask a half a dozen questions about Mr. Erne Hillyar. Is he ever likely to be rich ? " " I cannot see how. He gets some nominal salary where he is, — two hundred a-year, I think ; and, when he is out of his apprenticeship, I do not see how he is to start on his own account without capital. His share of the property would certainly be enough to make him rich here. But, as I tell you, he will die sooner than claim it." " A strange crotchet. But look here. He would take it in an instant if a reconciliation were brought about between him and his brother. Why could not that be done ? Think of it." " What is the good ? Erne here in Australia, and Sir George at Timbuctoo by this time, for aught we know ! Nonsense. There are only two obstacles to prevent your accepting Erne, as you well know, — the care of Joe, and your dread of lowering Erne. About the first obstacle I shall say nothing, but I certainly don't want Erne to be raised away above our level once more, and so I tell you plainly." We said no more, but went silently in. I kissed her when we came to the door. Those sweet sister-kisses were becoming pre- cious now, for was she not going to Palmerston to keep house for Joe ? and one might not see hei again ibr so long, — certainly not till after I was married. There was between us one deep source of disagreement. I had set my heart on her marrying Erne, and she would have none of it. But still she was very, very dear to me, — dearer perhaps and more valued since that cause of disagreement had arisen between us than she had ever been before. THE IIILLYAKS AND THE BLKTONS. 289 CHAPTER LIT. FEEDS THE BOAR AT THE OLD FRANK? The pleasant summer passed away, and Gerty found to her terror that the days when she dared creep out into the sun with Baby, and warm herself under the south wall, were become fewer; that the cruel English winter w^as settling down once more, and that she and her little one would have to pass it to- gether in the great house alone. At first, after George's departure, people continued to call ; but Gerty never returned their visits, and before the later nights of September began to grow warningly chill, it was understood that Sir George was abroad ; and very soon afterwards Lady Tattle found out that Lady Hillyar was mad, my dear, and that Sir George had refused to let her go into an asylum, but had gen- erously given up Stanlake to her and her keeper. That florid gray-headed man whom we saw driving with her in Croydon was the keeper. Such stories did they make about poor Gerty and Mr. Compton ; which stories, combined with Gerty's shyness, ended in her being left entirely alone before autumn was well begun. Soon after Sir George's departure Mr. Compton heard from him on business, and a very quiet business-like letter he wrote. He might be a very long time absent, he said, and therefore wished these arrangements to be made. The most valuable of the bricabrac was to be moved from Grosvenor-place to Stan- lake ; Lady Hillyar would select what was to be brought away, and then the house was to be let furnished. The shooting on the Wiltshire and Somersetshire estates was to be let if possible. The shootinsr at Stanlake was not to be let, but Morton was to sell all the game which was not required for the house by Lady Hillyar. Mr. Compton would also take what game he liked. He wished the rabbits killed down : Farmer Stubble, at White- sj)ring, had been complaining. The repairs requested by Farmer Stubble were to be done at once, to the full extent demanded ; and so on in other instances, — yielding quietly, and to the full, points he had been fighting for for months. At last he came to Stanlake. Stanlake was to be kept up exactly in the usual style. Kot a servant discharged. Such horses as Lady Hillyar did not require were to be turned out, but none sold, and none bought, except under her ladyship's directions. He had written 13 8 290 THE HILLYAKS AND THE BURTONS. « to Drummonds, and Lady Ilillyar's cheques could be honored. There was a revolution here, (Paris,) but how the dickens it came about, he, although on the spot, could n't make out. There were no buttons here such as Lady Ilillyar wished for ; but, when he got to Vienna, he tnight get some, and would write to her from that place, aud put her in possession of facts. She might, however, rely that, if money could get them, she should have them. He did not write one word to Gerty. His old habits were coming back fast, — among others, that of laziness. Boswell, enlarging on a hastily expressed opinion of Johnson's, tries to make out the ghastly doctrine that all men's evil habits return to them in later life. What Boswell says is, possibly, no mat- ter, — although he was not half such a fool as it has pleased my Lord Macaulay to make him out ; yet there is a horrible spice of truth in this theory of his, which makes it noticeable. Whether Boswell was right or not in general, he would have been right in particular if he had spoken of Sir George Hillyar ; for, from the moment he cut the last little rope which bound him to his higher life, his old habits began flocking back to him like a crowd of black pigeons. The buttons came from Vienna, and a letter. The letter was such a kind one that she went singing about the house for several days, and Mr. Compton, coming down to see her, was delighted and surprised at the change in her. After Sir George's depart- ure, the poor little woman had one of her periodical attacks of tears, which lasted so long that she got quite silly, and Mr. Compton and the housekeeper had been afraid of her going mad. But she had no return of tearfulness after the letter from Vienna, but set cheerfully to work to garrison her fortress against the winter. She would have had a few trees cut down for firewood in the Australian manner, had not the steward pointed out to her lady- ship the inutility and extravagance of such a proceeding. She therefore went into coals to an extent which paralyzed the re- sources of the coal merchant, who waited on her, and with tears in his eyes begged her not to withdraw her order, but to give him time ; that was all he asked for, — time. The next thing she did was, by Baby's advice, to lay in a large stock of toys, and then, by her own, an immense number of cheap novels. And, when all this was done, she felt that she could face the winter pretty comfortably. Stanlake was a great, solemn, gray-white modern house, with a broad flagged space all round, standing in the centre of the park, but apart from any trees : the nearest elm being a good hundred yards away, though the trees closed in at a little dis- THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 29 L tance from the house, and hid tlic hmdscnpe. It was a very dreary place even in summer ; in winter, still more solemn and di'solato. When it had been filk'h I may be buried in the bush in a sheet of bark. Why I feel all over centipedes and copper lizards. For you to go and see the devil with that dear child, and teach him not to let his mother know, and in Whitley Copse too, of all places, and you old enough to be his father. You ouijht to be You ought to get Why, you ought to have your grog stopped " My lady, indeed " No, I don't mean that. You must n't be angry with me ; I was n't really in a pelter. You ain't going to be cross with me, are you, Reuben ? You did see the devil now, did n't you ? That dear child would never deceive his own mother. Come, I am sure you did." " I only told him it was the devil, my lady." " Then who was it ? It could n't have been Black Joe, be- * This is a very low expression. If Mrs. Oxton had been there she never wculd have dared to use it. In the bush, when a chemist's shop is not haudy, th"^ gum o' he acacia is used instead of chalk mixture. 294 THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. cause we lieard of his being hung, soon after we went into Cooka- laud, for putting a chest of drawers on an old woman to get her money out of her, though why he couldn't have taken it out of her pocket He was very like the devil, my father used to sa}', tliough I don't believe he ever saw him, — the devil I mean : lie saw Black Joe often enough, for he was assigned to him ; and I remember his getting fifty tor sauce one shearing time " " It was n't liim, my lady," said Reuben, arresting the torrent. " It was a young man of the name of Ned, that keeps a beer 'us in Old Gal Street, Caledonia Road. That's about who it was, my lady. A terrible chap to swear and carry on in liis drink, my lady, and I smelt him as I was a-coming through the copse, that he 'd been at it ; and I says, I says, Dash it all, I says, there '11 be high life below stairs with him in about two twists of a iamb's tail ; and I says to the kid, — I ask pardon, the young 'un ; I ask pardon again, the young master, — Stay here, I says, while I go and has it out with him, for the ears of the young, I says, should never be defiled, nor their morality contaminated, with none of your Greenwich Fair, New Cut, Romany patter. And so I goes to him, my lady." Reuben, whose bark was now laboring heavily in the trough of a great sea of fiction, con- tinued, " I goes to him, and " "I think you were perfectly right, my dear Reuben," said Gerty. " I thank you for your discretion. My father had the greatest horror of the same thing. None of my sisters ever in- terchanged words with a hand in their lives. And, indeed, I. never should have done so ; only I was let run wild in conse- quence of mamma's being so busy getting my sisters off, and jDapa being always in town after that dreadful drop in tallow, which ultimately flew to his stomach at the Prince of Wales, and took him ofi* like the snuff of a candle. For my part " Here Reuben, who, having got breathing-time, had rapidly carried on his fiction in his head, took it up again : not at the point where he had dropped it last, but at the point at which he had arrived when he found himself capable of going in for another innings. So he began. Which left Gerty in the position of the reader of the third volume of a novel, who has had no oppor tunity of reading the second. " And so, my lady, his aunt said that, with regard to the five- pound note, what could n't be cured must be endured ; and with regard to the black-and-tan terrier bitch, what was done could n't be helped, though she hoped it would n't happen again. And they had in the gallon, my lady, and then they tossed for a go of turps and a hayband, — I ask your ladyship's pardon, that means a glass of gin and a cigar ; and that is all I know of the matter, I do assure you." THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 295 How the conversation would have come to an end, save by the sheer exliaustion of botli parties, had not Baby reappeared in his niglit-shirt to look after Reuben, we cannot say. It con- ' cUided, however ; and, however much nonsense Reuben may have talked, he certainly gained his object, that of mystifying Gerty, and making her forget the subject in hand. He wished her good-niglit with a brazen front, and, having received a kind farewell, departed. Now what had happened was shortly this. That evening, as lie had been leading the child's pony through a dense copse. Sir George Hilly ar had stepped out from behind a holly, and beck- oned to him. Reuben was very much astonished, for he supposed Sir George to be at Florence, but he let go the pony and came forward at once. Sir George looked wild, and, as Reuben thought, dissi- pated ; he caught Reuben's hand, and said, — " Ha ! One single face left in all the world, and all the rest chattering ape-heads. How are you, my boy ? " Reuben was well, and very glad to see Sir George. " Lady Hilly ar would have a pleasant surprise," he said, but, looking at Sir George's appearance, very much doubted it. " She must know nothing. Not a soul must know anything but yourself. What child is that ? " " Your own, sir ? " " Poor little thing. Has he recognized me ? " " It would be impossible at that distance." " Meet me to-morrow night, after dark, at this address. I have prowled all the afternoon to catch you, and I must be gone. ]VIind ! not one word." And so he had gone, leaving Reuben lost in wonder. How- ever, his self-possession had prevented his betraying himself to Lady Hillyar. And, when he left her presence, he began to think of the address Sir George had given him ; thinking proba- bly that it would be at some West-end hotel. What was his astonishment to find that it was Lawrence Street, Chelsea, — a strange place, indeed, in which to find a baronet. He got there a little after dark. He found the house at once, of course, having known every house there from his boyhood. Ifc was a largish old house, with bow windows, which might have been respectable once, but which was now let out in floors and single rooms to poor people. Passing up the common staircase, into the close smell which there is in all that kind of houses, — a smell which had been familiar to him all his youth, and yet which seemed so repugnant after a year in the sweet fresh airs of Stan- lake, — he went on to the second floor ; and, before he had time to knock at the door of the front room, the door opened, and Sir George beckoned him in. 296 THE HILLYARS AND THE BUKTONS. " You stare to find me here, boy, hey ? " " I thought you at Florence, sir. But I am heartily glad to see you." " Why do you hesitate to call me * father,' Reuben ? " " Indeed, — well then, ' father,' — I hardly know. In spite of all the proofs you have given me of it from time to time, — in spite of all your kindness, — it seems strange. Hang it all, sir," continued he, with an air of petulance ; " a man can't get used to everything all of a heap. And I ain't got used to this yet. And, what is more, I must have my time for getting used to it. Now." His true Londoner's hatred for anything approaching sentiment made him positively angry for a moment. But his good humor came back directly, and he asked Sir George if he had given offence. " Offence ! not the least. I could have expected no more. I will make you like me." " I do so already," said Reuben. " More than you think for, perhaps ; but I don't like talking about that sort of thing. I never knew a chap worth three halfpence who was." " Well," said Sir George, " I don't know but what you are right. Old boy, I '11 prove I care for you, by deeds, and we will talk no more on the subject. I have very little to ask you. You have kept me pretty well au fait with matters at Stanlake. Do you know what I have been doing abroad ? " " I do not, sir. Travelling ? " " And you might add gaming considerably, and you might add winning considerably. But I have been hard at work too. I have been hunting a wolf, Reuben." "What wolf, sir?" " Yes. An old gray wolf. I could never come up to him. He travelled fast, faster than I, who had to make inquiries, could follow him. But I tracked. Yes, by George, like an old in- spector." Sir George Hillyar had risen, and was standing with his back to the fire, biting his nails impatiently. Reuben sat in the gloom and watched him anxiously. His face was worn into deep lines, and his old scowl, which was so familiar to those who had known him in his worst times, was strong upon his face to-night. " I tracked him," said he, speaking half-absently to Reuben, " from here to Paris, — to Geneva, — to Turin, — to Ajaccio. What did he want there, in the name of his master the Devil ? And then to Na])les, and Malta, and at Malta I lost him, and he must have come back to England. Have you seen him ? " He said this suddenly and sharply. Reuben asked whom he meant ? " Why, Samuel Burton. Did I not tell you ? Have you seen him?" THE niLLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 297 Reuben said, " No," but cunningly waited to hear more. *' What might make Sir George so anxious to find him ? " he asked. " Nought ! A little conversation. A few words in private. Nothing more." He said this so strangely that Reuben would not say what was on the tip of his tongue. To wit, that Samuel Burton was at that present moment in Australia, and that he had in his pocket, at that moment, a letter announcing his arrival there. Reuben thought that it might be wise to keep these two good people apart. He was confirmed in his resolution by all that he saw and heard that night. Sir George kept liim there talking for a long time. The con- versation was all on Sir George's part, and consisted almost en- tirely of a long diatribe against Samuel Burton : his ingratitude, his falseness, his villanous, abominable ingratitude over again, until Reuben was prompted to ask suddenly, " whether he had been up to anything fresh." Sir George said no, and talked more cautiously. He asked about Stanlake ; about the home farm ; about tbe game ; about Lady Hillyar. Had she been alarmed at night ? Had there been any attempts at burglary ? — there was a deal of property in the house. He knew for certain that the house had been robbed once, and that the thief had got in through the pan- try window. Morton should be told of this ; Reuben had better tell him. Reuben had better say that he had received a letter from Florence, and that Morton was to sleep in the house, and shoot any man who attempted to break in stone-dead. It was only justifiable homicide ; the law would acquit him. Reuben had better say nothing about it ; he did not wish any one shot. He was a miserable and most unhappy beggar, and wished he was dead, and that Erne was dead, and that they were all dead, and quietly asleep in their graves. He was not afraid of death, he said, and wondered that he was fool enough to live on. If he could bring himself to believe in a future state, of any sort or kind, he would blow out his brains that night. But he could n't, and annihilation was so horrible. He had not been used justly. He had had no chance. He appealed to Reuben. Reuben would not stand there and say that he had ever had a fair chance, — not such a chance as one "-entleman would jnve another. The whole state of this world was horrible and abominable ; a man was pre- doomed to ruin from his cradle. The Ultra-Predestinarians were right. He would publicly declare for tliem, and declare himself reprobate. He would not do it for nothing though ; if his doom had been sealed from the first he would not go quietly to his pun- ishment. No. That dog might be assured of his talvation, but 13* 298 THE HILL YAKS AND THE BURTONS. he should feel the horror of sudden death. He would get face to face with that dog, and inflict on him a few moments of ghastly terror. And so on. If any man cares, let him follow out poor Sir George Hillyar's frantic, illogical line of thouglit. It would be very easy, but is it worth while ? Sir George had worked himself into a state nearly frantic, and Reuben was sincerely distressed. At last he ventured up to him, and, laying his hand on his arm, besought him earnestly to be quieter. It had a sudden effect ; Sir George grew calmer, and his rage died away into low mutterings. Presently he told Reuben that he must go. He cautioned him not to mention his having seen him to any living soul, and so dis- missed him. " I will go and look at the outside of the old place," said Reu ben to himself as soon as he was in the street. " I am fond of it for their sakes. What a kind lot they were ! I wonder what they are doing now. So it 's all broke off between Emma and Mr. Erne ; more the pity." Thinking in this way, Reuben passed through the narrow pas- sage by the dissenting chapel, and soon stood before the old de- serted house. Brown's Row was mainly gone to bed. Only Mr. Pistol, who had got off with a twelvemonth, was standing with three or four others under a lamp, and expressing his intention of slitting a certain worthy magistrate's throat from ear to ear. But, hearing a base groveller of a policeman coming round the corner, he swaggered off with a dignified silence in the direction of Church Street ; and the Row was left in peace. Reuben was glad of it, for he was (for him) in a sentimental mood, and felt very much inclined to stand and watch the old house, bathed in the light of the early spring moon. He leant in the shadow under the pent-house of the Burton's forge, and watched the dear old place with something very like emotion,' — when all at once Sir George Hillyar came up, without seeing him, and disappeared round the back of the house. Prompted both by curiosity and by reckless love of adventure, Reuben immediately followed him. When he got round the house, no one was there, and it was evident that Sir George had got into the yard by a broken place in .the palings ; and Reuben, looking in, saw him enter the old house by a back window which was left unclosed. " Now, what is the meaning of this ? and what on earth is he doing here ? " tliought Reuben, and immediately crouched down under the window. He heard Sir George on the stairs ; and quickly, and with the silence of a cat, he followed him in and Blipped off his shoes. THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS. 299 lie found himself in tlic old familiar kitchen, and crouched down for fear of Sir George ligliting a candle. He did not, how- ever, but passed out, and began ascending the great staircase. What matle Keuben feel sure tiiat he was going up to his old room, — to the room which had been the scene of so much be- fore? Reuben was puzzled to find a reason for such a strange proceeding ; and yet he was absolutely certain that he was going there. So certain that he followed more rapidly than was quite pru